The Garden of Evil (10 page)

Falcone picked up the sheets of messages on the table. “Inspector Placidi told you. These are all we have,” he said. “If they are what they appear, they clearly come from someone inside the group, someone who’s apparently frightened about what his friends are doing. Someone whose name does not appear on these lists, though I wouldn’t wish to rule that out.”

“So what?” Costa wondered.

“So alternatively they may be some kind of practical joke,” Falcone went on. “Tomassoni apart, these men are often in the public eye. Publicity attracts cranks. We all know that. They could be innocent.”

Susanna Placidi banged the table with her fists. “They are not innocent, Leo! These sons of bitches are laughing at us.”

“She’s right,” Rosa said quietly, confidently. “Taunting us is part of their fun, I swear.”

“That’s hardly going to get anyone in court, is it?” Falcone observed severely. “A look in their eye. A policewoman’s instinct.”

“Whoever wrote these emails knows the places!” Rosa screeched.

“They know the victims, unless you think these women have been making it up and putting themselves in hospital too.”

“I am aware of all this,” the old inspector replied coldly. “I don’t think for one moment that these are crank messages. From the point of view of Malaspina and his friends, though . . .”

“It’s a good defence,” Costa agreed. “They do attract cranks.”

Falcone nodded, grateful for his support. “Furthermore—”

“No!” It was Teresa Lupo, livid. “I do not wish to hear any more of this. I’ve told you we have the evidence. You’ve told me you have the suspects. Bring these jerks in and leave it to me.”

She watched their faces. No one spoke until Grimaldi, the lawyer, took a deep breath, then said, “If only it were that easy.”

“I am here to tell you a simple truth,” he went on. “Inspector Placidi and her team have attempted to do this very thing and failed. Unknown to me or anyone in my department, they arrested all four men named in these messages, without sufficient evidence or adequate preparation. Then they threw these anonymous, unconfirmed allegations at them in the absence of the slightest evidential corroboration, and . . .”

Placidi’s face was reddening.

“And now we have to live with the consequences, which are damaging in the extreme,” Grimaldi concluded.

“I had to do something!” Placidi objected. “I had to take the risk. The women wouldn’t talk when it happened, and two weeks later they had disappeared. We had nothing
but
these emails. Did you expect me to sit on my hands until some smart-ass from elsewhere came up with something better?”

Falcone cast a fleeting sideways look in her direction, one Costa had seen in the past. He wondered if Placidi understood how dangerous was the ground beneath her.

“These are intelligent, important, well-connected men,” he pointed out. “Did it not occur to you that perhaps that was part of their enjoyment too? Feeling untouchable, beyond the pathetic efforts of the law?”

She said nothing.

“These men were never going to throw their hands up in the air and offer you a confession, Susanna. Had you thought about it for one moment, you would surely have known that.”

“There were women getting raped!” Placidi pressed.

“It now transpires there were women getting murdered,” Grimaldi declared. “Which is all the more reason to do your job properly. Instead, you offended some extremely influential people.”

Teresa Lupo’s eyes started to dilate with a sudden, growing fury.

“You also forewarned them of the police investigation,” Falcone continued, “without sufficient evidence even to substantiate a temporary arrest. They now understand fully what we will look for in the way of concrete evidence. They can prepare for that eventuality.”

Placidi was close to tears. “I didn’t know . . .”

Falcone looked at the rest of them and then Grimaldi. “You’d best tell them,” he suggested.

The lawyer took out a notebook from his jacket and consulted it. “Two weeks ago, after being approached by Inspector Placidi’s team, a team of lawyers representing all four of these men went before a magistrate,
in camera,
” he said. “We had insufficient notice. Malaspina knows the legal system. He winds it round his little finger. He has the advantage of being extraordinarily rich and in league with some important figures in the organised crime world too. It is a deadly combination.”

“And?” Teresa demanded.

“By the time we were able to assemble a competent team, he was already challenging the legal rules through which we may and may not demand any physical evidence, both fingerprints and DNA specimens, from people who refuse to give them willingly.”

The pathologist’s large face turned a shade paler. “Rules?
Rules?
We know what the rules are. Either they give us a sample willingly or I get a piece of paper and force it out of them.”

It was that straightforward. All Costa needed if any subject refused a DNA sample was the approval of a senior officer in the Questura to take one by force if necessary. Most suspects ceased to resist once they realised they’d be compelled to provide a sample within a matter of minutes.

