… Sister Raffaella, born Raffaella Carla Russo in Bologna, was found dead in the Convento di Nostra Cara Regina Maria. The identity of the victim has been clearly established. When the body was found it was thirty-one degrees, exact time of arrival: twelve fifty-four. Sister Isabella, born Isabella Martini, discovered the body on the forecourt of the belltower. The body displayed severe head injuries. The presumed cause of death appears to be a fall from the belltower.
Accident is very probable; culpable involvement of a third party is not obvious, but cannot be ruled out at this stage of the investigation. Furthermore, suicide must also be considered.
Other notable facts:…
"Hmm …" Matteo Silvestri stopped typing.
He fanned himself with a leaflet about preventing burglaries and felt his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back. He hated writing reports.
He squinted at the empty field in the electronic form that blinked, demanding to be filled in.
Other notable facts:
He could, of course, make things easier for himself and simply keep quiet about the message Sister Raffaella had apparently left in the dust shortly before her death. No one would care about that – apart from Sister Isabella. But then, she would never know. He thought of all the paperwork it would save him. And even if he mentioned his – or rather, Sister Isabella's – suspicions in the report, they wouldn't add up to much. After all, it was up to the public prosecutor's office to identify criminally relevant facts. And the present public prosecutor, Matteo had come to realise, was the type who would only ever see what he wanted to see.
He slumped back into the decrepit swivel chair, which responded with a squeal of protest. He really ought to oil it, he thought. He folded his arms behind his head resignedly and looked at the bare walls of his unadorned workplace, where he still didn't quite feel at home.
The police station was little more than an office with outdated equipment and a small holding cell which, after years of disuse, had been repurposed as a storage room for broken furniture and even more elderly IT components.
His predecessor, Paolo Maggiore, had not placed much store by interior design and seemed to have preferred a practical sobriety. Although Matteo had been in post in Santa Caterina for over a year, he still hadn't managed to make the police station feel any more comfortable.
It didn't need total renovation: just a new coat of paint, or one or two nice pictures, maybe framed glossy photos of his favourite Alfa Romeo models. That, and a new office chair. Maybe, he pondered, he could get one of those executive chairs with fold-down arms and a padded neck rest. But the prospect of wading through all the acquisitions and expenses forms that would involve stopped this train of thought dead.
He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the write-up he needed to finish.
What had he really seen? A dying woman had scrawled something in the dust, which one might have charitably interpreted to be a number. Soberly considered, this was really not a detail that needed to be mentioned in an official police report. This number, or whatever it was supposed to represent, could very well have come about purely by chance … in the fall … or something. Sister Isabella had probably read far too much into it and had infected him with her conspiracy theory.
And anyway: he simply could not and would not imagine that someone would kill a nun. Not in this world and certainly not in a tranquil little town like Santa Caterina. Basta!
Once more he let his eyes skim half-heartedly over his half-finished report and shuddered at his amateurish writing style.
It was far too hot to think, let alone to work. Maybe he should start filling out some paperwork for new furniture after all. An air conditioner would be a dream. Or at least a ceiling fan, which he could pay for out of his own pocket.
For God's sake: he was a policeman, not a writer. How he hated this part of the job.
His eyes fell on the word "suicide". It looked wrong somehow.
To be on the safe side, he looked it up in the dizionario.
"I'm not disturbing your nap, am I?!" Matteo started so violently that the thick dictionary fell out of his hand and clattered onto the keyboard.
With a jerk, he wheeled around and saw an older, solidly built man with a moustache standing in the doorway, dabbing at his sweat-slicked, balding head with a cloth.
"Mr Lenzi."
Matteo jumped up to shake hands with the Mayor of Santa Caterina.
Duccio Lenzi had a big, solid upper body – though less from sport than from German beers and pasta. He wore a smart cement-grey suit over what Matteo thought was an unprofessional-looking purple shirt.
"I'm in the middle of writing a report … on the death of Sister Raffaella."
The Mayor nodded sympathetically. "Yes, I heard about it. Most tragic."
He smoothed his moustache. "Do you think she killed herself?"
Matteo thought about the height of the belltower, and about the statistics about suicide that he had studied back at the police academy. If he remembered correctly, jumping from a high place was the third most common method of ending things, close behind drug overdose and hanging.
But that had just been a bland table of figures. Now, with the corpse of Raffaella before his eyes, the numbers had become gruesomely real.
With an effort he suppressed the dreadful image.
"You can't rule it out. You never really know what people are going through."
"Yes, but … she was a nun. In the eyes of the Church, it would be a sin." This thought had been preoccupying Matteo throughout. How likely was it that a nun would choose to throw herself to her death?
"An accident, then," the Mayor decided.
Matteo said nothing. Unbidden, that number drawn in the dust leapt into his mind's eye.
Lenzi kept his gaze fixed intently on the policeman. "You don't think it was an accident?"
Matteo wiped sweat from the back of his neck. "I'm younger than my predecessor was, and I haven't had as much time in the job. But it's not that easy to fall out of a belltower. I went up there and had a look. You'd have to work quite hard to scale the parapet."
"Hm."
With that noise, the Mayor quite neatly summed up Matteo's own thoughts on the case – if it was a case at all. All possibilities were still open.
