"No, no, Signora!"

The policewoman speed-waddled towards Ike like an overweight avenger, her bust nearly bursting from her midnight-blue uniform jacket. She wore a curious flat-crowned hat, the brim turned up at both sides and a light blue skirt with red stripes that stretched over her fleshy thighs. The soles of her sturdy shoes slapped on the stone floor of the Questura, the echo of her steps ricocheting from the domed ceiling of a corridor as endless and draughty as it was ill-lit.

The wooden bench Viktor, Graziano, the local archaeologist, and Ike were sitting on dug into her buttocks, and her mood soured as the minutes crept on. They had been biding their time for over an hour, waiting until the Commissario finished grilling the husband of the dead woman and it would be their turn.

"No, Signora," the woman repeated and waggled an admonishing finger. "No telephone at police station."

She stopped in front of the bench and glared at the black rectangle in its lime-green pouch.

Ike sighed, snapped the lid shut and pocketed the gadget.

"Sorry. Scusi, I mean."

She could only hope Gary got the message she sent while clambering out of the catacombs. Reception had been crap, but with luck, that missive still reached its destination.

No chance afterwards. Police cars appeared to be just as no-go when it came to modern telecommunication as the cop shop itself.

The woman threw her another peeved look before returning to her chair placed in front of the glass door that partitioned off the next section of the corridor. The door was set into walls of dirty white plasterwork that arched above them, supporting an equally dingy ceiling at least four metres over their heads. At regular intervals, grey pillars jutted from the walls together with light fixtures that spread a dim glow on their immediate vicinity, but no more. Globes hanging from the ceiling bore the brunt of the lighting job but failed just as miserably. Everything in this place seemed as over-dimensioned as it was under-illuminated, a historical palace gone to seeds.

Perhaps, it was all deliberate, designed to awe the visitors. Or would that be prisoners? Well, nobody had said anything about them being arrested.

So far.

Ike shifted on the bench but got no more comfortable. Her back hurt. Her buttocks ditto. Her eyes itched. The bottle of water Shalon had pressed into her hands before they got taken away was almost empty. And thoughts kept buzzing through her head like a swarm of carrion flies.

What would yet another dodgy death mean for LiteraTours? For herself?

Well, it wasn't one of their guests who had tumbled to her death.

That didn't make things any better.

I'm a corpse magnet.

From corpses, her mind somehow leap-frogged to Boris, the Corgi, hopefully, restored to Brigitte by now. Heavens, Brigitte.

She needed to know matters had gone distinctly pear-shaped. Ike could only hope, Shalon put her in the picture when handing over the leash of the dog. That was assuming, the poor girl would find the time now she had a death on her hands. For a moment, Ike felt guilty for not being there to help. The moment passed. Like so many before it.

She peeped across the corridor at the industrial clock hanging over the fire extinguisher.

Only five minutes since she last checked.

The two archaeologists didn't seem to mind the wait. They were speculating what sort of place the dead tourist might have crashed into and kept talking shop.

"It looked like a separate tomb, not part of the catacombs," Viktor said.

"I would think so, yes," Graziano, the local archaeologist said.

Like his German colleague, he spoke excellent English with only the teensiest tendency to add an extra a or e to the end of almost every second word. His latest utterance would more phonetically transcribe as "I woulda thinke so." He also kept waving his arms about alarmingly.

"From what I could see the tomb originated from a different period. Much earlier, if you ask me," the local expert added.

"Meaning?"

"Hard to tell from above. But judging from the pots, plates and amphorae, I spotted down there I would say pre-Imperial."

Viktor leaned forwards. "I'm not a specialist in Roman art, man. You need to explain that stuff."

"With pleasure." Graziano sucked in a load of stale air and raised his arms towards the ceiling as if seeking the blessing of invisible deities.

