The Girl with the Crystal Eyes (27 page)

    Her
lipstick has rubbed off. Her black hair hangs down limply on to breasts hidden
by this funereal shroud.

    Her
wig lies on the floor, along with her slip.

    She
looks at him and smiles for a second.

    He
gets up without saying anything. He remembers he hasn't got any clothes on.
Shreds of fabric he's abandoned, by the leather armchair, like strange confetti
at the end of some grotesque carnival.

    'I
don't suppose you've got anything in my size.'

    'I
have. I've still got some of my ex's clothes, if that's OK. He was just a bit
shorter than you.'

    She
gets up. In daylight she isn't frightening. Her voice has a vague, indefinable
inflection; it's not a hellish singsong any more. She is a real woman, now. And
she's got a great arse.

    She
opens a drawer and, leaning over it, rummages through a muddle of clothes,
leather collars, and studded objects. Marconi spots a purple dildo and is
grateful that she didn't use it on him last night.

    'You're
sick,' he says quietly.

    'I know,'
And without looking at him she throws him something black. A T-shirt with a
skull, and HATE written in gothic letters. Then she hands him a pair of leather
trousers.

    'Underwear?'

    'He
never wore any.' Her voice hides a trace of sadness.

    'Lovely.
I hope at least you washed these occasionally.'

    She
comes towards him.

    'Stay
away from me.'

    'Does
that mean you didn't enjoy it?'

    'Where's
my mobile? My car keys?'

    'Everything's
in the car. Your keys are in the kitchen, on the table.'

    The
skin round his wrists and ankles stings a bit, and looks bruised. He had never
done it before, while tied up.

    'Oh
well…' It's the last thing he says as he leaves the flat. Before he closes the
door behind him, he sees a stuffed owl staring down at him from a shelf, with
large, round glass eyes.

    Sitting
on the floor, red hair covering her face, hands shaking. She would like to
escape from her body, but her body ensnares her, weighs her down, doesn't let
her stop existing. She is trembling.

    She's
in a prison constructed of images she wishes she could forget. Of words she
wishes she had never heard.

    Dreams
and reality have become a single entity. She is tired of breathing. Tired of
the screaming of her soul. She is silent. She would like to shout but instead
she cries. It's the only thing she knows how to do.

    
Where
the fuck is my phone
? And just at that moment it starts ringing.

    Perfect
timing.

    Marconi
answers. He feels that the day hasn't started as badly as it could have done.
He's alive, the sun is shining, and no one has broken into the car to steal his
mobile.

    'Where
the fuck have you been?'

    'I
had a few problems.'

    'While
you were out enjoying yourself at your fancy-dress night, and roping in -
without permission - a police car and a plain-clothes detective, a minor's had
his throat cut in the Montagnola park.'

    'What?'

    'Don't
worry. They made me come back on duty this morning, after they found him. Since
you weren't around…'

    'I'll
be there straight away.'

    'Get
a move on… you jerk,' yells Frolli. 'This isn't the end of it - the
questore
is furious. A friend of his, at the Roses Club -'

    'But
didn't you say it was a boy?'

    'Keep
up. No one gives a fuck about the boy. I'll see you at the club. They've killed
someone important this time. Move your arse.' He slams down the receiver.

    The
traffic in Via Stalingrado is bumper to bumper. Marconi doesn't have time for
this delay. He spots the pavement on his left and reverses the car, ending up
with his bonnet sticking out into the oncoming traffic, causing a bedlam of
near misses and dented bumbers, amid a deluge of blaring horns that
precipitates all around him.

    He
joins in the chorus and starts to lean on his own horn. He holds up his arms,
but the drivers in the other lane won't let him in and the queue of cars behind
him is getting longer. He reaches down to find the siren.
Fuck,
he hid
it in the boot the night before.

    As he
tries to move forward, a Mercedes barely avoids crashing into his bonnet.

    The
man behind him gets out of his car. He's a large and imposing man - not a very
reassuring sight.

    Marconi
takes advantage of a red Fiat Uno with a woman driver, and he cuts straight
across her path. Now the horns sound like they're screaming in unison at the
cretin left standing in the middle of the road.

    Marconi
summons the nerve to shout 'Dickhead!' as he drives away, mentally working out
an alternative route to the club.

    The
smell of blood poisons the air before he even crosses the threshold. It
permeates the walls, it insinuating itself into everything. It's like a punch
to the stomach.

    Marconi
shows his badge to the security guard in the corridor, who's keeping onlookers
and photographers at a distance while looking rather puzzled.

    Tommasi
notices Marconi and hastens towards him. 'Where have you been? It's been just
one thing after another…' He looks Marconi up and down, bemused.

    'I'll
explain later. The
questore
?'

    'He's
just gone. He wanted to be the one to break the news to the victim's wife and
daughter. He's furious, too. He's threatening to put us all back on the beat if
we don't find the killer straight away.'

    'Let's
see.'

