The Drowning River (13 page)

It could have just – come dislodged, somehow. Iris thought of the face that had half filled the screen, Ronnie’s face, upside down with striped hair hanging across her cheek. Why would anyone pull the plug?

A bell rang, a strident, old-fashioned sound. The doorbell? It rang again, and again; it was the ancient telephone and Iris stumbled after the sound, suddenly wanting to be out of the room, kicking over the cup of cold tea, not stopping to mop up the mess.

‘Pronto?’
she said, then, too frazzled to contemplate a conversation in Italian, ‘Hello?’

‘Iris?’

For a moment, for a tiny joyful second as she heard the voice, terse, irritated, absolutely English, she thought, Ronnie, and everything fell away, all the panic, all the nightmarish, unreal world of clues and break-ins and Ronnie’s bag with that dust in it. But it wasn’t Ronnie, it was Ronnie’s mother; it was Serena. The voice she had not been longing to hear but dreading.

‘What on earth is going on?’ said Serena. ‘What is the bloody girl up to?’ And all the nightmare came rushing back.

She was in Dubai, selling a horse. She kept telling Iris how long this deal had been in the making, and Iris kept trying to explain what had
happened, everything that had happened so far, but either Serena wasn’t listening or she didn’t seem to be able to process the information. She just kept saying impatiently, ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Iris found she couldn’t go further, she couldn’t actually say, look, this is serious. Because Serena was the grown-up.

‘Well,’ said Serena finally, her voice distant. ‘Look, I’ll get someone on to it. And I’ll try to be there by Monday. She’ll have turned up by then, safe and sound, you can bet your life on it.’ There was a pause. ‘Has anyone spoken to her father?’ Iris didn’t know; Ronnie’s father lived in Scotland, as far as she knew. As far away from Serena – and by extension, Ronnie – as he could manage without going abroad, Ronnie said once, because he couldn’t stand abroad. ‘I’ll speak to her father,’ said Serena, and hung up.

Iris set the phone back down and sat there a moment. She stared out of the window, and then, because she was not thinking about it, she understood. The window she had had to close this morning – this window – was not the one she’d looked out of the morning before. The huge cedar had not blocked her view of the synagogue yesterday, because she’d been looking out of a different window; she couldn’t have left this one open.

The cleaner? The cleaner came on Monday mornings and, besides, nothing had been cleaned.

It must have been open all along, and she hadn’t noticed; it had turned colder, or windier, and that was why she’d noticed the draught. She stared at the huge window panes, each one two feet wide by four high, the window itself taller than a man. Outside the rain was coming down in sheets, drenching the glass.

Maybe it would clear up before she met Jackson. She had an umbrella; at least the Boboli would be empty.

Who hadn’t been there, at the party? Who had Ronnie been talking to, hanging out of the window and murmuring into her phone, while the American boy who’d called her fat got drunk and stared at her, and the streaked-blonde twins whose names Ronnie couldn’t even remember threw up in unison in the bathroom?

Jackson hadn’t been there, had he? Ronnie’d just shrugged his
absence off, as if it wasn’t a problem; he’s waiting in for a call from his parents, she said, time difference or something. And he wouldn’t want them to hear the kind of background noise generated at a Halloween party full of freeloaders.

The doorbell rang, a long, insistent buzz, and Iris went to let the carabinieri in.

It Turned Out To be so simple.

The Caffe Il Cestello was almost empty when Pietro finally got to his feet, stiff with the damp and the walking he’d done but mostly with age, and crossed to the bar. He asked for a coffee with a splash of Vecchia Romagna in it, and noted approvingly that the barman made it a generous one. He was a weary-looking man of about Sandro’s age, with thinning, reddish hair.

‘You’ve got a question for me,’ he said, and Sandro laughed abruptly, embarrassed.

‘Am I that obvious?’ he said. ‘I think I’m in the wrong business. You, too, for that matter.’

‘I get a lot of practice, looking at people,’ said the barman. He held out a hand across the counter. ‘Luigo,’ he said. ‘I appreciate you waiting till we were quiet, that’s all. You’re a cop, right?’

‘Not everyone bothers to look,’ said Sandro, not denying it, extracting the photograph of Claudio Gentileschi from his pocket. ‘I’m Sandro Cellini. Do you know this guy?’

‘Yup,’ said the barman without even seeming to look. ‘That’s Claudio. He’s in here for an
aperitivo
most days. He lives around the corner somewhere.’ He pursed his lips, frowning. ‘Come to think of it,
he hasn’t been in for a day or two.’