He seemed to have received it and burst into speech. "The pre-eminent type of fine pottery prevailing in the first century before the Common Era and in the early part of the next was called Arretine ware. Made in Arezzo, Tuscany. It's a tasteful, red-gloss ware with reliefs, used by the upper classes. Exactly what I spotted in that tomb."

"Oho, somebody had money then," Viktor said.

A picture of the dead tourist, sprawled between the bones and potsherds rose in Ike's mind. The two experts seemed to have conveniently forgotten that their cherished discovery had been paid for with a violent death. Yes, the woman in the camouflage trousers had entered forbidden territory, ignoring the warnings. But death was a rather drastic punishment for what was in reality a minor transgression. Ike felt a lump in her throat, sensed the prick of tears and shook herself.

The two gentlemen never noticed.

"Still, that's a pretty wide range, isn't it?" said Viktor. "Could still date to the age of the Ceasars."

Graziano's eyes crinkled at the edges, and he pointed his digit at his German colleague. "Sure. But did you see the three amphorae leaning against the wall? They're of a type that got introduced roughly in the middle of the first century before the Common Era. These two finds taken together tell me that the tomb we—eh—found is a lot older than the catacombs. If you ask me, it's not connected. And the best is yet to come."

Much as she hated herself for it, Ike pricked her ears.

"Did you spot the furniture?"

The dusty oblong surfaced in Ike's mind the same moment as Viktor spoke. "Something that looked like a sofa, you mean?"

Graziano slapped his palms on his thighs. "Si, si, a couch. Reinforced with metal, otherwise, it wouldn't have survived in such an excellent condition. At the very least, you wouldn't have been able to work out what you were looking at. Which means that too was expensive, owned by a member of the upper classes." His eyes shone. "What does that tell us?"

Viktor's bushy eyebrows drew together. "One of the old family tombs? Like in Via Appia?"

Good job Graziano wasn't wearing a hairpiece, he was shaking his head so wildly, the thing would have taken off.

"Ah, no, no no. Not family. Not at all. I give you another clue. That tomb was definitely outside the Colline gate. And the deceased was female."

The skull with the long hair. And the broken barrette lying on top. The draughts blowing through the station corridor found their way under Ike's fleece jacket, reached for her skin with cold fingers, almost crossing the barrier between the living and the dead. For a moment, she thought a foul odour had wormed its way into her nose, but that had to be her imagination. Or the remains of rubbish on the soles of her trainers.

She shrugged off the gruesome image and plunged into the conversation. "You're telling us the hidden tomb belongs belong to a Vestal buried alive."

Graziano bounced on his seat with excitement. "Esattamente!"

Once more, the musky draught whispered along the corridor and crawled up Ike's spine.

Her imagination at work again. This was a real police station, and she was waiting to be interrogated. If any place would be free of spectres, this one was it.

Nor was it the right place for Ike's extraordinary take on magic.

Nor was their stint at the Questura a scene in, say, a Donna Leon novel. Or Bulwer-Lytton if one favoured the historical overtones. Neither author had ever tempted her to undertake a book-dive and risk one of her head-splitting migraines.

Why should she? It wasn't that she could take anything with her. Other than knowledge, of course.

"Am I wrong or were they not supposed to be buried?" Viktor asked.

"Not wrong. The blood of the holy virgins was taboo for the Romans. So they stripped the poor women of their badges of office, carried them in a funeral litter through the streets of Rome and led them to a furnished room underground where they then perished a few days later. Of natural causes. Like suffocation or thirst. Chillingly clever. We knew the Vestals needed provisions to stay alive for a while, hence the dishes and amphorae. Well, if this isn't a Vestal's last resting place, I don't know what is. It just has to be, the location says it all."

Oh, did it really? But something, perhaps the unearthly eddy swirling around Ike's feet, seemed to support Graziano's enthusiasm.

More arm waving. "It would be the find of the century. Give the old Romans their due, they didn't lust after the blood of sacred virgins. Only a few Vestals were tried, and only a handful ever died that horrid death."

Teeth appeared among Viktor's beard. "Good to hear."

