第 37 页

Sachs was startled as a large basket descended to the ground just ahead of her. A boy ran to it and dropped in a plastic grocery bag. The basket ascended; three stories above his father or older brother began to haul the heavy load upward.

Life in the Spanish Quarters seemed to be largely overhead.

They entered the factory now. The air was dank, nose-pinching with mold. The bases of some type of equipment were still bolted into the floor, though what had been mounted to them was impossible to tell. The place was not large and was now made smaller by the many police officers inside. Little sunlight reached in; bright lamps had been set up and, while the rooms were naturally spooky, something about the stark white illumination made them seem even more troubling, like a bright light shining into an open wound. She saw Daniela and Giacomo and nodded. They greeted her in return.

Rossi pointed to the back of the facility and she and Ercole continued to the doorway he indicated. ‘Down there. The Composer has outdone himself this time,’ he muttered.

The inspector was already wearing booties and now Sachs and Ercole paused to slip them on too. Blue latex gloves, as well. They entered a small room and descended to the basement of the factory.

The area did not cover the entire footprint of the building but only the back half. The sting of mold and mildew was greater here. Decay too. Overhead were beams, and the floor was pocked stone, giving the place a medieval appearance.

A torture chamber.

Which was exactly what it had been. Khaled Jabril had been stationed – in a chair again, as with Ali Maziq – against a damp wall, the backdrop for the Composer’s latest video.

‘He was taped down and the noose went over the beams. It was tied to that.’ He pointed out a body-builder’s circular weight, sitting on the floor, in a large evidence bag. Another bag held the noose.

‘Qual è il peso?’ Ercole asked.

Rossi replied, ‘Ten kilos.’

About twenty-five pounds. Maziq was going to be strangled by a water bucket that would have weighed roughly the same, Sachs guessed.

Rossi clicked his tongue. ‘But what is so devious. Look there.’

On the ledge where a number card sat was a piece of meat.

Sachs understood.

Ercole asked, ‘Ratti?’

‘Sì. Exactly. Il Compositore set the meat up as a block to prevent the weight from rolling, and then rats sensed it and began to eat. So the victim had time, perhaps much time, to contemplate his impending death.’

‘Did anyone see the Composer arrive or leave?’ Ercole asked.

‘No. There is a pushcart outside. We think he covered the unconscious victim in blankets and wheeled him here from the square nearby. He would look like any other merchant. We are conducting a canvass but even though the Quartieri Spagnoli is a small area, there are so many people, so many businesses and shops that nobody would pay him any mind.’ Rossi’s shrug translated into the hopelessness of the efforts.

Then he brightened. ‘But now, let us go upstairs. You might wish to meet the man whose life you saved. For his part, I know he wishes a word or two with you.’

Khaled Jabril sat in an ambulance. He appeared groggy and had a bandage on his neck but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

The medics spoke to Rossi and Ercole in Italian, and Ercole paraphrased to Sachs. ‘Mostly he is disoriented. From the chloroform or other drugs used to keep him submissive.’

Khaled gazed at Sachs. ‘You are the one who saved me?’ His Libyan accent was pronounced but she understood him.

‘And Officer Benelli here,’ Sachs said. ‘Your English is good.’

‘I have some, yes,’ the man said. ‘I studied in Tripoli. University. My Italian is not good. I believe I was told my wife is all right. They told me she was struck by the man who did this. I have no memory of that.’

‘She’s fine. I’ve spoken to her since the attack.’

‘And my daughter? Muna?’

‘She’s good. They’re together.’

The medic spoke to Ercole and he translated. ‘They will meet you at the hospital. A car is bringing them from the camp.’

‘Thank you.’ Then Khaled was crying. ‘I would have died if not for you. May God bless you forever, praise be to Him. You are the most brilliant police ever on earth!’

Sachs and Ercole shared a brief glance. She didn’t tell Khaled that the deduction as to his location was not so profound. The paper she had stumbled upon on the Composer’s desk in the farmhouse near the fertilizer farm was a list of names of his victims – Maziq, Dadi and Khaled Jabril – and the places where they were to be stashed for the video. Sachs didn’t quite believe it could be so obvious.

It’s far-fetched, Rhyme, but it’s the only chance we’ve got …

After she’d given Rossi the address, the inspector had sent Michelangelo and his tactical force here.

And, in the basement, they’d found Khaled.

Sachs was relieved that she could conduct an interview in English … though the results were far from satisfying. The unsteady Khaled Jabril had no memory of the kidnapping itself. In fact, he could remember very little of their days in the refugee camp. He’d woken and found the noose around his neck. He’d screamed himself hoarse through his gag, trying to scare the rats away as much as plead for help (neither worked).

