The Faces of Angels (60 page)

‘Where?' It's all I can do not to rip the paper she's holding out of her hand.

‘I'll get a map.' Then she grabs my arm. ‘Even better, I'll show you!'

Isabella is dragging me into the hallway towards the stairs. It's dark, and her grip is like a claw. As my energy's ebbed, hers seems to have grown, as if there's a finite amount between us. She's every bit as strong as she looks, and she virtually hauls me up the stairs.

‘In here, in here,' she's saying. ‘It's still light enough to see.'

Isabella throws open the door to the centre bedroom, and I can see the bulky shape of a high
matrimoniale
bed, dressers, and the ghostly reflection of us in the mirrored front of an enormous wardrobe. Something looms up behind me in the glass, and as Isabella pushes the shutters open I whirl round to see an altar in the corner, complete with a prayer rail and a crucified Christ. She pulls me to the open window.

Below us, beyond the dark mass of the garden, the olive groves spread in a silvery carpet across the hills. Tiny specks, bats or swallows, dart through the navy blue of the sky and in the last glow of the day the old villas are creamy squares backed by spires of cypresses. In a few of them, lights have come on, pinpricks of yellow making the evening darker than it is.

‘There.' Isabella points. ‘That one. Just there.'

I follow her finger, but somehow I already know where she's pointing. I remember the old man standing beside me, how I thought he was talking about the Art Institute villa when he talked about the house that had to be loved like a woman, and how I was surprised that he called it beautiful, because it isn't.

But the villa he was actually talking about, the one I was looking at at the time, is. In the fading light, as Isabella points, I can still make out the statues on the terrace, the cypresses that line the drive.

‘Over there,' she says. ‘It's called—'

‘La Casa degli Uccelli.'

She nods. ‘The House of the Birds.'

I
SABELLA LOOKS AT
me, her figure fading in the darkening room. ‘You really think she's there?' she asks.

‘I don't know.'

I am staring at the pale pink stucco and the beautiful line of the roof, and at the tiny blank squares of the windows, as if I could will myself to see through them, know what lies inside. But I can't. There's only one way to do that.

As I think it, I'm already turning away, starting back towards the stairs.

‘The fastest way is through the groves,' Isabella's voice floats through the dark behind me. ‘There's a gate at the bottom of the garden. It's quicker, especially without a car.'

She runs down the stairs, pushing past me, and rummages in a drawer in the hallway. Then she bolts out onto the terrace and down the overgrown garden steps, leaving me no choice but to follow. There's a bulky rustle in the hedge as Fonzi flies past, and I can smell flowers. The cool leaves of rhododendrons brush my cheeks.

The gate is high and old, and Isabella has to put her shoulder against it to half lift, half push it open after she gets the key in the lock. Before us, the groves are sylvan after the dark wilderness of the garden. Fonzi shoots out through the trees and vanishes.

‘This way.' Isabella waves.

‘No.' I pull Piero's spare cell out of my pocket, hitting the ‘on' button, but it won't get a signal down here. ‘Take this.' I shove it at her. ‘Go back to the house and call the police.'

Isabella swipes the phone out of my hand, sending it flying.

‘Don't be stupid, Maria,' she says, anger lighting her voice. ‘He killed my sister.'

She darts into the trees, and by the time I find the little silver phone Isabella's nothing but a shadow. The long grass hides dips and rubble, and it's all I can do to keep her in sight. Finally I catch up, and about five minutes later she stops and points.

‘There.'

I have lost all sense of direction, but now, rising above us, I can see the wall of the terrace and the strange still figures of broken statues. ‘I came here once, as a kid,' Isabella murmurs. ‘Bene and I prowled around. But I've never been inside. I can't remember, but there's usually a gate, like ours.'

She cuts to the right, staying in the cover of the olives, slipping through the trees like a ghost. Weeds grow out of the retaining wall, their roots jamming into the cracks. One section has bulged and fallen down, causing a landslide of earth and brick. We skirt it, but when we finally find the gate it's high and spiked, and locked. The steps beyond lead up into darkness. Isabella points and I see the glint of a brand-new padlock on the rusted chain that winds through the railings.