Lenzi eyed the carabiniere insistently. "But if it wasn't an accident, then it could only have been suicide." Matteo decided to take his time over answering that. Mainly because he didn't know anything, as had become clear to him while writing his report. Basically, nothing could be ruled out.
And before he knew it, he heard himself saying in a pompous voice: "I'm afraid that's unclear as of yet: we are continuing our investigations."
By we, he meant himself. First person singular. The Santa Caterina police force consisted of exactly one carabiniere: him. The Mayor knew this better than anyone else. All the same, it sounded better and somehow weightier to use the first-person plural.
Lenzi at least did him the favour of not picking up on that. "Do you think there's a chance that this nun might have been …?"
With some effort, Matteo managed a tentative nod. "At the very least, the possibility cannot be entirely ruled out. The circumstances at the crime scene might allow one to draw a range of conclusions."
Matteo could have told the Mayor about the message in the dust, about the outstretched hand pointing to the church tower. But he didn't. After all, it was none of Lenzi's business. It was an investigative fact, and it belonged in the hateful police report, not in the Mayor's ears.
"Well, yes," he replied, stretching. "It's hard to imagine, here in our tranquil town."
"Quite," said Matteo. "But we have to rule out all possibilities before we …"
The Mayor waved Matteo's point away and dabbed at his forehead again.
"You're already doing that. But that's not why I'm here at all. I've come about the Via Madonna delle Grazie."
Matteo's morale, already shaky, now crumbled entirely.
"So …"
"I've told you what the facts are." Matteo nodded lamely.
"I was just there,” the Mayor said, “and nothing has happened at all."
"Well, yes," Matteo replied defensively. "But it's not like I'm just sitting around twiddling my thumbs! Petrozza's petrol station was burgled recently. The day before yesterday, there was a traffic accident at Piazza Cristo Re. Luckily just a few scratches, but everything still had to be documented for the insurance. And now the death of Sister Raffaella …"
"Yes, yes, I know, you are a very busy man, Signore Silvestri. But understand me. I have to justify myself before the municipal council. And as Mayor it is my duty to take the concerns of the community seriously. And that also includes making sure that municipal decisions are put into practice. Subito! I hope we understand each other, Signore Silvestri."
Matteo understood. He had indeed been putting off enforcing the parking charges on Via Madonna delle Grazie for quite some time. After all, it was the only street in walking distance of the market square where residents and visitors could park for free. What was more, he lived near there himself and regularly parked his Lancia Delta on that street. He was also perfectly aware that he would be the target of the people's anger as soon as the first parking machines were installed. Him!
"So, Signor Silvestri. When do you intend to move on this?"
"I, er …"
It was a rare event, but for once he was relieved to hear the phone ring.
"Excuse me, I have to take this. Could be important."
Matteo cleared his throat and took the call.
"Polizia di Santa Caterina? Oh, it's you, Sister Isabella." He placed a hand on the shell and whispered to Duccio Lenzi in a lowered voice: "Sister Isabella, from the convent."
The latter nodded, tight-lipped.
"Yes, hmm … no, of course I'm listening."
Not wanting to have to see the Mayor's impatient nodding, Matteo averted his eyes and looked out of the window as he listened to what Sister Isabella had to tell him.
It was difficult for him to follow her words, because at that very moment a young woman was walking right by the station. He parted the blinds a little. She was wearing a short summer dress with a bright floral pattern that flattered her deeply tanned thighs. He knew the woman and her legs, but he had never seen that dress on her before.
She was breathtakingly attractive. With her straight auburn hair that shone in the midday sun and her eyes that shimmered green or blue – depending on the time of day – she captivated him at every chance encounter.
He had met her several times in town recently. A woman like that just stood out. But he knew nothing about her: not her name, nor what brought her to Santa Caterina. But he knew one thing for sure: here was a woman who could take his heart by storm – even though, apart from a hello or two, they hadn't yet exchanged a single word. Not yet, anyway.
Unexpectedly, she lifted her head and looked up directly at him. With the uncomfortable sensation of having been caught red-handed, Matteo froze, still clutching the phone. The young woman maintained eye contact and smiled broadly. Matteo smiled back, and the smile felt so tense on his face that he didn't even want to think what it looked like. As if of its own volition, his free hand lifted into the air and waved at her. This was not an assured, masculine wave, but that of an English queen.
The woman's smile turned into an uninhibited giggle. Amused, she tossed her head and continued to float serenely down the street.
"What an ass," Matteo whispered reverently. He couldn't take his eyes off her.
"I'm sorry?" the Mayor and Sister Isabella asked in unison.
"No, I don't mean you Sister Isabella … I … there was just … erm …"
Matteo drew the blind closed and dropped heavily onto the office chair. This was so not his morning.
"Of course. I'm all ears. What, right now? And you don't think this can wait until … no, of course not. I'll be right there. Arrivederci!" As he hung up the phone, the Mayor's gaze pierced him.
"The Via Madonna delle Grazie," Lenzi said, bringing him back sharply to the present.
"I'll take care of it," Matteo promised. He jumped up, went to the cloakroom and grabbed his cap. "But now I must go. As you know, you can't keep a nun waiting."