She opened her eyes again, leaning back against the frame of the long window, feeling the cold leak through, and she was looking up at the gallery. The thin light from the window shone along the banister
and there it was, whole and perfect, the image of whenever it had been. Last Sunday, in fact, and Orfeo up there, looking down his long nose, Loni hanging on to his arm. And further along the gallery, in a corner: Michelle, leaning against the shelving, stretching her bad back, eyeing them both.
Loni and Orfeo’s talk over, Per nodding shyly below, bowing, Loni coming down the narrow wooden staircase and giving him one of those featherlight, breathy kisses, just a fraction too close to the mouth. Orfeo impatient to be off, huffing at the doorway, about to drive back to Florence.
And as Cate had cleared the glasses from the table, the guests had filtered off, one by one. And then Cate had seen her, down the staircase now, the last to leave, looking at something in her hand. Michelle, staring at a tiny glassy screen. Michelle, with Orfeo’s mobile phone, and her face alight, and slipping it into her pocket so that Cate wouldn’t see.
But Cate
had
seen, even if the memory of it had eluded her until this moment, as she stood looking up at the gallery.
‘Michelle,’ she whispered, and Sandro turned sharply, his own phone in his hand.
‘Michelle Connor.’
‘What about her?’
‘She was always so angry,’ said Cate, hardly hearing what he said. ‘Her husband died, you know. He was supposed to be coming here, only he died.’
‘Yes,’ said Sandro, holding up the screen to her. A text message, it said. From someone called Luisa.
Michelle Connor hospitalized following the suicide of her husband, Joseph, composer, August 2007.
‘Hospitalized,’ he said and cleared his throat. ‘That means she was put in a psychiatric institution.’ She could hear the reluctance in his voice. ‘August. He died in August. But Per Hanson’s appointment was made in July.’
Cate heard the words but she didn’t know what he meant by them: she had her own train of thought and she had to pursue it. ‘She went running with that thing,’ she said, ‘that thing on her back, filled with
water. Would that have been enough water?’ She felt Sandro turn towards her then, through the enfilade of doors and walls that held them trapped in here, she heard the distant muffled sounds of tyres on gravel and a door slamming and a familiar voice and finally she got the words out.
‘She got the phone. He must have left it up there in the gallery and Michelle was up there too and when she came down it was in her hand.’
And then Ginevra was in the doorway, Nicki bobbing behind her, half-hidden. ‘Well, this is a fine bloody mess,’ she said, with grim satisfaction.
‘H
ER HUSBAND COMMITTED SUICIDE,’ said Luisa, gazing at the screen. She had sat down abruptly, edging Giuli to one side on the office chair. Giuli felt the nudge of her hip bone, hard and sharp. ‘He was supposed to go out to this castle place with her, only he committed suicide.’
The news picture on the screen was of a hospital trolley in a New York street, one of modest brownstone buildings and trees in full, dusty summer leaf, and the bulky shape of a woman on the stretcher under a white cotton blanket. People in summer clothes were hovering, staring, but the woman’s strong, hawklike profile only gazed blindly up from the pillow at a cloudless sky, oblivious.
‘She doesn’t look the type. Not the weak type.’ Luisa turned to Giuli, angrily. ‘And why would that mean anything, why would she kill this – this Dottoressa Meadows, because her husband killed himself 3,000 kilometres away?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Giuli, staying calm: anger was Luisa’s way. If something upset her, if she felt guilty, if she found out she was wrong about anything – anger was her first response. With herself, although other people didn’t always see that.
‘We don’t know why he killed himself. But she was in a psychiatric
unit for a week, it says here.’ Giuli could feel the tension through Luisa’s shoulder: she could feel it subside, just fractionally.
‘What should I do now?’ said Luisa eventually, still staring at the screen.
‘Do?’ said Giuli.
‘About Sandro.’ Luisa’s voice admitted defeat. ‘I can’t leave it like this. I’m going away tomorrow morning, whatever.’
‘Give me your mobile,’ said Giuli. Luisa handed it over, frowning. Giuli typed in the message:
Michelle Connor hospitalized
, she began.
Luisa was still looking perplexed. ‘He’ll see it came from you,’ explained Giuli patiently. ‘It’s a start: he’ll know you’re trying to help.’
Luisa had a piece of paper still in her hand, the information sheet on one of the other inmates – guests they called them, didn’t they? – of the Castello Orfeo: she’d stuck the Post-it note to it. She set the paper down but pulled off the pink sticky scrap, transferring it from one finger to another distractedly, twisting at her wedding ring with a thumb.
‘Talk to him,’ said Giuli. Impatiently Luisa jabbed the Post-it note back on to the computer screen, obscuring the face of one of the gawpers on the New York street.
‘And say what?’ Her voice was stifled, as if something was hurting her. ‘He’s busy. He’s on a job, you said it yourself. He might be too busy to talk to me.’ She leaned across and plucked her mobile back out of Giuli’s hands.
