The Abomination Read online

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  “Capitano, check the number of buttons with the morgue. And get someone to check with the Protestant churches in the city, just in case,” Piola said to Kat. He slid another photograph towards the priest. “One final question, Father. Do you happen to know what these tattoos might represent?”

  Father Cilosi took the picture Piola gave him, then busied himself finding a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket. “I’ve no idea,” he said eventually. “They seem vaguely reminiscent of occult symbols – but I should stress that’s not my area of expertise. I could get you the name of someone who would know more, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Piola said. “That would be very helpful.”

  “Not at all. And please call me if I can be of any further assistance.” Father Cilosi hesitated. “The bishop has asked me to convey that he regards this incident as deeply distressing for the faithful, and he hopes it can be brought to a speedy conclusion. As I’m sure you recall, a few years ago the issue of women’s ordination threatened to become a divisive one for us. There are enough problems engulfing the Church at the moment without reawakening that particular controversy.”

  “Indeed,” Piola said blandly. “Rest assured, Father, we’ll do everything we can to get to the bottom of this poor woman’s death.” He laid a faint emphasis on the last three words.

  Father Cilosi was struck by a thought. “If you would like me to say a prayer for her? Or indeed for your investigation. . .”

  “I’m sure she would be most grateful for any prayers you see fit to offer,” Piola said, moving him towards the door. “And in the meantime, the Carabinieri will continue to pursue a more secular approach.”

  Kat spent an hour with tide tables, weather charts and maps of the lagoon, trying to understand where the body might have entered the water. As a Venetian, she’d grown up with the sea. But the acqua alta had complicated everything.

  “There are just too many variables,” she told Piola. “We can assume our victim came from the lagoon, but it’s the currents, not just the tides, that determine the flow of the water. Some of these sandbanks change their position every month.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “I think we should talk to some fishermen. They’ll be able to pinpoint the most likely place, and also tell us if they saw anything suspicious that night.”

  “Good idea. I’ll come with you.”

  The Venetian lagoon is divided into the laguna viva, the part washed by the Adriatic tides, and the laguna morta, the more northerly inner or “dead” lagoon, a place of still, salty marshes where hunters catch wild ducks and eels. Reasoning that the body had almost certainly been washed in from the former, they caught the ferry to the fishing port of Chioggia, fifteen miles south of Venice, and went from boat to boat asking questions.

  All the fishermen agreed that the body must have originated from somewhere within the long, thin sandbank of the Lido. Beyond that, it would have been washed further out to sea. It also became clear that anyone with local knowledge would have been perfectly well aware of that.

  “When the criminali dump bodies, they take them five miles out,” a gnarled old fisherman called Giuseppe told Kat with a shrug. “That way they’re never seen again. It’s well known.”

  “And who do they use to take them there? Is that well known too?”

  Another shrug, even more eloquent, told her that, well known or not, there was no way he was going to share that information with her.

  From then on she and Piola concentrated on asking about the area within the Lido. Did you see anything unusual around the fourth or fifth of January? Hear anything? Were there any unfamiliar boats around? They found that the fishermen – many of whom were deeply superstitious – were far more shocked by what their victim was wearing than the fact that she was dead, so they prefaced their questions by showing two pictures: the first a close-up of the corpse’s face, taken by Hapadi in the morgue, and a second that showed her full-length in her priest’s robes. Without exception the second picture prompted a double response – the right hand reaching for the forehead to make the sign of the cross, the left reaching for the testicles to make the malocchio, a gesture of protection from the evil eye.

  Finally a young fisherman called Lucio gave them a breakthrough.

  “The weather was bad that night,” he told them. “There was the high water coming, and snow . . . I decided to cut my losses and get back to my girl. She’s in Venice, see, in Dorsoduro? So I took a short cut.”

  “Show me,” Piola suggested, and the young man traced a finger across the chart.

  “Here. Past the Isola di Poveglia.”

  Piola nodded. “Go on.”

  “No one fishes round Poveglia. People won’t buy the fish – they say they’ve fed on human bones. And it’s forbidden to land. The authorities claim it’s because the building is unsafe, but everyone knows the real reason is that it’s haunted.” He paused and lit a cigarette. “Anyway, as I passed, I saw lights. You know, moving, like torches. I think they were in the old tower.”

  “Did you take a closer look?”

  “What, on the eve of La Befana? No way.” Lucio shuddered. “I got the hell out of there.”

  Piola patted him on the shoulder. “OK, that’s useful. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” The young man hesitated. “Look, I got a ticket from you lot last month for not displaying my boat licence. I had the licence, but it had fallen off the holder. Any chance you can make the fine go away?”

  “’Fraid not,” Piola said. “It doesn’t work like that with me. Sorry. Mind if I take a cigarette?”

  The other man shrugged dourly. “Be my guest.”

  “It’s your last one.”

  “It’s fine, I’ve got more.”

  Piola smiled his thanks and took the packet.

  “So,” he said when the two of them had climbed back onto dry land. “Poveglia. I suppose you know the stories about that place?”

