A Florentine Death (2 page)

'What do you mean?'

'Massimo's surprise.'

A nice one?'

'To say the least.'

They sat down, but he found it hard to concentrate on the tempting salad with porcini mushrooms and slivers of Parmesan. 'So,' he said, 'don't you want to know? What's the matter? You seem distracted.'

'No, no, tell me. What is this great news?'

He told her as he handed her the envelope, and for a moment at least the joy of the surprise seemed to dispel whatever anxiety was nagging away at her. But immediately her expression grew pensive.

'So,' Michele Ferrara said gently, unable to restrain himself any longer, 'do you want to tell me now or do you prefer to keep it bottled up until tonight?'

What, Michele?' she said, making a small attempt to defend herself but knowing it was pointless.

Petra's greatest gift was that she was a practical, down-to-earth woman. She always overcame her fears and anxieties, always tried to find ways of dealing with even the most difficult situations, and never let herself become discouraged. The important thing was to do something: that was her credo in life. That was another reason he didn't like to think that something had unsettled her.

They looked at each other intensely for a few moments. Then she took a letter out of the big pocket of her gardening smock, and handed it to him. As he held out his arm to take it, he uncovered his watch, and he instinctively noted the time: 1.46.

It was an ordinary commercial envelope. It bore the letterhead of a mail order firm and a gummed label with Michele Ferrara's name and address printed on it. Inside, an ordinary sheet of A4 paper, folded twice.

He unfolded it.

What he saw was like a collage made by a mad artist with a taste for the macabre.

MemENTo MORI

'Remember that you will die.' Or else, That you
must
die. A pleasant little gift, Ferrara thought. The warning was pointless: death is the one thing we can be sure of in our lives, we don't need anybody to take the trouble to remind us. But if someone deliberately, and anonymously, sends a warning like that to the head of the Florence
Squadra Mobile,
it's hard to take it as a joke.

Petra certainly hadn't.

The letters had been cut out of a newspaper, and the sender had put the finishing touch to his work by spattering the words and the paper with red stains, and then holding it up to allow the liquid to trickle a little. A realistic touch that achieved the desired effect, whether the bloodstains were real or fake.

Ferrara put a cigar in his mouth but did not light it.

Petra stood up and started clearing the table. Neither of them had done justice to the porcini mushrooms.

He would have liked to put his arms around her and hold her tight. Perhaps she would have liked it, too. He would never know because at that very moment his mobile rang.

It was his deputy, Francesco Rizzo.

A man had just been murdered.

2.40 p.m.: in the squad car

'There was a call to 113,' Officer Sebastiano Franchi, the driver, said as they crossed the city with sirens blaring.

'Who's on the switchboard?'

'Grassi.'

'What time was it?' '2.23, chief.'

'Do we know who called?'

'A woman, the cashier in a bar on the main square of Greve.'

'What did she say?'

'Just that they'd found a dead body. It was a murder. She sounded very agitated, according to Grassi.' 'What else?'

'That's it, chief. She hung up immediately'

From the way he said it, it was clear that he was quite indignant at the woman's lack of civic responsibility. He couldn't have been more than twenty, was new to the job and unaware that, in a situation like this, such behaviour was, unfortunately, only to be expected. By way of compensation, he drove as if he were at the wheel of a Ferrari at Monza. Like all drivers, he insisted on showing off his skills.

They had left the city and were starting to climb towards Greve. Ferrara asked Franchi to turn off the siren and slow down a little. As he never tired of repeating: when a murder has been committed, five minutes more or less won't make any difference to the victim.

Especially as Rizzo had already gone on ahead, setting off immediately while the driver was still on his way to pick Ferrara up from home.

He was pleased with Rizzo, who'd turned out an excellent detective. Ever since, as a novice barely out of the Police Academy, he had been involved in the investigation of a series of prostitute murders, he had made great strides. His instincts were good, and he combined the old fashioned virtue of dogged commitment - an increasingly rare gift in policemen these days - with an ability to use the most up-to-date tools. In some ways he reminded Ferrara of Marshal Monaco, now retired, but whereas Monaco had hated even typewriters, Rizzo was perfectly at home with computers.

He had preferred to send him on ahead because he trusted him, but mainly because he needed an oasis of peace and quiet during the brief journey out of the city. He needed to think.

So someone wanted to eliminate him.

