The Rome Prophecy

31

Neither Valentina nor Louisa ever drinks in the middle of the day at work.

Except today.

A bottle of rough red given to the doctor last Christmas is uncorked and half consumed in Louisa’s office before either of them can really talk.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Valentina, back on the sofa where her ill-conceived plan was outlined. ‘I feel really bad about her attacking you like that.’

Louisa bolts down the vinegary wine and tops up her glass. ‘My fault. I knew better than you that she could have a violent mood swing.’ She touches her neck. ‘I think I’ll have to wear a scarf for a few days, or else there’ll be jokes about me dating vampires.’

Valentina laughs. She likes the clinician and wishes she could make amends. ‘I owe you one. Any time I can do anything for you, don’t hesitate to ask.’

Louisa holds up her hand. ‘No need. I know you have a tough job. We can’t always help, but when we can, we’re usually very willing to do so.’

‘ Grazie.’ Valentina wonders whether Cassandra, or Suzanna – or whoever she really is – would have killed Louisa if she hadn’t stepped in. She concludes that she probably would. ‘Can I ask you to do me a final favour? Nothing risky this time.’

Louisa is wary. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Cassandra shouted out some words in Latin and Italian. I’ve made a note of them. If she says anything else, could you write it down and maybe call me?’

‘Sure. I can do that.’

Valentina scribbles her private cell phone and home numbers on a business card and hands it over. She notices Louisa’s fingers are shaking. ‘Can you take the rest of the day off?’

The clinician smiles. ‘No. Can you?’

‘Maybe.’ Valentina glances at her watch. Almost three p.m. She knows she should go back to the office, but she has no intention of doing so. Forty-eight hours. That’s all Caesario gave her, and the clock is already ticking faster than she’d like. ‘I have to go.’ She drags herself from the comfort of her seat. ‘Call me if you want. Even if you just feel the need to chat.’

Louisa nods and watches the policewoman leave. She puts her hand to her throat and tries not to cry. She got it wrong. Badly wrong. Maybe Valducci was right. Maybe she is guilty of jumping to conclusions, looking for a rare disorder when there isn’t one. Perhaps the woman who had her hands around her throat is just a wild psychotic killer after all.