A Florentine Death (17 page)

'Go ahead, if you think it'll do any good. But I warn you that if things don't change I may have to oppose his promotion - or worse.'

'Isn't that excessive? Chief Superintendent Ferrara is still a servant of the State like us . . .'

'That's why he needs to toe the line.'

'What do you mean?'

All he ever thinks about is the Monster of Florence, even after all these years. He almost never comes to the Prosecutor's Department, and when he does show his face, he shuts himself up in an office with a colleague of mine who's following the case. The only time I've seen him lately was over that Salustri business, and he made me go with him all the way to the border on a journey that turned out to be pointless. The deputy prosecutors come to me and complain they don't have anyone to turn to any more in Police Headquarters!'

'All right. I'll see if I can figure out a way to get him back on board.'

'Do it, but let's be clear about one thing: either Ferrara goes back to being the head of the
Squadra Mobile, all
the
Squadra Mobile,
or I could see myself being forced to write directly to the Head of Police asking for him to be demoted.'

On Sunday, Chief Inspector Violante came into the office.

He only had a few months to go before he retired, and he couldn't wait. He had spent his whole life in the police force and it had left him feeling bitter and unfulfilled. His sons, teenagers in the eighties, had got rich on the easy money circulating in certain circles in those days, and had never made any bones about the fact that they were ashamed their father had never risen further than being a mere cog in the machinery of State.

But he himself had never felt ashamed, and even though he was glad that he'd soon be able to rest at last, he still wanted to see his work through to the end. He knew what many of his colleagues thought of him, but he didn't care.

He had decided to take advantage of the relative calm of Sunday to go back over the file on the Lupi case, checking through all the reports and witness statements.

That was how he came across a report by the officer on duty at the switchboard on 24 January that threw new light on the case.

An anonymous phone call had come in that day. There are always a lot of them after a murder, most of them from cranks. But they always have to be checked out, especially where there are no other clues, if only to be able to say later that nothing has been neglected.

The anonymous caller had mentioned the name Antonio Gori, had described him as a 'friend' of the murdered man, and had asked the police to investigate their relationship.

The call had not been recorded, because the switchboard was not yet equipped with a tape recorder, but the officer had nevertheless prepared a detailed report in which he had emphasised how insistent the anonymous caller had been that the relationship was a homosexual one - after Violante had persisted in denying that Lupi was gay in front of everyone.

Violante felt stupid for having dismissed the report instead of passing it on to Ferrara. The call might indeed have been a crank call, but then again it might not have been.

His one excuse was that the call had come in right in the middle of the operation that had led to the arrest of Antonio Salustri. At the time, they had been sure that the murder was connected with the antiques racket, and there had been little doubt in their minds that Salustri was the killer.

But it was no excuse really: he had been a fool.

A fool, but an honest one, who would never dream of hiding his mistakes. Even when a man was close to retirement, he was still responsible for his own actions and had to account for them. Even a policeman. Especially a policeman, he told himself. How else could he presume to put handcuffs on other men's wrists?

'Congratulations, Violante,' Ferrara said on the morning of Monday 14 February. 'Excellent work!'

He was genuinely pleased. Full of admiration, too. This short-sighted, nondescript little man, who all too often seemed like a shirker, was actually one of those pillars on whom the whole apparatus of the State rests, even if nobody knew, or wanted to know about him.

'Before we summon this Gori, check him out as much as you can.'

'I've already put Inspector Venturi onto it, chief.' Ferrara looked at him again with respect, regretting the fact that he would soon be leaving them.

Over the next two days Inspector Venturi discovered that Alfredo Lupi and Antonio Gori had indeed been seeing each other regularly for some time.

Ferrara decided it was time to question him. It had to be done immediately, before Gori had had time to think of an alibi. The judge wouldn't authorise a phone tap on the basis of an anonymous call, especially one that hadn't even been recorded. It wasn't enough to go on. So he asked Gori to come in that evening, Wednesday 16th.

'Good evening, Chief Superintendent!'

Antonio Gori was short, well shaven, neatly dressed, scented, but not effeminate.

'Good evening. Please take a seat.'

'What's this all about? Why have you asked me here at this hour? The officer who delivered the summons didn't give me any explanation. He just told me you wanted to talk to me.'

'That's right. I have to ask you some questions and take a statement from you.'

A statement?' the man said in surprise.