Who? And why?

Like everyone, he had his ghosts, personal and professional. After more than twenty years on the force, holding key posts, it was natural that a lot of people had grudges against him. Not only among those who lived on the margins of society and threatened it, but also within the establishment. Theoretically, he had a surfeit of choice. And yet he couldn't think of a single person among his possible enemies who might take things as far as this.

Cases of released prisoners seeking revenge were rarer than might be imagined. And he also tended to exclude political motives: things had been quiet on that front in the last few years, the Red Brigades had long since left the scene, and nothing had happened recently to suggest that anyone was looking to rack up the tension again. Besides, politically motivated murders tended to be claimed after the event, not announced in advance. And certainly not this way.

Of course, there was also the case of the Monster of Florence. The perpetrator of eight double murders, sixteen horrible crimes in which the victims had been dismembered, the Monster had been arrested before Ferrara had become head of the
Squadra Mobile.
Many people would have preferred to think of the case as closed, but Ferrara had insisted on reopening it, had demolished the theory of a lone serial killer, and had tracked down the killer's accomplices, all of whom were now in prison. That might have been enough for a lot of people, but not for him. Stubbornly, pigheadedly, he had continued searching for the people behind the crimes, and his search had taken him ever higher, as well as into the darkest corners of the city, uncovering a world of satanic rites and black masses - a lot of nonsense, according to those who still clung to the theory of a single killer.

It can be risky to stir things up like that, and he had certainly made enemies, but he found it hard to believe that they could really be planning his physical elimination. They could ruin his career, trap him in a compromising situation, or scheme to have him 'promoted', which usually means 'removed'.

They had already tried.

But killing him was too great a risk: his men would move heaven and earth, not to mention the prosecutors who had followed his investigation, the journalists who knew him, and the previous Commissioner who had been so heavily involved in the case.

Or was he wrong? Was there someone really high up, and close to being discovered, who thought the risk might be worth taking?

3.05 p.m.: Greve in Chianti

Officer Franchi drew up next to the other police cars and vans in the Piazza Matteotti, near the monument to Giovanni da Verrazzano, where a number of tourist coaches were parked. The little town of Greve has long benefited from its position halfway between Florence and Siena, in an area - Chianti - much valued for its agricultural produce, and especially its wine, which was already being mentioned in documents dating back to the fourteenth century. In the Middle Ages, Greve was a place where several trading routes met, and during the Renaissance - a period of great artistic, economic and cultural growth in the two main cities of Tuscany - it became a sought-after spot for the most important Florentine families to establish their country residences. Today, it is an essential destination for visitors who want to experience the genuine, rich, sweet atmosphere of a region that is unique in the world.

The shop was in one of the streets leading off the piazza, the Via Roma. The piazza had an unusual triangular shape, which some said looked like a fish. At the apex of the triangle was the church, and near the base, beneath the arcades, was the bar from which, to judge by the crowds, the phone call had been made. Among the crowds, Ferrara spotted a couple of officers from the Homicide Section asking questions.

As far as he could see, there were no journalists or TV crews - much to his relief.

A red and white tape with the words
Stop - Police
had been stretched across the entrance to the Via Roma. His men had, quite correctly, cordoned off the part of the street immediately adjacent to the crime scene.

He crossed the tape.

The shop was less than twenty yards along the street. In the two wide windows was a nicely arranged display of crucifixes, candelabras, books, postcards, and religious prints. A sign above the entrance read
Religious Articles.

He went in.

As he did so, Rizzo came towards him. The others already there were the pathologist, Francesco Leone, with whom Ferrara continued to be on formal terms despite all the cases they had worked on together over the years, Inspector Sergi with various colleagues from Homicide, and the forensics team.

In a quiet corner, some distance from the scene of the crime, he saw a priest talking in a low voice to an elderly man. The priest, who looked nervous and upset, was unusually handsome.

There was a strange atmosphere, an unnatural absence of noise. It was almost as though the men, subdued by the surroundings, had instinctively lowered their voices and toned down the bustle normal in such situations, adapting their rhythms and movements to a sanctity the place didn't really possess.

As if to confirm that impression, Rizzo greeted Ferrara with the words, 'It's like being inside an old church.'