Sandro kept his face still. Scappatoio should be shot; he hadn’t even been in here to ask if anyone knew Gentileschi.

It was bizarre. Claudio Gentileschi came all the way over here every day for an
aperitivo?
Lives around the corner? The Via dei Pilastri was two kilometres away at least.

‘Did – do you know anything about him?’

The barman shrugged. ‘He’s a private kind of guy.’ Thoughtfully he passed his cloth over the metal counter in long swipes, straightened the long spoons in the sugar dispensers, ripped a stray paper napkin from the holder. ‘I think he’s some kind of artist. Painter?’ And he shrugged; painters were ten a penny in this city.

‘Yes?’ said Sandro. Not an architect but a painter. Who’d given up painting ten years earlier, according to his wife.

‘He hasn’t ever said, exactly; doesn’t give much away, Claudio. How do I know?’ The man mused, arms folded over his apron. ‘Something about the look of him, you know, he has that artistic style, keeps his hair quite long. The way he stares off into the distance, watching things.’

He turned away, scooped coffee into a filter, cranked it tight under the wide, gleaming Gaggia’s row of spouts, set a cup below it. What would life be without that little routine? thought Sandro. Imagine living in a country where there was no barman, no Gaggia, no espresso cup? And for a moment Sandro saw the littleness of the world he inhabited, the props he leaned on daily for support; he felt his limitations like a room contracting around him.

Over his shoulder the barman said, ‘Definitely a painter, actually. I heard him talking about it the other day, explaining some technique or other. Painting faces in a crowd, he was telling this kid, one of those student types.’ He downed his scalding coffee with his back still to Sandro, then turned around again. ‘Funny, actually, him coming in with the kid, ’cause he was always alone, Claudio.’

‘Right,’ said Sandro, jolted out of reverie and thinking furiously. Kid? What kid? ‘And when – ah, when was the last time you saw him?’ He saw the man’s expression harden, turn wary and he knew he was going to have to tell him, Claudio’s dead. Just not yet.

In his pocket his mobile shrilled; he picked it out and saw it was Luisa. He clicked it to voicemail as something went leaden in his gut. He took a sip of the caffe corretto, so far untouched, and it burned through his system. Not helping.

‘Funny you should ask,’ said the barman, nodding. ‘I know exactly when it was. Tuesday.’ He nodded, then something halted him. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it? What’s happened?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Sandro. ‘But tell me, just think first. Was there anything about him that day? Tuesday?’

The barman frowned, sighed. ‘Well, he was half an hour late for starters, maybe even forty minutes. And he was wearing a jacket under his coat; usually, he wears a sweater. Casual, you know. Bohemian.’ He looked expectantly at Sandro, who let him go on. ‘Claudio was regular as clockwork as a rule, came in at 12.30, had a whisky sour – like I say, he’s never been much of a talker but he did tell me how to make them; said he learned in New York. Some bar in New York.’ He paused, shrugged. ‘Can’t remember the name. Anyway. Lemon juice, bourbon, sugar syrup, ice. By 12.45 he’d be gone, had to get home for his lunch, he said. Only on Tuesday it was after one when he turned up. He asked me to set up two drinks, didn’t want to wait. Drank them both, then looked at the clock, and asked for another one. By then it was almost two.’

‘He was on his own?’ said Sandro.

‘In here?’ said the barman. ‘Yes. He was always on his own.’

‘Except – you heard him talking to someone? About painting?’

‘That’s right,’ said the barman slowly, ‘you’re right, he was in here with someone, that time.’ He scratched his head. ‘He’d. . . loosened up, lately. Started talking.’

By this time Sandro could not disguise his eagerness. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Man or woman? When was this?’

‘Just a kid,’ said the barman, ‘they all look the same to me, the students, a kid. American boy.’ Then, looking him in the eye, he said, ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Claudio.’ And Sandro felt himself subside, ashamed. Because this guy had liked Claudio Gentileschi.

‘He drowned,’ said Sandro. ‘I’m sorry. It looks like he took his own life.’

‘Merda,’
said the barman with feeling. ‘Not the floater? Not Claudio?’

‘Sorry,’ said Sandro. ‘I’m sorry.’

The man was suddenly grey with shock. ‘They wouldn’t tell us, someone went down when they fished the body out and asked but they wouldn’t say anything. Had to be official identification first.’ He shook his head, over and over. ‘Poor old bastard.’

