the grotto. It had been formed originally
to look like a natural cave with rusticated boulders piled
around the opening. A couple of straggly cypresses stood
sentry outside.
I lit a cigarette to steady my nerves. Now that I was here,
I felt a reluctance – repulsion is closer – to enter the place. I
had to force myself over the threshold of what I saw desolately
as the mouth of hell. I felt afraid for her.
The torch cast my shadow ahead of me, picking up the
carved stone benches either side of a pedimented doorway.
Beyond lay the circular chamber with domed ceiling and flagstone
floor where Sophie had been discovered by the Nardinis’
dogs, a yapping posse of Jack Russell terriers.
Just inside and to the left of the doorway the chalk outline
tracing her body was still clearly visible. Somebody had
neglected to wash it away. I could understand why not many
would want to come down here after what happened. But I
wasn’t prepared for that vivid diagram, for the stillness, for
the scene to be so . . . fresh.
She looked as if she was sleeping.
The walls of the grotto were smooth and plain apart from a
stone rosette at the apex of the dome. An iron grille incorporated
into its design covered an air shaft that I imagined
would also admit a little light by day.
Advancing to the centre, I sank down onto my haunches,
then slowly revolved the beam of the torch through 360
degrees, exploring the floor and sides of the chamber; there
was nothing, not even a dead leaf or a cobweb. It was as if
the place had been swept clean, leaving only the chalk diagram.
I lay the torch on the ground pointing in its direction.
At the requiem, Bailey had told the mythical story of the
first drawing, about a young girl who sees her lover, a soldier,
asleep by the fire and longs to preserve his beauty. Taking a
charred stick from the embers, she traces his shadow thrown
onto the wall of the cave by the firelight and so makes permanent
his presence in the world.
'A simple act of love,’ Bailey had said, 'but in her instinctive
urge to make a mark, to record and so stay the fleeing moment
lies an antidote to the human condition.’
I knelt forward and put my hand inside the chalk outline.
I felt the stone flags . . . they would have been colder on the
night. One theory, supported by the bruising, was that the
killer struck her from behind somewhere in the garden, then
carried her in here and strangled her. He would have had to
have been strong.
In his valediction, Bailey pointed out that we should be
grateful for the life of a young artist who 'drew like an
angel’ and left something of herself behind in her work. I
disagreed, but liked him for saying it. After mass we stood
on the steps of San Miniato looking out over Florence.
Laura was crying, just barely holding it together, and I had
my arm around her. Bailey came up to us and I was afraid
he would want to talk, but he simply handed over Sophie’s
sketchbook and left.
I didn’t have time to do more than leaf through the drawings
on our way back to the hotel. Even a quick glance confirmed
what I already suspected: that they were inspired by the white house in the website Sam Metcalf had found on her computer.
A page had been cut out from near the front of the sketchbook.
Bailey couldn’t say whether this was recent, but he assured
me that no drawings were missing.
I switched off the torch.
In the pitch dark, the rise and fall of my breathing, magnified
by the sepulchral acoustics, reminded me of a sleeping animal,
or something heavy being dragged in effortful stages across
the floor. The crypt had an earthy, not unpleasant smell.
The truth is I could never face up to the reality of Sophie’s
murder – it was partly why I had to come here. I wanted to
replay the sights and sounds of what was done to my child
in this dismal spot. I wanted to confront the demon. I tried
to imagine her state of mind . . . there was a shield in the
way. Oh Jesus fucking Christ, you have to know how scared
she must
to look like a natural cave with rusticated boulders piled
around the opening. A couple of straggly cypresses stood
sentry outside.
I lit a cigarette to steady my nerves. Now that I was here,
I felt a reluctance – repulsion is closer – to enter the place. I
had to force myself over the threshold of what I saw desolately
as the mouth of hell. I felt afraid for her.
The torch cast my shadow ahead of me, picking up the
carved stone benches either side of a pedimented doorway.
Beyond lay the circular chamber with domed ceiling and flagstone
floor where Sophie had been discovered by the Nardinis’
dogs, a yapping posse of Jack Russell terriers.
Just inside and to the left of the doorway the chalk outline
tracing her body was still clearly visible. Somebody had
neglected to wash it away. I could understand why not many
would want to come down here after what happened. But I
wasn’t prepared for that vivid diagram, for the stillness, for
the scene to be so . . . fresh.
She looked as if she was sleeping.
The walls of the grotto were smooth and plain apart from a
stone rosette at the apex of the dome. An iron grille incorporated
into its design covered an air shaft that I imagined
would also admit a little light by day.
Advancing to the centre, I sank down onto my haunches,
then slowly revolved the beam of the torch through 360
degrees, exploring the floor and sides of the chamber; there
was nothing, not even a dead leaf or a cobweb. It was as if
the place had been swept clean, leaving only the chalk diagram.
I lay the torch on the ground pointing in its direction.
At the requiem, Bailey had told the mythical story of the
first drawing, about a young girl who sees her lover, a soldier,
asleep by the fire and longs to preserve his beauty. Taking a
charred stick from the embers, she traces his shadow thrown
onto the wall of the cave by the firelight and so makes permanent
his presence in the world.
'A simple act of love,’ Bailey had said, 'but in her instinctive
urge to make a mark, to record and so stay the fleeing moment
lies an antidote to the human condition.’
I knelt forward and put my hand inside the chalk outline.
I felt the stone flags . . . they would have been colder on the
night. One theory, supported by the bruising, was that the
killer struck her from behind somewhere in the garden, then
carried her in here and strangled her. He would have had to
have been strong.
In his valediction, Bailey pointed out that we should be
grateful for the life of a young artist who 'drew like an
angel’ and left something of herself behind in her work. I
disagreed, but liked him for saying it. After mass we stood
on the steps of San Miniato looking out over Florence.
Laura was crying, just barely holding it together, and I had
my arm around her. Bailey came up to us and I was afraid
he would want to talk, but he simply handed over Sophie’s
sketchbook and left.
I didn’t have time to do more than leaf through the drawings
on our way back to the hotel. Even a quick glance confirmed
what I already suspected: that they were inspired by the white house in the website Sam Metcalf had found on her computer.
A page had been cut out from near the front of the sketchbook.
Bailey couldn’t say whether this was recent, but he assured
me that no drawings were missing.
I switched off the torch.
In the pitch dark, the rise and fall of my breathing, magnified
by the sepulchral acoustics, reminded me of a sleeping animal,
or something heavy being dragged in effortful stages across
the floor. The crypt had an earthy, not unpleasant smell.
The truth is I could never face up to the reality of Sophie’s
murder – it was partly why I had to come here. I wanted to
replay the sights and sounds of what was done to my child
in this dismal spot. I wanted to confront the demon. I tried
to imagine her state of mind . . . there was a shield in the
way. Oh Jesus fucking Christ, you have to know how scared
she must
Similar Books
