David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

“You don’t need a lawyer,” Falcone said. “Not yet.”

He led the way downstairs, out to the morgue in the adjoining building. There was one assistant on duty, a short, dark man with a ponytail. Falcone had never seen him before and didn’t feel too impressed. Silvio Di Capua and the rest of the path crew were still at Vercillo’s, trying to pick up the pieces without Teresa Lupo. It wasn’t going to be easy. Too few people, too little talent.

The morgue official nodded when he heard the name. “We’ve got a place for that one. Teresa says it needs special treatment. She’s gone loopy or something? Is that true?”

“Just show us,” Falcone snapped.

The ponytail headed for a corridor, moaning constantly. “Jesus, are we in trouble now. They’re not going to let Monkboy loose on the shop, are they? Don’t get me wrong. He’s a nice guy. Knows his stuff. But managerially… You should see his locker.”

They entered a side room. Eleanor Jamieson’s mahogany corpse lay on a surgical table surrounded by a panoply of technical equipment that looked like a life support system arriving too late. Silver tripods sprouted from the floor, transparent plastic tubing wound around them feeding a network of tiny pipes and nozzles. These sprayed a fine mist directly onto the body, giving it a bright, leathery sheen in the harsh light of the room. The place had a chemical stink from whatever solution was being used to preserve the body. It made Falcone’s throat ache.

“Don’t ask me what to do when the stuff runs out,” the assistant said. “Teresa fixed all this up. Says some academic in England e-mailed her the recipe. Told her it was the best way to stop the thing shrivelling up like a pair of old shoes.”

“Out,” Falcone barked, and the ponytail disappeared back into the morgue.

Wallis had taken a seat in the corner of the room. His eyes were fixed on the body. Eleanor still wore most of the sackcloth shift. The autopsy proper hadn’t even begun. Falcone understood too that she would remain untouched for the foreseeable future. This strange, half-mummified corpse was beyond Silvio Di Capua. They would surely have to call in help from outside or persuade Teresa Lupo to come back to work. He wasn’t sure which was preferable. The woman was a loose cannon. Only her considerable skill had kept her in the job in the first place. But it would be faster if they were spared more interruptions.

D’Amato took a seat on one side of Wallis. Falcone fell into a chair on the other. The room overlooked the street. The sounds of everyday Roman life drifted in through the tiny window: cars and human voices, stray music and the angry honking of horns. In spite of countless murder inquiries, Falcone never felt entirely comfortable in the morgue. It wasn’t the grim presence of the cadaver that bothered him. It was the way death sat so easily, so effortlessly in the midst of life, just behind the curtain, unnoticed except by the few people it immediately affected.

He looked at Rachele D’Amato, nodding at her to start, wishing he could find more answers to all the questions that were bothering him. She’d brought the DIA into the case with a consummate skill. It was made easier by the fact that she and her colleagues seemed to know so much more than the police did. Someone was leaking, too, and she assumed, all along, it was the police. Maybe she was right. Everyone knew the Questura had its share of compromised cops. But it bothered Falcone that no one ever asked any hard questions of the DIA. Did she ever wonder whether the tip-offs could be coming from within her own ranks? If she did, would she let on to a mere cop? This was a one-way relationship. Just like the personal one they’d enjoyed for a while. He was, once again, at a disadvantage, and it bothered him deeply.

“Mr. Wallis,” she said. “We’re in the dark on almost everything here. A motive. A precise time. Perhaps even a place. What do you think happened?”

Wallis shook his head. “Why ask me? You said yourself I was not under suspicion.”

“You must have some idea.”

“Really?” Wallis asked. “Why does that necessarily follow?”

“Was Emilio Neri involved?” D’Amato asked. “How well did he know Eleanor?”

“Neri?” He hesitated. “The name rings a bell. You should put that question to him, surely.”

“You went on vacation together,” she said. “To Sicily. Please don’t play games with us. Neri was there, and his son. Who else?”

Wallis nodded, conceding the point. “Hell. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember.”

Falcone sighed. “I was hoping you could help us somehow. I told you yesterday. There’s another girl missing now, in very similar circumstances. We’re certain she’s in danger.”

Wallis thought for a moment then said, “What you say doesn’t make sense. You told me at the outset you didn’t know the circumstances of Eleanor’s death. Now you say this other girl is in the same position. I don’t understand. Which is it?”

“This isn’t a time for playing games,” Falcone snapped. “We need your help.”

Wallis’s gaze was fixed on the corpse, bright and glossy beneath the artificial shower of stinking fluid. “I don’t know anything about this other girl.”

Very carefully, watching his reaction, D’Amato said, “What about Eleanor’s mother?” He flinched, just a little. “Your wife. Wouldn’t you want some justice for her?”

“Her mother took her own life,” he replied. “No one did that for her.”

“You feel no sense of regret?” she asked. “No… responsibility?”

“She died because she wanted to.” The words came out with difficulty. D’Amato was touching a nerve here.

“My question wasn’t about her. I wondered what you felt.”

The man looked at his watch, his eyes glassy. “This isn’t something I want to discuss.”

Falcone watched Rachele D’Amato’s face harden. There was such resolve there. It was good for the job. It was what they needed. Surely she’d changed over the years, though. The woman he remembered, the woman he had, perhaps, once loved, was not this detached from her feelings. “Did you love them?” she asked. “Eleanor wasn’t yours. Your wife had left you already. Did you love them at that point? When the marriage appeared over?”

Wallis bridled at the question. “You’re a very persistent woman. Let me say this once and for all. They changed me. Before, I was what I was. They saw something in me that I didn’t see myself. In return I learned to love them, and resent them too. A man like me isn’t made to change. It’s not good business. It makes for an uneasy relationship with one’s masters.”

Falcone glanced at the body. “Could your masters have done this?”

There was a sudden burst of anger on his face. “What kind of people do you think I mix with? She was a child, for heaven’s sake. What possible reason—?” He stopped, his voice breaking. “This is a personal matter. I’m not talking about it anymore. It’s no business of yours. I have nothing to tell you .”

“Where were you this morning?” Falcone asked directly.

“At home,” he said immediately. “With my housekeeper.”

“And your associates?” D’Amato demanded.

“Associates?”

She pulled out her notepad and read off some names. “We have a list of them. Men you know. Men with the same kind of background. They arrived in Rome yesterday.”

“Sure!”

They waited.

“Golf!” Wallis declared. “Do you think everything’s bad news around here? We meet once a year in spring. I’ve booked a round at Castelgandolfo for Sunday, then dinner. Phone them if you like, and check. They can tell you. We’ve done this for years. Since I first came to Rome. It’s an annual event for old men. Old soldiers if you like. Retired soldiers. Do you play golf, Inspector?”