‘D’you think he’ll call back?’
Giuli tugged the little pink square from the screen, minimized the page, opened the internet browser. Typed in
Lonestar
.
‘Not if he’s busy,’ she said. ‘So why don’t we get on and do some more digging for him? And if – when – we find out anything else, then you call him.’
The screen filled with text: in the corner a cameo of a beautiful woman’s profile,
Lonestar
across it, and a long column, the most recent, posted a couple of months back. A review of some New Zealander’s paintings. Not particularly anonymous, thought Giuli. And text: the word ‘atrocious’ jumped out at her, next to an inset illustration of an
abstract painting. ‘Puerile’, ‘imbecilic’, ‘idiotic’. She was surprised by how instantly recognizable insults seemed to be, in any language.
‘So how does this work, then,’ said Luisa, frowning at the screen, ‘this blog thing?’
‘Blogs are where you go to express your opinions, you can be anonymous, or not, or a bit of both. You can tell lies about people, insult them; the internet loves that,’ said Giuli. ‘But hold on.’
Luisa waited, attentive.
‘Hold on. We need to be clever about this.’
‘Clever?’
‘We do a search,’ said Giuli, her curiosity quickening as she scanned the screen. ‘Put in the names. A word search. Her name – Lonestar – and the names of Sandro’s suspects. Yes?’
Luisa nodded slowly. ‘Here?’ she said, moving the cursor to the box. Giuli nodded. And with two fingers Luisa began to type.
The small, fierce woman with hands on hips stared at Sandro pugnaciously, like a guard dog. ‘Ginevra,’ said Cate faintly. ‘This is – ’ but Ginevra didn’t let her finish.
‘I know who he is,’ said Ginevra, her hostile stare unwavering. ‘The private detective from Florence. Because of him, my Mauro’s in hospital.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Sandro warily. ‘Because of me?’
‘Is he all right?’ asked Cate, sounding genuinely anxious.
The little woman grunted, unmoving. ‘No thanks to anyone here,’ she said. ‘It’s too much. Where is the Trust? Mauro’s given his life to this place. His life. And since that damned woman turned up – ’
‘All right, all right,’ said Sandro, his palms up and conciliatory. ‘He’s in good hands, I expect. At the hospital?’ Ginevra’s eyes were small, black and contemptuous. She said nothing. I wouldn’t have put it past the pair of them, thought Sandro, to get rid of her. But they didn’t have Orfeo’s mobile.
‘You can go to the hospital,’ Cate was saying to Ginevra, earnestly. ‘I can manage here.’
‘No way,’ said Ginevra. ‘They’ll get rid of
me
next, if I give them the chance. And Mauro’ll live.’ Folded her arms across her bolstered chest. Sandro looked at her with grudging admiration.
At Sandro’s side and in an urgent undertone, Cate said to him, ‘We’d better get down to Michelle.’
Sandro looked at her sidelong: he wasn’t sure about this. She was a good girl but he felt the need, suddenly, to be the one in that confined space with the suspect, asking the questions, just like the old days; no other voices whispering in his ear. Face to face.
‘Michelle?’ Nicki piped up. ‘We just saw her. Waiting outside Luca’s office. She’s talking to him.’
‘All right,’ said Sandro. Wondering what she would be doing there. ‘Look,’ he started, turning to Cate, only the old cook got there first.
‘And you, my lady,’ said Ginevra, ‘haven’t you got a job to do?’ He saw Cate stiffen at the cook’s tone.
‘I’ve been here all morning,’ she said quietly.
Ginevra gave her a long considering look. ‘So you have,’ she said. ‘Looking after your precious guests.’ Paused, maliciously. ‘And did you happen to see your Tiziano Scarpa?’
Sandro felt the change in Caterina even without looking at her.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked stiffly. ‘Yes, I saw him. He was out early. I saw him talking to Michelle, they told me – ’ and then she stopped. ‘Why?’ she asked. Ginevra shrugged.
‘There was some funny noise coming from his room,’ Nicki confided, whispering.
‘Funny noise?’ Cate was pale.
‘Heard it when we parked the car, only when we knocked, there was no answer. I think he – ’
But Cate was gone without waiting for her to finish, running out through the great door, tearing off her apron as she went, and the door banged behind her with a sonorous, echoing crash. And with Nicki gazing after Cate, Ginevra turned to look at Sandro with silent satisfaction.
He stared back, refusing to be intimidated. ‘I expect you’re busy,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
Sandro gave it a couple of minutes before leaving the room; between them these women were a Greek chorus he could live without. He was curious about Tiziano Scarpa, but Caterina knew how to handle herself. And Michelle Connor was in his sights now: he knew he couldn’t afford to look away.
Coming around the great flank of the castle, Sandro could see his breath cloud in the air; the sky seemed even lower, even darker, and the tangle of trees even closer. There was movement at the window of Luca Gallo’s office: Sandro stood a moment on the gravel and looked up.
