God's Spy by Juan Gómez-Jurado Read Free Book Online Page A

address?’
‘The paper was found covered with blood and crushed into a ball. It’s clearly a message from the killer. The absence of the victim’s eyes could be not so much a punishment as a sign . . . as if he were telling us where to look.’
‘Or that we’re blind.’
‘A killer who likes to play games. The first of his kind to show up in Italy. That’s why I think Troi wanted you to be in charge, Paola. Not your usual detective, but someone who can think creatively.’
Dicanti reflected on Pontiero’s words. If it were true, then the risks doubled. The profile of a game-player typically corresponded to an extremely intelligent person, someone who was usually much more difficult to catch, as long as they didn’t trip up. Sooner or later they all tripped up, but in the meantime they filled the morgue with bodies.
‘OK, let’s think for a minute. What streets do we know with those initials?’
‘Viale del Muro Torto.’
‘No, it runs through a park and it doesn’t have street numbers, Maurizio.’
‘In that case Monte Tarpeo is out too. It’s the street that crosses the Palazzo dei Conservatori gardens.’
‘And Monte Testaccio?’
‘By Parco Testaccio . . . That might be it.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Dicanti picked up the phone and dialled a number in the police department. ‘Documentation? Ah, Silvio, hello. Take a look for me and see if there’s a number 6 on Monte Testaccio. And could you bring a map of the city streets to the conference room? Thanks.’
While they waited, Pontiero continued with the list of evidence.
‘And the last, for now: item number four: crumpled paper, one and a quarter inch square. Found in the victim’s right eye socket, in identical condition to that of item number three. The kind of paper, its composition, weight and percentage of chlorine are being investigated. Written on the paper, by hand, using a ballpoint pen, the word:

    ‘ Undeviginti.’
‘It’s fucking hieroglyphics.’ Dicanti was exasperated. ‘I just hope it’s not the continuation of a message that he left on the first victim, because that first part went up in smoke.’
‘I guess we have to resign ourselves to what we have, for now.’
‘Stupendous, Pontiero. Why don’t you tell me what undeviginti means, so I can resign myself to that?’
‘Your Latin’s a little rusty, Dicanti. It means nineteen.’
‘Damn it, that’s right! I was always failing at school. And the arrow?’
At that moment one of the assistants from Documentation entered the room with the street map of Rome.
‘Here you are, ispettore. I looked for the street you asked me about: number 6 Monte Testaccio doesn’t exist. That street only has fourteen distinct residences.’
‘Thanks, Silvio. Do me a favour: would you stay here with Pontiero and me and help us go through all the streets in Rome that begin with MT. It’s a shot in the dark, but I have a hunch.’
‘Let’s hope you’re a better psychologist than fortune-teller, Dottoressa Dicanti. You’d do better to look in the Bible.’
Three heads spun round to the entrance of the conference room. In the doorway stood a priest dressed in dog collar and suit. He was tall and thin, a wiry frame, and noticeably bald. He seemed to be about fifty but was well preserved, and he had strong, hard features that testified to having seen many dawns in a harsh climate. Dicanti’s first thought was that he looked more like a soldier than a priest.
‘Who are you and what do you want? This is a restricted area. Please leave immediately,’ said Pontiero.
‘I am Father Anthony Fowler and I’m here to give you a hand.’ His Italian was grammatically correct but slightly sing-song and hesitant.
‘This is part of the police department and you’ve entered without authorisation. If you want to help us, find a church and pray for our souls.’
Pontiero started to walk towards the new arrival, determined to make him leave whether he wanted to or not. Dicanti had already turned back to the