    'In
here. It's a mess, a fucking mess.'

    Tommasi
shows him the way. The sun filtering through the large window and shines like a
spotlight on the corpse on the floor. He is lying on his back, legs wide open
and at an angle, making him look like he's swimming in a sea of blood. The dead
man is wearing an elegant grey Armani suit, and an expression of terror.

    His
eyes are wide open, and his torso and hands have been slashed repeatedly with a
sharp weapon. An extremely deep wound to his throat, black as night, completes
the macabre image.

    Marconi
momentarily feels that he is being swallowed up in a spiral of darkness. He
sees himself tied to that armchair. He can picture the red light of the room,
and the mad doll who played with him for what seemed like an eternity. He has
fooled himself that the sun will have cancelled out everything. Like waking up
from a nightmare. But it isn't like that. The vision of death follows him. It
won't leave him in peace.

    Tommasi
interrupts the unnatural silence hovering in the room. 'A waiter found him
about an hour ago. I've already taken his statement. The victim's Montanarini,
the entrepreneur. That collector - the one same who had his antique pistol
stolen.'

    'Oh
fuck.'

    'I
don't think everyone heard that.' The voice of Frolli behind him.

    Marconi
doesn't even turn round.

    'An
honorary member of the club, and one of its main backers,' Tommasi continues.
'He used to come here three times a week to play squash, have a sauna, business
meetings - among other things. The waiter told me that this private room -
there's a very long corridor from the main part of the building, so it's nice
and remote - is often used by club members for trysts… if you know what I mean.
The victim had told the waiters that he didn't want to be disturbed. They left
a chilled bottle of champagne and two glasses, as they always do. By the way,
the bottle's disappeared. Perhaps the killer wanted to celebrate.'

    'That
all?' Marconi asks.

    'First
his gun disappears, and it kills two pushers,' Folio interjects. 'And now he
gets himself killed. This case stinks - almost as much as you do, Inspector.
And what the fuck are you wearing?' Frolli says, holding up his hands and
looking like he's about to start pulling his hair out.

    Marconi
looks down at himself. He has totally forgotten that he's dressed like some
crazed fan of a heavy metal group.

    'I
was undercover.'

    'Which
means you haven't been home yet, eh?'

    'Enough,
OK? I'm really not in the mood.'

    'Ah,
he's not in the mood. Neither was I, first thing this morning, when they called
me back on duty after only a few hours off.'

    'I
was following up an important lead.'

    'Yes,
I can see how good a lead it was. Two dead in the space of a few hours and
you're nowhere to be found. Fantastic.'

    'Listen…'
Marconi begins.

    'Careful
what you say.'

    'Look
at this.' Galliera beckons them over:

    He
points at the long knife that has been placed next to the victim, with three
roses arranged on either side.

    'It
looks like a kitchen knife. The sort you use to cut meat.'

    'It's
not as if we'll find any fingerprints,' says Marconi, staring at the roses
bathed in blood. It looks like a painting, of exceptional beauty and ferocity.
Then his gaze falls on to the man's white shirt, stained with blood around
chest height.

    'Just
a minute,' he says. 'Hey, you with the gloves, lift this up.' He is pointing at
the dead man's jacket.

    He
observes for a moment and then says: 'These aren't splashes. They're
fingerprints. They look like they come from bloodstained fingers. Here as well
- on the inside pocket of the jacket.'

    'The
murderer was looking for something,' Tommasi exclaims.

    
Yes,
and I'd give anything to know what.

    As
soon as he leaves the murder scene, Marconi rushes outside. He needs to see the
sky. He needs to breathe.

    Eva
is laying the table ready for her friend. She has bought everything she needs.
Little pink candles and a larger one with a red heart to put in the centre of
the cake. A cake made with cream and chocolate and decorated with strawberries.

    She's
also got some appetisers, but she didn't get them from Lina, where she bought
the cake, even though she knows that theirs are really good. She preferred to
order them from that bar near the Two Towers, so she could see the barman
again. The one who was so nice. And so cute.

    It
was he himself who answered the phone, and Eva explained that she was the girl
who had celebrated her birthday there a while ago.

    'I
remember you.'

    She
didn't believe him, but then he added: 'Who could ever forget eyes like yours?'

    After
work she had hurried over to pick up the appetisers, already ordered, and he
had offered her a drink. A fruit-based cocktail, thirst-quenching. He had asked
her where she usually hung out.

    'I
don't go out much. I don't know that many people here.'

    The
barman had handed her a card. On it was written his phone number with a smiley
face drawn instead of a zero.

    Miew
is rubbing herself against Eva's legs.
Come on you, I'll have to wash my
hands again.
The cat looks up at her, still wanting to be petted.
Oh,
OK, then.
She bends down and takes Miew up in her arms.
You're the only
one for me, do you know that? The one love of my life.
And she kisses her
on the nose. The cat looks at her with large, luminous green eyes. 'And you're
mine,' she seems to be saying, instead of a miaow.