‘What does he look like?’ Julia asked straight away.
Marrone watched her. ‘Not tall. Not bald. He’s a young man. Very disturbed. As one might expect.’
‘How old?’ Fratelli asked in a shaky, expectant voice.
The captain looked at a document in front of him, puzzled by the question.
‘Twenty-six. He was Tornabuoni’s gardener. Lived in a shack on his estate. Performed other duties, it seemed.’
‘No,’ Fratelli said. ‘No, no, no. Twenty-six… is impossible. That would have made him a child. No, Walter!’ He was on his feet now. ‘I am telling you…’
‘We found Tornabuoni’s body outside his shack,’ Marrone said gently. ‘The gardener was with it when we went to the place. He was cradling it, for God’s sake. I’ve kept this from the media for the moment. Until we have a confession from the man. Right now…’
His words drifted into silence.
‘Right now, what?’ Fratelli wanted to know.
‘He’s difficult to talk to. Upset. Psychotic, you’d say. Or so I imagine.’
Julia sat there, wondering what to think.
‘Pino,’ she said, rising to take his arm. ‘You need to tell the captain. About Chiara…’
‘What was that?’ Marrone asked, not quite hearing.
‘Sounds as if you don’t need us then,’ Fratelli grumbled.
‘Tell him!’ Julia shouted.
But Fratelli was leaving already, only turning to say, ‘You heard the captain. He’s a busy man. He has his suspect, who one day may even talk. Why should we waste his time?’
The most cursory of glances at Marrone followed.
‘Do I still get to keep Luca Cassini? I assume your gardener is not under suspicion for what happened in the chapel. Given your low opinion of that young man, I imagine he is no use in a murder case, even one so quickly solved.’
‘The boy’s all yours,’ the captain said, then answered the ringing phone.
In the bathroom he stepped out of his clothes with a rigorous, childlike precision, placed them in a tidy heap, then stepped inside the shower and ran the water.
He found a small bar of soap, rubbed it all over, ran it under his fingernails, did his best to get rid of the blood there. Smeared some of her sweet-smelling shampoo on his hair, put his head beneath the stream. The water was turning from lukewarm to cold but it didn’t matter. He was hard, the kind of insane, uncontrollable hardness that stole away his mind. Then the cold turned icy and still the hardness stayed. So he got out, dried himself, kept the dead man’s towel round him, and carried his pile of clothes back into the bedroom.
She was still on the mattress, looking as if she were sleeping. A hairdryer was beside the bed. He could smell the hot plastic. Smell her too — warm hair, perfume, skin, and something strong and physical he didn’t want to think about.
Chavah had got dressed while he was in the bathroom. A long, flowing maroon skirt. A thick sweater, green covered with flowers, threadbare at the elbows.
‘Get dressed.’ She pointed to the black shirt, sweater and jeans at the foot of the bed. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t watch.’
He snatched at the clothes, fought with them and the towel to maintain some modesty.
She didn’t move. Just looked at him, hands behind her head, smirking, emerald eyes bright, amused.
‘What’s your real name?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Is this what you want? You go and kill someone. Then show me what you’ve done, like a cat bringing back a mouse?’
Eyes wide open, smart and incisive, as if they could see through everything. Green and old and knowing.
Her hand went out and touched him over the cheap cotton fabric of the towel. ‘What are you then? A saint with a hard-on?’
‘Just a man.’
‘Man enough?’ she asked.
‘I killed that bastard, didn’t I?’
‘It’s something, I guess,’ Chavah Efron said, got up off the bed and pushed it back towards the window; one single, strong movement.
The floorboards beneath looked old and loose. He could make something out between the cracks. Glinting in the daylight.
‘We’ve work to do, before they come,’ she said. ‘Things to hide. Stories to concoct…’
She opened the bottom clothes drawer, took out a crowbar, eased the edge beneath the nearest, loosest plank. Four more came up as she worked at them. The weapons and the dope in the next room were nothing next to this. Five machine guns. Ammunition belts full and ready to be used. Bayonets and military daggers. Long, black semi-automatics. More plastic bags full of dun brown material.
An armoury for war. And, rolled up in the corner, what looked like a crimson flag.
As he stood there, watching, trying to think, she reached in, took hold of the fabric, unfurled it.
‘You hate them, just as we did. You want to do something too. I see it in your face. I hear it in your voice.’
She got up, came close.
‘There are so many things I could teach you.’
That laugh again; he was starting to be fascinated by the strength and determination inside her hard, foreign voice.
‘They never knew about me. I’m American. A hippie. A Jew. The rest they think are dead. Like Ari, who was rash and foolish and didn’t do as he was told. Dead or safe in jail.’
The red flag rolled to the floor. He looked at the icon there, and the words.
‘Just me left now. Struggling and alone.’
She was so close he could smell the sweetness of her breath.
‘Brigate Rosse’, the flag said, in crude, blocky writing, one word about a circle and a star, one word beneath.
The Red Brigades. They’d murdered politicians and industrialists up and down Italy for more than a decade. A force for chaos and violence and retribution. Death and vengeance inflicted on the idle rich and the corrupt political classes who supported them.
‘Alone,’ she said, her warm, damp breath in his ear. ‘And then along you come.’
‘I’m not—’
‘You’re what I make you,’ she cut in. Then reached into the store of weapons, took out a shotgun and a belt full of shells. ‘We’ll move these to the wood now. The gear from the other room. Before they come—’
‘I’m not…’ he began again.
She marched up to him, thrust the weapon in his face.
Silence.
Closer again. She reached up and kissed him on his cold cheek. Damp lips against his skin. Then the slowest, gentlest touch.
‘You’re not a man who thrives on choices,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve saved you from that. Be grateful. Now do as you’re told.’
‘We can run,’ he said, hoping.
She stood in front of him, reached up and stroked the black wool of his sweater.
‘Not yet.’
Luca Cassini looked pleased he was still assigned to work with Fratelli and Julia. Less so when the older man told him what he wanted.
‘You’re trying to get me in trouble,’ he complained as they stood huddled together in the station corridor, ignored by all who passed.
‘No,’ Fratelli insisted. ‘I intend to salvage your career.’
Cassini folded his big arms and said, ‘I’m not so sure about that…’
‘Luca.’ Fratelli gently took his elbow. Julia smiled at the tall, muscular young man. This made him blush. ‘There’s a murder case here. Are you a part of it?’
‘You know the answer to that already.’
‘And why?’
He didn’t say a word.
‘Because they don’t want you around. They…’ Fratelli shrugged. He didn’t like saying this. ‘They don’t think you’ve got what it takes. Know something? Come April when those newfangled assessments they love so much arrive… you’ll be out of here. Looking for a job. Do you doubt me?’