Читать книгу A Known Evil: A gripping debut serial killer thriller full of twists you won’t see coming - Aidan Conway - Страница 18

The Metro brought him to a very convenient distance from the judge’s apartment on a side street just off the broad busy thoroughfare of the Via Tiburtina. He crossed the bridge over the railway junction with its spaghetti tangle of lines spewing out of the immense Brutalist concrete station. In the distance he could see the Roman hills, the Castelli, each of which had once been the sight of a castle, with its lord and servants and feudal power structure. To Rossi they served as a reminder of feudalism’s ever-present role in Italian affairs. King-like figures still dwelt in the shadows, subjects still curried favour, assassins took their king’s shillings, and heretics and rebels, if they were foolish enough to expose themselves, had to face the consequences of their treason.

The hills looked near enough to touch, their variegated mossy colours vivid and sharp. Beautiful, thought Rossi, beginning to drift, but then, like a surgeon, truncating the reverie. There was work to do and yet, as he turned his gaze back to the streets, he reflected that it might be a sign of further rain or even snow, given the cold snap, and he couldn’t help but feel its metaphorical weight. Most of the multi-storey buildings here had shot up after the war, gobbling with grey the once-green space that had skirted the old Rome. Still, despite their functional, un-classical facades they often concealed large, sprawling apartments with dark, bourgeois, chestnut and mahogany-rich interiors. He flashed his ID at the pair of plain-clothes officers idling outside the building. The judge’s place was no exception. The brass fittings and elegant stairwell were graffiti-free and there was a well-maintained porter’s cabin at the entrance. The names on the intercoms were neatly printed or in dark, fluid italics. There were doctors, engineers, architects and lawyers all with their names clearly prefixed with their respective titles. Dottore, Ingegnere, Architetto, Avvocato.

The door opened to reveal a tall, still quite athletic man somewhere in his mid-sixties. He was wearing a suede, blouson-style leather jacket, the type favoured by men of his age, not necessarily only bourgeois types, but all those conscious of, and still proud of, their own masculinity and vigour. He seemed to have either recently arrived or to be about to leave. His handshake was firm and decisive, his face haggard and grey.

He showed Rossi in with a gentle sweep of his hand but moved about the flat with the hesitant uncertainty of one not used to living in a place. In fact, there were few or any indications that he might be the habitual resident. The blinds were still closed, there was no lingering aroma of cooking or morning coffee, no radio or television on. There were no newspapers, either read or unread. There was only a single book, on the corner of the far end of the long baroque-looking table at which he invited Rossi to take a seat opposite him.

They sat for some moments in silence before the judge seemed to remember his manners.

“Can I offer you something to drink, Inspector? Coffee, a glass, perhaps, of mineral water?”

Rossi was on his third or fourth coffee already and opted for the water. The judge returned with an ornate, miniature silver tray on which were balanced two delicate glasses. He looked around in vain for coasters.

“I’m really not sure where anything is in this house,” he explained. “It was my mother’s and then, when I divorced, well. Still on good terms though,” he added with scant conviction. “And now with the boy needing to be looked after, it’s all so, so up in the air.”

He trailed off in his explanation making it all quite clear to Rossi.

Already floundering, he thought. And now all this.

The judge left the tray on the table between them and then, clearing his throat, began what appeared destined to be a speech of sorts.

“I feel,” he began, “about last night, that I owe you and your fellow officers something of an apology. I was really quite,” he began to search for the exact word, then as if contenting himself with a cliché, concluded, “not myself.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Rossi. “It is quite understandable, really, isn’t it?”

Silence reigned for a few moments as the two men reprised their different parts in the previous night’s drama.

It wasn’t exactly changing the subject but Rossi thought he had better begin to at least get the ball rolling with a more predictable question.

“Was Maria seeing someone?”

The judge gave a shrug of sorts.

“I believe there was someone,” he said. “But it was all very casual, as far as I knew.”

“Did she mention a name?”

He shook his head.

“We didn’t have that kind of relationship,” he said. “She would always go to her mother for advice about boys. But that was a long time ago.”

“Was she in trouble in any way? Did your daughter ever mention having enemies?” Rossi asked.

“Only mine,” he replied. “As far as I can possibly know. She was a very independent woman. Keeping on top of her home life and her work. I can’t imagine she had much time to make enemies. If that’s what you mean.”

“I mean,” said Rossi, “was she perhaps involved with any investigations, in her line of work. She was a lawyer, was she not?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “She always wanted to go her own way in the world. Not mine. Always did the opposite.” He almost gave a little laugh as he seemed to remember something. “I wanted her to take up ballet. I knew certain people at La Scala. But she wanted to do martial arts! Of course, I was misguided. Besides, she was always going to be much too tall to be a dancer. Still, that was her way.”

“Admirable, wouldn’t you say?”

“You could say that.”

There was a loaded pause before Rossi continued. A clock was ticking somewhere.

