David Hewson - The Fallen Angel

‘Nic,’ the big one said, then pointed a finger at his own barrel chest. ‘Gianni. His best friends. Did he ever mention us?’

‘No,’ Cakici shrugged. ‘Why the hell should he?’

Nic waved the gun around as if it was a toy. Cakici couldn’t take his eyes off the thing.

‘Gino was a good man,’ the man said. ‘Loyal. Trustworthy. Discreet. He had respect. He knew his place.’

He looked at the one called Gianni.

‘I don’t know why we’re telling it this, do you? Something that chews gum when you walk into the room. Chews gum on public property.’

‘That’s terrible, sir. Shocking. It does not know how to behave.’

‘Stop calling me that!’ Cakici cried.

Gianni stroked his chin then, with his big right fist, he reached out and grabbed Cakici by the collar of his Armani jacket, dragging him close to that ugly, scarred face.

‘Let me say this slowly so that your stupid little brain can understand,’ the big cop intoned, one syllable at a time. ‘Gino was more than a friend. He was our colleague. Our employee, if you like. You know those big guys who stand over you? Who tell you what to do? When to speak? When to go for a piss and when to wait? The people you listen to ’cos things go bad if you don’t?’

Cakici was staring at the video camera lens covered in grey gum, as if that might help him.

‘I want those immigration guys in here,’ he muttered.

‘Lunch break,’ Gianni told him. ‘No planes coming in for another ninety minutes. Long lunch break. Quite some way from here. Ciampino’s a shitty little airport. Either empty or full, and right now it’s as empty as a church on Thursdays. This is a place for poor people and the poor just get poorer, don’t they? We never fly from here, do we, sir?’

‘Beneath us,’ the Nic character said.

‘I want the immigr-’

‘See,’ the big man continued, ignoring him, ‘we were to Gino what those guys were to you. Superior. Kings of our own little world, with Gino there like a little prince, doing as he’s told. And now he’s dead. And now. .’ He let go with a push. Cakici rocked back in his chair. ‘Here you are.’

‘It knows,’ Nic said.

‘I didn’t! Not about you! Not a damned thing.’

‘It knows now,’ the young one added.

Gianni picked up Cakici’s left hand and slapped his own face with it.

‘Sir,’ he said, in a hurt, young voice. ‘It hit me. The prisoner hit me. I think it may be violent and dangerous. It may be trying to escape. I’m scared.’

Across the table the young cop yawned and murmured, ‘That’s terrible.’

Cakici shielded his eyes, whimpering, ‘You can’t do this. You can’t. .’

‘Watch me,’ Nic said, then pointed the gun in his face and pulled the trigger.

Cecilia Gabriel flicked through a few of the photographs from Falcone’s collection, her face stony, expressionless. Then she closed the folder, threw it onto a nearby desk and walked towards the door.

Falcone stretched out an arm to prevent her leaving the morgue. Teresa Lupo’s heart sank. This was not a good sign.

‘These questions need answers,’ the inspector said.

The Englishwoman stared at him.

‘What questions?’

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘Are you serious?’ he asked.

‘Very.’

‘I believe Robert murdered your husband,’ he said straight out. ‘And Joanne Van Doren. I believe-’

‘No!’ Mina cried, staring at the body on the sheet.

‘Then who did? Robert was there. He had the opportunity-’

‘Why!’ the girl cried. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

‘To protect you! And your mother! To stop us finding out what really happened the night your father died. . And before.’

The girl’s eyes misted with tears. She turned to Cecilia Gabriel.

‘Mummy? What’s going on? What photographs?’

‘I can show her,’ Falcone said, staring at the mother. ‘If you like.’

‘They’re fakes,’ Cecilia Gabriel insisted. ‘Grubby, dirty little pictures. Perhaps you ran them up, Inspector. I don’t know.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Falcone cried. ‘Why would we do such a thing? All I require of you, madam, is the truth. I know it’s painful. I will ask a specialist officer to deal with you and your daughter. But we must put this case to rest.’

‘You have no case,’ the woman snapped.

‘I do not understand !’ Falcone shouted.

Teresa Lupo took a step towards him, touched his arm, and said quietly, ‘Leo. .’

But there was no stopping him. The wrong buttons had been pressed, and it was almost as if Cecilia Gabriel knew she was doing this. All the advice that Peroni and Nic had been quietly trying to give him about how to handle this family amounted to nothing when his temper reached such a pitch.

‘When,’ he demanded, ‘is someone going to start telling me the truth?’

‘We are. .’ Mina said, distraught, fighting back the tears. ‘Why won’t you believe us?’

‘Lies!’ Falcone snapped. ‘None of this is credible. What happened between you and your father that night? And before?’

He turned on Cecilia Gabriel and barked, ‘And you? Doesn’t a mother want to know? Don’t you even give a damn. .?’

Teresa cursed herself for waiting a moment too long and then stood in front of him, half-said, half-yelled, ‘Inspector! This is my department, not a police interview room. If you wish to interrogate these people I suggest you take them there. I will not have you disrupting our work in this way. This is unseemly in the extreme. I won’t tolerate it. Do you understand?’

She had never treated him in this fashion before, though there had been plenty of grounds in the past. But she did it for his benefit as much as anyone else’s. Falcone’s frustration with this difficult case was beginning to affect him, to depress him, she believed. It was written in the lines on his narrow, tanned face, and the weariness in his eyes.

The Englishwoman took a step towards him and said, ‘What exactly do you want of me?’

There was a bleak look of stony self-hatred on Falcone’s face. This outburst had shocked him as much as anyone.

‘An honest answer. We have evidence, incontrovertible evidence, that your husband abused your daughter. Photographs. Physical stains on the mattress from her room. The mattress, I might add, which Joanne Van Doren so hurriedly removed from your apartment before we had the chance.’

The mother’s face was suffused in fiery anger. Mina Gabriel’s hands went to her mouth. Her eyes were glassy with floods of tears.

‘Oh, Leo,’ Teresa murmured.

The wrong time, the wrong place.

‘It is my belief,’ he went on, ‘that your daughter, your son and you conspired to murder your husband for this very reason, and make it appear an accident. That Joanne Van Doren died because of what she knew. That Robert-’

‘Well, arrest me, then?’ the Gabriel woman yelled at him. ‘If that’s what you believe. Do it or leave us alone. One or the other. Which is it?’

Falcone looked lost for words, for action, and there was an expression in Cecilia Gabriel’s face that seemed quietly triumphant. She knows we’re powerless, Teresa Lupo thought. She expected this all along.

The stranger at the door intervened.

‘This is quite enough!’ Bernard Santacroce declared, stepping between them, his arms outstretched, his face a picture of outrage. He looked into Falcone’s face. ‘Have you no sense of decency, man? How can you make such accusations? At a time like this?’

‘I am making them, sir, on the basis of the facts. Because it’s my job.’

‘Not here, Leo,’ Teresa Lupo said firmly. ‘Not now.’