‘We won't get over this,' she whispers. ‘We'll have to go around and try the front.'

Until this second, I hadn't thought about how we'd actually get into the villa, but I know enough to know that the fronts of these places are usually exposed, with fortress-like doors, and barred or shuttered windows. Assuming we have to break in, we're going to have a better chance from the back.

‘Come on.' I turn round and head back to the bulging, broken place.

The scree of earth and rubble is old. Grass has taken root in it, and it's not very difficult to claw our way up. I go first. I can hear Isabella breathing behind me. She swears as my foot slips, sending pebbles and earth down over her. Then I slip again, falling down the scree like a mountain climber, hands outstretched, clutching at nothing. Isabella grabs me and hauls me up again, and when we finally get to the top and scramble through the gap in the wall, the House of the Birds looks much bigger.

The last light is almost gone now, and instead of glowing, its pink walls hold the dark. There's a little moonlight, and I can see that the garden is overgrown, wild, but not totally unrecognizable. Wisteria's run rampant across a half-ruined portico on our left, and lumps of shrubbery crouch against the bottom of the walls. There are a few broken benches, and what looks like an old wheelbarrow lies on its side in front of a glassy circle that must once have been a fish pond. A gravel path leads in a straight line towards the back of the house, and we follow it, sticking to the edge so our shoes won't crunch on what's left of the putty-coloured stone.

Halfway to the house, I see the burn mark, a round imprint of charred earth, like a devil's footprint. When I crouch down beside it and brush its edge, little feathers of white and scabs of coloured paper shift in the dirt. Somebody's been doing God's work here, saving souls from the temptation of the printed word. I scrabble around some more, and my fingers meet a shred of fabric. I drop it fast, and tell myself it may mean nothing. Behind me I hear Isabella shift. As I stand up, our eyes meet in the dark.

She steps past me, making for the side corner of the house. From behind a screen of bushes we can see the wide gravel apron that stretches across the front. It's empty. There's no sign of a car or outbuildings where one might be hidden. Another padlock and chain glimmers in the handles of the front door. I feel in my pocket for my phone and swear.

‘What?' Isabella's face is pale in the thin moonlight.

‘The phone. I must have lost it when I slipped.' I turn to go back but she grabs my arm.

‘Sophie!' she hisses in the dark. ‘He's not here now. But if she is here, he'll come. We don't have time.'

She's right. Either this house is empty, and there's no need for the police, or Sophie's inside and every second counts. Isabella grabs my hand and turns towards the back of the villa, treading silently across the overgrown lawn.

The terrace at the back of the house is paved, and we step on dark lumps of weed and moss in an attempt to be quiet, neither of us mentioning the possibility that if Sophie is here, she may not be alone. Maybe he walked or used a bicycle we didn't spot. Maybe he's going back for the car later, after he's done his job. We reach a pair of crumbling stone lions that stand on either side of a set of tall wooden shutters.

They creak obligingly as I pry my fingers into the slats and pull. Isabella gets her hands in above mine, and one good yank does it. The inner latch gives, revealing an old French window. I stand back to let Isabella put her shoulder to it, and a little shower of termite-eaten wood falls at her feet. When she pushes again, a glass panel cracks, and I pull my sleeve over my hand, knock the edges out with my elbow and reach through to slide back the bolt.

The first thing that hits us is the smell of cats. It rolls out of the dark in a stinking wave and I put my hands over my nose and mouth as I step inside. The room must run almost the whole length of the building, and, beyond the cats, there are other smells too. Mould, and something feral. I have no idea what bats smell like, but I have a feeling this might be it. Isabella comes in behind me, and I hear her gasp. When I look, she's clapped her hands over her face too. We should have brought a flashlight. Stupid, I think, unbelievably stupid. I take fast shallow breaths, telling myself it won't kill me.

‘Should we shout?' Isabella leans close, her voice barely more than a breath, and I shake my head.

‘If he's in here, he might kill her. It only takes one stab.' He'd be a few hours ahead of schedule, but somehow I don't think he'd care. ‘Let's look first. If he isn't here and she is, we can get her out.'

