The Rome Prophecy

PART ONE
1

Rome

The Carabinieri’s newest captain slips out of her crisply pressed uniform and into the shower in her cramped low-rent apartment.

The Vanity Fair photo shoot went well -‘warm but not too hot’ was how the male photographer mischievously described the shots. One in her captain’s uniform. One on the rifle range, shooting in a flak jacket, and her favourite, one in a short sparkling silver cocktail dress that fitted so well they let her keep it.

The force press office is happy, the magazine is happy and even Valentina Morassi is happy.

The perfect end to a perfect first week in her new job.

The twenty-nine-year-old tilts her newly promoted head at the steaming jet. Her long dark hair feels like wire wool as she shampoos away the spray they insisted on using, ‘to hold its shape and give it depth’. She also hates the make-up they made her wear. They trowelled it on. Though admittedly, in the shots it looked good.

She looked good.

It makes her smile to think that. Until recently it was hard for Valentina to see anything positive about herself or her life. The death of her cousin Antonio in Venice all but broke her. They both came from a big extended family, the kind that always holidayed together and shared weekly Sunday lunches. The type of family that was together so much you could barely work out which kid belonged to which parent. They went to the same schools. Attended the same parties. Even opted for the same profession. Antonio was a lieutenant, working undercover on a drugs job when he was killed.

Valentina couldn’t believe it.

She tried to carry on working. Managed to see out the murder case she was on, and then her life collapsed. She fell into a huge depression, and had she not passed her exams and moved to Rome, she’s sure she’d still be trying to wriggle free from the teeth of the proverbial black dog.

Valentina turns off the shower, steps out on to a frayed mat, snuggles into a thick white towelling robe and shakes her hair like a sheepdog. Her mother used to scold her for it. Antonio used to laugh like a drain when she did it after they’d been swimming.

She still thinks of him.

Often.

But it doesn’t hurt as much any more.

She towels her hair dry and sits on the edge of a saggy bed. The walls of the boxy room are a faded white, the filthy window only a little larger than a convict gets. This is not a place where her soul will grow, but it will do for now. At the end of the month she will search for somewhere more colourful – more her. An old Disney clock by the side of the small single bed clunks. It’s pillar-box red, has black Mickey Mouse ears and has woken her since she was four.

Mickey’s hands tell her it’s exactly eleven p.m.

Her thoughts turn to tomorrow and the man with whom she’ll be having dinner.

An unusual man.

Most unusual.

She met him – and last saw him – in the strangest and most dangerous of circumstances. Had things been different – and had another woman not been part of his life – there might well have been something romantic between them. Despite all of these ifs and buts, he’s still probably the one guy she trusts more than any other.

Valentina’s cell phone rings and almost gives her a heart attack.

The number on the display is that of her new boss, Major Armando Caesario. She expertly pitches her ‘ Pronto’ somewhere between friendly and coolly professional.

‘Sorry to disturb you so late on a Friday night,’ he says, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Control has just had a case called in that I’d like you to supervise.’ He pauses, covers the mouthpiece and says something as an aside. ‘It’s a potential homicide, with… how shall we put it… an unusual twist. Lieutenant Assante will give you a hand; he’s already at the barracks.’

Valentina thinks she hears muffled laughter in the background. She doesn’t yet know her new boss well enough to be sure that someone isn’t imitating him and playing a prank on her. ‘Sir, forgive me, but is this some kind of joke?’

Caesario clears his throat. ‘No, no, not at all. Please forgive us . I’m here with the colonel and he has something of a dark sense of humour. If you call Assante, he’ll give you the full details and then you’ll understand. Good night.’

Valentina thinks the call’s genuine. She could all but smell the cigar smoke in the officers’ club as they swilled brandies in big glasses. She was hoping for an early night. Maybe a glass of red wine before a good long sleep.

She knows she’s not going to get either. She calls Homicide and holds the receiver between ear and shoulder while pulling her uniform back on. As soon as the details come out, she understands the black humour, and why the case has been batted her way.

The new girl is being taught a lesson.

She’s being given a heads-up by those who think her promotion is purely political, a token gesture of equality.

She’s heard it all before.

Morassi must have slept her way to the top. Screwed the examiner in charge of promotions. Blown the boss to get the easy cases. And those are just the things female officers say. Those of course who haven’t made the rank she has. Granted, twenty-nine is unspeakably young for anyone to make captain, but she deserves it. Her last case had made her, and the man she’s going to have dinner with tomorrow, the talk of Italy.

Valentina shuts the front door and heads for her three-year-old white Fiat Punto. It doesn’t go nearly as fast as she’d like, but in the Eternal City, where parking is an eternal problem, the tiny Fiat is king.

By the time she’s in fourth and has finished cursing its slug gishness, her mind is back on the new case she’s just been given.

It’s certainly a strange one.

A cleaner at the Chiesa Santa Maria in Cosmedin has discovered a highly unwelcome gift in the portico. The severed hand of a woman.