Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

Louisa now understands the injuries to his face.

Valducci taps the paper and repeats his question. ‘What do you make of it?’

She looks at it again. ‘Anger?’ She runs a finger along the hard red and orange crayon ridges. ‘She’s pressed so hard here, you can see where the crayon’s snapped and left thick wax.’ She looks up at her boss and realises she strongly resents him interfering in what she regards as her own special case. But it’s more than that. Worse than that. She feels as though her privacy has been invaded, as though he’s violated her by intruding into the intimacy she was building with her patient. She looks down at the picture again. ‘So what did she tell you about this? What is it, a fire of some kind?’

‘Interesting, I didn’t see it as a fire.’ Valducci swivels the paper back. ‘No, she said it was Romans.’

‘Romans? It’s always Romans.’

Valducci can see that she’s distant. ‘Are you all right?’

It’s a strange question.

If a friend had asked her, she’d say no.

She’d most likely open up and discuss the hangover of grief she’s got from the funeral, but she’s not going to mention that to Valducci.

‘I’m fine. Just a little down because of the service this afternoon.’

Valducci jabs a finger in the corner of the drawing. ‘I just realised something. I thought this black mark here was some kind of star, but now you’ve suggested that this is a fire, I can more easily imagine it as a cross, a crucifix, perhaps in a Roman church or temple, with the fire all around it.’

Louisa finally shows interest.

It certainly is a fire.

There’s definitely a religious symbol in there and something else as well. A human shape. ‘Did she say who this figure is? It looks like a man lying down.’

The administrator is feeling inspired. ‘Maybe a statue on top of a tomb. Perhaps she was drawing a fire in a church where a famous saint is buried.’

Louisa remembers the prophetic nature of the story about the murder by the bridge over the Tiber. ‘Have you called the Carabinieri?’

‘No.’ He kicks himself. Had he not been bathing his stinging eyes, he probably would have done. He certainly should have done. It may even have enabled him to completely hijack her case. ‘I wanted to discuss it with you first,’ he lies.

‘I’ll call Morassi, the captain I was with last night.’ She reaches for her handbag and fishes inside for her cell phone.

‘I have an idea,’ announces Valducci, his face filled with childish enthusiasm.

Louisa hooks out her phone and plunges her hand back into the bag to find Valentina’s card. ‘What’s that?’

‘Forget the cops for now. This is strictly clinical. Doctor-patient confidentiality. If it works, it will help both Suzie and your Carabinieri friends.’

By pure coincidence, Tom Shaman ends up being treated at the Policlinico, the same hospital where Valentina spent much of the morning with the ME.

Valentina learns of his whereabouts on the phone and tells him she has a few things to take care of before coming to collect him.

Sitting in A amp;E reception nursing a brown plastic cup of poor coffee, Tom is pleased to have emerged from his ordeal relatively unscathed.

Apart from a gashed shoulder, a cut foot, a little nausea and a raw cough, he’s in good shape. And he’s dressed again.

Albeit in dead men’s clothes.

One of the porters got them for him. They’d tried the charity store, but Tom’s height and width was too tall an order. Most Italian males are considerably smaller and narrower than he is. No matter. He is now modelling some grey cotton trousers that are okay in length but were clearly worn by someone who was clinically obese. He’s gathered six inches of spare cloth around the top and choked it off with an old plastic belt. The plain pink shirt with frayed collar and cuffs may well have come from the same guy. It’s fine across the neck and shoulders but then billows out into a parachute. Brown socks and black plastic boots with elasticated sides complete his less than fashionable ensemble.

Sometime around four p.m., he falls asleep in the dozy warmth of the reception area, and stirs almost an hour later to find Valentina staring down at him.

He’s been dreaming about the burning apartment.

Valentina sees the panic in his eyes. ‘Hey, are you all right?’

He breathes deeply.

Yes, he’s all right.

The place isn’t on fire.

He’s absolutely fine.

‘Sure,’ he answers sleepily, then stretches his long legs. ‘You like my new clothes?’

She sees the funny side.

She sits on the hard wooden chair beside him, puts her arms around his neck and kisses him. ‘They’re very you.’

He pulls her tight.

Her skin is cool and smells of the fresh air.

Her kiss is warm and soft and the touch of her hair against his face melts his stress away.

The very public kiss is shorter and more polite than either of them would have liked.

Valentina pulls slowly away and takes a long look at him. ‘Okay, who dressed you? I can get them a six stretch in maximum security for this. Or was it a blind guy? I could show mercy to a blind guy.’

‘A dead guy, I think.’

She screws up her face. ‘Oooh. I wish you hadn’t said that. I’ve spent too much of the day in the mortuary.’ She grabs his hand and tries to pull him to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

Tom heaves himself up from the chair where he’s spent the last three hours. ‘Where are we going? Your place is really badly damaged.’

She folds her fingers between his and leads him to the exit. ‘I know. Federico has friends in the fire department; they’re scooping up whatever is salvageable before the looters move in.’

‘Looters?’

‘Sure. Romans burned and looted most of the world. You don’t think they’ll be all over a newly gutted apartment seeing if there’s something worth having?’

‘I suppose so.’

Tom walks groggily to Valentina’s car.

She zaps the door open.

He gets in, rolls down the window and clunks on his seat belt. ‘I’m really sorry about your place.’

‘You should be,’ she teases. ‘Do you have any idea what it will cost to replace my wardrobe?’

He shakes his head.

‘The shoes alone will be a year’s salary. Not to mention my dresses, skirts, tops, bags, jumpers, coats and lingerie.’

‘Oh God, I feel so bad. I really don’t know what happened.’ He rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I’m sure I didn’t leave anything on the cooker. I didn’t use it after you’d gone. I just made coffee, that’s all.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She leans over and kisses him. ‘You’re safe, that’s all I care about. The rest is covered by insurance.’ She kisses him again. ‘But as punishment, you’re going to have to come shopping with me. Lots of shopping!’

Louisa can’t believe she’s going along with it.

All of her training tells her this is a bad idea, especially after Suzanna’s attack on Valducci.

Then again, it could be exactly the right moment.

She supposes she’s being compliant because the initiative has come from her boss and it’s not her neck on the line if it goes wrong, which it very well could. Then again, Valducci could really hit the bullseye, and she’d like to be in on that happening.

And so it is that she finds herself in the back of the hospital administrator’s Alfa, accompanying Suzanna on a trip to Cosmedin.

Cognitive therapy.

Returning to a scene of central psychological importance while the patient is in a high emotional state. Risky but potentially promising.