The Faces of Angels (55 page)

‘Not just killing them?' Babinellio raises his eyebrows, as though I might be his subject myself. ‘If he's not “just killing” them, signora,' he asks, ‘then what is he doing?'

‘He's martyring them.'

This is what I saw on Monika's calendar last night, the connection that has been sitting right under my nose. Pallioti was right. We live in the picture, but we can't see it.

There is complete silence at the table. Even the drumming has stopped. I turn the calendar around so they can see.

‘Look,' I explain. ‘Each of these women had a different name, another name, one they didn't use, so it isn't obvious at first.' They look at me as though I'm crazy, or at least confused, but I'm beyond caring. I tick them off on my fingers.

‘Eleanora Darnelli was Sister Agnes. Agnes was martyred on the twenty-first of January, the day Eleanora was killed. Benedetta Lucchese's first name was Agatha, Agatha Benedetta, but she hated it, so she just used Benedetta. Agatha was martyred on the fifth of February. Billy Kalczeska's real name was Anthea. Billy was just a nickname, but it stuck. Anthea, the eighteenth of April. Caterina Fusarno was christened Martina. The first of January. And Ginevra Montelleone's middle name was Theodosia.'

‘And Theodosia, I suppose you will tell us, was martyred on, the second of April.' Pallioti runs his hand over his eyes. ‘Right.'

I've underlined the dates in red, and I hand the calendar to Dottoressa Giusti. She takes it almost gingerly, and as she flips the pages she starts shaking her head almost exactly the same way I did last night. When she's done, she hands it to Babinellio. He looks at it for a few seconds, hands it to Pallioti and nods.

‘There's more.' This time it's Pierangelo who speaks. ‘After Mary explained to me,' he says, ‘we looked on the web. You can find indexes of martyrs that tell you how each one was killed. Listen to this.'

He spreads the pages we printed off out on the stone table and begins to read.

‘“Agnes was cast into flames but the flames were extinguished by her prayer. She was left untouched, so she was slain with the sword, thus consecrating, by her martyrdom, her claim to chastity.”' He looks around the table. ‘White for chastity, purity. The white ribbon Eleanora had tied around her wrist.' Francesca Giusti nods and he goes on.

‘“Agatha endured buffets, mutilation, imprisonment and torture.” Benedetta Lucchese was badly beaten before she was killed. “Martina was subjected to various kinds of torture, and finally obtained the crown of martyrdom by the sword.” The Fusarno girl was also badly beaten up before her throat was cut.'

Pierangelo pauses. Then he reads: ‘“The flesh was torn off Theodosia's breasts and sides to the bone. At last she was hurled into the sea.” We know that Ginevra Montelleone's lungs were full of water, but no one could ever understand why. Well, it's because she was flayed alive, just like Theodosia. Then she was drowned.'

He looks back at the pages on the table. ‘“The Bishop of Illyria,”' he reads, ‘“endured a red-hot iron, a gridiron, a pan filled with boiling oil, pitch and resin cast to his loins, and endured no harm by them. Finally his throat was cut. His mother, Anthea, underwent the same death.”'

In the silence that follows, Francesca Giusti stands up and walks away from us to the middle of the lawn. We can hear the drums again through the open windows of the house, the same riff being played over and over, not particularly well. A telephone rings. Beyond the fence cars go by, and I am aware of two fat bumblebees in a planter of lavender, humming and buzzing as they work their way over the newly opened flowers.

When Dottoressa Giusti turns back to us she runs her manicured hands through her thick dark hair and gives her head a little shake, as if she's trying to rid herself of a bad dream. ‘All right,' she says. ‘All right, let's just say this is true. What do we do?'

In the pause that follows, Babinellio actually smiles. ‘It's fascinating.'

He leans forward, his chubby hands on the table, tapping his finger on the edge of the calendar to some secret rhythm of his own as he turns the pages.

Pallioti lights a cigarette, looks in vain for an ashtray, and finally settles for tapping his ashes into the lavender pot. ‘This is all very well,' he says. ‘But how do we find him?'

Pierangelo shifts in his chair. ‘He has to have known Indrizzio. There's no other explanation.'

‘There is.' Babinellio nods, his round head wagging up and down like one of those things in the back of cars. We all look at him. ‘Maybe it is Indrizzio.'