"None were found. Until now."

"Found" was not quite the word Ike would have used.

From the door to their right came a babble of voices, then it opened, and the husband of the late tourist emerged, flanked by two beefy policemen in similar dark blue jackets like the matron still scowling from her seat. Their trousers were made of the same light blue cloth as the policewoman's skirt and bore a matching red stripe at the side. At least the peaked caps the male officers wore were more in line with Ike's expectations of a policeman's headgear.

Next, she noted the handcuffs.

Not dangling from the coppers' back pockets.

On the husband's wrists.

###

Ike wanted to reach for him, ask if the man needed help. But all he did was stare ahead, incredulity dulling his vision.

Or would it be grief?

The moment came and went, too fast to catch. Their shoes squealing along on the stone floor, the officers inexorably dragged the hapless husband away from her, until the little cavalcade reached the glass door. One officer pushed digits on a keypad, the door swung open, and the trio marched through.

Behind them, the panel snapped swung shut again with a determined snick.

"Signora Wordsworth?"

Ike found herself addressed by the Commissario. Squat and unshaven, the policeman conveyed subtle elegance through his crease-free olive chinos, a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, and expensive-looking leather moccasins.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at the inspection and held out a hand as soft as a feather pillow. Ike shook it once, then withdrew hers.

"Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Signore. But we made good progress."

Well, an arrest would count as that, yes.

Ike wasn't keen on mystery novels and watched even fewer crime programmes. The Midsomer Murders were fun, but her recent altercations with the German cops had taught her to be careful.

"Are you going to question us all together?"

"Not at all," the man said in a cultured bass, his Italian accent lighter than Graziano's. "The Signora will go first if you please. Then I will talk to the gentlemen, one after the other."

Ike swallowed. "I didn't see much. Nor did the others. We all arrived—uh, after the fact."

A friendly smile, as her unwanted companion ushered her into an interview room that, apart from its high ceiling, could have been a meeting place anywhere in Europe. Only, meeting rooms seldom reeked of cold sweat and desperation.

The Commissario wrinkled his nose and pulled a chair away from the table. "Please, sit down. Sorry, the windows are stuck, but it's not so bad, the air is not fresh outside either. Some water? I would offer you an Espresso, but the machine is broken."

What a comedian.

"Water will do, thank you." Ike accepted a paper cup from his hands and drank, not only because she was thirsty but because it was the best way of avoiding the pair of all-too bright eyes focussed on her.

"Do you mind if we record the interview?" the policeman asked.

"Do you have to?"

A smile quivered on the well-shaped lips. The Italian copper was a lot suaver and per se less intimidating than his German counterpart she had the misfortune of meeting recently. Not that she appreciated being in a position to compare the two. In any case, he still was a cop, one with an elegant air of efficiency about him.

"Signora, you have nothing to fear. I simply want to know what you might have observed. How things happened. In what order. The recording is as much for your safety as it is for mine. Nobody can misunderstand. Nobody can interpret. You should be familiar with such procedures, correct?"

Cripes, he knows who I am.

The smile hovering on the policeman's lips had got broader.

Should she ask for a lawyer? But unless she was mistaken, they had already arrested the husband, the only person who had been around when it happened.

"Go ahead,"

"Ah, mille grazie, Signora." Her adversary fiddled with the knobs of an old-fashioned cassette recorder. Then he cleared his throat, gave time and date and stated the interview would be conducted in English, for the benefit of one Signora Jessica Wordsworth.

"Interviewer is Commissario Bruno Guidetti." He rattled off something in rapid Italian which she took to his precise function and the assigned station or other official bumf lost in translation.

"Let's begin. Signora, just to verify. You are the tour guide of a company called LiteraTours, but you travelled with another company. And the deceased is a member of that group."

"That's correct."

"May I ask why you shared a coach?"

Ike was tempted to tell him it was the more eco-friendly approach but resisted the pull from her inner evil imp.