‘And they never came to tell you? To ask?’ Sandro spoke with disgust.

‘Not until you,’ said the barman. He looked over his shoulder for someone else to tell but the bar was empty except for the two of them. ‘They put out a sign, asking if anyone had seen anything, but. . .’ he shrugged unhappily ‘. . . I didn’t know it was old Claudio.’ He was still shaking his head. ‘What a way to go.’

‘Are you – sorry, but are you surprised?’ Sandro asked gently.

The barman, dazed, refocussed on him. ‘Am I – ?’ He seemed lost for words, puffed his cheeks, let the breath out. ‘You know, you wonder, how well you know people. No, I don’t think I’m blown away, no. He looked like he carried a burden, d’you know what I mean? But, but –’ and Sandro could see him scrabble to understand why he didn’t see this coming. Rocking back on his heels.

‘But he had a wife, didn’t he? He had a wife? He wore a wedding ring and it had to be a wife he had to be home for.’ And then the triumph turned to incomprehension as he gazed at Sandro, his faded eyes bloodshot with tiredness.

‘Yes,’ said Sandro. ‘He did. He had a wife.’ He wouldn’t have left her behind.

The moment Sandro stepped outside the phone rang, and for a second he imagined that someone had been watching him, waiting for him to reappear. He stood under what shelter the awning provided and tried to make out what the voice was saying.

He didn’t recognize the speaker, and in fact it was a strange, almost mechanical voice, speaking quickly, without the usual intonation. ‘Cellini Sandro?’ It was hurried. ‘I thought he was going for a swim,’ the voice
said, over and over, ‘I thought he was going for a swim, aquatherapy they call it, in the hospital.’

It was crazy. ‘Claudio,’ Sandro said. ‘You saw Claudio going in the water?’

‘I thought he was going for a swim,’ the voice said again. ‘Only he was wearing all his clothes. Cellini Sandro, that’s your name, isn’t it?’ And the penny dropped. Sandro looked across at the playground and there he saw the boy-man on the swing, looking across at him.

‘Can dogs swim?’ said the boy. Oh, God, thought Sandro, this is going to be tricky. Dogs?

‘Did Claudio have a dog?’ he asked helplessly.

‘I didn’t think he had one,’ said the boy, sounding confused; this is getting us nowhere, thought Sandro.

‘Can I come and talk to you?’ he said.

‘You are talking to me,’ said the voice. ‘This is talking, isn’t it?’

Sandro wondered what was the matter with the boy – autism? Probably; he’d had dealings with it once or twice over the years. There’d been that boy who lived at home with his mother and occasionally escaped to ride the buses on his own and had to be brought home, twenty-five years old. Hated to be touched, couldn’t look you in the eye.

‘OK,’ said Sandro. ‘I want you to think very carefully. Was he alone? When he went into the water? Did anyone go down there with him? Did anyone – push him?’

‘No one pushed him,’ said the boy, laughing as if it was funny. ‘There wasn’t anyone. He was on his own. He came out of the bar and went to the river, all on his own. I thought he would take his clothes off, but he didn’t. I thought they told him at the
ambulatorio
to do the therapy.’

Sandro heard him make a slightly panicked sound, a kind of grunt, and wondered if the boy might just hang up on him and run. He tried to think; he knew there was a physio department at the little
ambulatorio
because they’d treated Luisa for a broken ankle, years back. Whether it was still running he didn’t know; there’d been cutbacks.

‘Do you do the therapy?’ asked Sandro quickly, to keep the boy
talking. ‘Do you go to the
ambulatorio
here?’ It might be why the boy hung out down here; he couldn’t think of any other reason anyone would come to the Lungarno Santa Rosa.

‘They’ve finished with me,’ said the boy, and he sounded angry. ‘They said I couldn’t come back. It wasn’t the same nurse.’

‘What do you mean,’ said Sandro, ‘not the same nurse?’

‘The one talked to Claudio, after he came out of the bar, after his drink. She was telling him off. Not the same nurse. Not my nurse.’

‘A nurse talked to him?’ He looked across at the
ambulatorio;
he could see a tall nurse in green scrubs right now, smoking a cigarette.

‘She put out her hand and he gave her something,’ said the boy. ‘Maybe he didn’t want it to get wet. He dropped it in her hand.’

‘Did they say anything?’ asked Sandro. ‘Did you hear what they said?’

‘I saw their mouths move,’ said the boy. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘I wasn’t there,’ said Sandro, close to despair, trying to be patient. ‘How could I remember?’