The View From the Tower by Charles Lambert Page B

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Before she can speak, a microphone catches her on the side of the face, cutting her lip; she feels the sting and trickle of blood, with a rush of relief. Giacomo pushes the journalist away, the others falling back as he swears and hustles Helen into the car, sitting beside her a second later and pulling the door shut behind him. The camera swoops down to film them both as the car pulls off. She slumps back into the seat with a long sigh from deep in her lungs that surprises them both. The driver is apologetic.
    “That’s torn it,” says Giacomo. “I’m hardly ideal company for you at the moment. In the eyes of the world, I mean.” He squeezes her hand and she feels herself relax. My skin remembers his, she thinks. I still have Giacomo. After a moment, gently, she pulls away.
    “They were bound to find out you were here sooner or later. It’s not a state secret. You used to be Federico’s friend.”
    “Still, the two of us together like this, today of all days.”
    “You never used to be so discreet. You’ve become a politician.” She turns to look at him. “Unless you’re worried about Yvonne?”
    “I’m worried about you.” He lights a cigarette but doesn’t offer her one. She never thinks about smoking these days. But she would accept a cigarette if she were offered. She turns away from Giacomo, watching Rome pass by the window of the car, people shopping, groups of tourists she might have seen but not noticed this morning, before she knew; a city about its usual business. It strikes her that the death of Federico has, in fact, changed nothing and she thinks for the first time – what a long time it has taken her! – of the people who have done this to him. Who have done this to her. She wonders who they could be, and what could have made them do it. Federico has meant nothing but good.
    These thoughts are interrupted by sirens. Their driver pulls over to allow two police cars with an official blue car sandwiched between them to pass. She tries to see in, momentarily convinced against all sense that Federico is the passenger. But the windows reflect her own car. In their swiftly passing glass, she catches a glimpse of Giacomo’s profile and of her own face, shadowy and pale before it’s gone.
    The sirens remind her of the sirens she heard that morning, no more than fifteen minutes after the shooting of Federico, and the death of Massimo. The world was already dealing with it all by then, as she made her way to Giacomo’s hotel, its mechanisms of defence already in full play. She had no idea. How is it possible not to know, she thinks, after almost thirty years, that your husband has been shot less than half a mile from where you are?
    “Helen, I’ve been wondering about something.” Giacomo interrupts her thoughts. “The police must have asked you about this, obviously.”
    “About what?”
    “About the Stilton. They must have known he’d be stopping at that shop.”
    “I don’t know. They might have been following him and realised it was a good moment. A back street. Not many people around.”
    Giacomo shakes his head. “These things are planned in advance, down to the last detail. They must have known he’d stop there.”
    “Yes, they did ask me.”
    “And what did you say?”
    “That I knew.”
    “And? Who else?”
    “No one, as far as I know. Apart from the shop. He’d called to make sure they had some Stilton in.”
    “Do the police know that?”
    “Yes. Although I wish they didn’t.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the shop couldn’t possibly be involved, Giacomo. It’s one of Federico’s favourites. He’s been going there for years. His mother goes there, for God’s sake.” As soon as these words are said she sees how ridiculous they are. “Oh, give me a cigarette. I think I’m going mad.”
    She smokes rapidly, holding the smoke in her lungs as long as she can, her head immediately starting to spin. She’s eaten nothing since