The Lost Girls of Rome (24 page)

‘You took a big risk this morning. The one thing that saved you was that the ringing of my mobile phone disturbed the sniper.’

‘So it was you …’ she said with her mouth full.

‘How did you get hold of the number? I always used another phone to call you.’

‘It was the number David called from the hotel.’

‘Your husband was stubborn. I really didn’t like him.’

Sandra was upset to hear him talk about David in that way. ‘You don’t know what kind of man he was.’

‘He was a pain in the arse,’ he insisted. ‘If he’d listened to me, he’d still be alive.’

Irritably, Sandra put the tray aside and tried to stand up. Her anger had made her forget her dizziness.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I can’t bear a stranger saying these things.’ Still swaying, she walked around the bed, looking for her trainers.

‘All right, you’re free to go,’ he said, indicating the door. ‘But give me the clues David left you.’

Sandra looked at him in astonishment. ‘I’m not going to give you anything!’

‘David was killed because he’d tracked someone down.’

‘I think I met him.’

Schalber stood up and went to her, forcing her to look at him. ‘What do you mean, you met him?’

Sandra was lacing up her shoes, but stopped. ‘Last night.’

‘Where?’

‘What a question! What’s the most likely place to run into a priest? A church.’

‘That man isn’t just a priest.’ He had recaptured her full attention. ‘He’s a
penitenziere
.’

Schalber went to the window, opened the shutters wide, and looked out at the black clouds preparing to invade Rome again. ‘What’s the biggest criminal records archive in the world?’ he asked her.

Sandra was taken aback. ‘I don’t know … The one at Interpol, I suppose.’

‘Wrong,’ Schalber retorted, turning with a smug smile.

‘The FBI?’

‘Wrong again. It’s in Italy. In the Vatican, to be precise.’

Sandra still did not understand. But she had the impression she would have to worm it out of him. ‘Why does the Catholic Church need a criminal records archive?’

Schalber motioned her to sit down again. ‘Catholicism is the only religion that includes the sacrament of confession: men tell their sins to a minister of God and in return receive forgiveness. Sometimes, though, the sin is so serious that a mere priest cannot give absolution. That’s the case with the so-called mortal sins.’

‘Murder, for example.’

‘Precisely. In such cases the priest transcribes the text of the confession and submits it to a higher authority: a college of high-ranking prelates called together in Rome to pronounce on such matters.’

Sandra was surprised. ‘A court to judge the sins of men.’

‘The Tribunal of Souls.’

The name reflected the gravity of its task, Sandra thought. What secrets must have passed through that institution! She could see why David might have been driven to investigate it.

‘It was established in the twelfth century,’ Schalber continued, ‘under the name
Paenitentiaria Apostolica
. Its scope was a smaller one then. At the time there was a great influx of pilgrims into Rome, not just to visit its basilicas but also to obtain absolution for their sins.’

‘This was the period of indulgences.’

‘Precisely. There were dispensations and pardons that the Pope alone could grant. But it was a huge task for him. So he began delegating it to certain cardinals, and they set up the
Paenitentiaria
.’

‘I don’t quite see the relevance of all this today …’

‘At first, once the tribunal pronounced judgement, the texts of the confessions were burnt. But after a few years, the members of the
Paenitentiaria
, known as penitenzieri, decided to create a secret archive … and their work has never stopped.’

Sandra was starting to understand the significance of this undertaking.

‘For nearly a thousand years,’ Schalber went on, ‘the worst sins committed by mankind have been preserved there. Including crimes
that never came to light. You have to remember that confession is undertaken voluntarily by penitents, which means they always tell the truth. So the
Paenitentiaria Apostolica
isn’t simply a database of criminal cases, the kind that any police force in the world would have.’

‘What is it, then?’

Schalber’s green eyes gleamed. ‘It’s the largest and most up-to-date archive of evil in the world.’

Sandra was sceptical. ‘Do you mean it has something to do with the devil? What are these priests, exorcists?’

‘No. The penitenzieri aren’t interested in the existence of the devil. Their approach is a scientific one. They’re more like profilers. Their experience has matured over the years, thanks to the archive. After a while, in addition to confessions, they started collecting detailed records of all criminal cases. They study them, analyse them and try to decipher them, the same way a modern criminologist would.’

‘You mean they even solve cases?’

‘Sometimes, yes.’

