David Hewson: The Fallen Angel

‘Daddy,’ he said quietly to himself, remembering the night before.

He got himself a coffee and something to eat. Outside the kitchen window the vines were beginning to grow heavy with fruit. Another ten days of inaction remained. He could call Agata, ask her out for lunch. Or tinker with the Vespa’s temperamental two-stroke engine, work on the field, tackle so many things that needed his attention.

The book lay on the table, the cover, that evocative image of Reni’s, uppermost.

There were questions that needed to be answered and he wondered if, in the stifling dying days of August, anyone would notice.

At a quarter to nine he phoned the Questura. Falcone was on duty. The inspector sounded cheery if a little tired.

‘You can’t keep out of trouble, can you?’ Falcone observed when he had listened to Costa’s questions.

‘So you’d have walked away?’

‘We’re not on duty permanently, Nic. What exactly do you want?’

‘I’d like to know what’s happening. Whose case is this?’

Falcone grunted something inaudible. There was the sound of fingers clacking on a keyboard.

‘Not ours, that’s for sure. The city building inspectors are going to look at the contractor and the works records. If there’s a criminal prosecution it’s theirs, not ours. We don’t do construction work.’

‘The brother?’

‘Narcotics are handling that. They knew him already. Strange family. English. The father was an academic, quite well known in some circles. The mother a part-time office worker and musician. The daughter a saint, it seems. And the son a dope dealer to all those charming foreign kids who hang around the bars on the Campo. Takes all types.’

‘He had a gun.’

‘Fired it in the air, or so the witnesses said. Did he look popped up?’

Costa tried to remember.

‘I didn’t see him very well. I got the impression he was scared.’

‘He should have been. He left behind enough dope to put him in jail for a year or two. The kid wanted out of there with no one chasing him. The drugs squad can do this kind of thing. It’s beneath us.’

‘The autopsy. .’

‘It’s Sunday. There’s not the slightest suggestion this is anything but an accident. Half of Teresa’s team are off work, as is the lady herself. It can wait until tomorrow.’ There was a note of impatience in his voice. ‘Do you really have a single reason to think this is suspicious?’

‘Has anyone even bothered to look inside the apartment?’

‘Yes. Narcotics and the construction people.’

‘If this is a crime scene they’ll leave it in a pretty state.’

‘If, if, if. . A man steps out onto his balcony for a cigarette and falls five floors from some rickety scaffolding. He was, by the way, drunk too. Uniform found a quarter of a bottle of Scotch in the girl’s bedroom when we looked.’

‘The girl’s bedroom?’

‘He had to go through there to reach the balcony. Kindly give me some reason to pursue this further or go back to taking a holiday the way normal people do.’

‘If there’s anything wrong here and the city construction people march right through it. .’

‘Then someone will kick my backside,’ Falcone interrupted.

‘Let me into the building. I can be there in half an hour.’

Falcone hesitated then asked dryly, ‘Is Agata Graziano’s company really so tedious? You do surprise me.’

‘None of your business, Leo. Do I have your permission?’

Costa waited. He’d pushed the right buttons. The building department people could be guaranteed to wipe out anything useful if it existed. The fall-out from that kind of mistake could be painful.

‘If you can convince Peroni the two of you can go and waste your time in there,’ Falcone said in the end. ‘I’m sick of him malingering around here, moaning about the heat.’

The line went quiet. Peroni came on. His voice sounded croaky and weak.

‘You want to do what?’ he asked after Costa explained the idea in detail.

‘There’s a little cafe in Portico d’Ottavia. You know it?’

‘No. It’s Sunday. Are they open?’

‘It’s the ghetto, Gianni. Remember? I’ll buy you a coffee.’

‘Sounds promising.’

A memory came back of that part of the city: the first time he took Emily there, and the childlike smile on her face.

‘And some Jewish pizza too.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Peroni mumbled, then hung up.

One hour later they met in the little place in the ghetto. Costa liked this area. The mundane mingled with the remains of the magnificent, the past with the present. A few strides along from the humble cafe where they met stood the remains of the arch Augustus had erected in honour of his sister Octavia. It was an interesting part of Rome, a mix of grand, sometimes crumbling palaces, humble homes, some Jewish buildings and organizations, and a few restaurants that didn’t look down on a vegetarian like him.

Peroni fell onto a stool in the cafe with a sigh then placed his head in his hands. The burly, middle-aged cop had lost his customary smile. His scarred, friendly face was wan and bloodless. Judging by the mournful look in his bleary eyes he had very little confidence that the large, strong coffee and slice of pizza ebraica in front of him would do much to change the situation. He was wearing a pale brown jacket that had seen better days, an ill-matching pair of blue trousers, and a cheap, whitish shirt, the necktie bunched together in a half-knot at the open neck.

‘Why is it you look so bright and breezy when I feel awful?’ he asked, poking at the pastry on the plate. ‘And why are you wearing an office suit? It’s Sunday. In August. You’re off duty.’

‘I don’t want to look off duty, do I?’

‘God, I hate enthusiasm. It’s so exhausting. Like this heat. I told Teresa. We should have gone on holiday like everyone else, instead of sweating like pigs in Rome.’

Costa went to the counter and got two glasses of tap water then returned and placed them on the table. He’d looked at himself in the mirror that morning while shaving, thinking about Beatrice Cenci. Just turned thirty, he still ran from time to time. He was fit, a little skinnier than he once was. His dark hair didn’t seem much interested in changing colour or disappearing in the near future and his face fell into a smile a lot more easily than it had for a few years. Nor did the heat bother him. Unlike Peroni, he’d grown up in Rome. He expected the dog days to be like this. Were it not for the nagging thoughts that kept bothering him about the incident in the Via Beatrice Cenci he would have described himself as a contented man.

‘It was a great party,’ he said. ‘Memorable.’

‘Memorable for the hangover I had yesterday.’ Peroni lifted the little pastry and stared at it. ‘What on earth is this?’

‘Jewish pizza,’ Costa said, taking a bite of his own. ‘You’ll like it.’

‘That’s not pizza.’

‘It’s sweet.’

‘I don’t do sweets.’ Peroni breathed deeply, took a bite and nodded, as if half-impressed. A few raisins, some candied fruit and a stream of crumbs began to trickle from his mouth to the floor.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be better off at home?’ Costa asked.

‘No, no, no.’ Peroni shook his big head very carefully, as if it might fall off. ‘The air conditioning’s packed in. Teresa’s there and she’s worse than me in the heat. That wouldn’t be a good idea, honest. What are we doing here again?’

Costa explained in more detail about the incident in the ghetto, the girl called Mina, the dead father, the son running away after firing off a single aimless shot. He didn’t mention anything else, not even when Peroni kept staring at him as if he was wondering, ‘Is that it?’