The Innocent Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Magdalen Nabb
the table and out again, always with that little triumphant smile on her face which, though she never looked at him, was directed at the marshal.
The father was winding another forkful from her bowl.
‘Have you made that appointment with the pediatrician?’
‘I think my mother might have, I’ll ask her tomorrow afternoon. We’re going shopping.’
The little boy spoke up: ‘She’s supposed to be taking me to football practice tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Roberto! Can you take Marco to football practice tomorrow?’
Whether he answered yes or no, the marshal didn’t notice. The woman’s hair was much crimped and brightly coloured though very untidy, but what amazed him was her make-up. It was orangey brown and thickly plastered on, and each eyelid had a bright-green slash which might as well have been aimed at her by the child dashing past on the scooter. It gave her a wild look, though she was clearly unruffled by life and her smug, smiling expresson was a practised version of her daughter’s.
‘Marco, go and bring a glass for the marshal.’ The boy slid down from his chair obediently.
‘No, no, Signora …’
‘Shh!’ When the boy had left the room, she leaned forward and whispered, ‘Don’t say anything to Roberto about the handbag. He’s already annoyed about the pediatrician and I’m not telling him that my mother’s already taken her. He said she could be running a very slight temperature all the time and that’s why she has no appetite. He said he wants to do blood tests, can you imagine? I’ve no intention of letting him. I can’t bear the thought of them sticking a needle in her, wouldn’t you feel the same?’
‘I—’
The little boy returned with a glass and sat down. He took a piece of bread and mopped up every last bit of sauce from his pasta dish, then handed over the clean plate underneath for some of the big frittata that was in the centre of the table next to the salad bowl. The marshal, watching him, thought that at least this fluffy-headed woman cooked. It was late. The frittata looked good and he was hungry.
‘Are you sure you won’t have a drop … ?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Mum! It’s onions again. I don’t like the onion one.’ He didn’t stop eating, though.
‘Well, I can’t help that.’
‘Why can’t you tell Miranda I don’t like onions?’
‘I have told her.’
‘Well, tell her again.’
‘Do you want some more?’
While she was serving him another large slice, the little girl came skipping in and started dancing round the table with a bar of chocolate in her hand, followed by her worn-out father who sat down in front of a bowl of pasta which must, by now, have been quite cold. The marshal, knowing he was going to have to get this woman into his office, away from the husband, if he wanted to get any sense out of her, stood up.
‘I’m sorry to have had to disturb you.’ The husband was getting to his feet.
‘No, no … I’m sure the signora will show me out as she’s finished her meal …’
He looked grateful. Through a mouthful of cold spaghetti he said to his wife, ‘What was it about, then, did you witness a road accident or something?’
‘Your wife could be a witness to an accident, yes … nothing to worry about. Excuse me.’
At the door, he turned his gaze on the woman in what he hoped was a threatening manner. ‘Signora, you didn’t leave your handbag at the supermarket. It was found by the pool in the upper botanical garden in Boboli.’
Until then, he hadn’t suspected her of anything more than woolly-headed selfishness and chronic laziness, but now her eyes were suddenly glittering and her face under the plastered make up flushed dark red. ‘If I didn’t leave it at the supermarket, somebody stole it. At the checkout when I was packing my stuff. They must have done. I saw a bunch of people there who looked like Albanians to me.
If you found the bag in the Boboli they’ll have dumped it there when they’d taken
The father was winding another forkful from her bowl.
‘Have you made that appointment with the pediatrician?’
‘I think my mother might have, I’ll ask her tomorrow afternoon. We’re going shopping.’
The little boy spoke up: ‘She’s supposed to be taking me to football practice tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Roberto! Can you take Marco to football practice tomorrow?’
Whether he answered yes or no, the marshal didn’t notice. The woman’s hair was much crimped and brightly coloured though very untidy, but what amazed him was her make-up. It was orangey brown and thickly plastered on, and each eyelid had a bright-green slash which might as well have been aimed at her by the child dashing past on the scooter. It gave her a wild look, though she was clearly unruffled by life and her smug, smiling expresson was a practised version of her daughter’s.
‘Marco, go and bring a glass for the marshal.’ The boy slid down from his chair obediently.
‘No, no, Signora …’
‘Shh!’ When the boy had left the room, she leaned forward and whispered, ‘Don’t say anything to Roberto about the handbag. He’s already annoyed about the pediatrician and I’m not telling him that my mother’s already taken her. He said she could be running a very slight temperature all the time and that’s why she has no appetite. He said he wants to do blood tests, can you imagine? I’ve no intention of letting him. I can’t bear the thought of them sticking a needle in her, wouldn’t you feel the same?’
‘I—’
The little boy returned with a glass and sat down. He took a piece of bread and mopped up every last bit of sauce from his pasta dish, then handed over the clean plate underneath for some of the big frittata that was in the centre of the table next to the salad bowl. The marshal, watching him, thought that at least this fluffy-headed woman cooked. It was late. The frittata looked good and he was hungry.
‘Are you sure you won’t have a drop … ?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Mum! It’s onions again. I don’t like the onion one.’ He didn’t stop eating, though.
‘Well, I can’t help that.’
‘Why can’t you tell Miranda I don’t like onions?’
‘I have told her.’
‘Well, tell her again.’
‘Do you want some more?’
While she was serving him another large slice, the little girl came skipping in and started dancing round the table with a bar of chocolate in her hand, followed by her worn-out father who sat down in front of a bowl of pasta which must, by now, have been quite cold. The marshal, knowing he was going to have to get this woman into his office, away from the husband, if he wanted to get any sense out of her, stood up.
‘I’m sorry to have had to disturb you.’ The husband was getting to his feet.
‘No, no … I’m sure the signora will show me out as she’s finished her meal …’
He looked grateful. Through a mouthful of cold spaghetti he said to his wife, ‘What was it about, then, did you witness a road accident or something?’
‘Your wife could be a witness to an accident, yes … nothing to worry about. Excuse me.’
At the door, he turned his gaze on the woman in what he hoped was a threatening manner. ‘Signora, you didn’t leave your handbag at the supermarket. It was found by the pool in the upper botanical garden in Boboli.’
Until then, he hadn’t suspected her of anything more than woolly-headed selfishness and chronic laziness, but now her eyes were suddenly glittering and her face under the plastered make up flushed dark red. ‘If I didn’t leave it at the supermarket, somebody stole it. At the checkout when I was packing my stuff. They must have done. I saw a bunch of people there who looked like Albanians to me.
If you found the bag in the Boboli they’ll have dumped it there when they’d taken
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