Читать книгу A Known Evil: A gripping debut serial killer thriller full of twists you won’t see coming - Aidan Conway - Страница 16

When Rossi awoke it took him a while to realize where he was and that he was alone. He listened for familiar sounds and, hearing none, threw back the covers. The heating was on, but the flat was still a bit on the chilly side. There was some coffee still left in the machine. It was more warm than cold. Drinkable. By the kitchen clock it was nine. So, Yana had performed all her morning duties without even waking him or perhaps without even trying to wake him. At least she hadn’t come around with the Hoover.

He had finally let himself in at, what was it? Four or five? He tried to reconstruct the night’s events. Yes, after they’d persuaded the judge to let them check out his daughter’s flat. It had been a hassle with that guy, and Rossi remembered his own exasperated words: “Anything could help, you must understand that, sir. So, if you’ll just give me the keys we’ll get it over and done with tonight.” It had been, as always, sobering, with the judge standing sentinel-like as he and Carrara and the officers had gone through bins, opened cupboards, drawers, the fridge, in the search of any indicator that might point to a motive other than sheer, random, insane violence. As he checked levels in liquor bottles, read personal notes and, ever the foodie, squeezed and sniffed groceries for freshness, Rossi could feel the judge’s disdain as though by these very actions his daughter were being violated for a second time. “Nothing much to go on here,” Rossi had concluded with the standard phrase. “We’ll come back tomorrow to tie up any loose ends, if you don’t mind.”

He had slept late. She must have given herself the early shift after all. Or changed it. He couldn’t detect any sign of emotion, neither anger nor indifference, in the otherwise empty flat and, scratching his head, he wondered whether she had let him sleep out of pity or a simple desire not to have to exchange strained pleasantries with him. Maybe she hadn’t felt she had the energy to confront him head-on. Maybe he didn’t either. Was that a bad sign? Time would tell, he concluded and splashed some milk into a saucepan then sat down to mull over more of the events of the previous night.

Of course, once the powers-that-be had learned of the possible judicial connection they had all become very interested. So, it had been a torrid night of claim and counter claim and a back and forth of theories about “reprisals” and “warnings” and “clear threats to the institutions” – the judiciary, the government, and so forth. Rossi, however, had resolutely maintained his line that it was pure coincidence. The modus operandi, the signature, were all consistent with the previous killings. Apart from the handbag having been subtracted from the crime scene – probably a self-conscious act of arrogant defiance – it bore all the key traits of the first murder.

They’d learned then that the girl’s father had been pulling all the strings at his disposition and had even wanted to take over the case and put his own men on the job. Rossi gave a dry little laugh to himself. How quickly things moved when tragedy touched the lives of the luminaries. Yes. When sometimes there wasn’t even money to put petrol in a squad car, along came one of the Establishment and they were sending up helicopters and cancelling leave right, left, and centre.

To his credit, Maroni had held his own, for the sake of the force, ostensibly. Possibly. He’d had to leave the opera midway through and was faintly comical in his evening garb. It was only the Rome opera though. Not as if he’d been to La Scala or San Carlo. He had, nonetheless, insisted on leaving the investigation in Rossi’s hands now that he had begun. “Rossi has my full confidence and the full confidence of my superiors,” he’d rather grandly announced at one point, which had tickled Rossi not a little. They had agreed to keep all and sundry informed of subsequent developments, should anything have arisen which might indicate a mafia or other organized backdrop. A press conference was to be arranged, in part, to placate an anxious business community now that the murders were becoming news, international news, and in part to keep a lid on the possible motives. The Home Secretary had even phoned from the ski-resort where he was contributing to the nation’s economic welfare by giving a significant boost to consumer spending, albeit with taxpayers’ money, and racking up a quantity of sexual misdemeanours sufficient to keep priests busy with confessions and journalists replete with favours paid for by their silence.

They had concluded matters in the very late early hours with Rossi agreeing to meet with the judge again the following day, which was, as Rossi now noted, today. Maroni wanted him to probe a little more into the woman’s private life and business affairs but also to keep her father at a manageable distance. “We don’t want a bloody judge sniffing around,” Maroni had hissed, “and following our every move, Rossi, so work on him. Soft soap him. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

He tried to remember the time they had set for the meeting. His morning mind was fuzzier than usual and then he remembered how he had needed two or three visits to the bottom drawer, that of the filing cabinet, where the emergency supply of whiskey was located. That and extra nightcaps to wind down on the way back over to Yana’s. Not to mention the third of a bottle of Limoncello, and the beers. It was all mounting up to something approaching unjustified excess. Carrara would know. He went to look for his phone. God only knew where that was.

The front door clicked. Rossi turned to see Yana standing there.

“Well,” she said, “are you going to tell me what’s going on, or what?”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” said Rossi.

“I felt guilty or something,” she replied, dropping her bag into the corner and pulling off her scarf. “And if we don’t talk now I don’t think we’re ever going to talk, are we? Besides what is it they say about never letting the sun go down on an argument?”

“Even if it was only in the form of a text?”

“You got the message though? I was expecting you at a respectable hour.”

“Am I forgiven?”

She threw her coat across the chair and walked over to him.

“Well, it’s winter and I didn’t fancy my chances of seeing you before dark tonight. Having a boyfriend in your line of work, one has to live for the moment, shall we say. You got drunk, didn’t you, last night?”

“We had a late one,” said Rossi. “There was all sorts of ‘shit going down’, as our American friends say.”

She went closer and sniffed around, testing him and still showing something of the disdain for him which was part and parcel of their sometimes tempestuous love affair.

“Well you brush up reasonably well, Inspector fucking Rossi. What time’s your first appointment?”

“Now, it’s funny you should mention that,” said Rossi, “but I can’t find my phone. Going to give me a hand?” But before Yana was able to do the time-honoured call-the-lost-mobile-routine, somebody had got there first. “It’s buzzing,” he said, throwing cushions hither and thither as he tried to home in on the vibrations.

“Got it,” said Yana sliding a hand down the side of the settee.

It was Carrara.

“Just reminding you not to forget that you’ve got an appointment with the judge at his place. All right?”

“What makes you think I would have forgotten?” said Rossi, knowing his gravelly tones were giving him away. But Yana, who had pulled the curtains in the lounge, had already begun to unzip her top and was shaking her head, mouthing “no, no, no.”

“Look,” said Rossi as Yana came closer now and put her arms around his waist. “Give him a call, will you?” he said. “Tell him that some lab reports have come through and that I’ll be over as soon as I can. It’s not like he’ll be going to work today, is it? The man’s got a funeral to organize.”