The Abomination by Jonathan Holt Page A

like she was preparing to leave,” Kat said.
    Piola pointed to a damp patch on the wall. “What do you suppose that is?”
    The patch had a faintly pink tinge. Now that she looked at the room again, Kat realised there was something odd about it. Possessions had been heaped up on every available surface, as if someone had made a desultory attempt to sort them into piles. A laptop power cable was draped over the back of the chair. Suitcases lay in one corner, empty, as though tossed aside. In the small, functional bathroom, two washbags spilled their contents across the sink.
    â€œCapitano?”
    She turned. Piola was holding up a pillow from one of the beds. It had a hole right through it.
    â€œWe need to talk to the maid,” he said. “And the manager. Now.”
    The manager was younger than Kat, a spotty youth from Slovenia whose name badge identified him as Adrijan. The maid, whose name was Ema, looked even more terrified than before, though whether because of the Carabinieri’s presence or her manager’s Kat couldn’t tell.
    Gradually, with Adrijan translating, it became clear what had happened. Just after 3 p.m., Ema had entered the room and found it in a terrible mess. There was blood on one wall, in the shower and on a sheet, and the contents of the drawers had been tipped onto the floor. She’d tidied up as best she could, but she wasn’t sure where everything was meant to go.
    Piola stared at the two hotel employees with a mixture of disbelief and fury. “She tidied up ? What did she think the blood was?”
    Adrijan passed the question on, and the maid mimed someone clutching their nose. “Perhaps a nose bleed,” he said helpfully.
    â€œAnd this?” Piola demanded, holding up the pillow with a hole in it. The maid shrugged helplessly.
    Piola sighed. “Tell her she almost certainly interfered with a crime scene.” He turned to Kat. “What do you think?”
    â€œI’m wondering who the crime was against. If our. . .” She hesitated, not wanting to use the word “priestess” as Piola had done earlier. “If our victim was killed on Poveglia, who was attacked here?”
    â€œExactly,” he agreed. “Two washbags, two suitcases. And according to Malli, two key cards were issued. When they finally get round to printing out the ledger, I’m sure we’ll find there were two guests in this room.”
    â€œTwo women.”
    Piola raised an interrogative eyebrow. “No male clothes,” she explained. “And the washbags both contain make-up remover.”
    â€œBut how did the killer get the body out?” he mused. Turning back to the hotel employees, he said, “Ask her – when she tidied up, was the window open?”
    The maid nodded, keen to be of help now. “ Si ,” she said in broken Italian. “I close.”
    Both carabinieri crossed to the window and peered down. Beneath them, the brown waters of the rio lapped against the hotel’s back wall.
    â€œCall in the divers,” Piola said to Kat. “Tell Allocation we need them here right away. And get a second forensic team over here, to search this room.”
    For the second time that day Kat donned a paper suit and covered her shoes with elasticated bags. The hotel ledger had indeed yielded two names, but better still, the room safe had yielded two passports. One was Croatian, in the name of Jelena Babić. The photograph matched the corpse in Hapadi’s morgue. The other was American, in the name of Barbara Holton. The photograph showed a middle-aged woman with short grey hair.
    â€œBetter inform their embassies,” Piola said.
    â€œWe can’t be certain Holton’s dead yet, sir.”
    â€œI give the divers about five minutes.” He grimaced with frustration. “If only we’d got here a few hours sooner.”
    â€œSir?” Kat said hesitantly.
    â€œYes, Capitano?”
    She