Ten minutes of questioning led to nothing. No description of the kidnapper, no words he’d uttered, no memories of any car Khaled had been transported in. He supposed he’d been blindfolded for much of the time but couldn’t say that for certain.

A medic spoke and Sachs understood that they wanted to get him to the hospital for a more thorough examination. ‘Sì,’ she said.

As the vehicle nosed through the crowd, she, Ercole and Rossi stood in a clutch, watching it leave.

‘Dov’è il nostro amico?’ Rossi muttered, his eyes sweeping over this chaotic part of the city.

Where is our friend? Sachs believed was the translation.

‘Maybe the evidence will tell us,’ she said. She and Ercole turned back to the torture chamber.

CHAPTER 52

Rhyme watched Dante Spiro as he disconnected the phone. Yes, as Ercole Benelli had suggested, his face’s waiting state was a scowl, his eyes probing, as if they could stun like a Taser. But following the conversation, it seemed to Rhyme that his mood was particularly searing.

‘Ach. There is no sign that the Composer is returning to the farmhouse in the country.’

Rhyme and Spiro were alone in the situation room in the Questura. Rhyme, with no need to be anywhere but here, and bodily functions taken care of, had given Thom time off again to see the sights. The aide – irritatingly – kept checking in. Rhyme had finally said, ‘Hang up! Have some fun! I’ll call if there’s a problem. Phone reception’s better here than some places in Manhattan.’ Which it was.

He now digested Spiro’s news. Unlike at the aqueduct scene, with Ali Maziq, the Composer had no warning system at the farmhouse to alert him that his hidey-hole had been breached. Rossi had set up surveillance at the house and around the organic fertilizer company, hoping he might return. They’d held off running the crime scene. But two hours had passed and Rossi now yielded to Rhyme’s – and Beatrice Renza’s – pressure to walk the grid.

Rhyme called Sachs and told her to go ahead with the farmhouse search. She, Ercole and the Scientific Police had finished with the factory in the Spanish Quarters, where Khaled Jabril had nearly been strangled.

Beatrice, in the doorway of the situation room, nodded approvingly when she heard the scene would be searched. ‘Bene.’ She cocked her head, crowned with a Tyvek bonnet. ‘“Even seconds can mean the difference between the successful preservation of evidence and its destruction. Scenes must be searched, evidence collected and protected, as quickly as possible.”’

The grammar and syntax were perfect, even if the delivery was mired in her thick accent.

Spiro shot her one of his glances. ‘And you are lecturing me for what reason, Officer Renza?’

Rhyme had to chuckle. ‘She’s quoting, Dante. Not lecturing. And she is quoting me. My textbook. And I believe that’s verbatim.’

She said, ‘It is used here but only in English. It should be translated.’

‘That may very well happen.’ He explained that just this morning Thom had received a call from one of the best literary agents in Italy, a man named Roberto Santachiara, who had read the press account that Rhyme was in Naples and wanted to talk to him about an Italian translation of his book.

‘It will be on the bestseller list. Among us, the Scientific Polices, at the least.’ Beatrice then lifted a file folder. ‘Now. I have made a discovery that is pertains to something else. This is relating to the Garry Soames case. The wine bottle Ercole wished me to run an analysis.’

The bottle at the smoking station on the deck the night of the attack.

She handed the lengthy report to Dante Spiro, who scanned the text and said to Rhyme, ‘I will translate. There were the same results as in the first analysis, the friction ridges, the DNA, the Pinot Nero wine, which showed no traces of the date-rape drug. But there was new trace found on the surface of the bottle.’

‘And?’

‘Beatrice found present cyclomethicone, polydimethylsiloxane, silicone, and dimethicone copolyol.’

‘Ah,’ Rhyme said.

Spiro looked his way. ‘Is this significant?’

‘Oh, yes, it is, Dante. Significant indeed.’

She was stunningly beautiful.

Though in a different way from Amelia Sachs, Rhyme reflected. Sachs radiated a hometown, neighborhood-girl attractiveness. The sort you could approach and talk to, without intimidation.

Natalia Garelli was a different species of beauty – an appropriate word, for there was something animal-like about her. High, hard cheekbones, eyes close together, the color an otherworldly green. She wore tight black leather pants, boots with heels that boosted her height three inches over Spiro’s, and a thin, close-fitting brown leather jacket. As supple as water.

Natalia looked over Rhyme and Spiro, the only people in the situation room at the moment, though Rhyme saw Beatrice cast a curious look at her from the lab. The Scientific Police officer turned back to a microscope.

The woman had no interest in Rhyme’s disabled condition. Her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Have you brought me here for, come si dice? For a lineup. To identify a suspect?’

