the Italian reporter aside and listen intently to a lengthy explanation with illustrative gestures.
One of the coroner’s men uttered a cry of disgust and fished out the dead, waterlogged cat. Everyone expressed sympathy for the poor thing. That suggested how vampires might stand in Rome. Dotted through the crowds like black scarecrows, nuns and priests glared disapproval at her. The Catholic Church was never going to be comfortable with her kind.
Kate guessed she was the favourite suspect. Marcello had come back to the piazza and found her alone with the remains of Count Kernassy and Malenka. He hadn’t seen the killer, hadn’t even heard his ridiculous laughter.
She’d retold her story three times and given a description to a police artist. They had worked up a sketch which looked embarrassingly like a comic strip villain, complete with mad grin. Next time, she’d be sure to be nearly killed by someone who could be taken seriously.
‘Have you found the little girl?’ she asked Silvestri. ‘She looked sad, frightened. She saw the murderer.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, affecting the need to jog his memory, flipping back his notes. ‘The little girl who was weeping.’
‘There couldn’t have been many children on the streets. It was near dawn.’
‘There are always children on the streets, Signorina. This is Rome.’
‘She didn’t look…’
What did she mean? She’d only seen the girl’s face. No, the reflection of her face. Upside-down. She couldn’t say what she had been wearing. She had an impression that the girl was not a ragged urchin, even that she came from wealth, old money. Why did she think that?
‘Her hair,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘It was long, clean. Well-groomed, looked after. It hung over one eye, like Veronica Lake’s.’
Silvestri’s mouth was fixed, but he smiled with his eyes.
‘You observe,’ he said.
‘I’m a reporter. It’s my job.’
His voice changed again, as he rattled off orders to his assistant, Sergeant Ginko. Kate caught a few words: ragazza — girl, lunghi capella — long hair, Veronica Lake — hubba-hubba.
They were taking her seriously now. Good.
‘What else did you observe that you can report?’
She almost said something.
That upside-down face. Blonde tresses, sad-clown mouth, tears. The killer, dressed as an executioner — mask, bare chest, tights. A flash of killing red, sharp silver. Kernassy’s skull, Malenka’s eyes.
What’s wrong with this picture?
‘Go on,’ Silvestri encouraged. ‘Anything, even if you’re not sure of it…’
‘It’s a puzzle,’ she said. ‘I keep trying to fit it all together. One of the pieces is wrong, but I don’t know which. I’m sorry. It’s as frustrating for me as it is for you. I have a sense of wrongness — some tiny detail. Something I saw, but can’t put my finger on. I keep going over it.’
The Inspector was disappointed. He wrote his telephone number on a page of his notebook, tore it out, and offered it to her.
‘If the puzzle fits together, you will call me?’
She took the number.
‘Yes. Of course.’
Silvestri shut his notebook again. It was his favourite prop.
‘You may go, Signorina Katharine Reed.’
She was a little surprised.
‘You don’t want to arrest me? On suspicion?’
Silvestri laughed.
‘No. You have misunderstood. You arrived in Rome only last night, on the same flight as il conte and his “niece”. That is confirmed by Alitalia. These were not the first killings.’
Even in the Roman sun, Kate felt a chill.
‘Rome is not safe for vampiri,’ Silvestri continued. ‘They think themselves hunters of men, but here we have a man who thinks himself a hunter of them. This Boia Scarlatto has killed others, in ones and twos. Since the War. All elders.’
‘Surely Malenka was a new-born. She seemed so… modern.’
Silvestri shook his head. ‘She had her centuries.’
All elders. Why kill Kernassy and Malenka, but not Kate Reed?
There was no hard
One of the coroner’s men uttered a cry of disgust and fished out the dead, waterlogged cat. Everyone expressed sympathy for the poor thing. That suggested how vampires might stand in Rome. Dotted through the crowds like black scarecrows, nuns and priests glared disapproval at her. The Catholic Church was never going to be comfortable with her kind.
Kate guessed she was the favourite suspect. Marcello had come back to the piazza and found her alone with the remains of Count Kernassy and Malenka. He hadn’t seen the killer, hadn’t even heard his ridiculous laughter.
She’d retold her story three times and given a description to a police artist. They had worked up a sketch which looked embarrassingly like a comic strip villain, complete with mad grin. Next time, she’d be sure to be nearly killed by someone who could be taken seriously.
‘Have you found the little girl?’ she asked Silvestri. ‘She looked sad, frightened. She saw the murderer.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, affecting the need to jog his memory, flipping back his notes. ‘The little girl who was weeping.’
‘There couldn’t have been many children on the streets. It was near dawn.’
‘There are always children on the streets, Signorina. This is Rome.’
‘She didn’t look…’
What did she mean? She’d only seen the girl’s face. No, the reflection of her face. Upside-down. She couldn’t say what she had been wearing. She had an impression that the girl was not a ragged urchin, even that she came from wealth, old money. Why did she think that?
‘Her hair,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘It was long, clean. Well-groomed, looked after. It hung over one eye, like Veronica Lake’s.’
Silvestri’s mouth was fixed, but he smiled with his eyes.
‘You observe,’ he said.
‘I’m a reporter. It’s my job.’
His voice changed again, as he rattled off orders to his assistant, Sergeant Ginko. Kate caught a few words: ragazza — girl, lunghi capella — long hair, Veronica Lake — hubba-hubba.
They were taking her seriously now. Good.
‘What else did you observe that you can report?’
She almost said something.
That upside-down face. Blonde tresses, sad-clown mouth, tears. The killer, dressed as an executioner — mask, bare chest, tights. A flash of killing red, sharp silver. Kernassy’s skull, Malenka’s eyes.
What’s wrong with this picture?
‘Go on,’ Silvestri encouraged. ‘Anything, even if you’re not sure of it…’
‘It’s a puzzle,’ she said. ‘I keep trying to fit it all together. One of the pieces is wrong, but I don’t know which. I’m sorry. It’s as frustrating for me as it is for you. I have a sense of wrongness — some tiny detail. Something I saw, but can’t put my finger on. I keep going over it.’
The Inspector was disappointed. He wrote his telephone number on a page of his notebook, tore it out, and offered it to her.
‘If the puzzle fits together, you will call me?’
She took the number.
‘Yes. Of course.’
Silvestri shut his notebook again. It was his favourite prop.
‘You may go, Signorina Katharine Reed.’
She was a little surprised.
‘You don’t want to arrest me? On suspicion?’
Silvestri laughed.
‘No. You have misunderstood. You arrived in Rome only last night, on the same flight as il conte and his “niece”. That is confirmed by Alitalia. These were not the first killings.’
Even in the Roman sun, Kate felt a chill.
‘Rome is not safe for vampiri,’ Silvestri continued. ‘They think themselves hunters of men, but here we have a man who thinks himself a hunter of them. This Boia Scarlatto has killed others, in ones and twos. Since the War. All elders.’
‘Surely Malenka was a new-born. She seemed so… modern.’
Silvestri shook his head. ‘She had her centuries.’
All elders. Why kill Kernassy and Malenka, but not Kate Reed?
There was no hard
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