The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (11 page)

    'Of
course, Inspector.'

    'Well,
both men had an erection just before they died.'

    'What?'
Tommasi turns for a second. Shocked, he stares at his superior.

    'Careful!'
Marconi automatically moves as if to put on the brakes. A young lad on a skateboard
has dashed in front of them.

    Tommasi
brakes hard and the engine cuts out with a thump. 'Fuck it!' He doesn't move:
still clutching the steering wheel, with his foot still pressed down on the
brake.

    They
stay motionless for a moment while the boy disappears down a narrow street on
their right, without apologising or even looking back at them.

    'I
don't believe it. Look at that moron!'

    'And
if some poor sod knocks one of them over, they even have to pay them
compensation.'

    'These
kids have no respect for anything or anyone. They have everything they want
right from when they're born, and look how they end up. They just don't know
how to behave any more.'

    A car
behind them sounds its horn, not realising that the stationary vehicle is a
police car.

    'There's
no respect any more for the police. Did I already say that?'

    Tommasi
starts off again but soon they stop for a coffee. The barista at Settimo Cielo
is a short man with a friendly face, a true local accent, and an overwhelming
desire to grumble.

    'Two
coffees.'

    'Another
robbery in broad daylight in the centre of the city the other day. Where's it
all going to end?' he grumbles, reaching for the cups.

    'Come
on, don't start. We do our job. But there aren't enough of us - and we're not
paid enough,' Tommasi responds. He already knows the
barista's
views.

    'I'm
not saying you don't do your job. I'm just saying that, with all these
immigrants, you aren't safe leaving the house.'

    'Don't
start on immigrants again,' Tommasi blurts out. He is originally from Naples,
and remembers when he was little and he was the foreigner. At school the other
boys said his father had come to steal work from Italians, as if Naples was
another country.

    'I
can't afford to be a liberal,' says the
barista,
as he puts the two
steaming cups in front of them and goes back to drying the tall glasses, the
ones used for prosecco.

    'What
were you saying before, Inspector?' Tommasi is annoyed. His eyebrows seem like
they meet in the middle even more than normally.

    'This
is confidential information. So I'm warning you - not a word to anyone.'

    Tommasi
leans forward, ready to digest this tasty bit of information.

    'So,
both men were hard before they died.'

    'Which
means that the stiletto print could be…?'

    'Yes,
that footprint could belong to the murderer. And it also means that the first
statement we got from the woman at the service station could contain an element
of truth. The blonde, sexy woman - perhaps she wasn't a real babe, like the
woman described her, but everything else could fit.'

    'The
lollipop next to the second victim made me think of a woman straight away. I
couldn't see the victim himself eating a lollipop. Not someone like him, I
mean.'

    'Picture
the scene,' says Marconi, changing tack. 'In the first murder, he pushes her
into the bathroom. He wants to fuck her, he's looking forward to it, and she
doesn't allow him time to realise anything's wrong before she cuts his throat.

    Then
the second murder. It's late at night and she lets herself be followed to that
garbage dump. His intentions are definitely not honourable, but he's not
worried. He knows he's stronger than her. There's no contest: it's as good as
done. But she hits him with a heavy object - a club or perhaps an iron bar. She
smashed his head open with two blows and it was all over quickly. I've looked
at the photos again.'

    'And?'

    'And
they've both got the same expression. The expression of someone who's just
landed in the shit.'

    'I
could be wrong, but the last one, Mario Rossi…'

    'Yes,
like in those adverts: "There's always a Mario Rossi.'"

    'He
used to beat his wife.'

    'That's
right. The man was violent: We've got two complaints on file from his first
wife. But now he was with a Romanian. They were living together in a block of
flats in Via Casini.'

    They
get up and go over to pay.

    'It's
on me.' The
barista
turns towards them. 'Let's see if it wakes you lot
up a bit,' he adds under his breath. 'What?'

    'Have
a good day,' he says, shrugging his shoulders.

    'Morning.
Police.'

    Silence.

    'You
heard me. Open the door.' Marconi doesn't bother trying to sound polite. 'Open
the door. We don't have all day.'

    Silence.

    'Open
the door. We only want to ask you a few questions. Or, if you prefer, we can
come back later and do a search, and then you'll be screwed.'

    The
door opens as if by magic.

    The
girl turns her back on them and goes back into the living room, or rather a
minute kitchen that's also used as a living room. It contains an enormous
television set, switched on but with the sound turned off.

    There's
a strong smell of fried food.

    She
sits down. It looks like she's only just out of her teens. A washed-out blonde wearing
a pair of tight jeans and a synthetic red jersey top.

    'What
do you want?'

    'Tell
me about Mario.'

    'I
didn't know him very well.'

    'But
you live in his flat?'

    'I've
been here for two months. I do the cleaning and in return he let me stay here.'

    'The
cleaning?' echoes Tommasi.

