A Known Evil: A gripping debut serial killer thriller full of twists you won’t see coming. Aidan Conway

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СКАЧАТЬ some moments in silence before the judge seemed to remember his manners.

      “Can I offer you something to drink, Inspector? Coffee, a glass, perhaps, of mineral water?”

      Rossi was on his third or fourth coffee already and opted for the water. The judge returned with an ornate, miniature silver tray on which were balanced two delicate glasses. He looked around in vain for coasters.

      “I’m really not sure where anything is in this house,” he explained. “It was my mother’s and then, when I divorced, well. Still on good terms though,” he added with scant conviction. “And now with the boy needing to be looked after, it’s all so, so up in the air.”

      He trailed off in his explanation making it all quite clear to Rossi.

      Already floundering, he thought. And now all this.

      The judge left the tray on the table between them and then, clearing his throat, began what appeared destined to be a speech of sorts.

      “I feel,” he began, “about last night, that I owe you and your fellow officers something of an apology. I was really quite,” he began to search for the exact word, then as if contenting himself with a cliché, concluded, “not myself.”

      “Think nothing of it,” said Rossi. “It is quite understandable, really, isn’t it?”

      Silence reigned for a few moments as the two men reprised their different parts in the previous night’s drama.

      It wasn’t exactly changing the subject but Rossi thought he had better begin to at least get the ball rolling with a more predictable question.

      “Was Maria seeing someone?”

      The judge gave a shrug of sorts.

      “I believe there was someone,” he said. “But it was all very casual, as far as I knew.”

      “Did she mention a name?”

      He shook his head.

      “We didn’t have that kind of relationship,” he said. “She would always go to her mother for advice about boys. But that was a long time ago.”

      “Was she in trouble in any way? Did your daughter ever mention having enemies?” Rossi asked.

      “Only mine,” he replied. “As far as I can possibly know. She was a very independent woman. Keeping on top of her home life and her work. I can’t imagine she had much time to make enemies. If that’s what you mean.”

      “I mean,” said Rossi, “was she perhaps involved with any investigations, in her line of work. She was a lawyer, was she not?”

      “Yes,” he nodded. “She always wanted to go her own way in the world. Not mine. Always did the opposite.” He almost gave a little laugh as he seemed to remember something. “I wanted her to take up ballet. I knew certain people at La Scala. But she wanted to do martial arts! Of course, I was misguided. Besides, she was always going to be much too tall to be a dancer. Still, that was her way.”

      “Admirable, wouldn’t you say?”

      “You could say that.”

      There was a loaded pause before Rossi continued. A clock was ticking somewhere.

      “She had a part-time position with a studio. I didn’t ask her very much. She spoke of regular work: family-law cases, small property affairs. Nothing remarkable. And then,” he added, with what appeared to be a melancholy emphasis, “she had her voluntary work.”

      “For whom?” Rossi enquired, interested now.

      “Whomsoever required it. She was good like that. Very generous. Willing to give of herself. Always off travelling to this place or that place.”

      “So you don’t feel that someone could have wanted to murder your daughter because she was creating problems, getting in the way of anything?”

      The judge was looking across the table at Rossi. In his lined and fissured face, Rossi could see some other preoccupation, something other than the investigation.

      “I believe you are English, aren’t you?” he said suddenly.

      “You could say that,” Rossi replied.

      “How do I say my daughter has died, is dead? What is the word for la morte?”

      It didn’t seem quite the moment for language lessons, but Rossi felt a certain duty.

      “My daughter is dead. She was killed. She was murdered.”

      “Oh,” said the judge. “I see.” He looked up, suddenly, in an almost sprightly manner. “Do you ski, Inspector? You know, I am a member of the Alpine Club of Italy. We had planned a week together, in the Dolomites. We go most years.”

      “I am sorry,” said Rossi, a little confused, not sure what question, if any, he was answering. “I have never learned.”

      “But you could learn!” he countered. “It’s never too late!”

      Rossi smiled and shook his head.

      “No, it’s not for me, really.”

      But the judge had already drifted elsewhere with his thoughts.

      “And do you think they will come for me, Inspector?”

      Rossi looked across the table at the judge. He appeared, for all the world, like someone who had simply enquired as to whether or not it would be a fine day tomorrow.

      “No, I don’t believe so, sir. I really don’t believe it is a question of them.”

      The judge was looking straight at him now, his gaze stony, his mouth pursed tight, as though holding back an avalanche of emotions or profound knowledge.

      “I want you to know,” Rossi continued, “that I feel sure your daughter was the victim of a killer who chooses his victims according only to his own deranged criteria and not because of who you are or who your daughter was. And besides, his methods,” he began again, before feeling an irresistible pressure to lower his gaze, “are not consistent with the type of murder you perhaps fear. I am sure the killer doesn’t even know who you are. Just as he didn’t care who the first two victims were, and who the next will be, if we don’t stop him first.”

      “Yes,” the judge nodded. “Yes. He must be apprehended. At all costs,” he added, seeming to have re-conquered some of his old fight and voglia di vivere, the will to live. It would have made it all so much more perversely understandable. A mafia-pool judge and the worst possible revenge – that of taking a loved one. It was, instead, a senseless killing. A random folly, like being struck by lightning on a family picnic.

      “You know,” he began again, “she always refused the protection she would have been entitled to. She maintained she could look after herself pretty well. She refused to live like a prisoner in her own life.”

      “She was very brave,” said Rossi.

      “Yes, she СКАЧАТЬ