The Faces of Angels (57 page)

I want to ask Pallioti if this is what happens to him, if this is what police investigations do. If, when you know the ‘real facts'—who had murderous intent, who plotted and hated, cut and killed—does the picture change? Does what is beautiful become ugly? I'd like to ask him that, and ask him how he ever manages, then, to know what he is seeing, to believe in anything. But I don't dare. Because he's getting agitated. The forensics are taking too long. The bells are ringing for early Mass, and the day is starting.

Finally they finish with the kitchen, the living room, Billy's room and the bathroom. They just have my room and the hall to do, and two of them will leave while the third finishes up. We move into the kitchen while a man and a woman strip off their paper suits and fold them away. They put their stuff into a backpack and a toolbox. The woman loosens her hair and suddenly she looks like a student. She goes first. The guy waits and goes ten minutes later. When I watch him sauntering across the courtyard, wearing a blue coverall and carrying a toolbox, he's nothing but a plumber.

I stand on the balcony—after all, someone had to let the plumber in for this early appointment—while Pallioti hovers in the kitchen. I hear him shift uneasily when a howl is unleashed from the apartment opposite. Little Paolo is unhappy with his breakfast again. The howl rises and crescendoes, and I'm about to reassure Pallioti that this is entirely normal, when the tiny figure explodes from the Sassinellis' lower door, runs into the courtyard and disappears under the portico. He's still in his pyjamas, and I expect Sophie to appear any moment, chasing him.

When she doesn't, Paolo skulks back into the courtyard. He looks both ways, to see if he's being pursued, then wanders, barefoot and tousled, over towards one of the giant lemon pots and sidles behind it so he's out of sight of his own door. From where I'm standing I can see him clearly, playing with something he has clutched in his fist. Behind me I hear Pallioti talking to the remaining forensics guy, then I see a flash, which appears to startle Paolo almost as much as me. A second later he giggles and opens his hands as though he's got a secret.

Matches. I did this when I was a kid, and set the sleeve of my sweater on fire. I don't know if the fancy pyjamas Sophie buys are flame retardant or not, but since there's no sign of his mother, I don't think I want to wait and see.

‘I'll be back in a minute.'

I push past Pallioti, pulling the gloves off as I go down the hall. On the stairs, I almost slip and fall. Great. I'll break my neck, and Paolo can play Buddhist monk and immolate himself. Along with Mr Martyr running around town, that should start the week off well. I pause to rip off the stupid booties and stuff them in my pocket.

The voice from Rome is reading the morning news in Signora Raguzza's apartment, and by the time I get out into the courtyard Big Paolo is already coming out of their door. He's carrying his tie and he's obviously just shoved his shoes on. His hair is still wet. Little Paolo sees him and screams, ‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! I want my mommy!' And dives behind the lemon pot again.

We converge on the little boy at about the same time and, to my surprise, Big Paolo actually looks relieved to see me, as if he's under the mistaken impression that because I'm a woman, I might be good with children.

‘
Dispiace, Signora, dispiace!
' he says, and smiles at Little Paolo. ‘Come on,
piccolo
.' He stretches his hand down to his son. ‘You have to get dressed for school.'

At this, Little Paolo melts down onto the flagstones, turning suddenly boneless, the way small children can. When his father reaches for him again he squeals and wiggles away, clutching his hands to his chest as though he's holding the last possession in the world.

Big Paolo looks at me and rolls his eyes. ‘My wife is away,' he explains. ‘Paolo is very used to having her do everything for him.'

‘Away?' So Sophie made up her mind, after all. But she didn't take Little Paolo. Which seems completely weird.

The little boy's concentrating on whatever it is he's got gripped in his fist, employing the old kid trick of pretending we're not here so we'll go away, and I sink down on my haunches to be at eye level with him.

‘Hey, Paolo,' I say. ‘Remember me? I'm a friend of Mommy's.' I speak to him in English, the way Sophie does, and he looks at me, slyly, out of the corner of his eye.

‘You have pink hair.'

‘That's right. I do. When did Mommy go away?' I ask. He can burn himself to pieces for all I care, I just want to know the answer to this question.

‘Come along, Paolo.' His father reaches for him again, but I hold my hand up like a traffic cop and, amazingly, he stops.

‘When did Mommy go away, Paolo?' I ask again.

‘Yesterday,' he says in English, and smirks at his father.

‘When yesterday?' I turn and look at Big Paolo. ‘Where did she go?' I ask. It's obnoxious, but there must be something in my voice because he actually answers me.

‘She went to Mass and left directly afterwards.' He sounds exasperated. ‘My wife does things like this sometimes. She's staying with a friend.'

Geneva, I think. Then I look back at Little Paolo. He's twisted his hands around behind his back and is looking from one to the other of us, probably fascinated that I even dare speak to his father. Would Sophie have left him like this? Without saying anything? Maybe. Maybe saying something to him would just make him hysterical. Then he'd give her away. She must be planning to come back for him. That must be it.

‘I'm sorry.' I stand up and smile sheepishly. I'm sure Sophie has a plan and I don't want to mess it up for her. ‘I thought I could help,' I say finally. ‘
Dispiace.
I'm so sorry to interfere. Paolo seemed unhappy.'

‘Without his mother,' Big Paolo snaps, ‘Paolo is always unhappy.'

His temper is clearly fraying. He reaches down and grabs Little Paolo, who shrieks again and curls himself into a ball. As he's lifted off his feet, he bats at his father, his fists flailing angrily.

‘Stop it!'

His father's shouting only makes Little Paolo shriek and kick harder, and although I know I'm overtired, just at this moment I think that if Sophie has taken off and left them both I really wouldn't blame her.

