David Hewson - The Fallen Angel

‘Did he talk to you about his work? At the Confraternity of the Owls? About his attitude towards that?’

‘Of course. I read his book. Didn’t we all? I think this job he had troubled him. There was something he was being asked to do. .’

‘He was being ordered to add his reputation to a paper that said Ratzinger had a point. I read it last night. Bernard Santacroce wanted Gabriel’s name on the front page. As joint author, not just editor.’

Negri frowned. He seemed genuinely sorry.

‘I rather thought it must have been something like that. The work upset him. He obviously needed the money. I don’t think they had anything else. All the same I can’t imagine Malise would have gone along with it.’

‘“ E pur si muove ”,’ she murmured.

‘What’s Galileo got to do with this?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps Malise Gabriel empathized with him. Believed he was being persecuted in a similar fashion.’

A short, dry burst of laughter.

‘And his daughter thought she was that poor, sad girl from the ghetto,’ he scoffed. ‘Or so the news would have us believe.’

‘How did she feel about his illness?’

The oncologist shook his head.

‘I doubt she understood how bad it was. Malise didn’t want anyone to know the seriousness of his condition. He was adamant about that. He seemed to care about them deeply, I must say.’

‘Would he still be interested in sex?’

He thought for a moment and said, ‘Yes. We had that conversation. The condition may affect libido, of course. And the medication. But if the desire’s there. .’ He sighed. ‘Malise was determined, as much as possible, that he would lead a normal life until the end. The daughter was under the impression he came to me for routine checkups for a condition that was in remission. Work apart, he seemed cheerful, full of life. Active in every way as far as I could see.’

Negri recalled something.

‘One thing. He never mentioned the son. In fact I didn’t know there was a son until I heard the news. That surprised me.’

‘You’d be amazed what goes on inside families, Adriano.’

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t.’ The handsome oncologist looked lost briefly. ‘Or what happened inside Malise Gabriel either. There was something. . dark there. I can’t put it any other way. I wanted to help the man. I admired him. His courage. His determination. But. .’

He stopped and she had to prod him.

‘But what?’

Adriano Negri’s eyes met hers and she realized, for the first time, that there was a bleak, intense sadness in them. At that moment Teresa Lupo remembered why she’d never accepted any of his advances. He was intelligent, charming, a decent, respectable man. But unlikeable too, detached from his own emotions and those of others. The very opposite of Gianni Peroni.

‘I was always glad when he left.’ He pushed away the coffee cup and the plate with the Jewish pizza on it. ‘I never really knew why. It was something to do with his presence. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I think so,’ she said.

Costa pulled up close to the Palazzetto Santacroce and saw the nose of Falcone’s sleek Lancia saloon poking out from a nearby alley. There was a bad-tempered crowd of photographers, TV crew and hacks outside the arched entrance to the building and a few uniformed cops to hold them back. He held the scooter tight as Peroni slowly got off the Vespa, grumbling all the time, then popped the machine onto its stand next to a line of bikes and other scooters.

Falcone wandered over, eyebrows raised, the faintest of smiles on his face as Peroni struggled to get the motorbike cop’s helmet off his head.

‘I decided to string along,’ he said. ‘What took you?’

‘Not easy getting in and out of the Questura,’ Costa said by way of explanation. ‘There’s some kind of demo outside. You heard?’

‘Oh yes.’ He flourished a large brown envelope in his hands and seemed strangely energized. ‘Not to worry. And the brother?’

Peroni stowed the helmet beneath his arm.

‘Narcotics are being less than helpful. He was an informer.’

Falcone thought about this for a moment, then led them through the crowd of hacks, refusing to answer a single question, or rise to their aggressive taunts, and went up to the caretaker’s window of the palace.

This was Costa’s first visit. The sunny open space beyond the confined entrance of the palace surprised him, as did the sight of the Casina delle Civette when they walked through into the garden beyond, with its geometric flower beds and the gaudy colours of late summer: red and yellow and blue.

He looked up at the windows of the castellated tower. A single face was there, pale and young and beautiful. Mina Gabriel awaiting their arrival.

She looked scared.

They sat in Bernard Santacroce’s study, beneath the picture of Galileo and his accusers, players in another inquisition, one that, to Costa, seemed as nebulous in its search for the truth as their own faltering inquiry into the deaths of Malise Gabriel and Joanne Van Doren. Mina’s eyes were pink with tears. Her mother said they’d heard about the death of the American woman on the TV, and the rumours about the police investigation. Cecilia Gabriel seemed passive, stoic, unmoved by anything but anger. Santacroce wore a benevolent, proprietorial gaze, the look of a reasonable man dragged into an awkward situation he’d rather avoid.

‘Are we accused of some kind of crime?’ Cecilia Gabriel demanded. ‘If so, what exactly? This nonsense on the news. .’

‘I’m not responsible for the media, Signora,’ Falcone replied calmly. ‘Joanne Van Doren was murdered last night. Your son clearly knew she’d died and was in the vicinity. It would be rash of me not to regard him as our most viable suspect.’

‘That’s not true!’ Mina cried. She was wringing her hands constantly, eyes damp and darting around the room. ‘Joanne was our friend. Robert would never. . never. .’

Costa looked at her and said, ‘Mina. You spoke to him last night after you talked to me. That’s why he got in touch.’

‘I told him he could trust you!’ She cast a fierce glance at Falcone. ‘You’re not like. . them.’

‘What did Robert say?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. He was upset. He wouldn’t tell me why. He sounded frightened. I-’

‘Your brother,’ Falcone interrupted, ‘may well have just murdered someone.’

‘No!’ Her voice was high-pitched, childlike. Cecilia Gabriel made not the slightest effort to comfort the girl next to her. Not a word. Not a touch. Instead Bernard Santacroce walked out from behind his desk, pulled up a chair and placed an arm briefly round her hunched shoulders.

‘Inspector,’ Santacroce said. ‘Is this your idea of how to treat the bereaved? Malise. . Joanne. . We were all close to them in one way or another. Have some decency, please.’

Falcone scowled.

‘It’s very difficult to talk about decency when we’re dealing with a murder, possibly two, sir. Signora Gabriel here was going to sue Joanne Van Doren. As to the relationship between the dead woman and Signora Gabriel’s husband-’

‘This is unacceptable,’ Santacroce cut in. ‘If you wish to proceed in such a fashion I will bring in a lawyer. At my own expense. Perhaps that would be for the best in any case.’

‘Do it now,’ Falcone agreed. ‘Then we can continue this interview at the Questura. Each of you in a separate room. If you’d prefer.’

‘Ask your damned questions,’ Cecilia Gabriel told him.

‘Where’s your son?’ the inspector demanded. ‘I need to speak to him and I must say I fail to understand why you show no apparent interest in his whereabouts. Where is he? ’