Grimaldi’s scowl was that of a man denied something he dearly craved. “Thanks to Malaspina’s lawyers, and our own incompetence, the rules have changed,” he told them. “From now on we may obtain physical material against the will of a suspect only on the basis of a judicial order. So if they object strongly enough, we have to go before a magistrate, where we must make our case. We are, in a nutshell, screwed.”

The pathologist let loose a stream of Roman epithets.

Grimaldi waited for her to draw breath, then continued. “The standard routine you have all grown accustomed to using in these situations is now out of the question should any suspect refuse. Unless you can find sufficient firm and incontrovertible evidence to put to a magistrate.” Grimaldi picked up the papers, then dropped them on the table. “Which, having spent the last hour going through what you have here, I must say you do not possess.”

Teresa’s mouth hung open in astonishment. “You mean I can pick up any amount of beautiful physical evidence I like and we can’t match it to a suspect unless he or she deigns to
cooperate
? These people are criminals, for God’s sake! Why should they do us any favours?”

“They won’t,” the lawyer agreed. “Unless they know they’re innocent. We’re trying to appeal the ruling, but to be honest . . .” He frowned. “. . . the question of human rights is rather fashionable at the moment.”

“What the hell about the rights of these women?” Teresa demanded.

Grimaldi’s eyes widened with despair. “Why are you arguing with me? It is useless. This is now the law. I wish it were otherwise, but . . .”

“I could always arrange for one of these nice gentlemen to bleed on me a little,” Peroni suggested. “Or steal one of his coffee cups.”

The lawyer shook his head. “Anything gathered by subterfuge will not only be inadmissible but may well damage our chances of a successful prosecution should we be able to gather sufficient evidence by other means. This is a general observation, by the way, one we must now apply to every case from this point forward, not simply to these four charming gentlemen who call themselves the Ekstasists.”

A bitter, almost despondent look appeared on Falcone’s lean face. “Welcome to modern policing,” he said. “What Grimaldi has explained to you will be standard practice in all cases from this point on until we can successfully challenge it. Other officers are having this change in policy explained to them privately over the next few days, though not the reasons for it. We would like to keep those to ourselves.” He grimaced. “At least for a little while.”

Teresa Lupo glowered at the female inspector across the table. “
You
did this? Your cack-handed blundering has put the onus on
us
to prove bastards like these need to show us they’re innocent? That’s half our working practices dumped straight out the window. Just because you barged in there without doing your homework first.”

“No!” Susanna Placidi screeched back at her. She pointed at the photos on the screen. “I did my best. Malaspina is responsible for this. That man—”

“Not good enough,” the pathologist yelled. “You’re incompetent, Placidi. This is—”

“Ladies.
Ladies!
”

Grimaldi had a loud and commanding voice. It silenced them, for a little while at least.

Costa waited for the temperature to fall a little, then said, “In that case, you’d better start looking for some proof.”

“Where?” Susanna Placidi demanded.

Grimaldi stared at Falcone and raised an interested eyebrow.

“That,” the inspector announced, “is something you no longer need worry about.” He shook his head, stared at the desk, then at her. “This case . . . appalls me, Placidi. We have lost a dear friend. There are women who have been attacked—and worse—in this city of ours, while it was your responsibility to protect them. Your laxness and incompetence have cost innocent people their lives. You have damaged our ability to unravel the dreadful mess you have left behind. And all you can say is . . . you did your best. If that was the case, your best was sorely lacking. You can go home now. This case no longer concerns you.” He reached over and dragged the computer to his side of the table. “Nor any in the future, if I can help it. Breathe one word to a soul about what we have discussed here and I will, I swear, drag you in front of a disciplinary tribunal and finish what’s left of your career for good.”

Grimaldi took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it in front of her. “These are formal suspension papers, Inspector. I will confirm the notice was properly delivered.”

Placidi was speechless, red with rage, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I will give you a lift home, signora,” Grimaldi offered.

“I have a driver and a car!”

“Not anymore,” the lawyer replied.

Three

F
ALCONE WAITED FOR THEM TO LEAVE. THEN HE GOT UP
and checked the door. There was no one else in earshot.

“This is my city,” he told them. “
Our
city. It’s got its problems, God knows. But I always thought a woman could walk safely on these streets. Any woman. Black or white. Legal or illegal. I don’t care. I will
not
allow that to change. Not under any circumstances. Whatever the cost.”

It was Peroni who broke the silence. He was laughing, just for a moment, and with precious little mirth.