  “Some of them. Wasn’t there a mental hospital there before it was abandoned?”

  “For a while. But the fishermen believed it was cursed long before that. It was a lazzaretto originally – a plague island. To begin with, the city authorities buried the dead there: later, when the plague kept spreading, they tried to contain it by transporting anyone who showed symptoms out to Poveglia and dumping them in the plague pits before they were even dead. One doesn’t suppose they had a very pleasant end. Not surprisingly, it gained a reputation for being haunted.” He sighed. “Why they eventually decided to build a lunatic asylum there, God only knows. It’s abandoned now, of course – has been since the eighties.”

  “Think we should take a look?”

  “I certainly do.” Piola looked at the cigarette packet in his hand.

  “I didn’t know you smoked, sir.”

  “I don’t – not since New Year’s, anyway. I’ve been promising my wife for years I’d give up. I was just curious about the make.” He held it out to her. What she’d taken for a packet of Camel was actually something called Jing Lin, its logo a horned goat on a yellow background but otherwise almost identical to the American brand. “Counterfeit. I doubt it’s connected to our murder, but you never know.”

  They debated how best to get out to Poveglia. Given the superstitiousness of the fishermen, it seemed unlikely any of them would be keen to offer a lift.

  “Unless we agree to make Lucio’s ticket go away,” Kat suggested.

  Piola looked at her. For a moment he said nothing, and she found herself flushing. “I only meant. . .”

  “I know what you meant,” he said, not unkindly. “You just wanted to get the job done. And I don’t blame you for that. But that’s how it starts – corners cut, deals done, favours offered or accepted.” He sounded sad rather than angry. “And before you know it, you’ve been done a favour that needs to be repaid, and then they control you. It happens to nine out of ten officers. And you know what? Most of them don’t even care. To most, it’s just �
�� normal. The way we do things here. Italy. End of story.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Forget it. We’ll call up a Carabinieri launch, and while we’re waiting we can have some lunch. The fish restaurants round here are excellent, and after being on those boats I’ve got a hankering for some sea urchin pasta.”

  Six

  “LET ME REMIND you why you’re here, Second Lieutenant,” Major Forster said briskly, fixing Holly with a level stare. “As you will know, this is the largest and most important US Army post south of the Alps. Through our power projection capability we provide stability, security and peace to an area of the world stretching from Africa to Iran. However, we have not always succeeded in being appreciated by the host community in which we serve.”

  Translation, Holly thought: the locals hate our guts.

  “As a result, an extra Liaison Team was added late last year to further engage and integrate with the Italian population.” He pronounced it Eye-talian, to match Eye-ran. “This is a hearts and minds initiative which will be on-going until the new capability at Dal Molin base is complete.”

  Translation: until the protestors go away.

  “As a native speaker attached to Liaison Officer Team Three, you are tasked with being the civilian-facing component of our military capability. As such you will embody at all times the integrity and professionalism of the US Military.”

  Translation: personally I think your presence here a waste of my time and American taxpayers’ money. But I’ve been told we need to cosy up to the natives, so get on with it and keep out of my way.

  “Yes, sir,” Holly said, saluting.

  “Do not presume to think that because this mission is easy and safe it is unimportant or without valour,” Major Forster said, in a tone of voice which suggested that he thought exactly that. He returned her salute. “Carry on, Second Lieutenant.”

  “Place is pretty quiet right now,” First Lieutenant Mike Breedon said apologetically as he walked her from Major Forster’s office to the block in which their team was housed. “The troops are still rotating in and out of Afghanistan, of course, as we transition towards an advisory role. Plus there are still peace-keeping missions in Kosovo and Iraq. But like the major said, LNO-3 doesn’t have a whole lot to do with that side – mostly we’re dealing with community initiatives, the Italian media, even the protestors themselves. It’s not the most exciting, but it is useful.”

  An affable Virginian three years her senior, Mike was her team leader. She could tell immediately they were going to get along fine.

  “This is where you’ll work,” he said, gesturing to a desk and a computer. “I’m over there. Want to get set up? I have to prepare for a briefing, but I’ll come back after and show you around properly.”

  “Thanks.”

  She logged on to the computer, a process which involved swiping her CAC card through a reader next to the keyboard. The chip in the smartcard negotiated with the military-specific ActivClient software, checking her authorisation, security clearance and location before giving her access to a screen that was in every other respect identical to that of a normal PC. Unusually for a military computer, this one had been personalised: a photo of a smiling young woman in military-issue skiing gear and sunglasses adorned the background. Presumably this was her predecessor, whose name – she gathered from the numerous postcards still stuck to the wall – was Second Lieutenant Carol Nathans. It seemed Nathans had shipped out in too much of a hurry to tidy up after herself. Holly moved the photo to the trash. Personally, she felt computer screens looked more orderly when they were blank, or bore a simple military insignia.

  She’d already checked in at her temporary quarters at the Ederle Inn Hotel, laying out her possessions neatly in the approved army manner, and dealt with the new-arrival paperwork at Inprocessing. Next week she’d join a mandatory Newcomers Orientation Programme covering everything from European driving lessons to basic Italian vocabulary. No parts were optional, even if you already spoke the language and knew the country well. In the meantime, Mike had said, she was to pick up Nathans’ schedule and make herself useful.

