The Killing Room: A Mystery in Florence
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The new crime novel in the acclaimed Detective Sandro Cellini mystery series, which finds Cellini investigating once again "the savage passions and politics that lie underneath" Florentine society. (The Guardian)
When private investigator Sandro Cellini is invited to attend a glamorous launch party for a luxury residence overlooking the glittering expanse of Florence, he has no idea what he's walking into.
Behind the ancient and luxurious facade of Palazzo San Giorgio, there lies a series of terrible secrets; an old torture chamber, hidden for centuries in the bowels of the building, and a much more recent malevolence. The former head of security for this elite development has just died under suspicious circumstances and Sandro finds himself―quite literally―stepping into dead man's shoes.
He soon discovers that other unsavory incidents have tainted the prestigious opening. When one of the residents is found murdered in her room, events begin to spiral out of control. Sandro must work to untangle the complex web of relationships that exists between residents and staff to unmask a deadly killer, in this superb new Florentine mystery by Christobel Kent.
dress of nylon lace. Sandro doggedly determined: never one minute of hesitation. Never one single minute of doubt in forty years. Across the crowd she saw his head turn and he was looking at her and it seemed to Luisa that something like her real wedding had taken place only that morning as she’d stood, tears in her eyes, in front of the mirror in her bedroom in her slip and her outfit waiting on the bed. ‘You were lovely then, and you’re lovely now,’ he’d said, and taking the strap on the right
on the physical capacity. Little Mauro, skinny old Lino. No. Brett Van Vleet, the youngest of them, ex-soldier? Yes. Wiry Ian Cameron, high-minded Scardino? Yes – if they needed to do it badly enough. Sir Martin Fleming? Middle aged, but powerful. Diplomats had all sorts of training, no doubt. The thought set something ticking in his mind. ‘Time of death?’ Pietro had just shaken his head at the question. ‘With the heat . . . they’re not a hundred per cent yet on that yet, and they’re refusing
up.’ Chapter Twenty-Three AS SHE RECEIVED HIM in her office, Alessandra Cornell looked shattered. A single lamp was on on her desk, throwing light upwards onto the peachy limbs of the frescoed cherubs. Sandro spoke to her mechanically, grateful for the fact that she wouldn’t be able to see in his eyes the near-catastrophe of his encounter with Brett Van Vleet upstairs. ‘“They’ll keep us informed”,’ he repeated. Beyond the big windows it was twilight. Upstairs he had left Brett Van Vleet
running with the same dire report. Syrian bridge collapse kills seven. International condemnation. President Assad calls for inquiry. She clicked at random on an article from La Repubblica – at least it was in her own language. She read it as dark fell beyond the window with a vengeance, and just as she lifted her head from the screen her mobile jittered on the desktop beside her. Enzo, she thought. Damn, damn. I’m late. But it was Sandro. ‘Hello?’ He was ranting: something about Frollini.
deep breath. ‘The old lady.’ For a moment he frowned, his mind still on the neighbour watering her pots. ‘Athene Morris. Lludic told me someone else was in there, after him. He closed the shutters for her after he’d seen Elena out. But he heard another voice in there, as he was going to sleep.’ On the sloping street Sandro turned a little and saw Lino watching him through the glass of the door. ‘A man.’ ‘And you believed him?’ he said quietly. Giuli shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes,’ she said