Falcone’s grey eyebrows rose. “Well?”

“I love it when the word ‘cost’ comes into your conversation, Leo,” Peroni observed pleasantly. “It always suggests life is about to turn interesting.”

Falcone ignored the taunt. He looked relaxed. Determined, too. Costa knew this mood. It meant someone was about to wander outside the usual rules.

“Look at us.” Falcone smiled, opening his hands in a wide, expansive gesture. “Two careers in autumn. Two careers in spring. And the best criminal pathologist in Italy.”

“No praise, please,” Teresa protested. “You know how uncomfortable that makes me.”

“It’s true! What better time for you to test your skills?” Then, more grimly, “What better time for
us
?”

His eyes drifted to the computer screen. The image of Franco Malaspina was caught there, frozen by some paparazzo’s camera. The millionaire had frizzy dark hair and the features of a Sicilian, an angular, handsome face almost North African in its dusky hue. His bleak black eyes glittered back at the photographer, staring at the lens intently, full of the easy willful arrogance of a certain kind of Roman aristocrat.

“This man thinks he and his friends are unassailable,” Falcone said. “I have close to one hundred officers in the Questura on this case, two in Africa seeking earlier victims as potential witnesses, and I have put out every appeal I can think of to our friends in the Carabinieri. This is not a time for internecine rivalries and they know it. These are the kinds of crimes none of us ever expected to see in Rome, and we must do all in our power to bring these men to face justice. Yet . . .” He wrestled his slender hands together in frustration. “I cannot tell any of them the names we have here. If I did that, these four men would know. Their lawyers would return to court again, screaming harassment of the innocent. Tame politicians would be dragged out of their beds to hear their complaints. We all know how these things work. We would lose what little we have, perhaps forever. There is an army of officers, good men and women, who will do everything they can to find some conventional—some might say old-fashioned—evidence that might break this case. Yet they must work in the dark, since I daren’t share with them a word of the information you have heard here. They will fail, with dignity and professionalism, but it will be failure all the same.”

“Leo—” Costa began.

“No,” the inspector protested. “Hear me out. Unless they have left some obvious and stupid form of identification in this hellhole of theirs, Inspector Placidi’s incompetence means these four have every right to feel untouchable.” He glanced at Teresa Lupo. “Am I mistaken, Doctor?”

“I told you, Leo. We are swimming in forensic. In proof.”

“What? A business card? A letter? A driving licence?”

“Proof!”

“By which you mean scientific proof. DNA and prints. The two primary pillars of our investigative process today. You heard Grimaldi. They are useless. Proof means nothing if I can’t take it before a judge. They have us gagged and bound, don’t you see? Without some miracle I cannot foresee, the only ones who can establish their guilt are these men themselves. All our conventional means of attack are worthless. I can do . . . nothing.”

He placed his long forefinger on the photograph of Franco Malaspina and stared at Costa. “And I want them, this creature most of all. He is not some Renaissance prince who can flaunt himself on these streets regardless of the law.”

Falcone glanced at his watch. “At twelve-thirty the four of you will meet in the Piazza Navona, outside the Brazilian Embassy. I will arrange for lunch to be brought round to my apartment at one.” He glanced at Costa and Peroni in turn. “The place has only two bedrooms, I’m afraid, so you two can fight over the sofa between yourselves.”

“I’m staying in your apartment?” Rosa Prabakaran asked, astonished.

“Until further notice,” Falcone declared.

Teresa Lupo’s arms flailed in the air in protest. “And I’m supposed to walk out of the biggest murder case we’ve had in years and throw in my lot with some private underhand snooping of yours?”

“If there is one thing I have learned about you in recent times,” Falcone replied, “it is that you will do what you feel like regardless of anything I say. I invite you along to listen and then decide. Given that no one, not God himself, seems privy to either your working methods or your diary, I doubt you will have much difficulty being engaged simultaneously in both your conventional work and a task that is a little . . . different, and something else besides for all I know.”

Teresa was momentarily speechless, then muttered, “Was that a compliment or not?”

“I will not rest until these bastards are in jail, and neither will you,” Falcone continued, ignoring her question. “I have gone through what passes as Placidi’s investigation log on this case. There is a strand of evidence no one here knows about, an odd, possibly worthless thread. Susanna Placidi certainly thought so. Which was why she buried it at the bottom of the pile.”

The grey eyes travelled over them all and fell on Rosa Prabakaran.

“We have an appointment with a statue,” Falcone said cryptically. “After that you are on your own.”