“And today?” Teresa looked interested. She’d been complaining about the lack of challenging work.
“Today, or rather last night, was the turn of Toni LaMarca, the only student who stayed in Rome. He was some hoodlum’s kid from Naples. Perhaps he thought that would protect him. Bad piece of work. Involved in dope and prostitution rings around Termini. Not a man to mourn. It was the same story as the others. Well, similar. LaMarca’s teenage boyfriend got kidnapped on the way home from the cinema. He managed to claw his way out of some lockup near Clodio this morning and went straight to us. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened. Someone called LaMarca. A ransom perhaps. He went out—”
“Commissario,” Peroni cut in. “I thought you said Bramante was in jail until three months ago. Maybe he could have kidnapped this kid and killed LaMarca. But the others?”
Messina pulled out a prison file and thrust it in front of them.
“Pay attention. I told you Giorgio Bramante was a model prisoner. He had all the parole he wanted. They even let him out from time to time to do odd jobs for people. Nothing illegal in that. Nothing that wasn’t by the book. When Vignola disappeared, Bramante was on emotional leave to visit his sick mother. Here in Rome. When Guerino died, he was on a free weekend. Plenty of time to do what he did. Same with Raul Bellucci.”
“These people had changed their names,” Teresa pointed out. “How the hell would he know how to find them?”
“That’s for you to discover,” Messina answered, then stuffed the pages back into the briefcase. “One more thing. The boy’s mother gave a T-shirt to some weird little church in Prati. They have a collection of memorabilia that appeals to psychics. She told them that soon after Alessio went missing, and Ludo Torchia was pronounced dead, she found it at home. With a fresh bloodstain on it. As if the two events were connected. The church collects that kind of thing apparently.”
Teresa scowled. “Leave me out of this. I’m a scientist. I don’t do witchcraft. Maybe someone had a nosebleed?”
“They didn’t,” Messina said flatly. “This T-shirt has gained a few more bloodstains over the years, not that we found that out until this morning. The church warden tried to keep it all quiet. But he’s a precise man. He made a note of the date each fresh bloodstain appeared. Any guesses?”
They looked at one another and stayed silent.
“The first happened just after Sandro Vignola went missing. Then, following each death, a day, two at the most, the warden finds another stain on Alessio Bramante’s shirt. It’s no big deal. The place scarcely has any security. Anyone could get in there, open the case, and pour something on the shirt. It doesn’t take magic. This morning…”
He paused to look out the window. They were moving into the Viale Aventino at last. It couldn’t be far away.
“…the church had a visitor. A man on his own, with a physical description that matches Bramante. This was around seven-thirty. Afterwards there were several fresh stains. Big stains this time, ones they couldn’t keep quiet. And some writing. That’s what brings us here. Not, unfortunately, before the caretaker had got in there first. Rosa Prabakaran is talking to her.”
Peroni’s face lit up with fury. “You’ve got a junior officer straight out of school on something like this? Aren’t there any grown-ups around?”
Messina gave him a cold managerial stare. He didn’t appreciate the interruption.
“She’s got nothing to worry about. You people, however…”
Even Falcone looked lost for a clue at that moment.
“He’s got two left on his list,” Messina continued implacably. “Dino Abati. God knows what he calls himself these days or where he’s living. And the police officer Bramante blames for stopping him beating the truth out of Ludo Torchia fourteen years ago. I hope you like the emergency quarters in the Questura, by the way, Leo. You’ll be staying there, all four of you, until this is over.”
“Oh no,” Peroni declared, waving his hand. “I’m just a man on the street these days. Don’t lay this at my door.”
“It’s already there,” Messina snapped. “Don’t you get it? Bramante isn’t just killing these people one by one to get his revenge. He’s taking someone they’re close to beforehand, holding them ransom, trying to…”
The commissario struggled for the words.
“He wants to put them through exactly the same nightmare he experienced,” Falcone filled in calmly. “But what makes you think he wants me?”
“After we worked out what was going on here, I sent a team round to the apartment Bramante has been using since he got out of prison. He was long gone. But he’s been busy. Too busy to take everything with him. Take a look at these.”
He withdrew three packs of photographic prints out of the briefcase, checked the labels, and passed one to each man. They sifted through the contents in silence.
Nic Costa was halfway through his own when he stopped, bewildered.
He was looking at a photograph of himself and Emily, walking out of the Palazzo Ruspoli, happy, smiling, arm in arm. He recognised the new red coat she was wearing. The picture had been taken two days before. They’d seen the doctor that morning, had the standard talk about what to do, what to expect, during the coming months of impending parenthood.
“What’s this lunatic doing taking photographs of me?” Teresa demanded, pointing at the pack in Peroni’s hand.
Costa glanced at them, then at Falcone’s set. In the photograph in the inspector’s hand was Raffaella, shopping in the Via degli Zingari. Something didn’t ring true.
“He didn’t try and seize any of us today,” Costa said, his eyes returning to Emily’s tired, strained face, still trying to work out what to make of the photo of them together. “He went straight for Leo.”
Messina scowled at the familiarity. “Yes, he went for the inspector. Perhaps he just saw an opportunity. He’s intelligent enough to improvise, isn’t he?”
“He’s intelligent enough to get what he wants first time round,” Falcone answered, giving Costa an interested look.
The commissario looked pleased by this response.
“I’m glad you find this worthy of your attention, Leo. It’s your case now. As I said, sick leave ends today. Peroni’s off the beat. Costa here is done playing museum curator. Head this up or sit inside the Questura trying to remember how to play chess. It’s up to you.”
Some choice, Costa thought. The avid look in Falcone’s eyes told him it was already made. A part of him was glad to see the old inspector fired up by something outside himself for a change. Another part wanted, more than anything, to see Emily, to take her away from this new threat, let her sit down, rest, recover some of the strength she seemed to have lost, without his noticing, in recent weeks.
“And the ladies?” Peroni asked.
Messina smiled. “Yes. The ladies. We have a villa near Orvieto. Big, secluded, and hard to find. A car will take them straight from the Questura. My father’s there. Giorgio Bramante isn’t looking for him. So they’ll be safe. Call it a surprise vacation. I don’t want the complication of having them around in Rome.”
“That’s their decision,” Costa complained.
“No,” Messina replied. “It’s not.”
Teresa Lupo leaned forward and tapped the commissario hard on the knee.
“Excuse me for pointing this out, but I’m a lady too. Maybe I could use that vacation.”