'Did you know Alfredo Lupi?' Ferrara asked, abruptly. 'Before you answer, I want you to know that we haven't called you in at random. We have evidence that pointed us in your direction.'

'I knew it, I knew it!' He shook his head disconsolately. 'Yes, I knew poor Alfredo and I'm very upset about what happened to him.'

'So why didn't you come to us of your own free will?'

'Why? Should I have? I had nothing to do with . . .'

'How did you meet?' Ferrara asked, implacably.

'It happened about three years ago . . .' He broke off.

'It's all right, Signor Gori! You can talk freely here. Tell us the truth. If you have nothing to hide
..."

'It's not that. I don't have anything to hide. It's just that it's not easy to explain.'

'It's okay. We're adults, you can talk freely. Don't be afraid - we're not charging you with anything. We have some information, and we're hoping you can confirm it, and perhaps even clarify it for us. That's all.'

'I'll tell you what you want to know, but can we keep it confidential? I wouldn't like my family to find out.'

Til do all I can. You have my word.'

'I met Alfredo through an ad he'd placed in a local paper. 'Thirty-year-old male seeks active partner . . .' that kind of thing. We arranged to meet in the Piazza Liberia. We both felt an immediate physical attraction to each other and decided to meet again. That first time, he told me he preferred the submissive role, which was fine with me. We arranged to meet in a week, at the Florence South tollgate.

'It wasn't easy at first because Alfredo would only have sex indoors. He was afraid we'd be spotted if we did it in the car.

'That's why we decided to get our families involved. We wanted to make our friendship look normal. My wife and his became great friends and Alfredo and I were able to meet more frequently. The four of us even went abroad on holiday together. Nobody in either family ever suspected our relationship.

Actually, the first time we went abroad, to Romania, it was just the two of us. That's where we first made love properly. After that, there were other times when we went away together. At weekends we often went to Cortina, where I have a studio apartment. We were there for a couple of days not long before he was killed.'

And did he tell you about any problems he had, anything he was afraid of? Please try to remember. If you know anything, now's your chance to tell us.'

'But I don't know anything. He didn't say anything about any problems, he seemed the same as usual. I can't imagine who could have killed him or why. I'd like to help you find the killer - Alfredo was a dear friend and I miss him a lot - but I don't know anything else.'

All right, thank you. You can go now.'

Ferrara immediately asked the Prosecutor for permission to tap Gori's phone. Gallo, relieved that things had started moving again, had no hesitation in issuing the authorization. They weren't dealing just with an anonymous tip-off any more, there were concrete facts now that needed to be confirmed as soon as possible. It was even in Gori's best interests, so that they could eliminate him from their inquiries.

That was why Ferrara had preferred not to ask him what he had been doing on the morning of 31 December. They'd be in a better position to tackle that question, if they had to, once they knew a bit more.

Two officers were sent to Cortina to find out about the last time the couple had stayed there, others made discreet inquiries about Gori's other relationships, and his wife was questioned, as was Lupi's widow for the second time.

But it all led nowhere. As the days went by, the initial burst of optimism gradually gave way to a sense of frustration.

Antonio Gori turned out to have no connection with the murder, and Lupi's wife was completely unaware of her husband's double life. Ferrara took care not to reveal it to her, convinced as he was that knowing about it would only make her grief harder to bear.

On Monday 21 February - Ascalchi had just informed him that another prostitute had been found murdered in Bologna - Ferrara realised that the only thing they knew for certain after all this activity was that Lupi had been gay. With all that this discovery implied.

Just like Bologna, Florence had its very own serial killer.

Gianni Ascalchi summed up the situation with a crude comment which was to remain famous for a long time at Police Headquarters: 'What a mess! The Bolognese are butchering whores, the Florentines are slicing queers; I'd have done better staying in Rome.'

6

That night Valentina slept badly.

In her sleep she thought she heard footsteps on the floor below, someone breathing heavily, mournfully.

When she had gone to bed, about midnight, Mike Ross was still out. Being all on her own in that big, isolated villa was an unnerving experience. Especially since, following the advice of that bookseller - advice that had been greeted with enthusiasm by her supervisor in Bologna and the assistant professor in Florence - she had been immersing herself in the study of Renaissance magic, and would drop off to sleep thinking about being burned at the stake and priests officiating at human sacrifices . . .

Next morning, when she leaned out of the window, she saw Mike's Porsche parked outside, next to her Panda.

