Diana was ushered into the back of a police car and a policeman got in the front to drive. He looked young, and she sensed he was of junior rank and unlikely to be able to help her but still she bombarded him with questions.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To Mantellate, the women’s section of Regina Coeli prison.’
‘But I’m not guilty. What should I do?’
‘A judge will decide if you are not guilty.’
‘When will I see a judge?’
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Within forty-eight hours.’
That was two whole days – and two nights as well. She couldn’t possibly spend two days in jail. This was ridiculous. She had to speak to Hilary and get a lawyer.
‘I need to make a telephone call. Where can I use a telephone?’
‘At Regina Coeli.’ He was a man of few words and after a while she gave up.
Regina Coeli was by the riverside in Trastevere, overlooked by the Janiculum hill, and the yellow-painted Mantellate was a former monastery down a side street. Her driver helped her out of the car and into a reception area.
‘Can I make a phone call please?’ she asked a prison guard, but was told ‘Later, later.’
The contents of her handbag were searched and she was patted down to check she didn’t have anything in her pockets, then the handcuffs were removed and she was led by a guard down a narrow corridor and up a flight of steps. Their footsteps echoed, and she could hear far-off clangings of metal. It was a place of stone and metal.
‘Here you are,’ the guard said, opening the door of a tiny cell and gesturing for her to enter.
‘No, I must make a phone call,’ Diana said in her firmest voice. ‘I am expected at work.’
‘You can call later,’ the guard told her.
There was no negotiation, no sympathy. He wanted to get on with his job. She stepped into the cell and immediately the door was slammed shut and locked behind her. Panic gripped her. Oh God, what would become of her?
The cell was cool, with thick walls, and one high window through which she could see blue cloudless sky. For the first hour, Diana sat trembling on the edge of the narrow bed. She wanted to clear her head so that she could think, and decide what to do – but in fact there was nothing she could do, not for the moment. She felt sick with anxiety and at one point crouched over the covered bucket in the corner thinking she was going to bring up her stomach contents. She retched but with no result apart from hurting her throat. Once she stopped feeling so nauseous, perhaps she could run through events from start to finish and find the missing piece of evidence, the one thing that would persuade them they had made a terrible mistake.
Her mood swung between wild optimism – as soon as Hilary heard what had happened she would call a Twentieth Century Fox lawyer who would have her out in no time – and abject pessimism. What if everyone believed she was guilty? What if Helen’s parents thought she had done it? She might be found guilty and she wasn’t sure whether they still had capital punishment in Italy. Were criminals executed by hanging or by firing squad?
Ruth Ellis had been hanged in Britain just seven years previously after shooting her lover, David Blakely. It had caused a huge scandal, with all kinds of public figures speaking out against it, but she had a feeling that Italians might be keen on ‘an eye for an eye’ justice. They’d only just emerged from the dark ages of Fascism, and had been on the other side from Britain in the war. Maybe they still harboured anti-British sentiment.
Stop! I can’t go on thinking like this or I’ll go mad! Focus, Diana, focus.
Nothing in her life experience to date had prepared her for this ten-foot by ten-foot cell, with its narrow bed and covered bucket. She walked to the door and held her ear against it, trying to listen to the sounds outside. There were clanking noises and she thought she could occasionally hear human voices but there was no reply when she shouted, ‘Hello! Is anybody there?’
She thought of newspaper stories she had read about people imprisoned abroad, and felt sure they were allowed a visit from the British Consul. Presumably they should inform the next of kin as well – in her case Trevor. But she had no idea what rights she had in Italy. Oh, if only she could talk to Trevor. He could call the Foreign Office and get them involved. He was such a clever man, he’d be sure to think of something to get her out of there.
As the afternoon wore on, she became very thirsty. There was no water in the cell, no refreshment of any kind, not even a tap at which she could wash her hands. Her mind leapt from subject to subject. Couldn’t the padrona at the lodging house in Torre Astura confirm that she had been tucked up in bed all night? No, because her patio led straight out towards the seashore. Anyone who knew Helen would testify that she was a gentle soul who would never have engaged in a physical fight, and surely they would say the same about her? And then she couldn’t think any more because her throat was parched and all she could picture was a long, cool drink of lemonade.
She watched the hands moving round on her watch and calculated how long it would take the Embassy to send someone. If they heard the news at, say, noon, it should have been possible to get someone there by two – but according to her watch it was already after four. Then she remembered that Italians don’t work during the heat of the afternoon in summer, so maybe someone would come around five.
Just after five, there was a rattle of keys and she stood up expectantly, but it was a female guard holding a tray of food. She glanced at it: a plate of stew, a small salad and an unidentifiable pink dessert.
‘Acqua, per favore.’ She held her throat to indicate her thirst and the guard nodded. She put the tray of food on her bed and left the cell door unlocked while she went to fetch a jug of water and a glass. For a split second, Diana considered making a run for it but she knew that was crazy thinking. The guard returned, gave her the water and began to shut the door again.
‘Chiami l’Ambasciata Americana, per favore,’ Diana begged – ‘Call the British Embassy.’
‘Domani, domani,’ the guard replied, and Diana’s spirits plummeted. That meant ‘tomorrow’. How could she be expected to stay overnight in this place?
Helen, where are you? If only you could come back and tell them the truth …
The door closed and she sat down and poured a glass of water. Bile rose in her throat at the smell of the food and she knew she wouldn’t be able to touch a morsel. Even the water made her retch, although it was fresh and cool.
At five-thirty, the guard returned and Diana assumed she’d come to collect the tray so she lifted it to hand over but she said, ‘No, hai un visitatore.’
Oh thank God! Someone had come to get her out.
She dropped the tray on the bed with a clatter and followed her out and along the corridor then up some stairs to a room with a table and several chairs. The door was open and inside sat a very suave-looking man with silver-grey slicked-back hair, wearing a pale grey suit.
‘Hello, Miss Bailey,’ he said, standing up and holding out his hand. ‘Bartolomeo Esposito. I am your lawyer.’
As she reached out her hand to shake his, a whiff of sweat reached her nostrils and she realised she had sweaty armpits. She was sure she had used her Arrid deodorant that morning. The words from the advertisement – ‘Dry as the desert’ – came into her head. It hadn’t worked, though. Perhaps her fear had caused an unusual amount of perspiration. She worried that Signor Esposito might be able to smell it and clasped her elbows firmly to her sides.
What a ridiculous thing to be worrying about! This was the man who could establish her innocence. That’s what mattered. She needed to convince him that she was honest, rational and reliable, and that she was being treated with great injustice.
‘Please take a seat,’ he said, in a business-like tone, sitting down and opening a folder of papers.
Diana sat.