“She had a part-time position with a studio. I didn’t ask her very much. She spoke of regular work: family-law cases, small property affairs. Nothing remarkable. And then,” he added, with what appeared to be a melancholy emphasis, “she had her voluntary work.”

“For whom?” Rossi enquired, interested now.

“Whomsoever required it. She was good like that. Very generous. Willing to give of herself. Always off travelling to this place or that place.”

“So you don’t feel that someone could have wanted to murder your daughter because she was creating problems, getting in the way of anything?”

The judge was looking across the table at Rossi. In his lined and fissured face, Rossi could see some other preoccupation, something other than the investigation.

“I believe you are English, aren’t you?” he said suddenly.

“You could say that,” Rossi replied.

“How do I say my daughter has died, is dead? What is the word for la morte?”

It didn’t seem quite the moment for language lessons, but Rossi felt a certain duty.

“My daughter is dead. She was killed. She was murdered.”

“Oh,” said the judge. “I see.” He looked up, suddenly, in an almost sprightly manner. “Do you ski, Inspector? You know, I am a member of the Alpine Club of Italy. We had planned a week together, in the Dolomites. We go most years.”

“I am sorry,” said Rossi, a little confused, not sure what question, if any, he was answering. “I have never learned.”

“But you could learn!” he countered. “It’s never too late!”

Rossi smiled and shook his head.

“No, it’s not for me, really.”

But the judge had already drifted elsewhere with his thoughts.

“And do you think they will come for me, Inspector?”

Rossi looked across the table at the judge. He appeared, for all the world, like someone who had simply enquired as to whether or not it would be a fine day tomorrow.

“No, I don’t believe so, sir. I really don’t believe it is a question of them.”

The judge was looking straight at him now, his gaze stony, his mouth pursed tight, as though holding back an avalanche of emotions or profound knowledge.

“I want you to know,” Rossi continued, “that I feel sure your daughter was the victim of a killer who chooses his victims according only to his own deranged criteria and not because of who you are or who your daughter was. And besides, his methods,” he began again, before feeling an irresistible pressure to lower his gaze, “are not consistent with the type of murder you perhaps fear. I am sure the killer doesn’t even know who you are. Just as he didn’t care who the first two victims were, and who the next will be, if we don’t stop him first.”

“Yes,” the judge nodded. “Yes. He must be apprehended. At all costs,” he added, seeming to have re-conquered some of his old fight and voglia di vivere, the will to live. It would have made it all so much more perversely understandable. A mafia-pool judge and the worst possible revenge – that of taking a loved one. It was, instead, a senseless killing. A random folly, like being struck by lightning on a family picnic.

“You know,” he began again, “she always refused the protection she would have been entitled to. She maintained she could look after herself pretty well. She refused to live like a prisoner in her own life.”

“She was very brave,” said Rossi.

“Yes, she was. But it would have saved her.”

Rossi reached for the glass and took a sip.

Feeling that it was time to bring things to a close, he asked if he might use the bathroom. He splashed his face and, on coming back into the dining room, his incorrigible reader’s curiosity led him to turn over the book lying flat on the corner of the table.

“Ah,” he said, “Buzzati.”

The book was The Seven Messengers, one of his favourites. Its title story told of a prince who, on leaving his father’s kingdom to discover what lies beyond the confines of the realm, takes with him seven riders to relay news between the old world and the new one he is to discover. As time passes, however, the narrator realizes the growing futility of his system as the future relentlessly and inexorably eclipses the past.

“You can have it if you like,” said the judge. “It was for my daughter. I had been putting aside the whole series for her as they came out with the newspaper. She loves, loved to read.”

Although he knew he had a copy of the book on a shelf somewhere in his flat, Rossi accepted it then handed the judge his card, should he need to get in touch.

“There was just one more thing,” said Rossi. “I was wondering whether I could ask you if you have a picture of your daughter, sir, one I can use for the investigation.”

“A picture? A photograph? Yes, of course, one moment.” And he slipped out and into an adjoining room. He returned carrying a large album into which, over the years, many extra pictures had been accommodated, so much so that when he opened it some spilled onto the table. For a moment the judge seemed to be lost in some bitter-sweet melancholy of reminiscence as he searched for a recent image.

“No. She seems to be just a little young in these,” he said, “her hair’s quite different. Now, let me find something more up to date,” he said, almost jumping up and leaving Rossi alone again. There was one photo which Rossi felt could, nonetheless, be of some use to him and he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Here’s what I was after,” the judge exclaimed on returning, then, as if dampening his own temporary enthusiasm, he placed the image in front of Rossi.

“Thank you,” said Rossi, with due reverence.

As he left, descending the staircase, after a moment’s thought he was able to recall, almost by heart, the closing lines of the Buzzati story. He repeated the words to himself, like a seasoned priest reciting the requiem: Tomorrow, new hope will drive me on towards those unexplored mountains shrouded in the shadows of the night. Once more, I will break camp while Domenico disappears over the horizon in the opposite direction, carrying with him my now quite useless message to the far, far distant city.