When the Dead Awaken Read Online Free Page A

her anyway. The public prosecutor’s salt-and-pepper hair was combed straight back from his forehead and his brown eyes were even darker than she remembered. As always, Renda was wearing a well-pressed, dark suit with a waistcoat, a white shirt and a discreet tie. A pair of reading glasses was lying on his desk and his hands rested on the arms of the wheelchair. The same bomb which had bestowed on Sabrina her scars and an occasional and irritating tinnitus had paralysed the public prosecutor from the waist down.
    Renda shied away from media attention, and gossip about his private life was unthinkable. Quite simply, the man had sacrificed too much, and was regarded almost as a saint. Sabrina knew that he was unmarried and had no children. This ascetic way of life was something he shared with many other senior lawyers committed to a lifetime of fighting the Mafia.
    Sabrina regarded Federico Renda as a good boss. He had no favourites and was equally blunt and impatient with everybody. He nodded in the direction of a low chair and Sabrina sat down, crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. Her shoulder holster bumped against her ribs and she nudged it aside with her elbow.
    â€˜
Buongiorno, dottoressa
. How is it going?’
    â€˜We’ve nearly finished my area of investigation,’ she said. ‘We’ve identified a journalist and two young trade union members. There is a North African man in his thirties whose identity we haven’t been able to discover.’
    She shifted in her chair.
    â€˜In addition, an unexpected discovery was made among the other body parts. Quite remarkable, in fact. I’ve just come from speaking to Dr Sapienza.’
    She fell silent and was annoyed with herself: unexpected
and
remarkable. Great …
    Federico Renda smiled graciously, though his eyes showed no desire to join in. He gestured for her to continue. Most visitors were aware that the public prosecutor would prefer it if they would manage to come somewhere close to speaking faster than he could think.
    â€˜A thirty-five-year-old woman and a twelve-year-old boy. Mother and son. The woman was eight months pregnant,’ Sabrina went on.
    Renda leaned forwards.
    â€˜Lucia and Salvatore Forlani. They’ve been missing forthree years,’ she said. ‘The woman is from Castellarano, and the boy was born in Milan.’
    â€˜Do you know the town?’ he asked.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Reggio Emilia in the Apennine Mountains,’ Renda informed her. ‘It has a well-preserved city wall and a convent school for the daughters of wealthy families. Napoleon camped near the town in …’
    â€˜1801,’ she said. ‘Yes, so everyone tells me.’
    The public prosecutor smiled faintly.
    â€˜The Forlani tragedy,’ he said, leaning back and hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘You can be forgiven for not knowing the details, signorina. Circumstances forced us to play down the affair as far as the media was concerned. Defence of the Realm Act, for one. Whatever that means.’
    â€˜I understand.’
    She looked directly behind Renda, at the only photograph in the office: his obsession, L’Artista, the woman whose car bomb had put him in a wheelchair. The image was poor, the woman a blurred figure in an underground car park. The prosecutor had picked out the image from a CCTV camera, had it enlarged and mounted in an aluminium frame. A permanent reminder of the need for constant vigilance, Sabrina presumed. The woman had been caught mid stride: dark clothes, sunglasses, a dark baseball cap pulled down over her eyes. The figure hadstayed on the borderline between light and shade; the most difficult conditions for the CCTV cameras.
    Sabrina had seen the legendary assassin out of the corner of her eye – but far too late. The woman was unrecognizable behind her sunglasses and crash helmet, dressed in the uniform of the Italian highway patrol, the Polizia