The Lost Girls of Rome (38 page)

But Sandra knew that this information was important. She sped up the operation, more out of nervousness than out of necessity. When she was finished, she leaned with both hands on the edge of the basin. She needed to calm down. She took a deep breath, but was forced to expel the air because the smell of damp was stronger here
than in the rest of the apartment. Even though the toilet seemed clean, she flushed it and turned to go back upstairs. It was then that she noticed the calendar hanging behind the door.

Only a woman knows why another woman needs to keep a calendar in the bathroom, she told herself.

She took it off the nail on which it was hanging and started going through it, in reverse chronological order. On every page, certain consecutive days had been circled in red. More or less the same days every month.

But on the last page, these days were clear of circles.

‘Shit,’ she exclaimed.

Sandra had understood from the start. She hadn’t needed that confirmation. Lara had thrown the receipt from the pharmacy in the waste-paper basket, but then hadn’t had the strength to empty it in the refuse. Because there had been something else with the receipt and the Kleenex. Something that had a particular meaning for Lara, something she couldn’t throw away.

A pregnancy test.

But Jeremiah had taken it when he had kidnapped Lara, Sandra told herself. After the hair ribbon, the coral bracelet, the pink scarf and the roller skate, was it the monster’s latest fetish?

Sandra walked into the living room with the mobile phone in her hands, ready to inform Superintendent Camusso of her discovery. Maybe the information that Lara was pregnant would give a new impetus to the investigation. But she held back, wondering what else she had neglected.

The door closed from the inside, was the answer.

That was the one obstacle to the theory that someone had taken Lara from her apartment. If she could demonstrate with certainty that the student had not left of her own free will, there would be no more doubt about the fact that she was Jeremiah Smith’s fifth victim.

What am I missing?

The third lesson she had learned is that houses and apartments have a smell.

What was the smell of this apartment? Damp, Sandra thought immediately, remembering what she had smelled on first entering. But, paying closer attention, she realised she had smelled it above all in the bathroom. It might be sewage. There were no obvious leaks, and yet the smell was really pervasive. She went back to the bathroom, switched on the light, and looked around. She checked the pipes in the shower and under the wash basin, and flushed the toilet again. Everything seemed to be in perfect working order.

She bent down because the smell came from below. She looked carefully at the mosaic tiles under her feet and noticed that one looked chipped. As if something had been stuck into it to lever it up. She looked around and grabbed some scissors she found on a shelf. She slipped the point into the crack, and to her great surprise found she could lift a portion of the floor. She shifted it to one side and saw what it concealed.

Beneath her there was a stone trapdoor that someone had left open.

That was where the smell came from. Travertine steps led down to an underground gallery. That in itself wasn’t enough to demonstrate that Jeremiah had come this way. She needed further proof. There was only one way to get it.

Sandra summoned up her courage and went down.

When she reached the bottom of the steps, she took her mobile phone from her pocket, intending to use the light from the screen to orientate herself. She lit up both sides of the tunnel, but from the right she had the impression she could feel a draught. And from that same side there also came a distant booming sound.

She walked on, taking care where she put her feet. The ground was slippery and if she fell she might do herself serious harm. Nobody would find me down here, she thought.

After going twenty yards, she saw a glimmer of light and realised that she was coming to an exit that led directly to the Tiber. The river was swollen by the rainfall of the past few days and the muddy water carried detritus of every kind with it. It wasn’t possible to go any further, because of a thick metal grille. Too difficult for
Jeremiah, she thought. So he must have gone in the other direction. Still using the light from the mobile phone she turned back, went past the stone staircase that led up to Lara’s bathroom, and soon discovered that on the other side, the gallery turned into a maze of tunnels.

Sandra checked that there was still a network and used the phone to contact Headquarters. After a few minutes, they put her through to Superintendent Camusso.

‘I’ve been in Lara’s apartment. It’s as we feared: Jeremiah kidnapped her.’

‘What proof do you have?’

‘I’ve found the passage he used to take her away without being seen. It’s hidden under a trapdoor in the bathroom.’

‘He’s been really clever this time,’ he said. But from Sandra’s tone he sensed there was more. ‘Anything else?’

