But it took her a second to say it.
“So what do you have to report?”
“She went shopping in the market.”
“And?”
“She met a man. At the horse butcher’s, where Giorgio worked.”
“You’ve told Falcone this?”
“Not yet…” Over the phone line, she sounded less than convincing. “I was about to report in when you called.”
“Leave that to me. Tell me about this man she met. Young or old?”
“Perhaps thirty-five. I believe he was a fellow prisoner of Bramante’s. I don’t know if this means anything…”
“Tell me.”
“It looked as if he and Signora Bramante had a relationship. He kissed her.”
Giorgio Bramante breathed deeply and stared at the motionless skeleton in the corner.
“Did Signora Bramante look pleased by this?” he asked the rookie.
“She looked… guilty. I think she hoped no one would see.”
He wanted to scream again. He wanted to shout so loud these ancient walls would shake.
“Did she go home with him?”
“No. She left alone. He went back to his apartment when the market closed.”
“Men take advantage sometimes. You know this, surely?”
“Sir, I think…”
“Men take advantage in all kinds of ways. I feel Falcone has taken advantage of you, Agente. Would you agree?”
Silence again, but a brief one. She said, “I don’t feel it would be appropriate for me to comment.”
“You’re very loyal. I like that. Has she seen you?”
“No… No one’s seen me.”
He thought about this.
“Listen to me, Agente. This case is far more complicated than it appears. Between ourselves, far more complicated than Leo Falcone can begin to appreciate. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure…”
“I need to discuss this with you, in confidence. What you’ve been asked to do. How you feel about it.”
“Sir…”
“Where are you now?”
“In a café near the old slaughterhouse in Testaccio. The horse butcher lives close by. I followed him home.”
“Good. Stay where you are. I’ll send someone to replace you in an hour. Until then, Agente, if Falcone calls and orders you to do otherwise, listen, but ignore him.”
“I…”
Human beings were motivated by what mattered to them.
“You do want to rise in the force, don’t you, Prabakaran?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then do as I say.”
He picked up the photos in his left hand and took a second look at her. She was an interesting young woman. Different. For some reason she sought to hide the truth of her appearance while working.
“My man won’t know you, Agente. Describe to me what you’re wearing.”
He listened carefully, relishing the meek embarrassment in her soft-toned voice as she explained the nature of her disguise, and the reasoning behind it.
“Wait for him,” he ordered, then ended the call. Once again he glanced at the bones in the alcove. He felt renewed, excited.
“They come from all four quarters of the known earth, Valeria,” he said quietly. “They come not knowing what they might find.”
The rain ceased. Sunlight broke briefly over the Tiber. This gave Falcone the excuse he needed. Planks were placed on the mud, and with great care Costa and Peroni lowered him down to the water level, and accompanied him behind the screen, slowly making their way to the mouth of the old drain. When he reached the end of the temporary wooden structure, he clambered onto the platform to reach the newer, larger arch in the ground beneath the busy road above. He was so exhausted by that stage he needed a break. Teresa Lupo seized her chance immediately.
“You” — she prodded Peroni in the chest — “are not going any further. We’ve enough to deal with in there already without having someone throw up all over the place. In fact, I would strongly advise all three of you to take one short peek down that big black hole, breathe in the stench, then grab a few of those little collapsible picnic seats we brought along for the occasion and listen to me.”
“I am the officer in charge,” Falcone protested. “I need to see for myself.”
“It’s slippery and dark and treacherous in there.” She folded her arms and stood directly in his way. “I don’t even want to think of what might happen if you fell over, Leo.”
“I am the officer in charge,” Falcone repeated, outraged.
“True,” she replied cheerfully, then pulled up one of the metal chairs, opened it with a quick, hard flick of the wrist, and sat down.
“So you can find your own way in and I won’t talk to you. Not a word. Or you can stay out here and I will. What’s it to be?”
Peroni was the first to take a chair for himself. The others followed, with Falcone still grumbling.
“I thought it was a child,” Costa said. “It looked like a child.”
Teresa sighed. She called Silvio Di Capua over with the notebook computer, found something, and turned the screen round to face them. It was a collection of photographs of a teenager with his family. The young man was a good head shorter than his father, who was a rotund, smiling, ordinary man, and the two older figures, whom Costa took to be his brothers. The picture was taken on a beach somewhere: five people at an ice cream stand, happy on holiday, faces trapped in time, looking as if nothing would ever come along to disturb their contentment.
She hit the keyboard. The next image was of dental records: upper and lower teeth, and a name in the right-hand corner.
“We had all this on file from Missing Persons,” she explained. “Sandro Vignola was a very short kid. No, a very short person. He was twenty-two when he went missing. It’s an understandable mistake, Nic. You wanted to find Alessio Bramante.”
“We all want to find him,” Falcone interjected.
“Yes,” she agreed. “We all do. Unfortunately, I can’t help you there. But if you’d like to hear about the body I do have…”
They said nothing. She smiled.
“Good. Let’s make this quick.”
She shielded her eyes against the sudden harsh spring sun and stared at the sky.
“For one thing, I don’t think this weather’s going to last. The heavens are going to open sometime soon, and when that happens everyone here is going to be swimming in mud. For that very reason I’ve told Silvio that sometime in the next twenty minutes we will be putting this poor soul into a body bag and taking what’s left of him out of here. I seriously suggest you three, and any other of your colleagues who are of a gentle disposition, do not witness this event. Any objections?”
The three of them sat hunched on their little chairs, saying nothing.
“Good,” she declared, clapping her hands. “Now listen carefully, please…”
Rosa Prabakaran didn’t know the man. He wore a dark, somewhat shabby winter jacket, pulled tight against the rain that was now slashing down from a black, churning sky. His hood, sodden from the downpour, revealed only a snatch of face and two bright glittering eyes. Intelligent eyes. Interested.
Then he pulled an umbrella out from under his jacket. It was bright pink, the kind of cheap junk her father sold during weather like this.
“Agente,” he said cheerfully, “you should be prepared for all eventualities.”
His eyes ran her up and down. It was the same look she’d got from men everywhere in Testaccio that day, though perhaps with a touch of amused irony. Rosa Prabakaran cursed herself for dressing like this. Her clothes made her anonymous to Beatrice Bramante. To everyone else, however, it was a sign screaming Look at me.
“Thanks,” she answered, and took the umbrella, wishing, as she did, that she could see more of his face. Commissario Bruno Messina hadn’t made himself clear on the phone. She didn’t understand why she was being dragged off surveillance like this. To start some kind of disciplinary action against Falcone? That idea concerned her. She didn’t like the old man, but she didn’t feel vindictive towards him either. In truth, she’d taken a more high-profile role in the case at the beginning than she could ever have expected. It was scarcely a surprise that Falcone had reduced her position to that which her experience actually justified.