  Scanning the printout her predecessor had left her, it seemed Mike hadn’t been exaggerating when he described what they did as unexciting. The army’s idea of a “hearts and minds” offensive included interviewing a colonel’s wife for the base newsletter about a reading programme she’d set up in a local primary school; inviting a local charity for disabled children to the Bombing Run, the Camp Ederle bowling alley; and organising a regular Pasta Lover’s Luncheon at the dining facility. But that was OK. She’d come here in the full knowledge that this kind of thing, not the adrenalin of combat, would be her lot for now. Just being back in Italy was enough.

  She’d grown up around bases like this one, eating nachos from the commissary and attending hot dog barbecues where only the children and wives weren’t in uniform. While her father was moving from posting to posting she’d attended a new school every eighteen months; like all army brats, she became expert at making friends quickly, or seeming to, and even better at sniffing out the subtle gradations of rank that meant an officer’s children didn’t accidentally invite a private’s to their home.

  Then, when she was nine, her father got the PCS to Camp Darby, south of Pisa, and her parents had taken the unusual decision to live off-base, in an ordinary Italian apartment block. Holly had been put into a local school; when the Italian kids had their English classes, she was pulled out for coaching in Italian. Within a term she was fluent, although her brothers always struggled. But even more than school, it was their new neighbours who helped her assimilate, immediately welcoming the Bolands into their homes – occasions at which she often acted as translator for the rest of the family. She found herself acquiring two names: to her Italian friends, who struggled with the H, she was now “Ollie”.

  Grandparents, cousins and best friends were people an army brat saw once a year if she was lucky. Even fathers came and went according to the unpredictable rhythms of war. Her new Italian friends, by contrast, lived not only with their parents but often their grandparents too. Their fathers came home for lunch every day; their cousins and in-laws lived just around the corner, and everyone hung out together on the street between the hours of five and seven o’clock, chatting, flirting or playing football. Boys called their fathers papà rather than “sir”; fathers called their sons by diminutives and nicknames. Before she knew it, a part of her had become indelibly Italian, and as she grew older her first boyfriends had names like Luca and Giancarlo rather than the Dwights and Lewises she mixed with at military socials.

  Her parents worried, briefly – the behaviour of an adolescent was held to reflect absolutely on a father’s ability to command: any trouble she got into would be reported first to the base commanding officer and only then to her father, whilst if she were to have gotten pregnant, or been caught with drugs, the entire family would have been sent back home in disgrace – but they trusted her enough to let her make her own mistakes. And, Holly realised many years later, it hadn’t just been her they trusted, but their Italian neighbours too. Not that she had ever really been the getting-in-trouble type. Too much of the military had soaked into her psyche for her to ever truly kick over the traces.

  She’d never imagined she’d follow her father into the army, particularly after the difficult, bitter years of his illness. But when she went back stateside to attend college, she found herself in a world she didn’t recognise. People her own age dressed differently from her – the gang-influenced fashions of American college kids left her Italian friends nonplussed – thought differently from her, and, for all their apparently laid-back mannerisms, their “dudes” and “mans” and “bros”, were more cynical and materialistic than her. Her roommates could never understand why she tidied her room before breakfast each morning, why ten o’clock in the evening was always, indelibly, 2200 hours, or why she sometimes said “roger that” for “yes” or called the bathroom “the latr
ine”. Just as the Jesuits were supposed to have claimed that if they were given a child until seven, they would give you the man, so Holly discovered that she was now an outsider in the civilian world as well.

  As the time for choosing a career neared, she realised that if she was a mongrel, belonging fully to neither the military nor Italy, she might as well be true to one of those bloodlines. She switched to government and military science, but also pursued her talent for languages. At Officer Training College, a mentor with an eye on the long game persuaded her to take Mandarin rather than the more usual Arabic or Farsi. No warrior, she was always better in the classroom than the field: intercept, analysis and intelligence were her skills. But as a newly qualified second lieutenant, the very lowest rung on the officer’s ladder, you didn’t expect much from your first posting. She’d only applied for Italy on the off-chance. Later, her mentor told her that someone at the Pentagon’s Personnel and Postings division had spotted her name on the list and called him up to ask if she was really Ted Boland’s daughter.

  Unexpectedly her computer chirruped, disturbing her reverie. Looking for the source of the sound, she saw it was signalling an appointment.

  REMINDER: 12.00 – 12.30 BARBARA HOLTON. WHERE: LNO-3.

  There was nothing corresponding in the schedule Mike Breedon had given her. Evidently she was looking at Nathans’ own electronic calendar, still active on the computer.

  “Mike, who’s Barbara Holton?” she called across to where her boss sat preparing a PowerPoint.

  “NFI.”

  “Whoever she is, Nathans had a 1200 with her.”

  Breedon swore under his breath. “She must have forgotten to tell me. I can’t do it, I have to be at this briefing.”