‘Oh for Christ's sake!' Pallioti grinds his cigarette out and immediately lights another one.

‘Well,' Babinellio asks. ‘Are we really certain he's dead? It wouldn't be the first time the police screwed up totally. The accident was bad, right? Bodies burnt?'

‘Yes,' Pallioti nods, ‘the petrol tank caught fire and the van exploded. The driver and one of the guards got out, but they couldn't rescue the others.'

‘And you ran DNA?'

‘Yes, we DNA-tested. Of course we did.'

‘DNA isn't infallible.' This is Francesca Giusti. ‘Mistakes can be made,' she says. ‘Sometimes it isn't even very good.'

‘And,' Babinellio adds, ‘this is a very strong profile. The continuity between these killings was undeniable to start with, even if the exact method was not the same. Of course, now that is explained. The death fits the martyr. But the rest, the staging, the souvenirs. They all point of the same perpetrator. And with the dates the signora has discovered, now it all fits.' He stops speaking and looks around the table.

‘Except for Signora Warren.' Pallioti has slipped into using my old name again. He stares off across the lawn, then he looks back at me. ‘There's no date for you, is there? Presuming, of course, that he intended to kill you on—what was it? The twenty-fifth of May?'

‘No.' I've recognized this, of course. ‘All I can think is that there may be some martyr not recorded, maybe not accepted, someone he knows about and we don't.'

‘Or the date is significant to him for another reason altogether,' Babinellio suggests. ‘An anniversary perhaps? A birthday, or the death day. Of his mother. Sister. A lover. Who knows?'

‘“Who knows” does not help me,' Pallioti barks.

‘The only thing I could find,' I say quickly, ‘is that I was attacked on the name day for Saint Mary Magdalene di Pazzi. It's also the church Ginevra Montelleone went to, when she went. Maybe there's a connection there, and that had to be good enough for him.'

‘Well, not everyone is perfect all the time,' Pallioti says. He smiles tightly, but the frustration in his voice is palpable.

‘How much of a practising Catholic was Indrizzio?' Babinellio asks.

Pallioti shrugs. ‘Nothing special. As far as we know, he went to church occasionally. Most of the homeless do,' he adds. ‘Especially if it's raining and there's food.'

‘Well.' Francesca Giusti picks up her gold pen and puts it down again. ‘As I see it, gentlemen,' she says, ‘we have three choices. Either Karel Indrizzio got out of that accident, by luck or because he wasn't in the van in the first place, and he's come back. Or he's dead, and we have a copycat. Or,' she says finally, ‘he's dead and he never did it in the first place. In which case we've had a serial killer loose in this city for more than two years.'

No one seems to want to address the last possibility, and eventually Pallioti stands up.

‘You know, no matter who it is,' he says, ‘the point is to stop him.' He picks up the calendar, his voice getting increasingly agitated. ‘And there is nothing,' he says, ‘nothing in this—is there?—that helps us predict why he chooses these women, specifically. Or when he'll do it again.'

He walks across the terrace, then comes back and sits down. ‘I mean, good God,' his voice rises in exasperation, ‘there are martyrdoms for most names on every damn day of the year on these calendars. So, how does he choose which ones?' He glares at Babinellio, as if the doctor should be able to answer this. ‘Out of all the women in Florence,' Pallioti asks, ‘how does he choose, huh?'

‘Maybe he doesn't.'

They all look at me, as if they're a little surprised to find I'm still here, even Pierangelo. ‘Maybe he chooses the women first,' I say, ‘then waits for the right day.'

Pallioti considers this for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is a little softer.

‘That still doesn't help us, signora. Unless we know why he chooses these women, specifically, we can't anticipate him. And if we can't anticipate him, we can't stop him. And if we can't stop him, we are at his mercy. All we can do is wait and react. Which means, unless he makes a mistake or we get very lucky, more women are going to die. You don't think he'll stop, do you?' he asks Babinellio suddenly. ‘I mean, there was a hiatus of—what? Eighteen months?'

