The Fallen Angel (17 page)

She shook her head, dashed forward and kissed Costa briefly on the cheek, the way any young Roman girl might have done with a friend at the end of the day. Then she whispered in his ear,
‘I’m sorry. Thanks for listening to me.’

The girl half-walked, half-ran into the building. Costa wondered whether he’d done the right thing, and not just because Falcone seemed beside himself with anger.

‘I could get a warrant right now,’ the inspector stormed. ‘We could go through every last thing they own. I can take her into custody this instant. Her and the
mother.’

Costa waited for a little of the heat to abate.

‘If you do that,’ he said quietly, ‘she’ll never tell you a thing. I can’t believe what I just saw here. How could you do that? How?’

‘What choice did I have?’ Falcone roared.

‘Some,’ Costa replied quietly. ‘Why the rush, Leo?’

‘I thought that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You’re the one who brought us into this case.’

‘If it is a case,’ Costa said. ‘And if it is you’re going to have to take this very carefully indeed. You’re dealing with a family here. Not some street crook
who’s thrown a brick through a jeweller’s window.’

Peroni added mildly, ‘I tried to explain that to him. Also, to be perfectly frank, I’m not sure you could do any of those things you suggest, Leo. Not on the little we
have.’

Falcone shook his fists, exasperated, and Costa realized he understood this last point too.

‘So what do we do?’ the inspector asked.

‘How about that beer?’ the big man suggested cheerily. He caught Costa’s eye. ‘And some explanations.’

Falcone loathed the idea of an ordinary cafe or bar so they found themselves in an enoteca he knew called Angolo Divino on a corner near the Campo dei Fiori. It was early. They
were the only customers. The inspector lost a little of his fury as the three of them walked there from the Palazzetto Santacroce, Peroni making discreet and inconclusive calls back to the Questura
and Teresa Lupo along the way. The position was not improving. Robert Gabriel, Mina’s elusive brother, remained missing. The magistrate approached for a search warrant for the apartment in
the Via Beatrice Cenci had thrown out the request on the grounds of insufficient cause, and maintained her refusal even when forensic added the evidence of Malise Gabriel’s recent sexual
activity. It was, accordingly, clear that, without fresh evidence, any bid to seize the Gabriels’ belongings in the Casina delle Civette would be refused too.

Costa recognized this mood in the man who was both his superior and his friend. Insular reflection did not come naturally. He preferred to act inside the moment, to work with the rhythm of the
case. In the absence of such motion he felt lost, powerless. Whatever had occurred during this difficult day had left him stranded with few options. This was never a position likely to generate
harmony.

There was also something personal here. Families made Falcone nervous. No one knew much about the man’s own. The inspector’s past was not so much secret as invisible. Even his
ill-fated marriage, which had ended years before Costa came to know him, remained a topic to be avoided. The prospect of dealing with the intimate intricacies of the Gabriel clan perhaps amplified
this sense of isolation. Falcone’s one attempt at some kind of familial bond had occurred years ago when, as a newly divorced officer determined never to commit himself to a direct
relationship again, he had sponsored Agata Graziano through school and college, which was how she had come to be involved in the earlier police investigation that introduced her to Costa. Now even
that tie, fond and awkward in the same breath, seemed a little tenuous as his former ward struggled to make a life of her own outside the enclosed world of the Church.

‘Explanations,’ Falcone said again as they sat down.

Three glasses of beefy
primitivo
from Puglia and a plate of cheese and cold meat appeared then Costa told them about his day. When he was done Falcone looked at him and said, ‘You
might have mentioned last night that you’d arranged to meet Mina Gabriel.’

‘Last night it was difficult to get a word in edgeways. Also I was rather more concerned with Agata’s state of mind, to be honest. She didn’t appreciate being dragged into
things like that. Besides, I’m on holiday. I can do what I like. There didn’t appear to be a case. Mina looked like a sad and lonely kid in need of company. She asked me to provide it.
How could I say no?’

‘Funny way to spend the day,’ Peroni noted. ‘Following in the footsteps of that poor Cenci girl.’

‘She said she planned to earn some money taking Joanne Van Doren’s customers on a history trip. Softening them up for the purchase. I was her guinea pig for when that
happens.’

‘Don’t you mean if?’ Falcone asked. ‘That place is months away from being saleable. Years even. The way the woman kept going on about the bank . . .’

