The Rome Prophecy

55

Tom and Valentina grab groceries and toiletries from a small supermercato near the hospital and prepare to spend the night in a Carabinieri-owned apartment in the north of the city. It’s a safe house. One used by the serious crime squad to guard witnesses about to testify in major trials.

The place is cold and smells of cigarettes and alcohol. Valentina pushes open the windows and searches for an air freshener. Tom finds a central heating switch and turns it all the way up. Neither of them yet feels brave enough to look into the bedroom.

The place is sparsely furnished – a well-worn brown velour settee and chair are staked out around an old black box of a TV, while at the other end of the room there’s a teak-effect fold-up dining table filled with squashed beer cans, a full ashtray and a set of dog-eared playing cards. ‘Strictly a men-only set-up,’ pronounces Valentina, as she surveys the evidence. ‘I was warned that the cleaners hadn’t yet been in, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Tom replies from a small annex off the lounge that passes as a kitchen. ‘At least there’s a coffee machine.’ He holds up a small Gaggia that he’s found in a cupboard.

Valentina claps her hands. ‘Yay! Get that working and I may just forgive you for burning down my apartment.’

‘Will do.’

Valentina opens the fridge and reels back. It smells like she just prised the lid off a coffin. The cooler box holds a mush of long-forgotten vegetables and enough gas to blow up a small country. ‘Yuck! I haven’t seen inside a fridge this bad since I was at college.’

Tom abandons plugging the Gaggia in and wanders over. ‘How about we just stick the groceries in there in their bags and go to bed.’ He puts his hands on her hips. ‘I just want to curl up beside you and see the end to this day.’

Valentina kisses him lightly. ‘You go. It’ll take me ten minutes to sort this. A little boiling water and some washing-up liquid will make all the difference.’ She kisses him again and heads for the sink, but never gets there.

Her cell phone rings.

Surely there’s no way such a bad day could get worse?

Within thirty seconds it has.

She hangs up and relays the news. ‘Suzanna has disappeared.’ She flaps her arms in impotent protest. ‘Verdetti and her administrator took her back to Cosmedin for what they call cognitive recognition therapy and she overpowered them and ran off.’ She flaps some more. ‘Can you believe it? Like this woman wasn’t dangerous. Why did they think we posted a guard outside of her door, just for fun?’ She punches Assante’s number in her phone and vents some more of her frustration.

Tom busies himself working the Gaggia and emptying the putrid remains of the cooler box.

By the time she’s finished her call, he’s drummed up a couple of decent cups of coffee and an almost clean fridge.

‘You’re an angel.’ She takes a small espresso cup from him and cradles it in her hands.

He chinks his cup against hers and wishes it were a glass of red. ‘You going to have to go out?’

‘Maybe not.’ She doesn’t look convinced. ‘Federico is issuing an alert to all our units, plus the Polizia. Louisa and her boss are on their way to the station to be interviewed.’

‘Do you want to be there to do it?’

Her face says she does. ‘I want to be here to make sure you’re all right.’

‘Hey, I’ve learned my lesson. I swear I won’t touch anything electrical after you’ve gone.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’ She puts a hand to his face, ‘You just look wiped out.’

‘I am. You must be too.’

She nods and takes another hit of the syrupy coffee. ‘Nothing that caffeine – or you – can’t cure.’

Her cell phone rings again. ‘God give me strength!’ She snatches it off the counter top. ‘ Pronto! ’

Tom watches as the sternness washes from her face and is replaced by something more worrying.

Disbelief.

‘ Grazie.’ Valentina ends the call and lets the phone dangle from her hand.

‘What’s wrong?’

She looks at him like he’s standing on ice and might fall through at any moment. ‘It was Federico’s friend in the fire department.’

‘And?’

She moves closer. ‘You didn’t start the fire, Tom. Someone else did.’

He frowns. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Petrol was poured through the letter box and then set on fire. The investigators could tell from the intensity of the burns on the ceiling and floor where it was started. And it wasn’t the kitchen. It wasn’t your fault. The seat of the fire was the doorway.’

Valentina sees the shock on his face and hugs him tight.

They stand silently together. Minds racing, both thinking the same thing.

Who did it? Why? And who exactly were they trying to kill?