Beyond the thin haze of light from the open door, it's pitch-black, and it takes me a moment to figure out there's no furniture. As my eyes adjust, I see something glimmering on the far wall, and catch a motion which almost makes me scream. Then I realize it's a long mirror, set into the panelling. Once, it must have been pretty, reflecting the French windows and the garden. Now it throws nothing back but the darkness, a liquid black that makes the room look as if it recedes for ever. Two chandeliers hang in pale bags from the ceiling like cocoons. Beyond our breathing, there's no sound. Not even a rustle. If he's here, he's being really quiet. And if Sophie's here, she's either trussed, or unconscious. Or dead.

‘We need a light, even a little one.' Isabella pulls my shirt. ‘Kitchen.' She points. There's a door to our left, and I follow her, moving gingerly, trying not to catch our reflections drifting in the darkness of the mirror.

The tall doors give on to a corridor, and even following Isabella, I have to put a hand on the wall to feel my way along. My fingers meet damp plaster, crumbly and soft as bread-crumbs. She's right about the kitchen. And as an added bonus, one of the windows isn't boarded or shuttered. After the hall, it seems almost light. I make out two white porcelain sinks and what looks to be a marble-topped table. Isabella is pulling the drawers open, but there's nothing in them. Then she whispers, ‘Eureka.'

On the shelf above one of the sinks, she's spotted a box of candles. At the same time I see a newish box of matches on the draining board. As I reach for them, I try not to think what this means.

The immediate effect of the candlelight is to make the corners of the room darker. Shadows bounce up towards the ceiling. The kitchen is a dead end, except for a pantry. Isabella looks in, shakes her head, and we go back along the little corridor.

In the big room our flames flick and gutter, moving like fireflies in the mirror. A closer inspection reveals that there's nothing in here at all, and when we try a door in the panelling, it's locked. I put my face to it and whisper Sophie's name, but all I get is a mouthful of dust.

‘Look,' Isabella whispers. ‘Let's make sure he's not here, then we'll yell. If we have to, we'll kick doors in.' She squeezes my arm. ‘
Courage, mon brave.
If this son of a bitch has her here, we'll find her.'

Isabella has grown stronger as I've faltered, and as she leads the way out of the room I realize that she must have thought there would never be anything she could do for Benedetta. Now she has a chance to do this. She leads the way towards an arch at the end of the huge empty room, and we come into the front hall.

In the faint light from a fan above the doors we can see that the stairs run straight up the centre of the villa. On the far side there's an archway identical to the one we've just come through, and we find another long room. In here there are ordinary windows, all boarded up. Beyond is another passage leading back to store rooms. Wood is stacked in one, but the other is empty. The cold flagstone floors weep underneath our feet. This time, it's me who leads the way back. Now, the only place Sophie can be is upstairs.

Both of us are more accustomed to the dark and move more easily. In the store room, Isabella picked a heavy short stick out of the woodpile, and I did the same. Wax has begun to drip on my hands, but I ignore it.

The stairs curve upwards into shadows, and I wonder how you would drag a struggling woman up them. Maybe she'd be drugged, or hit on the head. Or maybe he hasn't dragged anyone, and we're in the wrong place altogether. Maybe there's nothing up here but feral cats, and Sophie is somewhere else, her life ticking away while I'm being afraid of the dark.

Suddenly I don't want to go on. I put my foot on the first step of the stairs and stop. When I look back at Isabella, I see the mirror of my own face. Her eyes are huge in the candlelight, and I know she's felt it too; the sense that something ghastly is above us. We stand there together, remembering our dead and terrified of what we might find, until finally Isabella nods, and I put my hand on the banister, and begin to climb.

The front hall is vaulted to the roof, and what have to be bedrooms open off a three-sided gallery. The cat smell isn't so bad up here. Something rustles and a flutter of wings brushes past us in the dark. Isabella swears under her breath. The first door we open is over the front of the house. The room appears to be empty, another long rectangular space. When we go in, the candles catch glints of gold from the moulding. We see what looks like a cupboard, but is in fact just an alcove full of dirty, empty shelves.