‘I thought that was genuine,’ Peroni intervened. ‘She looked very upset.’

Falcone scowled.

‘Or guilty. She’d just cleared out the last trace of any possible evidence of a crime. Do you think the Gabriel girl was genuine, Nic? That’s all this Cenci connection is? A
hobby?’

Costa thought back on the day, and the deep discomfort he’d felt at times.

‘Up to a point. Perhaps she believes that herself. But I’d say its clear she’s obsessed with Beatrice for some reason. The detail she knows . . .’ He remembered her
standing stiffly in front of the sad, accusing face on the wall in the Barberini, the tantrum at Montorio, the way she stared avidly at the sword in the museum, drawn to its ancient, stained blade.
‘It’s . . . morbid. Abnormal. She must have spent weeks, months researching it.’

‘Why?’ Falcone interrupted.

Peroni played with a slice of the fatty Florentine salami called
finocchiona
. Costa could smell the fennel in it from across the table. His own father had adored the stuff.

‘Teenagers get obsessions,’ Peroni said. ‘That is one obsessive story. Someone like you wouldn’t . . .’

He stopped, aware of the sudden chill.

‘I wouldn’t understand, naturally,’ Falcone replied with an acid smile. ‘I don’t have feelings, do I?’

‘Gianni wasn’t saying that,’ Costa cut in quickly. ‘Besides, I don’t understand Mina Gabriel either. Sometimes she’s astonishingly bright and confident. Then,
at others, quite unworldly and unsure of herself. Mature one moment, juvenile the next. And . . .’

He remembered the fond way Joanne Van Doren had talked about her. There was no easy way to explain this. It had to be seen, in the caring, worried expressions of the women at the cat sanctuary,
in the faces of the church wardens in Aracoeli, watching from the shadows as she bent over the organ there, trapped in the mechanisms of the gigantic instrument, eyes streaming, intent on playing
the piece her father had loved, one that was both haunting and resonant.

‘She has this . . . aura. I don’t know how to put it. There’s a personal magnetism you don’t expect to see in someone of that age. Or anyone really. She’s special.
People love her.’

‘She’s an attractive teenager, Nic,’ Peroni said. ‘Intelligent, likeable, considerate. You don’t get that so often. It doesn’t mean she’s not trying to
work out who she is, just like any other kid. There’s nothing unusual there, not really.’

Costa shook his head.

‘I disagree. She’s worried. Frightened, maybe. Hiding something. I thought that when I saw her in the street the night her father died. It’s as if she wants to talk but
can’t. Whether it’s because she’s afraid, ashamed, or maybe just hasn’t found the right person to tell . . .’

The three men fell silent over their food and drink. Costa wondered what the
finocchiona
tasted like. The smell . . . He grabbed a slice of pungent seasoned pecorino and pushed the
thought aside.

‘So here we are,’ Falcone grumbled. ‘The three of us wondering what to do. I hate August. I don’t have the manpower for some complicated investigation even if I had the
evidence to justify one. Half the people who are any good are on holiday.’ He glared at Costa. ‘Including you.’

‘What’s the rush?’ Peroni asked. ‘No one’s going anywhere. Give us a week or so and we’ll be back to normal.’

Falcone sighed and said, ‘We could be looking at murder.’

‘Could we?’ Costa asked. This point had been bothering him for the last hour. ‘We’ve no evidence that Malise Gabriel’s death wasn’t an accident. The only
reason we have doubts is because of the way we’re interpreting how his family are behaving. I see the look in Mina’s face and think there’s something wrong. What could be evidence
disappears for no good reason. It’s intriguing. Infuriating. But it doesn’t add up to anything circumstantial, let alone substantive.’

‘Here’s something,’ Peroni chipped in. ‘That American woman looked much more worried than the real widow. Cecilia Gabriel seems as hard as nails. I couldn’t wait to
be out of there, and she didn’t hit me.’

Falcone muttered something inaudible then added, ‘All the more reason why I should be doing more than I am.’ He glared at Peroni. ‘Shouldn’t I?’

‘Doing what? We’re trying to prise open the lid on one of the most private things anyone owns. Their family. Cecilia Gabriel and her daughter don’t seem keen to help. The
son’s nowhere to be found. This isn’t going to be quick or easy. Besides, do we have a choice? We could be in trouble already.’

