The Innocent Read Online Free PDF
Author: Magdalen Nabb
up in his room.’
‘Does he? Well, he soon won’t be able to do that. With any luck the builders will be starting work on the new bathrooms any day now. He’ll be battling with dust and mess, shut in his room or not.’
‘So will we because the builders are going to be trailing through the waiting room with their wheelbarrows. It’ll be a nightmare. Anyway, the lads don’t think he’s homesick. They say he’s been like this since he worked on that suicide case with you. The trouble is, being an NCO, he can’t confide in any of them. Oh, and Di Nuccio—who’s Neapolitan too, after all—says he’s probably in love.’
‘Oh, no. What is the matter with everybody, all of a sudden?’ Even the captain and that Frenchwoman …
‘It’s spring. Let me pack that for you if you’re going round to this woman’s house. It’s supper time.’
The marshal made some telephone calls, the last one to his wife.
‘I don’t know … not long, I hope. Start without me … You have? No … no. Lorenzini did say it was late but I didn’t realise …’
He closed up his office.
It was a little girl who came to the door of the first-floor flat in via Romana. She was perhaps six or seven, very slight, with long brown silky hair.
‘Come back here!’ shouted a woman’s voice from somewhere down a long corridor. ‘Nicoletta! Let your dad go to the door.’
The child flashed a knowing smile at the marshal and shot off along the red-tiled corridor on a plastic scooter. The marshal waited. He had announced his visit but not explained it. He had no idea whether he was here to comfort or to investigate. A man appeared from a room on the left carrying a forkful of spaghetti.
‘Come in. What’s it about? I’m sorry but we’re having supper. Nicoletta!’ He caught the scooting child on her return journey and ran along beside her, trying to insert the fork in her mouth. ‘Just one. Come on, just one.’ The child turned her face away from the fork and scooted off. Returning, she stopped dead and, with her triumphant gaze fixed on the marshal, allowed the fork to pass her lips before scooting off again.
‘Roberto! Who is it?’
‘Somebody from the carabinieri! I told you they rang! Come this way.’
A pleasant and surprisingly large room with french windows on to a terrace behind and a lot of green beyond. Turning to look at him from the dining table were a stolid, big-eyed boy and the woman of the identity card. She was very heavily, if lopsidedly, made up and very much alive.
‘Do sit down … Marshal,’ the husband said. He didn’t say where and left the marshal to decide for himself while he wound more spaghetti on to a fork from the bowl in front of an empty chair.
‘You’re going to have to stop giving her chocolate.’
‘It’s the only thing she’ll eat. What do you want me to do? Let her starve?’ The woman poured herself half a glass of red and looked at the marshal. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’
‘Nicoletta! Come back here!’
‘I’m not hungry!’
The marshal glanced over his shoulder and saw the scooter flash past the doorway pursued by the forkful of food. At the table, the boy shovelled and sucked at his spaghetti, oblivious.
Perplexed though he was, the marshal was grateful for the distraction of all this rushing about since it gave him time to rearrange his ideas. The woman had asked him for an explanation of his presence but seemed no more interested in whether he answered than in whether her little girl ate anything. He decided to say, ‘I think you lost your handbag today.’
‘Oh, thank goodness, I knew I must have left it at the supermarket—that’s the second time I’ve done that—you can’t imagine what a day I’ve had without it. I had to pick the keys up from the daily woman—my mother has keys but she’d already gone to pick Nicoletta up from school and take her to dancing class …’
The little girl shot in through the door, scooted round
‘Does he? Well, he soon won’t be able to do that. With any luck the builders will be starting work on the new bathrooms any day now. He’ll be battling with dust and mess, shut in his room or not.’
‘So will we because the builders are going to be trailing through the waiting room with their wheelbarrows. It’ll be a nightmare. Anyway, the lads don’t think he’s homesick. They say he’s been like this since he worked on that suicide case with you. The trouble is, being an NCO, he can’t confide in any of them. Oh, and Di Nuccio—who’s Neapolitan too, after all—says he’s probably in love.’
‘Oh, no. What is the matter with everybody, all of a sudden?’ Even the captain and that Frenchwoman …
‘It’s spring. Let me pack that for you if you’re going round to this woman’s house. It’s supper time.’
The marshal made some telephone calls, the last one to his wife.
‘I don’t know … not long, I hope. Start without me … You have? No … no. Lorenzini did say it was late but I didn’t realise …’
He closed up his office.
It was a little girl who came to the door of the first-floor flat in via Romana. She was perhaps six or seven, very slight, with long brown silky hair.
‘Come back here!’ shouted a woman’s voice from somewhere down a long corridor. ‘Nicoletta! Let your dad go to the door.’
The child flashed a knowing smile at the marshal and shot off along the red-tiled corridor on a plastic scooter. The marshal waited. He had announced his visit but not explained it. He had no idea whether he was here to comfort or to investigate. A man appeared from a room on the left carrying a forkful of spaghetti.
‘Come in. What’s it about? I’m sorry but we’re having supper. Nicoletta!’ He caught the scooting child on her return journey and ran along beside her, trying to insert the fork in her mouth. ‘Just one. Come on, just one.’ The child turned her face away from the fork and scooted off. Returning, she stopped dead and, with her triumphant gaze fixed on the marshal, allowed the fork to pass her lips before scooting off again.
‘Roberto! Who is it?’
‘Somebody from the carabinieri! I told you they rang! Come this way.’
A pleasant and surprisingly large room with french windows on to a terrace behind and a lot of green beyond. Turning to look at him from the dining table were a stolid, big-eyed boy and the woman of the identity card. She was very heavily, if lopsidedly, made up and very much alive.
‘Do sit down … Marshal,’ the husband said. He didn’t say where and left the marshal to decide for himself while he wound more spaghetti on to a fork from the bowl in front of an empty chair.
‘You’re going to have to stop giving her chocolate.’
‘It’s the only thing she’ll eat. What do you want me to do? Let her starve?’ The woman poured herself half a glass of red and looked at the marshal. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’
‘Nicoletta! Come back here!’
‘I’m not hungry!’
The marshal glanced over his shoulder and saw the scooter flash past the doorway pursued by the forkful of food. At the table, the boy shovelled and sucked at his spaghetti, oblivious.
Perplexed though he was, the marshal was grateful for the distraction of all this rushing about since it gave him time to rearrange his ideas. The woman had asked him for an explanation of his presence but seemed no more interested in whether he answered than in whether her little girl ate anything. He decided to say, ‘I think you lost your handbag today.’
‘Oh, thank goodness, I knew I must have left it at the supermarket—that’s the second time I’ve done that—you can’t imagine what a day I’ve had without it. I had to pick the keys up from the daily woman—my mother has keys but she’d already gone to pick Nicoletta up from school and take her to dancing class …’
The little girl shot in through the door, scooted round
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