Angels of the Flood by Joanna Hines Page A

from Florence,’ she said. ‘I would have sent my driver to pick you up.’ She picked up Kate’s suitcase and put it into the back of an open-top car. ‘It’s lucky I drove down this morning,’ she said. ‘La Rocca’s so close, I usually walk. Maybe it was a premonition.’
    Kate hesitated, her hand on the top of the car door. ‘How did you know where to find me?’ she asked.
    Simona pretended to search her memory for the answer, though Kate had an idea she knew perfectly well. She said, ‘I think it must have been seeing your name in a magazine—that’s right, it was International Conservation a couple of years back. Didn’t you write a piece about the Goya forgery that was sent to you? There was a photograph beside your name—of course, it helped that you kept your maiden name.’
    ‘But I still don’t understand why you couldn’t just write…’
    Simona laughed, though her eyes remained wary. ‘Well, you know what they always say: a picture’s worth a thousand words.’ She got in, and reached over to open the passenger door.
    Kate felt annoyed. She was impatient to discover what Simona was up to, but she sensed that the more she pushed, the longer it would take to find out. Somehow, Simona had gained the initiative and she wasn’t comfortable with that but, just for now, she didn’t know what she could do about it. A group of young people, laughing and talking, appeared round the corner of the villa.
    ‘Quick,’ said Simona. ‘Before I get waylaid with some problem.’
    Kate got into the car and Simona started the engine.
    ‘It’s the reason I moved up to La Rocca,’ said Simona, following the drive that led further up the hill. ‘It became impossible to carry on living at the villa. The kids were all right, but the staff never left me alone. I’m incredibly lucky to have such a dedicated team, but if I’m within shouting distance, they come to me with every little problem. Even though La Rocca is only half a mile away, the fact that I’m out of sight means they’re somehow miraculously able to cope on their own. Which is better for everyone.’
    Kate didn’t answer. The road wound between spacious trees. When she’d been here before it had been winter. Now there was a scent of dust and warm pine needles. She was aware of the hard edge of the case that held the painting pressed against her thigh, a trickle of sweat edging down between her shoulder blades.
    La Rocca appeared briefly through the trees, then vanished again, and then they drove round a final bend into sunlight and the house was before them. A square, medieval tower, it had been built just below the summit of the hill, with only a bare triangle of rock rising up behind. In winter, it had been grim and imposing. Now, with the late afternoon sun warm on its walls, festoons of creeper round the windows just starting to take on autumn colours, it looked mellow, almost welcoming.
    Simona turned to Kate with a smile. ‘Remember this? My uncle used to live here. And La Rocca is a better size for just two people.’
    Kate assumed she must be talking about her partner. ‘You’re married?’
    Simona turned away to get out of the car. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I was married years ago but it didn’t work out. I live here with my mother.’
    In spite of the afternoon warmth, Kate felt a chill pass through her. Simona’s mother. Signora Bertoni. The woman who’d made Kate the target of her grief-crazed hatred. Now Kate had an even better reason for making this visit as brief as possible. She had to force herself to get out of the car and say, ‘And your father?’
    ‘He died six years ago. Mamma carried on living in Verona for a while, but recently she’s gotten confused a lot, so she came here. We thought it was best.’
    Kate wondered who the ‘we’ referred to. She said, ‘I’m sorry about your father.’ She could play the game of polite platitudes just as well as Simona.
    ‘It was cancer,’ said Simona simply and then,