Chapter 56 Rosie – Day 11
‘Stazione di Polizia,’ the driver says, nodding his shaved head at a set of imposing metal gates. A rectangle of mud-brown concrete and a limp Italian flag welcomes them. It’s the first time he’s spoken since picking her up.
For most of the journey he struggled to keep his eyes on the road.
They kept flitting to her in the rear view mirror.
She was hyperventilating the entire time.
What the hell was Theo planning to do to her?
He turned into a stranger before her terrified eyes.
The flash of knives will haunt her for a long time.
The driver leads her to the doors of the building.
Adrenaline courses through her. She can’t feel the pain in her bare feet.
He talks in Italian with the officer behind the desk.
Kept separate by a piece of scuffed plastic.
The stark room smells of floor polish and lies.
A broken blind hangs on a wide window and a strip light flickers over a table full of dog-eared magazines.
She was so wrong about Theo. How could she have been so stupid? She can’t catch her breath. The moment he casually burnt the Polaroid plays over in her terrified mind.
‘Signorina?’ The officer calls her to come forward.
The door slams and she realises the taxi driver has left. She didn’t get to say thank you or apologise for not paying him. What did he say to the man behind the desk? Are they sending someone to the lake house? Is that what the taxi driver instructed?
The officer talks to her in rapid Italian.
‘I don’t understand. Do you speak English?’ Tears fall down her flushed cheeks. ‘You need to speak to my fiancé. Theo Fraser. He knows where Carla Conti is.’ Her breath judders. ‘Find his mum, too; Marianne Fraser. Together they’re hiding what happened to Danielle Dixon!’
The officer frowns and replies in Italian. She clenches her fists in frustration that he can’t understand the severity of what she’s telling him.
‘Carla Conti. Danielle Dixon,’ she says, slower, elongating the syllables.
His stern frown softens as those names appear to ring a bell, but he still doesn’t rush and call for back-up like she needs him to. How is she going to get him to understand?
‘Help me, please.’ Rosie wipes her cheeks. ‘I need to talk to the police officer, Giovanni . . . I don’t know his surname. He knows me. He knows the Fraser family.’
‘Giovanni?’ the officer repeats. He points to a framed team photograph on the wall behind him, tapping Giovanni’s headshot.
‘That’s him. Giovanni!’
Her spirits lift. He leans across and picks up a phone, still going too slow for Rosie’s liking. After a brief conversation with someone on the other end, he gestures for her to take a seat and wait.
She prays Giovanni is on his way. She slumps onto a cold, plastic chair, her legs unable to hold her upright any longer. How has the night ended like this? Her dress is torn and her arms have painful scratches criss-crossing her sunburnt skin.
She closes her eyes and replays everything Theo told her.
Something gnaws at her. It was the shocked expression on his face when she told him where she’d found the Polaroid.
He insisted his mum had nothing to do with Dani’s disappearance but how else to explain that photo turning up in Marianne’s art book?
He said he had no idea where she went or where her body might be, but how can she believe him?
He’d made sure there was no evidence that he was here that summer. You don’t do that if you’re innocent.
Her legs jig impatiently. She’s not sure how long she’s sat there for; the clock on the wall isn’t working.
No one is in a rush to help her. Her stomach growls with hunger and she wants a glass of water, but everyone looks too busy to interrupt.
The phones have been ringing non-stop since she arrived.
The sound of sirens filters through every time the door opens.
An officer leads in two men in handcuffs.
One of them she recognises from the restaurant the other night.
He has a nasty cut running across his left eye, and blood trickles down his scowling face.
Although she can’t undertand, she takes a wild guess that it’s vulgar obscenities flowing from his split lip.
She turns away and tries to make herself invisible, praying for news soon.
Finally, Giovanni rushes in. Tears fill her eyes at seeing someone she recognises. Fenna told her she can trust him. He speaks to the man behind the desk and turns to her, doing a double take at her appearance.
‘Giovanni, Theo—’ she starts.
He speaks over her. ‘Rosie? It’s a busy night.’ She’s never seen him so harassed. His face is drawn of colour and deep bags ring his bloodshot eyes. ‘There was a vigil for Carla that turned nasty. A lot of people were there for a fight.’
His gaze flicks to the man with the bleeding head who is yelling and kicking the metal leg of the chair beside him, two other officers dart over to deal with him.
‘Giovanni, I need to talk to you,’ she pleads over the commotion.
His name is called from the front desk. A piece of paper is handed to him. She can’t get his full attention.
He looks up from the note in his hand. ‘Theo? Theo Fraser?’ He frowns.
Rosie leaps up. ‘Yes. That’s why I’m here. I tried to tell your colleague but he doesn’t speak English—’
A wailing siren drowns her out. The injured man yells in pain as he’s pinned to the ground. The pounding in her head increases. A phone rings. She can’t think straight. The officer behind the desk passes Giovanni the receiver, and shouts at the man who quickly shuts up. Her heart thrums.
The waiting room is suddenly quiet and Rosie’s not sure what is worse – the rowdy noise or the silence. Her grubby, bloodied feet tap the lino, waiting for Giovanni to get off the phone and speak to her.
Come on, come on.
Eventually, Giovanni hangs up. He races through the door without giving her a backward glance.
***
The hours tick by and still no one has come to see her.
Giovanni hasn’t returned. There is a steady stream of men with injuries from the vigil.
The other officers refuse to speak to her when she asks for an update, instead she is given a plastic cup of room-temperature tap water, and shooed away. She wants to scream for attention.
She glances out of the window at the sudden commotion.
Police cars zoom into the parking area. A car door slams and Fenna steps out.
Rosie blinks. Fenna? What is she doing here?
Her stomach lurches at how pale and fragile she looks, guided by a police officer who assists her up the steps.
There’s blood on her pretty green wrap dress.
Fenna’s eyes meet Rosie’s through the window. She looks terrified.
Two police officers appear. ‘Rosie Riley, you need to come with me.’
‘W-What’s happening?’ she stutters.
She is led into a small room down a dingy corridor. Her heart thuds wildly. She prays one of them will tell her what’s going on but they both remain silent.
There is a beat-up black plastic chair behind a small graffiti-covered desk. She drops to the seat and swallows the bile at the back of her throat.
The police officer’s gun is aimed at her chest. Her eyes dart between the weapon and the deep frown sliced in his brow.
She can’t breathe.
The interrogation room is too hot. Too cramped. Filled with fear. Her legs shake as adrenaline zips across every tense muscle.
Another officer fires rapid Italian words in her direction.
She squeezes her clammy hands. Again and again.
Needing to feel something real to prove this is happening.
The movement brings a faint waft of the coconut aftersun she rubbed over her skin before she got dressed, reminding her how differently this day had started.
The holiday was never supposed to end like this.
Her eyes fall to the blood stains on her dress. The many rips in the delicate silk material. Once the colour of early-morning sunshine, now smeared with mud and splatters of deep crimson. If she tried to explain the past twenty-four hours, would they believe her? Where would she begin?
The officer’s unarmed colleague steps closer. He looms over her. His eyes are dark and expressionless. She needs to tell them what she knows, but her words escape her. Shock steals her sentences.
He clears his throat and begins again in English. ‘You are under arrest . . .’
A rush of nausea leaps in her stomach. She shakes her head, blinking rapidly.
‘Under arrest? For what?’
Her heart pounds with every second it takes for him to answer. When he speaks again, the world stops turning.
‘Murder.’