The Rome Prophecy

66

The whole place stinks.

Federico wonders if he’s going to get ill from just being here. No way was he going to let that androgynous son-of-a-bitch loose on the streets until he’d personally been to where he lives and found out what he’s hiding.

It’s filthier than the Black Hole of Calcutta.

But he can’t find anything incriminating.

No drugs. No weapons. No stolen goods.

The search team has already tossed Guilio Angelis’s squalid apartment in the Aventine more thoroughly than a Michelin-starred salad, but Federico’s determined to shake it some more.

He holds a handkerchief to his nose as he joins an officer in a tiny bathroom with a postage-stamp window smeared in green mould.

The stench from the toilet makes him want to hurl.

It’s never seen bleach.

Correction: by the look of it, it’s never been flushed.

‘Show me the cistern again,’ instructs Federico. ‘Let’s make doubly sure there’s nothing bagged and hidden in the water.’

The young officer drops the seat cover, steps up and lifts off the heavy white ceramic top of the water tank.

Federico climbs up on the adjacent sink and cracks his head on the ceiling. ‘ Madonna porca! ’ He rubs it. Static crackles off his latex gloves and makes his hair rise. He inches forward and peers down into the brown water around the ballcock and flush lever. He grimaces as he plunges his hand into the murky soup and fishes around. ‘Why is the water here so filthy?’

‘Bad plumbing. Rusty pipes,’ says the officer from below. ‘You drink this stuff and you’re either dead or immortal within the hour.’

‘No kidding.’

Federico jumps down. ‘Nothing.’ He strips off his glove because water’s seeped in and looks at the sink. ‘Don’t tell me, this dirty pig doesn’t even have a bar of soap? I can’t believe it.’

‘We’ve got some sterile wash in a kit bag, sir.’

‘Get it.’ Federico shakes the water off his hand and then remembers his manners, ‘ Scusi, per favore.’

While he’s waiting, he wanders back to the small lounge.

No TV.

How can anyone live these days without a television?

No balls and no TV.

What the hell does this guy do for fun?

Federico looks around.

There are no books either.

He doesn’t read, doesn’t watch the tube, doesn’t have sex, doesn’t even jerk off.

He does nothing.

This guy is Mr Nothing.

Federico wanders into the next room.

The bedroom doesn’t even have a bed. Only a mattress on the floor.

No sheets.

He pulls open a small built-in wardrobe.

The search team have already stripped it of clothes and shoes.

It’s empty, except for some old sheets of newspaper lining the bottom.

He lifts some up.

They’re not old papers.

They’re pages from bibles.

Hundreds and hundreds of pages from dozens of different bibles.