‘Sit down, please, Signorina Garelli. You are comfortable with English? My associate here does not speak Italian.’

‘Yes, yes.’ She sat, flipping her luxurious hair. ‘Allora. A lineup?’

‘No.’

‘Why am I here then? May I ask?’

Spiro said, ‘We have more questions about the sexual assault of Frieda Schorel.’

‘Yes, of course. But I spoke to you, Procuratore, and to Ispettore … What was her name?’

‘Laura Martelli. Yes. Of the Police of State.’

‘That’s right. And then I spoke to that American woman and, curiously, a Forestry Corps officer the other day.’

Spiro tossed a wry look Rhyme’s way. He turned back to Natalia. ‘One detail I am curious about. You say you and your boyfriend had a meal of Indian food the day of the party.’

A pause. ‘Yes, that is correct. Dinner.’

‘What did you have?’

‘I cannot recall for certain. Possibly korma and saag. Tikka masala. Why?’

‘And you did laundry in the afternoon?’

‘Yes. As I told you. Or told someone who asked. So I might have clean linens in the event a guest wished to stay the night.’

Spiro leaned forward slightly and asked in an abrupt tone: ‘The night of the party, for how long was Frieda, the victim, flirting with your boyfriend, Dev?’

‘I …’ He had caught her completely off guard. ‘They weren’t flirting. Who told you that?’

‘I cannot talk about witnesses who give statements in cases.’

Even nonexistent ones, Rhyme reflected.

The green eyes widened momentarily. A potent color. Shamrock green. Rhyme suspected contact lenses. She sputtered: ‘They were joking, Dev and Frieda. That is all. Your witness is mistaken. It was a party of university students in Naples. A beautiful autumn night. Everybody was having fun.’

‘Joking.’

‘Sì.’

‘Do you know if Dev has ever bought Comfort-Sure condoms?’

She blinked. ‘How dare you ask me a personal question like that?’

Spiro’s tone was persistent. ‘Please respond.’

After a hesitation she said, ‘I do not know what he buys.’

‘You are his girlfriend and this you don’t know?’

‘No. I don’t pay any attention to such things.’

‘If I were to look in your medicine cabinet would I find Comfort-Sure condoms?’

‘I resent that question and I resent your attitude.’

Spiro gave a Gallic sneer, his lower jaw extended. ‘It is of no matter. After you left to come here, an officer went through your apartment. She found no Comfort-Sure.’

‘What? How can you do that?’

‘Your apartment is a crime scene, Signorina. That is how. Now, as I was saying: None were found. However, credit card records show that your boyfriend did buy a box of Comfort-Sure three days ago. A box of twenty-four condoms. And yet there were none in the house. Where did they go? Who threw them out? For disposing of them is – let us be frank – the only way two dozen condoms might disappear within three days. Some youths have voracious appetites in that regard. But, honestly, two dozen?’

‘Are you accusing my boyfriend of the rape? He would never do such a thing.’

‘No, I am accusing you of the sexual assault of Frieda Schorel.’

‘Me? You are mad!’

‘Ah, Signorina Garelli. Let us explain what we have found.’

He glanced at Rhyme, who wheeled to face her. He said evenly, ‘The lip and neck of the wine bottle on the smoking deck contained traces of condom lubricant, which profiled to be Comfort-Sure brand. It could be associated with – forgive me. I am parsing too fine here. It matched the lubricant on Frieda’s thigh and within her vagina.

‘In my associate’s search of the scene at your apartment, she found laundry detergent and Indian food spices – you, the source of both – at the smoking station and at the scene of the assault.’ Rhyme’s lips tightened with displeasure. ‘Well, of course, you were at the smoking station, because it’s your apartment and you hosted the party. But at the scene of the assault itself? How did that happen? I should have thought of it earlier – it was my mistake to miss it. You and the victim both reported that she was climbing back onto your roof over the wall that separated the two buildings when you heard her cries for help and ran to her aid. That was many yards from the attack site. So how did curry and laundry detergent trace get to the place where she was actually assaulted?’

‘You’re mad too!’

Spiro took up the narrative: ‘We believe your boyfriend was flirting with Frieda at the party – and that they had been seeing each other off and on from the start of school – after you all met on the first day of class. You slipped the drug into Frieda’s wine. You followed her and Garry upstairs, hoping she would pass out and Garry would rape her while she was unconscious. That would be humiliating enough for her, you believed. But he didn’t; he went downstairs, leaving her alone. And you took up the matter yourself. You got one of your boyfriend’s condoms and, when the deck was empty, dragged the unconscious Frieda over the wall to the neighboring roof and violated her with the bottle. Then you hid the condom, to be disposed of later, with the others, the next day, and went about your duties as hostess.’