‘That doesn't matter,' says Babinellio. He shrugs. ‘If it's the same person, there are a hundred things that could explain it. He could have been out of the city, even out of the country. Workers move easily, thanks to Brussels. For all we know he could have been anywhere in the EU. The world, for that matter. But whether he's a copier or not,' he adds, ‘no matter who killed the first two women and attacked the signora, we do know two things. One: the same person who killed the Fusarno woman also killed the Montelleone girl and Signora Kalczeska. Two: he's in Florence now. And no,' Babinellio turns to Pallioti, ‘I see no reason to believe he'll stop.'

Babinellio leans back in his chair, his fingers laced across his stomach. ‘On the contrary,' he says, ‘in cases like this, the hunger feeds itself. You'll notice the intervals are getting closer. The staging becoming more dramatic.'

‘He's getting bolder.'

‘Possibly,' Babinellio says. ‘Or more terrified. He feels possessed by this need. He can't stop himself, so he may be begging us to stop him.'

‘A cry for help,' Pallioti's voice is acidic. ‘That's very touching. And I would love to stop him, but how do you suggest I do it? I can't very well warn every woman in Florence.'

‘Why not?' I ask.

Pallioti ignores this and picks up the calendar. ‘I'm not sure what we do with this.' He turns to Babinellio. ‘I'm not even sure what it tells us about him that we don't already know. That he has access to a car or a van, he has access to somewhere to keep the victims he kidnaps, he knows how to buy a carving knife in a shop.' Pallioti shrugs. ‘With rental agencies and car clubs, apartments, garages and storage units, that could describe virtually anyone in this city. Male or female, for that matter. We don't even know he's a man, since he doesn't rape.'

‘Well,' Babinellio says, ‘the vast majority of sexually ritualistic crimes are, like it or not, committed by white males. Especially when the victims are white, which these were. And make no mistake about it,' he adds, ‘although he doesn't rape them, these killings are sexual. And ritualistic. And they're not random. So, chances are good that he's a white male, and we know he's organized, a planner. He may be reassured by structured situations, plans. They'll be part of the ritual for him. For instance, he'll pick out the presents for his victims, probably far in advance. The gifts are chosen very carefully. They're loving.'

Babinellio leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You have to understand,' he says, ‘that the hunting, the planning, it's like a courtship for him. Foreplay, for the rest of us: the building up to the act of penetration, the orgasm, which is the killing itself. That doesn't mean, incidentally,' he adds, ‘that he sleeps with women. He could even be gay. But more likely he's dysfunctional. And ritual is important to him. Very. In all probability, he's a Catholic.'

At this, Pierangelo actually laughs and Pallioti smiles, as if it's a very bad joke.

‘Everyone in this city is Catholic,' Pallioti points out. ‘Except for the Jews and about five Muslims. Does it mean he's a priest? A monk? A fanatic? A penitent? Where do I look?'

Babinellio regards him for a moment. Then he leans over, takes Pallioti's package of Nazionale and lights one for himself. ‘He's certainly a fanatic,' he says slowly. ‘But a priest or a monk? Maybe. Not necessarily. He may no longer even be a practising Catholic. But he was at some point. That's what's important. And when he was, it meant a lot to him. It's possible,' he adds, ‘maybe even probable, that he feels that he's doing the women a favour. After all, martyrdom is glory.'

Babinellio leans back in his chair, the tip of his cigarette glowing red as he draws the smoke down into his lungs. ‘He loves them,' he says. ‘He hates them. He's trying to save them. In that, he's much like the rest of us. But for him, the sadism, the ritual, it's part of his hatred. And his love. It's his “signature.”' He raises his hands and makes little quotation marks around the word. ‘He's acting out the same brutality again and again. In all probability he's fucking the same woman again and again. It's his need to degrade her. To punish her. Constantly, until he's satisfied.' Babinellio shrugs and holds up his small round hands. ‘Which,' he adds, ‘may be never.'

There's a silence around the table while each of us contemplates this idea. From the house I can hear someone calling the children. It's a man's voice. The drumming stops. And starts again.

‘He's interested in you,' Babinellio says suddenly, turning to me. ‘He's killed two people close to you. It's possible that he's showing off for you. Trying to impress you.' Pierangelo reaches for my hand.

‘So I know him?' I ask.

Babinellio shrugs. ‘Not necessarily.' He smiles. ‘But in his mind, anyways, he certainly knows you. That doesn't mean the situation is reciprocal. You may never even have met him.'