Irrespective of how people looked at them, he had no intention of letting it interfere with the most exciting time of his life. It was his first holiday and the small attaché case he’d carried with him on the train from Gorey to Dublin and on the flight to Rome was filled with comics, books on Italy and the spool of red ribbon he’d taken from the upstairs sideboard. The attaché case felt like his last connection to home, and although home was not where he wanted to be, he kept it close to his chest as he and his mother travelled by train to Livorno, and then on to Suvereto.
Sipping his tea, he thought again about the Italian countryside, and how different it was from the Irish landscape. Although there were vast fields of green, in Tuscany especially, some of the land appeared scorched, and often more rugged than the Irish sunny southeast. The vineyards seemed to run for miles, and you could pass by vast spaces without seeing anyone in the fields. He was amazed by the buildings, both big and small, with their orange rooftops and their precarious positions, stuck into the side of the mountain or valley.
When the train had reached Livorno it was past noon, the worst time for the heat. His mother had displayed more than her usual share of displeasure and annoyance as they’d waited at the station. Whoever had been supposed to meet them was late. Up until that point, she’d been elated by the trip and at some moments had even been kind, as if she cared about him. He had wondered if, like the people, she too would be different outside of Ireland, but still he held back from asking her too much. Soon she’d reverted to blaming him for everything, annoyed when he needed desperately to go to the toilet, complaining about him leaving her alone in a strange country, but eventually she had let him go inside the station.
When he’d returned, she was like a different woman. Even before he’d got to the platform, he’d heard her high-pitched voice sounding excited – the unmistakable way she spoke around men. The man she’d been talking to wasn’t like any priest or religious person he’d seen before. His garments, despite the heat of the day, had been intricate and ornate, in vibrant reds and purples, but very much at odds with the large straw hat he was wearing, like the men in the pictures with the gondolas. He’d escorted them to the front of the station, where his car was waiting. When he’d taken off the hat in the car, the man had revealed a fat, bald head, sweating with the remaining strands of his hair. William had disliked him instantly.
He’d kept his silence in the back of the car all the way to Suvereto. The drive had been hot and clammy, with only a small breeze coming in from the windows at the front. He remembered feeling pleased he’d changed his clothes at Ciampino airport, putting on a new white shirt and navy shorts. The only thing that had bothered him was his milk-bottle-white legs, which had looked odd next to the tanned complexion of the man his mother referred to as ‘the bishop’. His mother hadn’t changed her clothes and was still wearing the heavy ones from home. She had discarded her jacket on the back seat beside him. Little by little she had pulled her skirt up well past her knees, undoing the top buttons of her blouse. Bishop Antonio had reacted the same way most men did. When she placed his hand on her right knee, he left it there. Applying her bright red lipstick, looking into the dusty vanity mirror on the passenger’s side, his mother had sat back, satisfied.
He left his memories and turned his mind back to his reading and research, while almost automatically switching on the afternoon news on the radio to keep up with events. The main coverage was still about the murdered girls. There was one difference, however: it was the first time they had mentioned the ribbons or the plaiting. Taking out the Polaroid image of Caroline from his jacket pocket, all he felt now was sadness. The similarities to Silvia were undeniable. His mind began drifting again, thinking about the room with the windows, the heat of the Italian sun beaming through the stained glass. He could still see, in the corner of the room, the rocking horse, its brown mane brought over to one side, swaying back and forth as if the rider had just left the room, the horse carrying on, believing someone was still sitting in the saddle.
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Sunday, 9 October 2011, 2.00 p.m.
THE MORE KATE LOOKED AT THE IMAGES FROM THE Tuscan burial site, the more convinced she became that if the killer was linked to this death forty years ago, either directly or indirectly, he had carried the memory of it with him all his adult life. Something had acted as the catalyst, prompting him to take action now, but the impetus, although important, wasn’t the key. The answer lay somewhere between this young Italian girl’s death and the death of Caroline Devine, and Amelia Spain, forty years later.
O’Connor, who was talking into his phone, something which had seemed permanently attached to his ear since she’d got there, looked up when she stood in front of him. She waited for him to finish his call.
‘What was it you said, O’Connor, about Caroline and Amelia being polls apart?’