‘Facts,’ Falcone protested. ‘On the evidence we’ve been given Malise Gabriel was alone in the house with his daughter. Logically, circumstantially, he had sex with her,
not that we have any firm proof. Even if she agreed to a physical examination . . .’

Costa shook his head and said, ‘She won’t do that. Not now. Why would she? She isn’t making a complaint.’

‘I’m going to have to ask for one, aren’t I? If she’s innocent, where’s the problem?’

Peroni caught Costa’s eye and said, ‘The problem is she’d have to go into a room with a complete stranger and let herself be prodded and poked as if she were a rape victim.
Allowing you to do that is as good as an admission that something untoward happened, isn’t it? Nic’s right. She won’t agree.’

‘It could clear her!’ Falcone pointed out. ‘And her father.’

Costa thought of the words she’d used outside the Palazzetto Santacroce.

‘Mina identifies with Beatrice Cenci. If you ask her to go through an examination she’ll equate that with some kind of torture, of duress. Understandably, perhaps. Beatrice never
confessed to a thing, even when she was hung up from the ceiling until her shoulders were dislocated. If Mina sees herself as a modern-day Beatrice she’ll ignore every question you throw at
her as a matter of principle.’

Falcone scowled.

‘Why? Her father appears to have been murdered. He had sex before he died. There were scratch marks on his back. If we could examine her nails . . .’ Costa and Peroni were shaking
their heads in unison. ‘There was blood on the radiator by the wall. A sign of violence, possibly. Perhaps the brother chanced on them and lost his temper. Perhaps it was planned in
advance.’

He put his glass on the table and murmured a low curse. Then he glanced at Costa, as if seeking support.

‘If I pull in Mina Gabriel tomorrow, with or without her mother, and put her through an aggressive interrogation – no physical examination, just questioning – do you think she
might break?’

‘No,’ Costa said immediately. ‘She’s very smart and very cool. When she wants to talk, she’ll talk. Not before. Nothing’s going to change that. Not unless you
can break her story somehow. You’re also forgetting that she spent most of that Friday night in the room she used for music. Practising, wearing a set of headphones. She only saw her father
briefly, later in the evening. That was how she knew he was there.’

Falcone looked interested and said, ‘So?’

‘So if you’re practising music, very intricate and difficult music, with headphones on . . . surely anything could have happened outside the door of her room. Someone else could have
walked in and gone to bed with Malise Gabriel, then left without Mina noticing.’

‘Please,’ Falcone told him. ‘You know nothing of affairs. No one would do such a thing if there was a family member in the next room. Headphones or no headphones. It’s
ridiculous.’

‘They would if the girl knew the affair was going on,’ Peroni said slyly. ‘If it was their secret. Daddy’s friend’s coming round. Best not disturb us.’

‘Well, there’s one more reason to bring her in.’ Falcone glanced at his watch then drained his glass. ‘Unless the girl tells us something I see only two ways forward.
Forensic can come up with something concrete from outside the house. Or we can find the brother. I’m sick of waiting on narcotics. We can at least try to locate Robert Gabriel ourselves.
Agreed?’

Costa shrugged.

‘It’s not for me to agree or disagree. It’s your case.’

Falcone’s acute grey eyes flashed with displeasure.

‘Oh no. You’re involved already. You spent the whole day with Mina Gabriel. She trusts you. We can use that. It may be one of the few advantages we have.’

‘I’m on holiday, Leo.’

‘I know. But you can do what you’re doing now. Hanging around. Talking to her. If she trusts you that could help us.’

Peroni grabbed some more cold meat with a wordless grumble.

‘Is that wise?’ Costa asked. ‘Doesn’t the question of entrapment bother you?’

‘Not in the slightest. She needs a friend. It seems to me she has one.’

He half-expected this. Costa knew the direction the man’s mind took when opportunities were scarce.

Falcone tapped Peroni on the knee.

‘Also I like your idea. Let’s wait until we’ve something solid. Then, when we’re ready, we’ll bring in the girl and her mother. Who knows? Maybe the son
too.’

Peroni blinked and said, ‘You liked my idea? You’re following my advice?’

‘I always listen. Give me credit for that. Besides.’ Falcone’s face fell serious for a moment. ‘If we go nowhere near them for a day or two perhaps they’ll think
they’ve got away with it.’