‘And the police don’t know?’

‘They’re good at protecting their secrecy. They’ve been doing it for centuries.’

Sandra went to the tray with the food and poured herself a large cup of coffee. ‘How do they operate?’

‘As soon as they discover the solution to a mystery, they find a way to communicate it anonymously to the authorities. Sometimes they intervene personally.’

Schalber went and fetched a briefcase from a corner of the room and opened it to look for something. Sandra remembered the addresses in David’s diary, derived from listening to the police frequency: that was why her husband had been looking for that priest at crime scenes.

‘Here it is,’ Schalber announced, holding a file in his hands. ‘The case of little Matteo Ginestra from Turin. The boy went missing, and his mother thought his father had taken him. The couple were separated, and the man wasn’t satisfied with the
amount of access the judge had granted him. It took the police a long time to track him down, but when they did he denied kidnapping his son.’

‘Who was it, then?’

‘While the police were following that lead, the child reappeared unharmed. It turned out he’d been taken by a group of older boys, all of good family. They’d kept him shut away in an abandoned house, intending to kill him. Purely for fun, or out of curiosity. The child said he’d been saved by someone who’d broken into the house and got him out.’

‘That could have been anybody, why specifically a priest?’

‘Not far from the place where he was found, some papers containing a detailed account of what had happened were discovered. One of the teenagers involved had started getting a bad conscience and had confessed to the priest of his parish. That confession was what was on the papers. Someone had apparently mislaid it.’ Schalber handed her the document. ‘Read what’s written in the margin.’

‘There’s some kind of serial number:
c.g. 764-9-44
. What is it?’

‘The penitenzieris’ method of classification. I don’t think the numbers mean anything in particular, but
c.g.
stands for
culpa gravis
.’

‘I don’t understand. How did David come to be investigating them in the first place?’

‘Reuters had sent him to Turin to cover the case. He was the one who found those documents while he was taking photographs. That’s how it all started.’

‘And where does Interpol fit into this?’

‘Although you may think what the penitenzieri are doing is a good thing, it’s actually illegal. Their activities have no rules or limits.’

Sandra poured herself another cup of coffee and sipped at it, looking at Schalber. Perhaps he was expecting her to say more. ‘It was David who put you on to it, wasn’t it?’

‘We met years ago, in Vienna. He was pursuing an investigation, and I passed him a few tips. When he started investigating the
penitenzieri, he realised that their activities extended beyond Italy and so might interest Interpol. He called me a couple of times from Rome, telling me what he’d found out so far. Then he died. But if he arranged things so that you could get my telephone number, that means he wanted you to meet me. I can complete his work. So where are the clues?’

Sandra was sure that, just as Schalber had taken away her gun while she was unconscious, he must also have searched her things. So he must already know she didn’t have the clues with her. She certainly had no intention of handing them over to him just like that. ‘We need to join forces.’

‘No way, forget it. You’ll take the first train back to Milan. Someone wants you dead and you’re not safe in this city.’

‘I’m a police officer: I can look after myself and I know how to conduct an investigation, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Schalber started to walk nervously about the room. ‘I work better alone.’

‘Well, this time you’ll have to rethink your methods.’

‘You’re really pig-headed, you know?’ He came and stood in front of her, and raised his index finger. ‘On one condition.’

Sandra raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Yes, I know: you’re the boss and we always do what you say.’

Schalber was taken aback. ‘How did you …’

‘I know how men’s egos work. So, where do we start?’

Schalber went to a drawer, pulled out the gun he had taken from her and handed it back to her. ‘They’re interested in crime scenes, right? When I arrived in Rome last night, the first place I went to was a villa outside the city where a police search was in progress. I placed bugs in the house, hoping that the penitenzieri would show up as soon as forensics had cleared the place. Before dawn, I recorded a conversation between two of them, I don’t know who they were. They were discussing a killer named Figaro.’

‘All right, I’ll show you the clues David left me. And then we’ll try to dig up more on this Figaro.’

‘I think that’s an excellent idea.’

Sandra, no longer on the defensive, looked closely at Schalber.
‘Somebody killed my husband and they tried to do the same to me this morning. I don’t know if it was the same person or what any of this has to do with the penitenzieri. Maybe David knew too much.’

‘If we find them, they’ll tell us.’

12.32 p.m.