That cheered her up. She went down to the garden and walked up to the kitchen window. Inside, the Filipino woman was bustling about with the pots and pans.

'Nenita,' she called as softly as she could, in order not to wake Mike, who must still be asleep.

'Yes?' the woman replied, gesturing to her to go to the door, which she ran to open.

'I'm sorry, Nenita, but what's on the first floor?'

'Sorry, madam, no understand,' Nenita replied, smiling.

'The first floor.'

'Yes?' Nenita said again.

'What's up there?' Valentina insisted, pointing upwards. 'First floor!'

'Oh yes, first floor,' Nenita replied, smiling broadly to indicate that she had understood. 'That is first floor.'

'Yes, but . . . what's
on
the first floor?'

'Sorry, signora . . .' Nenita smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

'I see, you don't understand.'

Valentina left the house exasperated.
'If
you need anything, just ask Nenita,'
she repeated to herself, mimicking Mike's accent. 'Oh, you can ask all right, but she doesn't understand a word!'

She decided she'd have it out with Mike when she got back from university . . .

The assistant professor's class focused on the first chapter of a book by the Italian historian Carlo Ginzburg,
Myths, Emblems, Clues.
The theme of the chapter was "Witchcraft and Popular Piety".

Valentina found it fascinating.

She hadn't yet read anything by Ginzburg, but promised herself she would get hold of some of his books. And maybe one day she'd go and see him. She knew Ginzburg lived in Bologna, even though he was often abroad. She had never attended any of his classes, and now she regretted it.

Thinking of Bologna reminded her of Cinzia.

When she left the university, she went to a bar to have a sandwich and took the opportunity to call her. They hadn't spoken in a long time.

From her friend's mobile the only response was the message 'The number you have called is not available at the moment

She tried her at home.

'Hello?' The voice was female, but it wasn't Cinzia's.

Td like to speak to Cinzia Roberti. Is she there?'

'Who is that?'

'Valentina. Valentina Preti.'

'Just a moment.'

She could tell that the girl was covering the receiver with one hand while she conferred with Cinzia.

Cinzia's voice came on the line. 'Hi, Vale. What do you want?'

'Just wanted to say hello. How are you?'

'Fine, thanks, and you?' Her voice was neutral, neither annoyed nor affectionate.

'Me too. Who . . . who answered the phone?'

'Chiara. You don't know her. Chiara, say "hi" to my friend Valentina.'

'Hi, Valentina,' she heard in the distance. The girl was giggling, perhaps sarcastically. Or else quite innocently. All the same, she felt offended, humiliated. She hated this Chiara, even though she didn't know her. 'Is everything really all right?' Absolutely fine, don't worry. How's your course?' 'Okay'

And what about . . . your American friend?'

'He's . . .' She held back. 'He's harmless. Really. I'll introduce you. He's a nice man, he's never tried anything. It hasn't even occurred to him.'

'Either he's gay, Vale, or your charms are failing.'

'Not all men are the same!' she protested. Later, she would wonder why she'd felt such an immediate need to defend him.

'No, but they all want the same thing. You know that, don't you?'

'Not him, I can guarantee it. You ought to meet him, I'd like you to meet him. You'd change your mind about him.'

'If that's the only way to see you again, I'd bear even that.'

Valentina's heart skipped a beat. But if she really wanted that, why was she being so aggressive?

'It's not the only way, you know.'

'But you've never been back to Bologna. It's February 7th now. More than a month.'

She felt guilty. 'You've never come to Florence either,' she protested weakly, knowing that the fault was all hers.

Or maybe not all hers. Who was this Chiara?

'Our home is here, not there.'

'You're right. I'll come and see you soon, I promise.'

'Okay, see you. Bye.'

'Bye.'

She put down the phone, irritably. If it was 'our home', what was that bitch Chiara doing there?

'So, the
Squadra Mobile
are now looking into the possibility of - what shall we call it — there being Satanists involved?'

'Well, it's one of the areas we're investigating.'

'In other words, there are reasons for you to suspect that these crimes were initiated within some kind of occult environment. What do you think, Professor?'

'It's a fact that in Italy, indeed all over the world, there's a subculture of tiny groups who are interested in black magic and other occult practices. Within these groups, it's believed that through the most abstruse and bizarre rituals, some people can become supermen and superwomen. Some of their rituals have a strongly sexual element, and may even involve some kind of sacrifice, even human sacrifice . . .'