Free Vita Nuova by Magdalen Nabb Page A

again.
    ‘Well, I’m off. Got an article to write. We’ll be in touch.’ Nesti lit a cigarette and disappeared into the night, his footsteps echoing down a nearby alley.
    The big man was still standing there, his arms dangling.
    ‘You’d better be going home,’ the marshal said. ‘She’s in good hands.’
    He didn’t answer or even look at the marshal. His lower lip dangled. He only had one bottom tooth. He seemed to be in a complete daze. The marshal wondered if it was drugs, or alcohol.
    As if in answer, a stream of wine-dark vomit spouted from the dangling mouth, splattering on the pavement and spraying up the marshal’s beige trousers.
    The man remained immobile, as if he hadn’t noticed. The marshal crossed the road and climbed the wide emptiness of the forecourt to the Palazzo Pitti. At the top, he paused before going under the archway to the left and turned to look back. Below, in the gloom, he could just make out the man’s form, still standing in the bank doorway.
    How do you get red wine stains off beige cloth? The marshal had no idea. He had something else on his mind anyway. He didn’t go and change right away, but unlocked his station and looked in at the empty waiting room. Facing him were the two cells, their cream-painted doors bolted. A long time since they’d had to use one.
    ‘Yes . . . that’s it. . . .’
    Years ago, that man, Forbes. Nasty bit of work he was, and he’d vomited litres of red in his cell the night they picked him up. And that was it: the unpleasant memory brought up by the faintest trace of a smell. Alcohol and vomit, cleaned up but still in the air. In that big fancy kitchen in the cellar, it was almost imperceptible but it was there. That’s why the mother was too dazed to react to her daughter’s death. The sweating, the glazed eyes . . . an almighty hangover. And, given what Nesti had told him, it was hardly surprising.
    The afternoon heat was oppressive. Without the builders, not even the cement mixer broke the silence. The marshal reached the shelter of the cool stone portico and rang the bell. A young woman opened up. Blond, almost colourless hair tied back, jeans, a cheap-looking T-shirt. He followed her down to the kitchen. To understand this family, you had to fit into its timetable. At this hour, both the girls who did the household chores should be there—and the marshal was willing to bet that it was only their day job—and the lady of the house would be out of bed, cleaned up, and in a fit state to talk to him should she want to.
    He was more or less right. She was sitting at the big glass table with a cup of something in front of her and a plate with the remains of some dry toast, but she wasn’t dressed. She was in her nightdress with a wrap of some sort over it.
    ‘I’m sorry to have to disturb you again. . . .’
    When he sat down, he got the yeasty warm smell of sleep and sweat coming off her, with a cloying hint of alcohol.
    ‘Maybe . . . some coffee. . . .’ She looked from the marshal to the girl, uncertain.
    ‘If you mean for me, no, Signora. I’ve only just had one on my way here.’
    That was a lie, but he wouldn’t have wanted to drink anything in here, not even a glass of water. He couldn’t help it, he was keeping his breathing shallow again.
    ‘I’ll get on, then. . . .’ The girl hesitated and, when there was no answer, went through the door that was standing ajar, perhaps to her room. Would she be the one who had been watching him from the barred windows at his feet the other morning, or was it the other one?
    ‘I understand from your daughter that you have someone staying here now, and I’m glad to hear it— would that be the young woman who’s just left us? What’s her name?’
    ‘Danuta.’
    ‘And she sleeps here now? Helps with the little boy?’
    ‘I don’t . . . perhaps, sometimes. . . .’
    It was obvious that she didn’t know.
    ‘Or perhaps the other young woman? The one I haven’t seen?’
    She didn’t