Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

She puts her hand on the light switch.

But never manages to turn it on.

Years in a hospital tell her that the sweet-smelling cloth pressed to her mouth is soaked in a trihalomethane.

Chloroform.

As unconsciousness creeps through her, she realises the man holding the cloth is half of the young couple she just let in.

‘They’ll make us scapegoats.’

Federico’s words hang in the air, snagged like a knot somewhere down the phone line between him and Valentina.

‘How so?’ she finally asks.

He blows cigarette smoke as he paces. ‘We get suspended for intimidating a mentally ill patient and she ends up dying of a heart attack. This is a heavy stone they are going to drop on our toes. It’s good for the hospital – it clears them of blame – and good for that bastard Caesario.’

Valentina’s surprised to hear him talk so venomously about the major. ‘We should meet. Do you know somewhere?’

Federico thinks for a second. ‘Galleria Borghese. It’s not far from the centre.’

‘I know it.’

‘I have a friend who runs the private dining rooms inside the villa. You don’t get many Carabinieri taking time off for cultural tours.’

‘Within the hour?’

‘Within the hour.’

They hang up.

The villa and adjoining museums are set in lavishly landscaped gardens on the Pincian Hill, north of the Spanish Steps. Works by Old Masters adorn its multitudinous rooms and have been viewed by millions.

The former vineyard is only walking distance for Tom and Valentina, so they are already there, admiring more than a hundred acres of parkland, when Federico arrives in his clapped-out Lancia.

He grinds a cigarette butt into the gravel and calls his friend.

Minutes later, they’re met on the entrance steps by a dark-suited young man with big brown eyes.

After much cheek-kissing and back-slapping, they’re shown to a small room and left alone with beautiful china espresso cups and crystal water glasses.

Sitting opposite each other for the first time since their suspension, Valentina can’t help but get several things off her chest. ‘I never expected Caesario to suspend you; I thought you and he were very close.’

‘You mistake closeness for obedience. When my major tells me to report directly to him rather than the new girl, I report to him. That doesn’t mean I will fabricate evidence for him, or support him if he has an agenda that I don’t think is ethical.’

‘ Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ He takes a contemplative sip of his espresso. ‘Any ideas how we can get out of this?’

She lets out a huff of exasperated air and sits back in her chair. ‘We need to talk to Louisa Verdetti and see how strongly set against us she is. Louisa’s key to it all. I suspect the official complaint was more of her boss’s doing than hers.’

‘If she testifies that we acted properly, then the case collapses.’

‘That’s about it. But she’ll need some talking to, especially now that Anna is dead.’

Federico finishes his coffee, ‘How exactly did she die?’

‘Not sure. Louisa said it was a heart attack. That’s all I got from her.’

‘Did she ring to blame you? Could you tell anything from the tone of her voice?’

Valentina has to think. ‘No. It was a really short call. But I don’t think she was ringing to rage at me. There was no pent-up anger in her voice. It was more like she just thought I should know.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, presumably she already knew you had been suspended, so if she was calling you despite that, then it indicates some kind of closeness. I think maybe she rang because she was upset and thought that you’d be more understanding than her boss.’

Valentina sees his point. ‘Could be.’

‘That gives us room for hope.’

She’s not so sure. ‘Strictly speaking we shouldn’t go near her. She’ll be a witness at a court martial.’

He flinches. ‘Don’t say those words.’

Tom speaks for the first time in several minutes. ‘I could talk to her, though.’ He sounds distant, because he’s studying a leaflet he’s found on a window ledge. It details paintings and sculptures at the villa by luminaries such as Bernini, Canova, Raphael and Caravaggio. ‘I have her address from when we were at the Ponte Fabricio and I got her a taxi home.’ He holds up the leaflet. ‘Does this remind you of anyone?’

Both Federico and Valentina squint to see.

It’s a portrait of a woman. A goddess with dark eyes and a distinctly dimpled chin.

A goddess who looks identical to Anna Fratelli.

The blanket is warm.

Warm, but rough and unfamiliar.

The bed she’s lying on is not her own.

Louisa Verdetti is on the slow and painful road to consciousness.

Her head aches, and for a moment her chloroformed mind plays tricks on her. She’s a student again, helping out in a field hospital in a Third World country. She’s dozed off at the end of a hard day’s work and is sleeping in one of the supply tents; the headache is a hangover courtesy of a bottle or two of rough red shared with a hunky aid worker from Sweden.

If only that were the case.

Slowly Louisa starts to focus.

Everywhere is brown.

Dark – depressingly dark – brown.

Her fuddled brain tries to snatch information. The smell of damp. The hardness of the surface she’s lying on. The near pitch darkness.

She’s underground.

Buried.

Her heart skips a beat.

Buried alive.

Louisa sits up.

Childhood claustrophobia sucks the air from her throat.

She tells herself not to panic. She’s no longer a young girl accidentally locked in her grandmother’s gardening shed.

Panic is the worst thing she can do.

Relax. Breathe slowly. Nothing bad is going to happen to her.

But it already has.

The rough knitted blanket slips from her shoulders as she puts out a hand.

A wall.

Lumpy. Not plastered. Damp. Crumbling.

Like the wall of a cave.

She feels an aching in her chest.

Breathe. Force yourself to take long, slow, deep breaths. Let it out slowly.

All her panic training comes back to her.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

You’re fine.

You’re okay.

Everything’s going to be all right.

Memories choke her now. The chloroform. The man and woman she let into her apartment block.

They did this.

They drugged her and have taken her somewhere.

But where?

And why?

A flash of yellowy-orange suddenly blinds her. She guesses from the accompanying sound and smell that the light is coming from rags soaked in oil or paraffin and bound to a heavy stick.

She backs up.

The torchlight shows her where she is.

Underground.

Behind bars.

In a cell carved out of solid rock.

‘No answer.’

Valentina puts her cell phone down on the shiny mahogany table inside the private meeting room at Galleria Borghese. ‘I’ve tried Louisa’s work and private cell numbers. Nothing.’

‘Then I’ll go and see if she’s at home,’ says Tom. ‘Given Anna’s death, it’s likely she’s taken some private time.’ He’s still distracted by the likeness of Anna in the painting in the leaflet.

‘This picture’s purely coincidence,’ says Valentina, taking it off him. ‘Half of the girls in Rome look like that.’ She gives it a second glance. ‘In fact, I think Anna’s actually much prettier than whoever she is.’

‘I’ll drive you,’ volunteers Federico. ‘When we’re finished here.’

‘We could go now,’ says Valentina, dropping the leaflet on a shelf over a radiator. ‘We’re about done, aren’t we?’