Free The Killing Room by Christobel Kent Page A

sparkly barrette, incongruous against the ancient raincoat, and Giuli felt a pang of guilt at the sight; this glass of brandy would be the cleaner’s only break in a day of slog.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, patting the raincoated shoulder. She gestured to the barman to refill the old woman’s glass, put down a note and headed out. But she hadn’t got as far as the door when she sensed something pulling at her, a small snuffling presence at her elbow, and there was Maria, glass in hand, pointing at the back room.
    ‘Does everyone think it’s true?’ Giuli said when they were seated. The room had no windows; the only other occupant was an old man muttering over a dog-eared paper in the corner. A smell of unwashed layers rose off him.
    Maria curled her fingers round the glass. ‘Not everyone,’ she said. ‘Maybe half and half.’ And she looked at Giuli, nervous of having said the wrong thing.
    Fifty per cent. ‘And which half are you?’ Giuli said.
    The toothless old mouth collapsed in on itself, mumbling. Then she spoke up. ‘You’re a good girl, Giulietta,’ she said, and gingerly she sipped at her brandy. ‘No children, me, what do I know? But you’re always on time, never bugger off early like some, and you don’t complain. About what life’s dealt out to you.’ It amounted to a speech, by the old lady’s standards.
    ‘Has Farmiga been back?’ Last year a case of Sandro’s had got a doctor sacked for her ties to a right-wing group; if Giuli had to pinpoint her most definite enemy, it would be Nicoletta Farmiga. She had no idea where she’d gone.
    But Maria shook her head. ‘Haven’t seen hide nor hair. She wouldn’t have the nerve, anyway.’
    Giuli wouldn’t put anything past Farmiga. ‘So who?’
    The old man’s head was lifted, scenting something across the room, and Maria looked around anxiously. ‘I dunno, honest,’ she said.
    ‘You know something, though,’ said Giuli, patient.
    The old woman took a quick swig, then she spoke hurriedly. ‘The Director did have someone in with her yesterday. A patient. I’ve seen her once or twice, but usually . . . well. Usually she doesn’t see the Director, let’s say. She’s in—’ And she jerkedher head as if they were back in the Centre and she was pointing down a corridor. ‘Down there. Comes in for the methadone.’
    Addictions, then. Massini had let that slip.
    Maria went on. ‘You can’t say I told. I’ll be out too if they know, won’t I?’
    ‘It’s all right,’ said Giuli. ‘Has someone told you not to talk to me?’
    Maria looked down into her drink. ‘They might clear you anyway, mightn’t they? Why would they believe her over you?’ Giuli said nothing, and the cleaner took another sip. ‘Anyway, it was after that the rumours started going round. About you. Yesterday afternoon.’
    Her day off: probably no coincidence. If you want to stick the knife in, wait until your victim’s back is turned. Massini would have made a big fuss about confidentiality but she had a secretary, didn’t she? People liked to talk. And only the week before they’d all been clustering around her cooing at her engagement ring. Gold with diamond chips: all Enzo could afford, but nobody said how small the stones were. In the stuffy back room, aware that there were questions Maria wasn’t answering, conscious of the crazy old man peering over his paper, Giuli struggled with paranoia.
    She took a deep breath. ‘You know her name? The methadone junkie.’
    The old woman shook her head. ‘They’re always trying to get her children off her. The comune are. And she knows you – so maybe you know her.’
    Giuli felt her forehead prickle with sweat as the name came to her. ‘Rosina.’
    The woman she’d seen in reception that very morning, eyes sliding away as Giuli looked, with her skin blotched from drugs and her skinny limbs. The woman Giuli would have turned into if she’d stayed on the streets. Reluctantly Maria nodded.
    ‘She still