‘He was pretending to be Claudio,’ Roxana had said, to herself, her eyes on the picture. There was something about it — so cheap, so poorly reproduced — that had made her sorry. The girl’s face, she looked so happy hanging on to this — fake. Pretending to be Claudio? It didn’t make sense.
‘I guess maybe it’s this girl that’s looking for him,’ she had said slowly. ‘Although he didn’t say it. Sandro Cellini.’ She felt in her jacket pocket: was that where she’d put his card?
Staring each other down like cat and dog, Marisa and Val had paid her no attention.
‘All right,’ Roxana had said. ‘I’ll call him when work finishes.’
Reluctantly, Marisa had shifted her gaze and nodded stiffly. ‘Only an hour to go,’ she’d said, the expensive gold watch sliding down her smooth brown forearm as she raised her slim wrist to look at the dial. ‘You can follow me on your Vespa. To my place.’
I can, can I?
Now the automated gates swung smoothly closed behind them as Roxana dismounted on to the gravel path. The air up here was different. It was different for the rich, all right. It smelled of roses and wet grass; a sprinkler was rotating beside the big, square villa, a glittering rainbow behind the flowerbeds.
There were two cars parked against the villa: the Cinquecento and a little canary-yellow Punto. The other inhabitants of the villa must be away for the summer, as Marisa would have been if Claudio hadn’t been so inconveniently killed. Or inconveniently killed himself.
Marisa was still in the car, tapping something into her mobile. As Roxana watched, she climbed out and briefly her long-legged frame stuck in the car’s low-slung door; she looked uncomfortable, wrong, awkward. And for a second Roxana wondered whether it was all made up, all an illusion. She hadn’t gone with Paolo on Thursday, Val had said. What if this wasn’t really her place and Marisa was housesitting, she was squatting, her boyfriend and his yacht didn’t really exist at all, it was borrowed, all borrowed? What next? She’d got her tan at a campsite, her clothes from a discount outlet?
Marisa put the phone away. ‘Paolo,’ she said briefly. ‘He’s in Elba.’ And strode past Roxana towards the villa’s vast door.
Sweetly Val had whispered to her as they’d left Marisa’s office, ‘I’ll call him. The private detective guy.’
And he’d quickly gone to the spot by the door where you got the best signal and dialled the number, while Roxana had looked from her counter at Val hunched over his phone, then at the closed door to Marisa’s office, and back again at Val. Urging him on.
It had been almost a relief when he’d hung up, shaking his head, and hurried back to his post. ‘Engaged,’ he hissed, sliding back into his seat. ‘Busy guy.’
Roxana had realized she wanted to talk to Sandro Cellini herself, anyway. Not here, though, not in the toxic gloom of the bank, where everyone could hear everything she said.
Why was that? she asked herself, hurrying across the gravel after Marisa, who was impatiently holding open the heavy door. The scent of roses and jasmine was almost too much, along with the hypnotic motion of the sprinkler and the sense that there were servants, discreet and well-trained, hovering just out of sight.
Why did she want to talk to Sandro Cellini? There’d been something in the man’s eyes, something of her father’s look as he stood in the cantina by his jars of nails, turning some part of machinery over in his oil-stained hands and working out what it did and how to fix it.
Damn, thought Roxana, and in a moment of panic she stuffed her hands in her pockets, looking for it. Had she given it to Val? Cellini’s card. Would he be in the phone book? Roxana was in the phone book, sensible ordinary people didn’t have any problem with being in the phone book — and then there it was, dog-eared but intact, in her shirt pocket.
‘Coming,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ And slipped inside.
Marisa had the ground floor of the villa: cool, even in weather like this. They came into a wide, dim hallway, pale flagstones on the floor, two sets of double doors on either side of it. There was a smell of polish, of wood and leather and cold stone: all seemed chill, clean, empty of life.
‘Hello?’ Marisa called out, her voice high-pitched and strained. Roxana saw her look down and as her eyes adjusted she noticed that a small neat suitcase stood beside a console table. Marisa’s shoulders relaxed just a little. ‘Ah, Irene?’
The doors on their left opened. ‘Hello, Marisa.’ Irene Brunello stood there a moment, looking from Marisa to Roxana with weary doubt. She seemed much smaller than Roxana remembered from her occasional visits to the bank, sometimes with a young child in tow. Smaller and more uncertain, but dignified.
‘You remember Roxana?’ said Marisa with a stiff gesture. ‘She wanted — she just wanted — ’
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry,’ said Roxana, taking a step towards Irene Brunello then stopping abruptly. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Irene Brunello stepped back hurriedly, disappearing into the room, leaving the doors open behind her. There was a quick intake of breath — surely not impatience? — then Marisa went in after her. After a moment’s hesitation Roxana followed. This was a mistake.
Irene Brunello was blowing her nose, and pulling on a jacket. ‘Thank you,’ she said, not looking anyone in the eye. ‘Miss Delfino, Roxana, I didn’t mean to — thank you. It’s just that I haven’t got used to — to this, yet. My mother keeps calling me. The police keep calling me.’ She sat down abruptly on the sofa.
Marisa seemed rooted to the spot.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Roxana asked desperately. ‘A glass of water? A glass of — anything? Brandy?’
‘I’m driving,’ said Irene Brunello, pushing her handkerchief into her pocket. ‘I — it’s time for me to go back to the children. I can’t make arrangements for the — for the — for Claudio’s funeral, they say I can’t do that yet. I have to tell the children.’
Roxana sat beside her and took her hand. It felt cold. ‘Your mother’s with them?’ she said.
Irene nodded. ‘At the seaside,’ she said, with such desperate mournfulness that Roxana felt like crying herself.
‘You don’t mind if I have one?’ said Marisa, her back to them. Roxana heard something clink and smelled whisky.
‘They’ll be all right, for a bit,’ said Roxana. ‘They’ll be asleep by the time you get back, won’t they?’
Irene looked at her, struggling to regain composure.
‘You can’t tell them at night,’ said Roxana, knowing she was right. ‘You have to do it in the morning.’
Irene frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’
Marisa came over and sat on the opposite sofa, nursing a large tumbler of amber liquid on her narrow knees.
‘The police called?’ she said, her tone made careless by the whisky.
‘They came by,’ said Irene, sitting there with her hands in her lap clasped so tight the knuckles were white. ‘I went with them to our apartment. There was nothing, I told them, nothing was out of place, everything was normal.’ There was a tremor then to her voice. ‘The gas and the water were switched off, just as we always leave them, there was no sign that anyone had been there, but they took things from his desk, anyway.’
‘Things?’ said Marisa distantly. ‘Do they know anything yet?’
Roxana tensed: the question seemed so brutal. Irene Brunello looked at Marisa curiously, as if she didn’t know her. ‘I don’t think they do,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘They just ask me questions. More questions. They never answer any.’
‘What questions?’ Marisa took another slug from her tumbler, and Roxana stared at her, willing her to shut up. Saw the greedy expression in her eyes and it occurred to her that Marisa was a drunk. Maybe she usually had it under control, maybe she was just good at hiding it.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, keeping hold of Irene Brunello’s hand. ‘You don’t need to go over it again.’