The Church of Lost Souls 10

‘This is too weird,’ said Paolo, making a sign to Maurizio for a beer. ‘Do you guys want one?’

Sofia took an espresso and I had my usual small cappuccino. If we’d been sitting down in a café near The Spanish Steps this little round would have cost a tenner easily but standing at the bar of the good old bus depot cafe it was barely a couple of quid.

‘So what’s the plan now?’ I asked, looking more towards Sofia than Paolo, who was necking the first beer with one hand and ordering a second with the other.

‘If I was you I’d go back to the police station and ask them to inspect the blood on the manhole. That way they might check what’s underneath to see if the girl’s down there,’ said Sofia. ‘If she was reported missing they’ll be keen to find her. The police hate it when Americans go missing. It ruins the economy, puts people off coming. Besides, this is probably the best lead they’ve had so far, assuming she hasn’t been found already. They may want to check the joke shop too.’

‘I’d love to be there when they do that,’ I said, imagining the old man being carted off in handcuffs trying in vain to hide his face from the crowd with his Corriere Della Sport.

We downed the drinks and headed straight for the police station, where I asked to speak with Ms Allegro, the female officer Paolo and I had seen the day before.

When she arrived she asked what the matter was and I told her about the blood on the manhole. ‘This is Sofia, she found it. Tell her, Sofia,’ I said.

The officer looked ominously towards Sofia as she concisely relayed her findings.

‘Come with me,’ said the officer, and we were led to the room again. She asked us to sit down and wait for a moment and then she turned to leave.

When she came back, she was carrying a document. She joined us by sitting down at the table. ‘It’s good news,’ she said. ‘The American woman has been found.’

‘What?’ I said, feeling quite hurt that she was alright.

‘Yes,’ said the officer. ‘This is good news, no?’

‘Of course it is,’ I said, ‘but that doesn’t explain the blood on the manhole and what the old man said to Paolo. He basically accused me of murdering this woman, and when we came here yesterday to report what he’d said you told us that she was actually missing. What are the chances of that?’

‘Surely it’s a crime to lie that someone’s been murdered,’ said Paolo.

‘It’s not a crime, Paolo,’ said Sofia.

‘Alora, so,’ said the officer. ‘This old man is maybe a little, how you say, crazy?’

‘He can’t be crazy,’ I said. ‘He owns a joke shop.’ Paolo sniggered at that, then held a hand up in apology.

The officer raised her eyebrows as if to suggest that we may be wiser to consider letting sleeping dogs lie.

The officer was holding the document in her lap and in the process of pretending to scratch my leg I leant close enough to be able to make out a name in bold type at the top.

Maria Fontanelle.

I looked over to Sofia and smiled.

‘So when did the American woman turn up and what had happened to her? Was she abducted or something?’ asked Paolo.

The officer leant back in her chair. ‘Let’s just say she has difficulties.’

‘Difficulties?’ I said. ‘You’re damn right she’s got difficulties. Working for that old git must be a blinking nightmare.’

The officer smiled. She’d done her job and now it was time to go. As far as we could tell, the officer knew more about the American woman than we did and from what there was to know was of no importance to us. The old man would not be investigated and no action would be taken against the woman.

To me, though, the woman I’d met in the joke shop hadn’t seemed in the slightest bit crazy. Coming to think of it she would have been the last person I’d expect to go around hoaxing her own disappearance to the police. I’d only assumed she was American by her accent. T

Whatever the reality of the situation, there were far too many coincidences running round my head to even consider thinking objectively. I needed Sofia to help process the information.

The officer led us back to the foyer and thanked us for coming. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘things happen for reasons we can never fully understand. They just happen and then they pass. Is life, no?’

Taking the officer’s hand as she held it out for me to shake, I raised it to my lips and kissed it, saying a cheeky thank you.

The officer chuckled briefly and then offered her hand to Paolo, who knelt down theatrically in a bid to kiss it. ‘Grazi mille,’ he said. ‘Mwah.’

Sofia and the officer shook hands and then we left.

Out on the street Paolo was ecstatic that the woman was safe. ‘It’s over, finally!’ he shouted, teeth gritted.

But Sofia and I didn’t join him in his joy.

‘I saw the name of the woman on the file,’ I said.

‘I knew you’d do that,’ said Sofia. ‘What was it?’

‘Maria Fontanelle.’

Sofia asked me to repeat the name. ‘Maria Fontanelle. Not very American, is it?’

‘It’s not that, James,’ she said. ‘Lots of Americans have Italian names. Besides, she might have an Italian father. She does live here.’

My name’s not very English so I could see her point. ‘So what’s it all about, Frau inspector?’

Sofia stopped and turned to face us. ‘Get this,’ she said, ‘Fontanelle is the name of the cemetery in Naples where all the dead bodies were taken when the plague wiped out the city in 1656. That’s when the Cult of The Purgative Souls was formed.’

‘Oh God, not them again,’ I said.

‘There were no burials at Fontanelle, just bodies piled to the brim like rubbish. That’s why the cult started up, to purge the souls of all those who were taken there and never properly buried. Because of this they were therefore perceived to be in a state of purgatory by those who came after them. The cult’s sole purpose was to bless each and every body that lay there.’ 

‘How is it you know all this?’ I asked her.

‘I have a photographic memory,’ she said, ‘but I already told you I studied it literally three months ago. I’ll prove it to you if you like. That sign on the manhole? I’ll draw it and then we can go to a library and you can see for yourself.’

In those days, old books on ancient taboo, secret societies and suchlike were readily available to the public.

‘It’s OK, Sofia,’ I said. ‘We believe you.’

Paolo nodded. ‘So we’re messing around with some old death cult. That’s just brilliant,’ he said, not at all impressed. ‘In Rio de Janeiro they have death cults like this and believe me they’re really messed up. Drugs, guns, everything.’

It was at that time that I thought about the woman’s Christian name, Maria.

‘Her name was Maria,’ I said.

‘I thought of that too,’ said Sofia.

‘You’d make a damn good detective,’ said Paolo.

‘I’m thinking the same thing. This is fun,’ she said, smiling.

We decided to go back to the campsite, base as we called it.

We were all hungry so we stopped off at the rotisserie van, got a chicken and then went for some bits at the supermarket.

Back at base Paolo suggested I go over to them for grub in a while so I went back to my room for a shower.

As I opened the door a piece of paper scrubbed up against the floor. I picked it up and read a short note from reception.

‘Mr James. Maria call you this day. She ask you call her.’ The number noted was indeed Maria’s.