On the other side of the sound, the lights begin to come on in the city. Here and there, they pop up through the pale light of dusk.
The night is almost cloudless, but the air is still heavy and damp.
Anna-Maria Callini is sitting in her car, thinking about her headache, a persistent pounding at her temples. She wonders if it might be the change in the weather, but she knows exactly when it began: that morning, as she read the documents on her new case.
There’s something that’s not quite right. She has defended murderers and paedophiles before, but it’s never affected her this way. They have every right to a good defence, and that’s all there is to it. But there’s something about this case. Something she can’t put her finger on.
She thinks that what Oswald did out on the island was awful and that it’s probably all true. But there are always loopholes and extenuating circumstances, and if anyone can find them, it’s her.
No, it isn’t what he did that’s bothering her. Maybe it’s his tenacity. How he insisted that she had to take his case. No one else. He doesn’t even know her. She doesn’t understand why he picked her, and maybe that’s the question that’s pounding so violently in her head right now.
The darkness has stolen in. She can see the prison towering against the sky at the end of the road, a black shadow with cold, illuminated windows. There aren’t many cars on the street, and the asphalt gleams in the spotlights. High above the road, the occasional light glows in an office or apartment. She has a melancholy feeling that life is sliding out of her firm grasp, but chides herself for being so gloomy. She decides to get this over with quickly, sleep off her headache, and tomorrow everything will be back to normal.
She presents her ID to the prison guard in the booth and states her business. The massive iron gates creak and glide open. The parking lot is nearly empty so late in the evening. She parks the car, steps out, and looks up at the creepy building. The iron bars over the windows sneer down at her like bared teeth. So this is where they’re holding him.
A guard follows her in and walks beside her at a polite distance, but she can still hear him breathing through his mouth; his lungs are rattling as if he has a cold. The corridor is dark and draughty and the lighting is low and greenish. One fluorescent tube isn’t working; it flickers over their heads.
The only sound that can be heard is the echo of her tencentimetre stilettos clacking against the stone floor. She may not be all that pretty, but she’s got style and that’s what matters in this business.
The presence of the guard bothers her. He seems nervous and his rattling breaths are getting on her nerves. There’s that tingle in her stomach again, and the sweat breaking out on her palms. She is not a woman who sweats.
They reach the door, and the guard clears his throat, hesitating for a moment before inserting the key into the hole.
‘You’ve got one hour,’ he says. ‘I’ll be right here outside. Knock if you need anything. Although he’s not violent at all, just so you know.’
She has seen pictures of him in the paper. His image is on the front of every rag in the country these days. He is damn attractive in each photo, from every angle — in close-ups and full-body shots. She knows this already and has prepared herself for it.
And still, all the air goes out of her when she opens the door.
He’s sitting in the centre of the bare room, his hands folded on the desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hair shiny and black. He is tan, dressed in a tight T-shirt that shows off his muscles. Almost immediately, his scent hits her — a mysterious, pleasant aroma. She’s been to hundreds of conferences and events, and she has never encountered a man who smells like this.
His eyes lock onto hers, reeling her in like a fish flopping on a line. Then his gaze moves up and down her body, and up again, setting her on fire.
She can’t help the gasp that escapes her as she steps into the room so she takes hold of the chair in front of him, suddenly shaky and weak.
‘I’m so glad you’re finally here,’ he says, gesturing at the chair.
She hangs her purse on the back and sits down, noticing that her legs are trembling. Almost imperceptibly, but still.
He hasn’t taken her eyes off her since she walked into the room. A spark flashes in his eyes and he smiles, open and warm, as if they’ve known each other forever.
‘This is going to be good,’ he says. ‘This is going to be really good.’