Still, she might be able to kill two birds with one stone while she was at it. "I need to talk to the police, anyway. Even if it's only for the insurance. We've been plagued by senseless little acts of sabotage since we arrived in Rome. Food poisoning. Then Lord Byron's head came off and crashed to the ground close to where I was standing—"

"Scusi Signora? You say an English lord has been attacked?"

"Not quite. Byron's been dead a while. I'm talking about the marble head of the statue standing in the gardens of the Villa Borghese."

"Ah. I see."

From his expression, he did not.

"And that is why you took another coach?"

"No. That was because somebody tampered with the brakes of our tour bus. Today. The other incidents happened before. What occurred today was very dangerous, we could have met with a nasty accident."

"I see."

No, he really did not.

"If that head had dropped on me I would also have had a nasty accident."

The bright gaze got more intense. "Did you by any chance notice Signore Baxter in the Villa Borghese?"

"Signore who?"

Guidetti hooked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the corridor. "The husband of the deceased."

"Why did you arrest him?"

A supercilious smile played on the Commissario's lips, but he didn't answer her question.

"He and his wife belonged to the other tour. The groups only met over breakfast. Why would he pop up in the garden?"

Guidetti stretched out his legs and crossed his sockless feet at the ankles. "I'm asking you, Signora. Why would he?"

"No idea. Quite honestly, I find it highly unlikely."

"But somebody did—what was the word you used? Tamper? With the bus? And the head of the English lord? What was the problem with the food?

"It was off. On the first evening. The reservation at the restaurant where we had booked at got cancelled by mistake. Or by somebody. Our hotel manager recommended one they always use as a backup. The next morning, people had stomach problems. Not a good start to the trip."

"Better than last time, I would say."

"Last time?" Somewhere, in the vicinity of her stomach, an iceberg calved.

Guidetti uncrossed his ankles, sat up in his chair and smiled. "You know what I mean. Three tourists died on the last trip."

"The first trip not the last! We had three perfectly quiet ones since then."

"Ah, so it is the first trips of your company that get into trouble?"

The iceberg sent a cold surge through her system. There really wasn't enough air in this room, smelly or not. Suddenly, she was grateful for the little recorder blinking away. "I'm not sure what you're after, but for the records, I resent that comment."

Guidetti raised his hands, palms up. "No harm meant. Just trying to work out what could have happened. Since you mentioned the sabotage." Guidetti smiled his enigmatic smile, then went all business. "Perhaps, we can switch to this afternoon. Tell me where you were when Signora Baxter had the accident."

"On the far side of an underground chamber full of tourists. They were on the move, flowing past me. I saw nothing."

"How did you realise there might be a problem?"

"Somebody called for help from the other corridor that led from the chamber. Mr Baxter, I presume."

"I see. Tell me what happened then. Every little step even if you think it is unimportant. It might still help us."

With the ice slowly melting in her veins, Ike fished the memories of a fatal afternoon from the debris in her mind. What she unearthed seemed to satisfy the Commissario. Half an hour later, she found herself safely outside the police station, greedily sucking in the rancid air of yet another rush hour. Anything was better than the interview room, Guidetti, and his blasted recorder.

Which reminded her. They never talked about the sabotage again. Did that mean she had to go to another cop shop and call it in?

To heck with that!

Ike stopped in front of the bright window of an audio video centre, tastefully displaying their wares on granite blocks. She shifted her handbag to her other shoulder, the one facing away from the street. The last thing she needed now was a petty thief on a Vespa snatching her bag. Then she dug her smartphone from its depths and flipped the gadget open.

From the corner of her eye, she saw something familiar in the window.

Correction: Somebody familiar.

Herself.

She looked up. Stared at the shop window. The tellies in the shop all played the same scene, taken earlier today when Ike, Viktor and Graziano had been taken away in the police cars.

Mrs Baxter's death was breaking news.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.

The image is by George Zapata from Unsplash.