    'His
ex-wife informed us you were living here. Yet you haven't even bothered to get
in touch with us. You do know that he's dead, don't you?'

    'She's
mad, that woman. Yes, I know, I know. I saw it on TV but I don't know anything,
and anyway, what am I supposed to do. I only do his cleaning. I don't know
anything.'

    'You
already said you don't know anything.'

    Marconi
leans against the table and crosses his legs.

    'Sit
down. Would you like a drink?' she says, clearly used to making men feel at
ease.

    'No,'
Marconi replies with an air of incorruptibility.

    He
nearly loses his balance and plants both feet back flat on the ground.

    'He
used to go out every night and come back late. I don't really know anything
else.'

    'Did
he drink? Do drugs? Anyone threaten him? What was his relationship like with
his ex-wife?'

    'She's
mad. Once she kept ringing the bell and shouting "You tart, open the door.
You're not taking all my maintenance money." She's mad.' 'And then?'

    'And
then I don't know
anything.
I've already told you,' she pouts. He could
tell how she usually got whatever she wanted with that pout.

    
But
it doesn't work with me,
Marconi thinks. 'Talk, or there'll be trouble.'
Spoken as if he were in a film. 'The murderer's a woman, about your height. So
it'll be better for you if you co-operate, or you'll end up on our list of
suspects.'

    'I'm
hardly the only woman one metre sixty tall.' She smiles. 'Do what you want. I
don't know anything. And this isn't my flat - I'm just a cleaner. I've already
told you everything I know.'

    
She's
really not bad, not beautiful but put her in a miniskirt…

    'OK,
but we may need to talk to you again,' adds Tommasi, before the inspector can
let slip something else about the case.

      'Hello?'

    'They've
been here… I didn't say anything. I'll see you tonight at the usual place.'

    'Are
you going out again tonight?'

    'Yes,
I told you. Do you think I work just to keep you comfortable? I need to have a
bit of fun as well, don't I?'

    'It's
just that we don't spend enough time together, and I don't like that. I'm
scared we'll drift apart,' says Viola, downcast.

    'You
know I always want to make love to you. Do you think I'd feel like that if I
was going off you?' Marco spanks her on the buttocks as she clears the table.

    'I'd
like the two of us to go out together sometimes, just you and me.'

    'Listen,
Viola, I've already told you, so there's no point pretending not to hear me
whenever it suits you. I need my own space. I need to spend some time with my
friends. I already feel tied down… And you know how I get jumpy.'

    'But
are you tired of me?'

    Marco
gets up from his chair.

    'You
know
you're my little pumpkin; I'll never get tired of you.' He hugs her
and gives her a kiss on the neck.

    'But
now I've got to get ready, otherwise I'll be late.'

    Viola
follows him like a pet dog. She sits down on the bed and watches him.

    She
thinks Marco is so good-looking. He isn't very tall, but that's OK. Swarthy,
with dark eyes and a beautiful smile. It was his smile that she fell in love
with. And she fell in love with the way he half-closes his eyes when he grins,
and how a dimple appears on the left side of his mouth.

    Marco
lost his head over her tits and arse; but he always claims he fell in love with
Viola because she's as sweet as icing sugar.

    He
puts on a pair of ripped jeans, a white V-neck T- shirt and white trainers.
Then he goes into the bathroom to put gel in his hair.

    She
follows him, lowers the toilet seat and sits down.

    'Don't
wait up for me. And tomorrow I'm doing the second shift, so I'll be late.'

    'Where
are you going tonight?'

    'Nowhere
special, but don't wait up. I might stop at Claudio's and have a game on his
PlayStation.'

    Viola
sits huddled up on the toilet seat and plays with her toes, thinking how she
would like to go out every now and then, too. But she doesn't want to make a
fuss.

    'You're
overdoing the aftershave! You're not trying to impress some girl, are you?'

    'What
girl? You're the only one for me.'

    Marco
leans over and kisses her on the top of her head. 'Night-night, pumpkin.'

    'Wait
a minute.'

    But
he has already closed the door behind him.

    She
stays sitting on the white toilet seat. She suddenly feels heavy. Heavy inside.
In her heart.

    She
rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands until she sees flashes of blue light,
like she used to do when she was small. She stretches herself and then goes
back to playing with her toes.

    
Did
I do the right thing, talking to that cop?
She doesn't like to call him a
'cop': it sounds rather like an insult. But that's what he is, a cop.

    She
gets up and goes to stand in front of the large mirror on the wall in the
corridor. She adores that mirror. There's no frame, just a reflecting surface.
And it makes her look thinner, and makes her seem taller as well. She takes off
her vest and lets it fall to the floor.

    Ugly
thoughts.
Again.
They spread throughout her, running backwards and
forwards along her nerves, inside her veins, under her fingernails. They drive
through her like needles until they take root inside her like some sort of
demonic creature, beneath her skin.