She thought then, very briefly, of the man’s face, the one in the car going in the other direction. Dark skin, blue eyes, something autocratic in his bearing…
‘Fabio’s a good boy,’ said Bella.
Bianca came back to the here and now. Her mother was still talking about Fabio. ‘Good’, in her opinion, was pushing it. Fab had a certain laddish charm, but he couldn’t pass a mirror without kissing it. ‘Good’ wasn’t a word she would ever associate with him. He’d bullied her all her life, hated her on sight. He wasn’t ‘good’ at all. But Mama Bella was nodding, affirming her opinion of her youngest son to herself.
She looks exhausted, Bianca thought, feeling the emotion of the day rise up and almost stifle her. She was glad of the thick black veil she now wore pulled down over her face, identical to her mother’s. It hid the tears that spilled over and slid down her cheeks. She bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood.
Bianca glanced behind her, seeing the mourners shuffling inside. Among them she saw a tall dark-skinned woman moving near the rear of the church, her eyes downcast.
‘What’s she doing here?’ asked Bianca, gulping back her tears.
Bella looked up, saw who Bianca was staring at, said nothing.
‘Isn’t that Ruby Darke?’ said Bianca. ‘The woman who runs the department stores? Did she know Tito? Oh wait – wasn’t she involved with Michael Ward…?’
Bianca fell silent. Ruby Darke was also the notorious Kit Miller’s mother, and there were rumours circulating like Chinese whispers that Tito’s death could have been a revenge killing for the death of Michael Ward. That pointed to Miller, who had been Ward’s number one man. But these were merely rumours, unfounded, unsubstantiated. There was no proof, nothing positive to suggest they could be true.
‘I asked her to come,’ said Bella.
Bianca’s head whipped round. She stared at her mother. ‘You what? Why?’
‘I have to talk to her.’
‘Mama, you’ve taken leave of your senses,’ said Bianca, shaking her head. ‘You know what’s being said…’
‘Yes, I know. That’s why I want to talk to her.’
‘But-’
‘Hush! Show some respect,’ said Bella, her tone sharpening. She looked back. ‘Ah, dear God, my boy, my poor boy…’
They were bringing in the coffin. The music swelled, the priest came forward in his ceremonial robes. Bianca, Bella and Maria rose to their feet along with the rest of the congregation as the pall-bearers came up the aisle, carrying their sad burden. Bianca felt her mother sway and she grasped her arm, held her steady. She felt as if her heart was being ripped, still beating, from her chest.
