As he moved, he planned, determined to get what little pleasure he could out of this. There was nowhere he could rest the torch, so he would have to keep it upended in his pocket, hoping that it would give enough light for him to watch her face as he killed her. It didn’t look as if there was any fight left in her, but he had been surprised in the past, and he hoped the same would happen this time. He didn’t want too much of a struggle, not with all this water, but he felt he deserved at least a token resistance, especially if he was going to be denied the other pleasures he might have had from her.
As he splashed towards her, she raised her head and looked at him with eyes that gaped wide, blinded by the light. ‘Ciao, bellezza,’ he whispered, and laughed his father’s laugh.
She closed her eyes and lowered her head back on to her knees. With his right hand, he placed the torch in his jacket pocket, careful to angle it forward so that the light shone in the general direction of the woman in front of him. He could see her only vaguely, but he supposed it would be good enough.
Before he began what he had come to do, he couldn’t resist the temptation to pat her lightly on the side of the jaw, touching her with the delicacy of one who taps a piece of fine crystal to hear it sing. He bent aside, momentarily distracted, to adjust the torch, which had rolled towards the back of his pocket. Because he was looking at the torch and not at his victim, he did not see her clenched fist as it arched out from beside her. Nor did he see the antique iron belt hook that protruded from her fist. He was aware of it only as its dull point dug into his throat, just where the angle of the jaw meets the neck. He felt the force of the blow and pulled back from the pain. He staggered to the right and looked back at her in time to see a thick red stream spray out. When he realized it was his blood, he screamed, but by then it was too late. The light was extinguished as he fell beneath the surface of the water.
* * * *
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sound of the key turning in the lock caused both Brunetti and La Capra to turn towards the door, which opened to reveal Vianello, soaked and dripping. ‘Who are you?’ demanded La Capra. ‘What are you doing here?’
Vianello ignored him and spoke to Brunetti. ‘I think you’d better come with me, sir.’
Brunetti moved instantly, passing in front of Vianello and out of the door without bothering to speak. Only at the end of the corridor, before they stepped out into the rain that continued to pour down, did Brunetti ask, ‘Is it I’americana?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s with her friend, sir, but I don’t know how she is. She’s been in the water a long time.’ Without waiting to hear more, Brunetti strode out and ran quickly down the steps.
He found them just beyond the end of the stairs, hunched together under Vianello’s overcoat. At that instant, someone in the house must have switched on the lights, for suddenly the entire courtyard was filled with blinding light, so bright that the two women were turned into a dark Piet à placed on the low ledge that ran along the inner wall of the courtyard.
Flavia knelt in the water, one arm wrapped around Brett, propping her body against the wall with the weight of her own. Brunetti bent down over the two women, not daring to touch them, and called Flavia’s name. She looked up at him, terror palpable in her glance, forcing him to look at the other woman. Brett’s hair was matted with blood; blood streaked across her face and down the front of her clothing.
‘Madre di Dio,’ he whispered.
Vianello splashed up beside him.
‘Call the Questura, Vianello,’ he ordered. ‘Not from here. Get outside and do it. Have them send a boat, with as many men as they can find. And an ambulance. Now. Do it now.’
Vianello was splashing towards the heavy wooden door even before Brunetti finished speaking. When he pulled open the door, a low wave rippled across the courtyard and came to lap against Brunetti’s legs.
From above him, Brunetti heard La Capra’s voice. ‘What’s happening down there? What’s going on?’ Brunetti turned away from the two women, who remained motionless, arms wrapped around each other, and looked towards the top of the stairs. The other man stood there, surrounded by a radiant nimbus of light that poured from the open door behind him, a malign Christ poised at the threshold of some evil tomb.
‘What are you doing down there?’ he demanded again, voice more insistent and a pitch higher. He walked out into the rain and stared down at them, at the two huddled women and a man who was not his son. ‘Salvatore?’ he called out into the rain. ‘Salvatore, answer me.’ The rain pounded down.
La Capra wheeled around and disappeared into the palazzo. Brunetti bent down and touched Flavia’s shoulder. ‘Flavia, get up. We can’t stay here.’ She gave no sign that she had heard him. He shifted his glance to Brett, but she stared at him vacantly, seeing nothing. He placed one hand under Flavia’s arm and pulled her up, bent towards Brett and did the same. He took a step towards the still-open door that led to the calle, one arm dragged down by Brett’s shambling weight. She slipped, and he let go of Flavia to wrap both arms around Brett. Dragging her upright again, he half-carried her, forcing his legs through the chill waters towards the door, barely conscious of Flavia beside him, moving in the same direction.
‘Salvatore, figlio mio, dove sei?’ The voice broke out above them, high-pitched, keening and wild. Brunetti looked up and saw La Capra at the head of the steps, a shotgun clutched in one hand, staring down at them. With deliberate slowness, he began to walk down the steps, ignoring the sheets of rain that blew at him from every direction.
Slowed by Brett’s pendulous weight, Brunetti knew he could never reach the door before La Capra got to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Flavia,’ he said, voice fast and urgent. ‘Get out of here. I’ll bring her: Flavia looked from him to La Capra, still descending the stairs like some relentless fury, and then to Brett. And to the open door to the street, only metres away. Before she could move, three men appeared at the top of the stairs, and she recognized two of them as the men she had driven from Brett’s apartment.
‘Capo,’ one of them called to the descending figure of La Capra.
He turned slowly towards them. ‘Go back. This is mine.’ When they remained motionless, he raised the gun in their direction, but he did it casually, not really aware of what he held in his hands. ‘Go back. Stay away from this.’ Fearful, trained to obey, they retreated indoors, and La Capra turned to continue down the steps.