Pietro Zini’s only companions were cats. He had six of them. They would stay in the shade of an orange tree, or else go wandering amid the pots and flower beds in the little garden of his house in the heart of Trastevere.

Through the open French windows of his study came the strains of Dvořák’s Serenade for Strings on an old record player, making the curtains dance – not that Zini was aware of this last detail. He was in a deckchair, enjoying the music and the warmth of a sunbeam that seemed to have got through the clouds just for him. He was a sturdy sixty-year-old, with the prominent belly typical of certain brawny men from the early twentieth century. The big hands with which he usually explored the world rested in his lap. His white stick lay at his feet. His dark glasses reflected a reality that had become superfluous to him.

Ever since he had lost his sight, he had given up on human contact. He divided his days between the little garden and the house, blissfully immersed in his record collection. Silence bothered him more than darkness.

One of the cats jumped on to the deckchair and curled up in his lap. Zini ran his fingers through its thick fur and the animal purred in gratitude.

‘Nice, this music, isn’t it, Socrates? I know you’re the same as me: you prefer a sweet tune. Your brother likes that pretentious fellow Mozart.’

The cat was grey and brown, with a white stain on its muzzle. Something must have drawn its attention, because it raised its head. It deserted its master and followed the flight of a bluebottle. After
a few minutes, it lost interest in the insect and again huddled on Zini’s lap and let him stroke its fur.

‘Come on, ask me what you need to.’

Calmly, Zini reached out his hand to take a glass of lemonade from the small table next to him and sipped at it.

‘I know you’re here. I realised it as soon as you arrived. I was wondering when you would speak. So, have you made your mind up yet?’

One of the cats rubbed against the intruder’s calf. Marcus had been here for at least twenty minutes. He had got in through a side door and had been watching Zini all this time, looking for the right way to approach him. He was good at understanding people, but didn’t know how to communicate with them. The fact that the retired policeman had lost his sight had led him to believe that it would be easier to talk to him. In addition, there was the advantage that he wouldn’t be able to recognise his face: his invisibility was safe. And yet the man had somehow seen him better than anyone else.

‘Don’t be deceived. I haven’t gone blind. It’s the world around me that’s gone dark.’

There was something about him that inspired trust. ‘It’s regarding Nicola Costa.’

Zini nodded, then smiled. ‘You’re one of
them
, aren’t you? No, don’t try and think up an answer. I know you can’t tell me.’

Marcus found it hard to believe that the former policeman knew.

‘There are stories that circulate in the force. Some people think they’re myths. But I believe them. Many years ago, I was assigned a case. A married woman had been kidnapped and killed. The details were unusually horrible. One evening I got a phone call. The man at the other end told me why we shouldn’t be looking for a random kidnapper and pointed me in the direction of the real perpetrator. It wasn’t the usual anonymous call, it was very convincing. The woman’s killer had been a rejected suitor of hers. We arrested him.’

‘Figaro is still at large,’ Marcus said.

But the man was wandering off the point. ‘Did you know that in
ninety-four per cent of cases the killer is known to his victim? There’s more chance of our being killed by a close relative or an old friend than by a perfect stranger.’

‘Why won’t you answer me, Zini? Don’t you want to finish with the past?’

The Dvořák had come to an end, but the needle kept bouncing on the last groove of the vinyl. Zini leaned forward and crossed his hands, forcing Socrates to slide to the ground and join his companions. ‘The doctors told me well in advance that I was going blind. So I had plenty of time to get used to the idea. I said to myself: when it starts interfering with my work, I’ll stop immediately. In the meantime, I prepared myself. I studied Braille, I sometimes wandered through the house with my eyes closed, training myself to recognise objects by touch, or else I went around with a stick. I didn’t want to depend on other people. Then one day things started to appear out of focus. Some details vanished, others became incredibly clear, almost iridescent. It was unbearable. Whenever that happened, I prayed that the darkness would come quickly. Then one year ago my wish was granted.’ Zini took off his dark glasses, exposing his motionless pupils to the glare of the sun. ‘I thought I would be alone down here. But you know what? I’m not alone at all. In the darkness there are all the people I wasn’t able to save in the course of my career. Their faces stare at me, lying in their own blood or their own shit, at home or in the street, in an empty field or on a slab in a morgue. They’re all here, they were waiting for me. And now they live with me, like ghosts.’