‘Lara’s pregnant.’

Camusso fell silent. Sandra could guess his thoughts. The pressure on them had increased: now there were two lives at stake.

‘Listen, Superintendent, send someone immediately.’

‘I’m coming myself. We’ll be right there.’

Sandra hung up. She made to turn back, aiming the light from the phone at the viscous ground, as she had done when coming. But she must have been lost in thought earlier and had not noticed the second row of footprints in the mud.

There was someone down here with her.

Whoever it was, he was hiding now in the maze of tunnels in front of her. Sandra was frozen with fear. Her breath condensed in the cold air of the gallery. She put her hand on her gun, but immediately realised that, where she was standing, she was too easy a target if her pursuer was armed.

He
is
armed. She was sure he was, especially after her experience with the sniper. It was him.

She could turn and start running to the stone steps. Or else fire blindly into the darkness, hoping to hit him before he hit her. Both solutions, though, were risky. She was aware of two eyes watching her. There was nothing in those eyes. She had felt the
same sensation listening to the recorded voice of David’s killer singing ‘Cheek to Cheek’.

It’s over.

‘Officer Vega, are you there?’ The call echoed behind her.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ Sandra cried, her voice transformed by terror into a ridiculous high-pitched scream.

‘Police,’ the voice went on. ‘We were on patrol in the area when Superintendent Camusso called us.’

‘Please, come and get me.’ Without her realising it, her tone had turned imploring.

‘We’re in the bathroom, give us time to get down.’

It was then that Sandra clearly heard the footsteps of someone moving away in the opposite direction along the gallery.

The invisible eyes that had terrified her were escaping.

2.03 p.m.

They had gone to one of the safe houses the penitenzieri used, one of the many Vatican properties spread throughout the city. In it, there was a first-aid kit, as well as a computer to connect to the internet.

Clemente had got hold of a change of clothes and some sandwiches. Marcus, standing bare-chested in front of the mirror in the bathroom, was stitching his wound with needle and thread – another skill he didn’t know he had – and as always was concentrating on what he was doing, and avoiding his own reflection.

This would not be only his second scar. In addition to the one on his temple he had other marks on his skin. The amnesia prevented him from finding memories in his mind, so he had looked for them on his body. Traces of small traumas in the past, like the pinkish nick he had on his calf, or the incision in the hollow of his elbow. Maybe they came from a fall from a bicycle when he was a child, or a trivial domestic accident when he was older. But they hadn’t helped him to remember. It was sad not to have a past. The child whose bone he had found, though, would not have a future. In any
case, both of them had died. Except that for Marcus death had worked in a strange way, proceeding in reverse.

On the ride from Canestrari’s clinic to the safe house, Clemente had told him about Astor Goyash.

He was a seventy-year-old Bulgarian, who had lived in Rome for the last twenty of those years. His business interests, legal and illegal, ranged from construction to prostitution. He was known to have connections with organised crime.

‘What does someone like that have to do with Alberto Canestrari?’ Marcus asked once again, after listening to Clemente’s story, unable to find a satisfactory explanation.

His friend, who was holding cotton wool and disinfectant for him, said, ‘First we should try to find out who left that bone there, don’t you think?’

‘It’s the mystery penitenziere,’ Marcus stated with certainty. ‘When he first looked into the case, after Canestrari’s confession, he found the remains of the little boy in the storeroom. Maybe Canestrari, feeling guilty, had been hesitant to get rid of it. Luckily the penitenziere hid the humerus, first writing the name Astor Goyash on it. He wanted us to find it. If he hadn’t hidden it, it would have been destroyed in the fire at the clinic.’

‘Let’s try and put the events in chronological order,’ Clemente suggested.

‘All right … Canestrari kills a child. A major criminal named Astor Goyash is also involved. But we don’t yet know why.’

‘Goyash doesn’t trust Canestrari: the doctor is conscience-stricken and could easily make a false move. So Goyash decides to keep an eye on him: that would explain the spy camera concealed in his surgery.’

‘When Canestrari killed himself, it must have set alarm bells ringing in Goyash’s mind.’

