The Garden of Evil Read Online Free PDF Page A

was once more, if not the top dog, a substantial intellectual force, the officer to whom the awkward cases were assigned. He was also a man at peace with himself again, apparently happily alone after a short, odd romantic entanglement. And, like Peroni and Teresa, utterly delighted to have attended the brief civil marriage ceremony at which Costa and Emily Deacon had become man and wife three months ago to this day.
    The senior officer leaned over and whispered into Costa’s ear, “Nic!”
    “I’m sorry,” Costa found himself stuttering. It had been a remarkable year. The tragedy of a child lost in a miscarriage, a wedding, and then, returning to the Questura the previous Monday, discovering his promotion had come through while he and Emily were on a too-brief weekend break in Sicily. “Sir,” he added.
    “And so you should be,” Falcone complained. “Your honeymoon is over, Officer. Pay attention, please.”
    While he spoke, Falcone was watching Gianni Peroni fulminate by the side of the two bodies, spitting complaints in the direction of anyone within earshot. The inspector was wondering perhaps what the big man, once an inspector himself, thought of his partner’s rise through the ranks. It was certainly a subject that had occupied Costa’s thoughts since he returned to work, and one he had to discuss with Peroni, soon.
    “What would you do in my shoes?” Falcone asked, eyes sparking with interest, hand on his trim silver beard.
    “Seal the room and keep it sealed,” Costa answered instantly.
    Falcone nodded. “Why?” he asked.
    “It’s going to take days before forensic manage to sweep this place properly. It’s a mess. We’ll need to bring in experts, and if that’s to mean anything we must make sure there is no unnecessary disturbance. Also . . .”
    He glanced at the manpower crammed into the cramped and jumbled space around them. There were thirteen people there, including two photographers and three civilians from the media department, two of them trainees, who were preparing what to say to the press and TV. Only seven people were serving police officers. This seemed to be the way of things lately. The investigative process was becoming muddied, mired in procedure, dictated more by lawyers than the need for the swift, clear discovery of facts and culpability.
    “I think we need to keep the numbers down as much as possible. There’s a lot of material in here. I know everyone’s careful. But all the same . . .”
    The inspector grimaced. “We do these things by rote these days, Sovrintendente. The first act, always, is to pick up the manual and read what it says. You’re right . . .”
    Having little patience with politeness, the inspector brusquely ordered the media team to get out and watched them slink towards the door, casting mute and furious glances in their wake. Then he folded his long arms and glanced towards the two corpses in front of him, a thoughtful finger momentarily stroking his silver goatee, a familiar expression of wry amusement in his angular, tanned face.
    “On the other hand,” he added with nonchalant ease, “it would appear to be a relatively straightforward matter.”
    A man of late middle age, wearing a smart suit and an expression frozen halfway between horror and simple mute fury, lay curled on his side, clutching his stomach, gripping himself in the taut, terrified agony of a vicious death. The black wooden shaft of what Costa suspected would turn out to be a large kitchen knife protruded from beneath his rib cage, staining his white shirt with a ragged patch of dark, congealing blood. Next to him was the naked corpse of a much younger woman, so thin her rib cage was showing.
    The contrast between the two was marked. The woman’s face, which had a still, bloodless beauty that transcended life, was almost peaceful. She lay on her back, legs slightly raised and akimbo, in a position that could, possibly, have been post-coital. She had short fiery red hair, which