The room was quite large, rectangular in shape, and artificially lit. Not much light came in from outside. The walls were almost entirely covered with heavy wooden shelves, some behind glass doors, containing books, missals, votive images, and locally-made silver - or what appeared to be silver - crucifixes. The high ceiling was supported by solid beams. A half-open door on the right led to a store room. At the back was a long counter, on which candles of various sizes were displayed. Even the smell, a mixture of wood, wax, incense and damp, served to emphasise the peculiar character of the scene.

The body lay on the floor, hidden by the counter. He approached it.

The first thing he noticed was the blood, as bright as red paint, which seemed to be still gushing from under the body. The victim's slashed clothes were smeared with it, the floor was covered with a pool of it, and the shelves, the counter and the objects were spattered with it.

The dead man was lying on his left side with his head turned slightly to the right. His eyes were wide open and his mouth gaped, as if he had been caught by surprise. His face was horribly disfigured.

Francesco Leone, helped by one of the forensics team, was busy dictating his observations. He greeted Ferrara with a nod and continued without a pause.

'. . . presenting what appear to be knife wounds in the right temporal-mandibular joint, at the left corner of the lower jaw, in the right costal arch and in the mesogastric region. As well as numerous wounds all over the face

'Who's the dead man?' Ferrara asked Rizzo.

'Stefano Micali, thirty years old.'

'I checked the name in records,' Inspector Sergi said. In some ways, he had taken the place of Antonio Monaco. 'Nothing. He was clean.'

And those two?' Ferrara asked, referring to the young priest and his companion.

'Don Sergio, from the parish church at the top of the piazza, and Alfredo Beccalossi, who owns the shop,' Rizzo replied. 'It was Don Sergio who found the body. He immediately ran to the bar to raise the alarm. Beccalossi was in the bar and they came back together. Don Sergio was scared, he didn't want to come, but Beccalossi insisted. They were here when we arrived and we asked them to stay'

'You did the right thing. Did they resist?'

'Not at all. In fact, they seem keen to cooperate.'

While the forensics team continued with their work, Ferrara asked the two men to follow him into the store room, where they would be left in peace. He took Sergi with him, leaving Rizzo to keep an eye on the others.

Don Sergio looked a lot younger than his thirty years. He was tall, athletic-looking, and elegant: in his ecclesiastical suit he looked as if he was wearing Armani. He had fair, short hair, intense blue eyes, and gentle, almost feminine features. Raphael would surely have chosen him as a model for an angel. Alfredo Beccalossi was an elderly man, short and bent with arthritis, with unkempt white hair and nicotine-stained fingers.

Ferrara started with Beccalossi. 'Was he your employee?' he asked.

'Yes, the only one.'

A good worker?'

'Very good. He practically ran the shop. I hardly ever set foot in here these days.' 'Married? Children?'

The old man shot a quick glance at the priest, a glance that seemed to Ferrara to be knowing and amused.

'No. No, he was a . . . lone wolf. He'd been an orphan. The priests brought him up. He started working for me when he was twenty-three. A perfect worker, never any problems, I can assure you.'

'Did he have any enemies, as far as you know?'

'Even if he'd told me he had some, I wouldn't have believed him. I can't really imagine why anyone would—'

And yet someone did, didn't they?'

'Some petty thief, an immigrant, there are lots of them around.'

'Is that what you think, too?' Ferrara asked the priest.

'I've no idea
...
I wouldn't like to hazard a guess
...
I
don't know, I really don't know!' His voice was high-pitched, and he seemed on the verge of hysterics. He was wringing his hands nervously and constantly biting his lower lip.

'But you can confirm that he was a good man?'

'Oh, yes, as good as gold.'

Would you be so kind as to go over the facts for me, please?'

'Well, I came to get the candles for the altar—' 'What time was this?'

The priest swallowed, seeming annoyed by the interruption. 'Just after two.'

'Doesn't the shop close for lunch?' he asked, turning to Sergi.

'It's open from 9 to 1 and from 3 to 7,' Serpico replied diligently.

'Oh, but Stefanino always stays here during the lunch break,' the priest hastened to explain. 'I mean, he always stayed,' he corrected himself, lowering his voice and making the sign of the cross. 'In fact, I often came to see him during the break. He's
...
he was a good man, like I said, very dedicated.'

'Stefanino?' Ferrara asked politely, trying hard not to sound crude or tactless. Coming from the priest, the nickname sounded strange, excessively familiar.