“Her mother took her own life,” he replied. “No one did that for her.”
“You feel no sense of regret?” she asked. “No… responsibility?”
“She died because she wanted to.” The words came out with difficulty. D’Amato was touching a nerve here.
“My question wasn’t about her. I wondered what you felt.”
The man looked at his watch, his eyes glassy. “This isn’t something I want to discuss.”
Falcone watched Rachele D’Amato’s face harden. There was such resolve there. It was good for the job. It was what they needed. Surely she’d changed over the years, though. The woman he remembered, the woman he had, perhaps, once loved, was not this detached from her feelings. “Did you love them?” she asked. “Eleanor wasn’t yours. Your wife had left you already. Did you love them at that point? When the marriage appeared over?”
Wallis bridled at the question. “You’re a very persistent woman. Let me say this once and for all. They changed me. Before, I was what I was. They saw something in me that I didn’t see myself. In return I learned to love them, and resent them too. A man like me isn’t made to change. It’s not good business. It makes for an uneasy relationship with one’s masters.”
Falcone glanced at the body. “Could your masters have done this?”
There was a sudden burst of anger on his face. “What kind of people do you think I mix with? She was a child, for heaven’s sake. What possible reason—?” He stopped, his voice breaking. “This is a personal matter. I’m not talking about it anymore. It’s no business of yours. I have nothing to tell you.”
“Where were you this morning?” Falcone asked directly.
“At home,” he said immediately. “With my housekeeper.”
“And your associates?” D’Amato demanded.
“Associates?”
She pulled out her notepad and read off some names. “We have a list of them. Men you know. Men with the same kind of background. They arrived in Rome yesterday.”
“Sure!”
They waited.
“Golf!” Wallis declared. “Do you think everything’s bad news around here? We meet once a year in spring. I’ve booked a round at Castelgandolfo for Sunday, then dinner. Phone them if you like, and check. They can tell you. We’ve done this for years. Since I first came to Rome. It’s an annual event for old men. Old soldiers if you like. Retired soldiers. Do you play golf, Inspector?”
“No.”
“A shame.” He paused to give his words some weight. “I thought the cops were fond of clubs. You get to meet people that way.”
“Not all of us,” Falcone replied. “You didn’t ask.”
“Ask what?”
“Why I wanted to know where you were this morning.”
Wallis shifted on his chair. He didn’t like being caught out. It was, Falcone thought, the most promising sign he’d seen of an opening in the man’s guard.
“I assumed you’d tell me,” Wallis said lamely.
“Neri’s bookkeeper, a man named Vercillo, was murdered.”
He didn’t even blink. The sombre, expressionless face stared at him and Falcone appreciated, for the first time, how Wallis must once have been a powerful, imposing presence. “Inspector, do I look like the kind of person who goes around killing bookkeepers? If I engaged in that kind of behaviour, do you honestly think that is where I’d start?”
“No wars,” Falcone warned. “You hear me. I don’t want any of that crap on our streets. If you people want to fight it out for some reason, you do it somewhere else and make sure no one else suffers.”
“War?” Wallis answered, amused. “Who’s talking about war?”
“I’m just saying,” Falcone said and heard how lame he sounded.
“Saying what?” The American took his arm. Falcone could smell something sweet on his breath. “Nothing but the obvious. You’ve got to know, Inspector, you of all people. War’s the natural state of humanity. It’s peace and harmony that are foreign to us, which is why it’s so damned hard to create them out of all this shit. Wars aren’t part of my world, not any longer. Not here. Not anywhere. Others…” he opened his hands in a gesture of regret, “… they may feel differently. That’s none of my business.”
“And if they start to make war on you?” D’Amato asked.
He smiled. “Then I’ll expect the police to earn their keep.”
There was, Falcone thought, only one way to tackle the next question. Directly. “I’ve already spoken to Emilio Neri. He suggested we ask you about what happened to Eleanor. He seems to think your relationship was… not simply that of a stepfather and daughter.”
Wallis closed his eyes briefly and uttered a low, unintelligible sound.
“He suggests you had a sexual relationship with her. I have to ask, Mr. Wallis. Did you?”
“You’re going to believe scum like him?” Wallis asked quietly. “You think a man like that would tell you the truth, even if he knew how?”
“I think he knows more than he’s telling me. I think the same about you.”
“I can’t help what you think about me.”
Falcone took a photograph out of the folder he’d brought with him: Eleanor and Barbara Martelli, with their little coterie of admirers. They were dressed, Eleanor apparently unaware of what was to happen next.
Wallis stared at it. “What’s this?”
“We think it was taken shortly before Eleanor was killed.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I can’t discuss that,” Falcone said. “This is evidence. Do you know these men? Do you know what kind of… event this is?”
“No,” he replied immediately.
“The other woman. Do you know her?”
“No.”
Falcone glanced at Rachele D’Amato. There was too much hard work here. Wallis’s response was all wrong. He should have been asking questions.
“Does this photograph mean anything to you?” he demanded. “If we’re right, it preceded her death probably by no more than a few hours. One of these men may have killed her. You really know none of them?”
He pointed at one figure. “I know him. So do you. He was your colleague. Mosca, wasn’t it?”
“How did you know him?” D’Amato asked.
He shrugged. “A social event, if I remember right. Nothing more.”
Falcone held up the photo. “A social event like this? You understand where Eleanor spent her last few hours? You understand what went on?”
He took out more photos. From later. Barbara and Mosca, rolling on the floor, naked.
“This is not how I spend my time,” Wallis said coldly. “Nor was it then. Nor do I believe Eleanor would have gone to something like this willingly, knowing what was involved. Do you have pictures of her like this, Inspector?”
“No,” Falcone conceded. “Which is interesting in itself. But you see my problem? The idea that Eleanor just walked out of your house one day and disappeared, was abducted in some random way by a complete stranger. It’s not true. This was where she was before she died. In the company of men who moved in circles you knew. Crime. The police. As if she were…” he paused, determined this would hit home, “… a gift perhaps.”
Wallis nodded, considering this. “An interesting idea. But it presupposes that the men to whom she was given had something to offer in return. To whom? Not me. So who could that be?”
“We may have DNA evidence from the autopsy,” Falcone said. “I can only request this at the moment, but it would help us if you were to provide a sample. Our forensic people can do what is necessary now. It won’t take a moment. It’s just a mouth swab. Or a piece of hair if you’d prefer.”
“DNA?” He didn’t flinch. “You’re telling me that’s some use after all these years?”