The door at the foot of the stairs to the office was not locked, and Sandro went up slowly: he could hear voices. On the small landing he stopped and listened. ‘There are contracts,’ he heard Gallo say, pleading. ‘This is not – this is irregular, Ms Connor. You cannot simply – ’ and then he stopped, and Sandro held still, but it was too late. The door jerked open, and Gallo looked out.
‘You,’ he said, with grim resignation.
‘Me,’ said Sandro sadly. ‘I’m sorry.’
Michelle Connor was inside the room, in a shapeless grey sweatshirt, uncombed hair and tracksuit pants, standing by the window and watching him with an air of calm determination.
‘I need to talk to Signora Connor,’ Sandro said humbly. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘Couldn’t it wait?’ said Luca wearily. ‘Did you have to come here? We – we are talking.’
‘I am afraid that it can’t wait,’ said Sandro, standing his ground. He felt a sweat bead on his forehead despite the cold and realized even the couple of glasses he’d drunk last night had been too many, and he’d gone to bed too late.
‘It’s all right,’ said Michelle. ‘We’d finished.’
Gallo looked at his feet, but she didn’t move.
‘We can talk here as well as anywhere,’ she said, holding Sandro’s gaze boldly. ‘Can’t we?’
Between them, ignored, Luca Gallo said, ‘I’ll just – I’ll get my – of course, do feel free to talk in here.’ He hurried to the desk, reaching for
a small leather satchel. Sandro felt a spasm of pity for the man. ‘No,’ said Michelle Connor swiftly, ‘I’d like you to stay, Luca.’
Both men looked at her, Gallo blinking in surprise. ‘I don’t have anything to hide,’ she said, her chin up. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Sometimes it went like this, remembered Sandro: sometimes. Nothing to hide, nothing left to lose; Michelle Connor had no children, and her husband was dead. Was that it?
‘If you’re sure,’ said Sandro, stepping inside, pulling the door to behind him and standing in such a way as to block the exit. But from his position behind the desk it was Luca Gallo who looked trapped in the cluttered office, not Michelle Connor.
In the window she remained standing, ready for a fight. ‘Say what you have to say,’ she said, and as she spoke Sandro was struck again by the ghost of Michelle Connor’s beauty in the worn face. It came into his head that somehow these were the traces of having been loved. Was that sentimental?
‘Because I’m leaving when you’re done,’ Michelle went on defiantly. ‘I’m packed and gone.’ Gallo’s shoulders dropped at the desk and Sandro guessed her leaving was what they had been talking about.
‘Signora Connor,’ Sandro said. ‘When did your husband die?’
And he didn’t know what it was she had been expecting him to say, but he guessed not this. She paled abruptly, her eyes suddenly dark in her wide, lined face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to ask.’
‘Joe died August 18, last year,’ Michelle said quietly. At the desk Luca Gallo made a small sound, a clearing of the throat.
‘Mr Gallo told me that Per Hansen was appointed to replace your husband after his death,’ said Sandro, without turning his head to include Luca. Holding her gaze, one that was full of pain. ‘That wasn’t strictly true, was it?’
Slowly she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, and her gaze flickered across to Gallo, then back. ‘I guess Mr Gallo wanted to avoid – embarrassment. Or something.’
Sandro sighed. ‘He’d already been told he couldn’t come here, hadn’t he? Shortly after Loni Meadows was appointed: I’m guessing
she made that decision.’ She turned her head away, and Sandro saw something gleam in her eyes, in the thin grey light from the window. He saw that he was right, and then Luca Gallo spoke.
‘The
Dottoressa
was adamant. No spouses.’ His voice faltered. ‘We had to respect her decision; it was her first decision as Director.’
‘Although she herself was conducting an affair?’ Sandro couldn’t conceal his distaste.
Gallo bowed his head. ‘I think perhaps his work was also not to her taste. She could be very – scathing.’
‘Did she put anything on that blog of hers about him?’ asked Sandro softly.
Michelle shrugged, barely perceptibly.
‘Did she do one of her – ’ and he searched for the words, ‘character assassinations? Or was it only his rejection from a position here that did it? That led your husband to take his life?’
‘It came at a bad time,’ she said, and he could hear only grief in her rough voice. ‘He didn’t have it easy, my Joe. He was fighting it every day of his life.’
He supposed she was talking about depression: to Sandro it appeared as a low grey sky, pressing down. Like the sky beyond the window, like the thick grey walls of the castle closing in. What a place, he thought. Enough to drive anyone crazy.
‘And so you must have hated her,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘Blamed her; how could you not? And then you came here anyway, because at the very least you’d get the chance to tell her what you thought of her?’
Michelle Connor remained silent, but the look she turned on him said enough. All the same, he had to go on. ‘And to have to observe her, flirting with guests and visitors. Her evenings away from the castle.’ She shook her head, just minutely.