Little Paolo is boiling himself into a tantrum, and Big Paolo shakes his head and lifts him higher. As he starts to walk away, his son lets out another shriek of rage.

‘MOMMY!' he screams, trying to slap his father's face. His little fist flies open, and Billy's pink lighter falls at our feet, Elvis's hips wiggling on the pale grey stone.

‘T
ELL ME AGAIN.'

Pallioti walks back and forth across the Sassinellis' living room, one hand pressed against the small of his back and the other against his forehead, as if he's literally trying to hold himself together.

Little Paolo, who seems to sense that something terrible is happening, has finally shut up and nestles in his father's lap. Big Paolo, holding him, sits on one of the uncomfortable sofas, his face a sickly, chalky white. The Elvis lighter is in an evidence bag, already on its way to the crime lab, and as we sit here, white-spacesuited people are assembling in the vestibule of the Sassinellis' apartment.

‘She went to an early Mass, yesterday morning.' Big Paolo's voice has no sign of bullying aggression in it now. Quite the opposite, he sounds terrified.

‘At San Miniato?' Pallioti asks.

Big Paolo nods. He's already told us this once. ‘Yes, at San Miniato.'

‘Did she take the car or walk?'

‘She walked. My driver has Sunday off. We usually go to Mass together on Sunday, at ten, as a family. We walk,' he says miserably, ‘because Sophia says the exercise is good for us, but yesterday she said she wanted to go alone. Early.'

‘That was unusual?'

Paolo strokes the crown of his son's head. ‘We weren't getting along very well,' he mutters. Then he looks up. ‘Ispettore Pallioti, my wife is expecting a baby. She hadn't been—Well,' he stammers, ‘she could be irrational at times.'

Pallioti stops and looks at him. I have already told him about the conversation I had with Sophie on Friday. ‘Go on,' he says.

‘There isn't much more to tell. I saw her before she left. We… we had words.' He uses the nice old-fashioned term for ‘fight.' ‘I told her to go and talk to our priest,' he adds.

‘Who is?'

‘Father Corsini.'

‘Not Father Rinaldo?' Pallioti has asked him this before.

‘No. I told you. I don't know him.'

Pallioti glances at me and then back at Paolo. ‘Go on,' he says again, his voice impatient now. ‘You told her to go and talk to her priest. She left at what time?'

‘About half past six. There's an early Mass at seven. She wanted to be back in time. She likes to be here,' he says, ‘when Paolo wakes up. She says she wants to be the first thing he sees every morning.'

To my amazement, tears begin to pour down the big man's face. He's either a really good faker or he's suddenly forgotten his secretary. He reaches up to wipe them away, then gropes in his pocket for a handkerchief. ‘I didn't see her when she came back,' he says. ‘I was angry with her. I got my son up and took him out for breakfast. As a treat. Just the two of us together. We went to the Excelsior. The roof terrace is open. You can ask them,' he adds. ‘They know me. When we came back, she wasn't here.'

‘Did you check, to see if any of her things were missing? A suitcase? Clothes?'

He shakes his head. ‘I thought she'd gone to stay at a friend's. You know how it is,' he adds miserably, ‘with wives.' Pallioti just stares at him. Maybe he does and maybe he doesn't.

‘We were supposed to be at my parents' for lunch yesterday,' he goes on finally. ‘She doesn't get on with my sister.' I swear he starts to say,
You know how it is with families
, but thinks better of it. ‘I thought she was just being awkward. So I took Paolo and went without her. I was certain she'd be home by the time we got back.'

‘But she wasn't?'

‘No.'

‘And you found the lighter when?'

‘When we got back; at about six o'clock. It was on the kitchen table. Paolo found it. In a pile of seeds.'

My stomach flips. This hadn't been mentioned before. Until now, it was just possible to believe that Sophie had fled to Geneva or Rome, or wherever, and that Little Paolo had had Billy's lighter all along. I don't think Pallioti thought it likely, hence the spacesuits, but now it's not even possible. I open my mouth and close it again, remembering the Bargello. And the grit I swept from our balcony the day before that almost went through Signora Raguzza's window. If I'd looked more closely, would I have noticed that it was birdseed?

Sophie's husband looks from me to Pallioti, who has stopped pacing and stands, staring at him.

‘A pile of seeds?' he asks. Pallioti deliberately doesn't look at me. ‘Where are these seeds now?' he asks slowly.

Paolo isn't stupid, and though he may not know what this means he knows from the looks on our faces that it's not good news. He closes his eyes. ‘I swept them up and threw them out,' he says. ‘They went in the rubbish last night.'

‘You still have it?'

He nods. ‘In the kitchen. We've started using Dinya, Signora Raguzza's companion as a cleaner, but she doesn't come on Sunday.'

Pallioti calls, and the woman from forensics who looked like a student when she left our apartment an hour ago sticks her head round the door. Now she's back in her white get-up.

‘The kitchen,' Pallioti says to her. ‘Pay special attention to the rubbish. There's birdseed in it.'

‘
Certo.
'

Another of the cops from this morning shoulders past her, comes into the room and hands Pallioti a calendar. I don't have to ask what kind it is. He flips through the pages quickly, then his face freezes.

‘Ispettore Pallioti, please,' Paolo says. ‘Tell me. Anything I can do to help you find my wife.'

‘Pray,' Pallioti snaps. He gestures to me and turns towards the door. ‘Pray, signor,' he says.

Forensic people and cops come streaming in, and I almost have to run to catch up with Pallioti, who is already at the bottom of the stairs. Without saying anything, he hands me the calendar. Today is 28 April. On 30 April the virgin and holy martyr Sophie was beheaded.