‘That’s why, immediately afterwards, his men set fire to the clinic, in the hope of wiping out for once and all any possible proof of the child’s murder. They had already got rid of the syringe that Canestrari had used to inject the poison, to avoid an investigation being opened into the death.’

‘Right,’ Marcus agreed. ‘But one fundamental question remains: what’s the connection between a highly regarded philanthropist like Canestrari and a criminal like Goyash?’

‘Frankly,’ Clemente said, ‘I can’t see any. They belonged to different worlds.’

‘And yet there must be something that unites them, I’m sure of it.’

‘Listen, Marcus, time is running out for Lara. Maybe you should drop this Canestrari business and concentrate on finding her.’

The suggestion struck Marcus as strange. For a moment, he pretended to concentrate on medicating his wound, all the while examining Clementi’s expression in the mirror. ‘You may be right, I realised that today. It was lucky you came to the clinic: if you hadn’t got me out of there, those two would have killed me.’

As he said this, his friend lowered his eyes.

‘You were keeping an eye on me, weren’t you?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Clemente said, feigning indignation.

Marcus turned to look at him. ‘What’s going on? What are you hiding from me?’

‘Nothing.’ Clemente was clearly on the defensive.

‘Don Michele Fuente reports the confession of the would-be suicide Alberto Canestrari but, at the request of the bishop, omits the penitent’s name. What are you all trying to safeguard? Who above us wants to keep this quiet?’

Clemente did not reply.

‘I knew it,’ Marcus said. ‘The link between Canestrari and Astor Goyash is money, isn’t it?’

‘Canestrari didn’t seem to be short of money,’ Clemente objected, although without much conviction.

Marcus grasped his difficulty. ‘The thing Canestrari prized above all else was his name. He believed himself to be a good man.’

Clemente realised that he could not continue much longer with this deception. ‘The hospital Canestrari built in Angola is a wonderful thing. We mustn’t run the risk of destroying it.’

Marcus nodded. ‘Whose money did he use to build it? Astor Goyash’s?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘It seems plausible, though, doesn’t it?’ Marcus was angry now. ‘The life of one child in exchange for thousands of lives.’

There was nothing Clemente could say: his pupil had understood everything.

‘So we choose the lesser evil,’ Marcus went on. ‘But when we do that, we embrace the same logic that led Canestrari to accept such an unholy pact.’

‘The logic of it doesn’t concern us. But the lives of thousands of people do.’

‘What about the child? Didn’t that life count?’ He paused to control his rage. ‘How would the God in whose name we act judge all this?’ He looked Clemente in the eyes. ‘Someone will avenge that child’s life, as the mystery penitenziere planned. We can decide to stand and watch while it happens, or we can try and prevent it. If we opt to do nothing, we’ll be accessories to murder.’

Clemente knew Marcus was right, but he still hesitated. At last, he broke the silence. ‘If Astor Goyash still feels the need to bug Canestrari’s surgery three years after the event, it’s because he’s afraid of being implicated. That means there’s evidence that can connect him to the murder.’

Marcus smiled: his friend was on his side, he wouldn’t abandon him. ‘We have to identify the child who was killed,’ he said immediately. ‘And I think I know how.’

They went into the adjoining room, where the computer was. After connecting to the internet, Marcus went on the police website.

‘Where do you want to look for him?’ Clemente asked over his shoulder.

‘The mystery penitenziere is offering someone the possibility of revenge, so the young victim must be from Rome.’

He opened the page devoted to missing persons and clicked on the link for minors. The faces of children and teenagers appeared. There were an extraordinary number of them. Many were children contested in custody cases who had been taken by one of the parents, so the solution to the mystery was simple and their names soon
disappeared from the list. Just as frequent were cases where the children had run away from home: these usually ended after a few days with a family reunion and a telling-off. But some of these minors had been missing for years, and would remain on this page until it was known what had happened to them. They smiled out from old, blurred photographs, a violated innocence in their eyes. In some cases, the police were able to take the image and make an identikit showing how their faces might have changed as they got older. The hope that these children could still be alive was a slim one. The photo graph on the site was often a substitute for a headstone, a way to keep their memory alive.