LITMIR.BIZ

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you mean by ‘it wasn’t to be’?” said Rossi.

      The waiter had begun his slow walk towards their table.

      “Perhaps we should order something,” said Rossi, noting the approach and sensing the need to ease the tension.

      “Tiziana?”

      “Oh, just water for me, thank you,”

      “Solo un’acqua minerale per la signora,” said Rossi dismissing the waiter before he could materialize.

      “There’s no rush, Tiziana,” said Rossi. “Just tell me what you remember and then we’ll see what we can do. But when you are ready,” he added, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

      She almost smiled and some of the rigidity in her elegant form softened. Plenty of men had put their hands on her in plenty of other situations, something she neither sought nor appreciated, but she didn’t find Rossi patronizing or threatening. He seemed genuine and she was warming to him already.

      “My job is very important to me, Inspector. I have considerable responsibility and I am the only woman in my department. I oversee the clerical side of things but I have become a de facto factotum, if you will.”

      “A sort of Girl Friday,” said Rossi. “The go-to person.”

      “It’s frequently the way, in the public sector.”

      Rossi gave a knowing nod. He sensed she didn’t have any sounding board in her work life.

      “Otherwise,” she continued, “nothing gets done and we would be doing a disservice to the citizens we are supposed to be there for. It doesn’t go down well with everyone, however, my attitude to work and duty, and I’ve had to put up with my fair share of bitching.”

      The water arrived, and Carrara filled her glass but Tiziana didn’t drink.

      “Anyway, that day, last winter, a young man came – I don’t remember the exact date but it’s all recorded in my diary. He was African and he said he was looking for his friend who he feared might have been murdered. He had no form of identification and the front office staff had given him the brush-off, while neglecting to inform me of his presence. It was common practice on their part. Trying to isolate me, trying to get me to slip up, withholding information, that sort of thing. However, I happened to be passing through the office – I had come to find a file or something – and I noticed the gentleman still waiting. I enquired as to who he might be and asked him to come with me and then I assessed the situation on the merits of his story. He seemed to have a genuine interest.”

      “Did he give you a name?” Rossi enquired.

      “Yes,” she replied. “Jibril. I didn’t press him for a surname as I had gathered that he was an illegal, but my conscience would not allow me to throw him out. I could see it in his eyes, Inspector. He was biting back the tears.”

      “So you let him see the body, at his request?”

      “Yes, but I first asked if there was anyone who could vouch for him. I had no reason to believe he himself might be criminally involved. Surely no criminal would go back to see the victim if he had been his killer.”

      “Stranger things can happen,” said Carrara.

      “Go on,” said Rossi.

      “Well, I just felt that I would be more comfortable if there were someone who could corroborate his story. And that’s where Iannelli comes in,” she continued, with greater composure now.

      Rossi knew that what she was saying tallied with his own recollection of events at that time – his old journalist friend’s investigation into high-level corruption, the mysterious attempt by some emissary of the powers-that-be to buy him off, and then the attempt on his life in Sicily, which had sent him into hiding and the life under 24-hour armed escort he now lived.

      “The gentleman, Jibril, produced a business card – Dottor Iannelli’s business card – and said that he knew him personally. I assumed that it had come into his possession by pure chance and that he hadn’t the slightest idea who it might belong to. The card was professional, of course, and said Dottor Dario Iannelli, The Facet. Enough perhaps for a naive young migrant to think it could serve as some temporary passport to acceptance. I had also just heard that the journalist had been caught up in an ambush and was feared killed. I didn’t take it any further. I assumed it was a desperate last-ditch attempt to circumvent the obstacles that bureaucracy put in his way, and I could only feel pity for him, not suspicion.”

      “And you then took him to view the corpse, I presume,” said Rossi.

      “Given the circumstances, I waived normal practice. I followed my conscience, feeling that he and the victim had likely been acquaintances or even relatives. They were, as far as I could see, both of West African appearance and I deduced they could easily have been co-nationals.”

      “And yet the identification was negative,” said Rossi.

      “Well, that is the central issue here, Inspector. As I pulled back the cover, apart from the reaction of shock you might expect – you know, of course, how he was killed.”

      Yes, Rossi knew. His throat had been cut, almost to the point of decapitation.

      “The reaction I witnessed was consistent with recognition. I have seen it enough times to be reasonably confident. He was restrained, yes, but when I asked him to confirm whether or not he could positively identify the corpse he gave a firm ‘no’ and that was that. He then asked to leave and began to get rather agitated. I think he also feared that he might be detained or reported to the police. I let him out through a side door as I didn’t want him to have to face the other staff and I didn’t want anyone asking me awkward questions. I would be able to manage that better by myself. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

      Rossi looked at Carrara.

      “So, if he did recognize him, why didn’t he say so?”

      “As I said, presumably fear of being detained, as an illegal, even if that hadn’t stopped him stepping into the lion’s den in the first place. He took a big chance.”

      “Are you sure he was a migrant?” said Carrara. “How did you know?”

      “I presumed he was. I suppose from his clothing. I mean he really wasn’t dressed for winter. He looked itinerant, tired, and he wasn’t streetwise yet, not in the Roman sense. He seemed fresh out of Africa. It was the impression I got, but I’ve met many such people in my work and in my voluntary activities too. I help out sometimes with a group providing assistance to refugees and migrants.”

      “So,” said Rossi, “Iannelli was or wasn’t connected? You said you thought it was a ruse, the business card, a stratagem on his part. What makes you think differently now?”

      “I just think that maybe there was something important, something more to it than I first thought. When I heard Dottor Iannelli had survived the attack in Sicily and when the stories began to emerge about corruption in the Detention Centres, I thought that maybe their paths could have crossed in some way. I didn’t give it serious thought at the time, but later I wondered if I’d been hasty in dismissing it out of hand. And then there was the fire on Via Prenestina. All those people. At least one of them was West African too. Call it intuition or instinct but it has continued to prey on my mind, every day – the thought that there could even be a connection. And when I heard you talking about him this morning, it seemed like I had to seize an opportunity to put things straight. I had thought about going to a police station but I was concerned for my position. I didn’t know what to do. It could have come out looking very bad for me. Do you understand?”

      Rossi could see she was taking a chance, putting trust in him. It was courageous, a quality he admired.

      “Well,” said Rossi, “as luck would have it, we were on our way to the hospital to pay a visit to the pathologist. Our paths may well have crossed anyway.”

      His

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