Free The Killing Room by Christobel Kent

can’t – Gastone simply wouldn’t allow it.‘
    Sandro stood up, put on his jacket. ‘All right,’ he said, thinking of his freedom. Luisa would be mad as hell but he could be out of here. ‘So those nasty little mishaps were just a series of accidents. Vito’s death . . . well, I’m sure the Carabinieri will solve that in five minutes. Accidental overdose would be my guess; not too much blowback – if you’re lucky. Sure, you still need a house detective but maybe you could train the doorman up? And keep your fingers crossed.’
    It was a long time since Sandro had taken a stand; it coursed in his veins like euphoria. He turned to the door.
    ‘No,’ she said, very quietly behind him, and he turned back, grimly. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with Gastone. But please—’ And Alessandra Cornell stopped, her knuckles white as she gripped the back of the chair, so used to keeping control she didn’t know how to surrender it.
    ‘You’ll have to trust me,’ he said wearily. ‘You have no option.’
    An intercom buzzed on the desk. Rigid, she stared at it as if it might bite her, and Sandro leaned down and picked up the handset. ‘Miss Cornell’s office,’ he said. It was Lino the doorman, affronted at hearing Sandro’s voice. They were here.
    ‘Would you tell the officer Miss Cornell will be free very shortly?’ he said, and heard Lino’s intake of breath. ‘Send him along in five minutes.’
    He took the contract from the desk. ‘I’ll need to show that to my wife before I sign anything,’ he said. ‘So. We haven’t got long.’
    As he left, the carabiniere in the familiar dark uniform was walking towards Sandro down the corridor, young and upright but pale under the southern tan. On impulse Sandro turned on to the stairs, just so as not to have to hold the man’s gaze. The young carabiniere passed behind him – and something followed him, tainting the air.
    There was a smell to it. Death.
    *
    Giuli knew where to find Maria. You could tell the time by the old bird: at the Centre cleaning until three-thirty, home to prepare her husband’s dinner, out for a brandy in the Dolce Vita in the Piazza del Carmine before he got back. Five sharp, like clockwork.
    It was impossible to tell how old Maria actually was. Born in the hills up near Poppi, she had the lined, dark skin of a contadina and had probably lost her teeth by the time she was forty. She might have been married fifty years, thought Giuli, quailing at the thought.
    A text came in from Sandro as Giuli was locking the office door behind her. I need you onside tonight, six sharp Palazzo San Giorgio. I’ve cleared it.
    The old Giuli would have said, you can stuff it. No thanks. I don’t need any of you. But Luisa and Sandro – and now Enzo too – had softened her up. Taught her that sometimes peoplemeant what they said, and that it took guts to ask for help. All the same, she didn’t go overboard replying.
    Okay . And headed out.
    When she saw Giuli, old Maria seemed to shrink down even smaller at the Formica bar, clutching her precious glass. She was watching the TV over the barman’s head, the telegiornale announcing some politician resigning, a tickertape commentary running along the bottom: Lotto announcements, a sex scandal and a fall in export figures. And then a girl in plunging sequins and plastic boobs introduced a gameshow. At random Giuli ordered fruit juice, one of the little bottles of apricot nectar Luisa always forced on her.
    Maria had edged away, her little shoulders hunched, looking anywhere but at Giuli.
    ‘Does everyone know?’ Giuli said, eyeing the sickly liquid in her glass. Who was she kidding, feeding herself up for a wedding dress? But she swallowed it down like medicine all the same. ‘Do they know who it is, too? Telling lies about me.’
    ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean,’ mumbled Maria, but Giuli saw her leathery cheeks redden. She’d pinned her thin hair back in a