David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

“Yes?” Her voice sounded anxious, expectant. He could hear the disappointment, fear perhaps, when he answered.

“It’s just a small thing,” he said quickly. “I have to check. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she murmured and let him in.

Miranda Julius was alone in the living room which was still echoing to the buzz of traffic on the Lungotevere. She was wearing loose white-cotton pyjamas and a red dressing gown. Her fair hair was still damp and dark from the shower. She appeared younger somehow. Maybe it was her eyes, which seemed wider than he recalled, and shone a bright, intense blue. The pain lent her face a delicate, stressed beauty. He couldn’t start to imagine how she felt.

She took one look at him and said, “There’s no news, is there?”

“No. Sorry.”

She sighed. It was what she expected, he thought. “Do you want a drink? Or is that out of bounds?”

She was clutching a glass of red. He remembered how many times he’d dived into that rich, fragrant lake since his father died, and the struggle required to get out and shake yourself dry. The longing never disappeared.

“Just a small one,” he said and straightaway she went into the kitchen and came out with a bottle of Barolo, a good year, an expensive one.

“This all goes tonight. I couldn’t sleep. I just keep wondering… Didn’t anyone see her?”

He’d watched women in these situations before. Sometimes they went to pieces. Sometimes they just turned inside themselves. Miranda Julius was different. She seemed determined not to let the agony of her daughter’s disappearance defeat her. He hoped this act of defiance would last.

“No,” he answered honestly. “It’s early. This isn’t good or bad. It’s just how it is. She could still just be another runaway for all we know. You’d be amazed how often that happens.”

She raised her glass. “Thanks, Nic. Thanks for trying.”

Then she poured his, clumsily. Some of the purple liquid stained his jacket.

“Sorry,” she apologized, dabbing at the fabric with a tissue. “Had a couple of glasses earlier. It helps.”

“Don’t worry.”

He tried the wine. It tasted gorgeous: rich and full of subtle delights.

Costa pulled the plastic envelope out of his pocket. “This is a very long shot but I have to ask. Do you recognize this? Did Suzi have something like it?”

She stared at the coloured hair-band. “Yes… yes, I think so. But they’re not exactly rare.”

“I know. Is it still here?”

He followed her to the girl’s bedroom. They sorted through the piles of clothes and the drawers. Everything was very tidy, he thought. There was a handful of bands in a bedside drawer. None in the same style.

“Where did you find it?” she asked.

“It could be anybody’s. I’ll get the lab to look. I need something of hers they can check it with. A hairbrush?”

There were two on the dressing table. She nodded. He took the biggest. It was full of stray blonde hair, soft and golden, a couple of shades lighter than her mother’s.

The blue eyes shone at him, unyielding. “Nic… where ?”

“Someone was killed out near the airport this afternoon. A university professor who was working on an excavation. He could have been involved with some kind of cult. There was a villa there. It seems to have been used for some kind of ceremony, perhaps recently. We don’t know.”

“Killed?”

“We don’t know why. I doubt there’s a connection at all. There’s no evidence Suzi went there. We’ll check the hair-band, of course.”

“Was there—?” She clutched the glass, her shoulders hunched. “This ceremony. Had someone else been hurt there too? Before?”

“We don’t know that anything’s happened to Suzi,” he said firmly.

“But you know something you’re not telling me. This ritual. This isn’t the first time, is it?”

“Maybe not,” he conceded.

“And someone died then?”

“Sixteen years ago. It’s a long time.”

The blue eyes fixed on him. “Who was she?”

“I can’t tell you. In any case it’s probably just coincidence.”

He could see she didn’t believe him. Miranda Julius walked back into the living room and poured more wine, standing by the table, nervous, uncertain of herself. He followed, watching her. She was shivering. He put down his glass and, very gently, held her by the shoulders. “I can get someone to come and stay here, Miranda. A policewoman. You don’t have to be alone.”

There was an intensity about her at that moment, as if she were grasping for something important. Costa was suddenly aware that he felt attracted to this odd, damaged woman, against all his better judgement.

“You know the thing about kids?” she asked. “They drive you mad. They keep you sane too. It took years to work out, that was why I stayed away from Suzi. If I lived with her she’d force me to be responsible. She’d make me try to become something I’m not. So I just dumped her, somewhere safe, somewhere invisible, and went wherever I felt like. Places that made sense to me because they were stupid and pointless and perhaps I could forget she even existed.”

“What changed?” he asked.

“You think something changed?”

“You’re here. You came with her. From what you’ve said that wouldn’t have happened a while ago.”

She seemed to appreciate this insight. He took away his hands. There were thoughts rising in Nic Costa’s head he didn’t want there.

“I wanted to do what was right for once,” she said. “It was almost as if I’d forgotten about her. Forgotten about a part of me—”

She refilled their glasses quickly and gulped at the wine.

“She deserved better than that. So I went out and bought the tickets, booked this place. It was a last-minute thing. It seemed a good idea. Just get up and go somewhere. Together.”

“Why now?”

She didn’t seem to want to think about this too much. There was pain there. He wondered why he wanted to know.

“Because I needed someone, I guess. There was a gap in my life and, in my own selfish way, I thought perhaps it was time to fill it with family.”

She turned her head to one side, remembering. “Last year, when I was still working, I was in yet another shitty hole in the Middle East, watching people shoot the crap out of each other. I had a man at the time. A reporter. French guy. He made me laugh. That was all. But it was enough. All I needed. Then one day he climbed into a jeep and—”

She put down the wine glass and came close to him, peering into his eyes, shaking her head. “It was just a car crash. Can you believe it? All those years, both of us had been walking past bullets, driving over land mines. And then one day he’s going down the road and the idiot behind the wheel turns right instead of left. Bang, they’re over a cliff. Dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she asked severely. “You didn’t know him. You don’t know me.”

Her breath smelled of wine, her body of something else. Expensive perfume.

“And I didn’t love him. I liked him. Respected him. Before all this happened I’d promised myself I’d dump him. That ought to make it easier. Instead it makes it worse.”

She reached forward and splayed her fingers across his chest. Costa stepped back, put his hands up and said, “Miranda. You’re upset. Let me get a woman officer in here.”

“Don’t want one.” Her voice was slurred but more through tiredness than drink, he thought.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s a habit I have when things start to go wrong. Sleeping with strangers. You know something?”

He didn’t dare say a word. His head was racing to places he wanted to avoid.