A Florentine Death (27 page)

Sergi was right: it wasn't difficult. The man's name was Aldo Puleo, he was thirty-two, and he came from a little village in the province of Bari which didn't even appear on road maps. He wasn't married and had been working in the hotel as a waiter for about five years. Sergi also discovered that he was a gambler, and was often seen at a gambling den in the Poggio Imperiale area.

When he reported back, he found Ferrara in a very bad mood. Rizzo was trying to cheer him up, telling him what good results they had obtained. Sergi did the same, but realised immediately that it was useless.

Having listened to Sergi, Ferrara reluctantly called the Prosecutor's Department and asked for a warrant to search Aldo Puleo's home.

'Do it as soon as the warrant arrives,' he ordered. But then he exploded. 'There's no
point,
though! We shouldn't be looking for some hotel waiter, we should be looking for that damned priest, Don Sergio!'

Serpico looked at him, stunned. He had never seen him in such a state.

'But there's evidence pointing to Puleo,' Rizzo objected. 'You always say we should never leave any lead unexplored.'

'You're right. I'm sorry, boys. You've done good work, really. This case is getting on my nerves. You carry on, I'm going home. I've had enough for today'

That, too, wasn't like him.

He didn't go home. At least, not immediately. He walked to the banks of the Arno by way of the Viale Matteotti, the Viale Gramsci and the Viale della Giovine Italia. It was the most neglected area of Florence, an area where you heard Tuscan spoken more often than English, German or Japanese.

He puffed at his cigar, wondering how to climb the ecclesiastical hierarchy, who to turn to, how high he would have to go. From what the old priest had told him, it looked as if he might have to request an audience with the Pope himself!

'Perdone, senor.'

It was a family of tourists who had got lost. Spaniards, the new horde that had joined the more traditional ones.

Ferrara showed them the way, and for some reason this banal gesture restored a little of his good mood.

He walked along the Arno as far as the Ponte alle Grazie, and crossed to the halfway point of the bridge. There he stopped, and looked across at the less familiar side of the Ponte Vecchio, the upstream side along which Vasari's Corridor ran.

Here, he thought, was the true heart of Florence. A bridge built in the fourteenth century, at the narrowest point of the river, on three solid arches which had defied the passage of centuries. Butchers and greengrocers had had their shops there until Grand Duke Ferdinando I had cleared them away and replaced them with goldsmiths' and silversmiths' shops. Then as now, it had been thought that the city was best represented by displays of wealth. Why shouldn't it flaunt itself like a prostitute and attract the foreigners who thronged onto the bridge to see the kiosks displaying increasingly standardised merchandise? Or the louts who swarmed everywhere and killed time while queuing to buy tickets by defacing the facades of old palaces with stupid graffiti?

'She looks like the Ponte Vecchio.' That was what the Florentines said of a woman wearing too much jewellery.

When it was no longer blood that pulsed in its veins - like the blood in the meat sold by those expelled butchers - but gold and silver, the breath of the city became laboured.

A sick city. That was how he saw it today.

A city rotting beneath the weight of appearances.

Could its Church also be rotten?

In the days that followed, the investigation started to languish again, and the newspapers redoubled their criticism of the police. With no other basis than the fact that all the victims had been gay men, they had had no hesitation in declaring that the murders were related, and had seen the latest of them as an open challenge to the head of the
Squadra Mobile.

SERIAL KILLER HOLDS FERRARA AT BAY
and
THE SQUADRA MOBILE IS IMMOBILISED
were the most merciful headlines. Others were bolder:
FERRARA BEATEN AT HOME 4-0
and
FLORENCE TREMBLES AND FERRARA DOES NOTHING.

As Ferrara had feared, the search of Aldo Puleo's apartment had yielded nothing — except an exercise book corroborating the fact that he had owed money to Giovanni Biagini, with all the dates and amounts written down. In addition, Aldo Puleo had an alibi. He had been at work when the murder had taken place. His shift had been noted on the staff rota at the hotel, and the staff, including the manager, had all confirmed that he had been at the hotel for the whole shift and hadn't gone out once.

On Tuesday the 14th Ferrara decided to invite Deputy Prosecutor Giulietti to lunch. She had been furious about the business of the Aldo Puleo search warrant, which had achieved nothing except the harassment of an honest citizen. Nor was she happy about the lack of results in the investigation as a whole, which suggested that her clear, precise instructions had not been followed to the letter.

It wasn't Ferrara's intention, though, to attempt to justify himself, or ingratiate himself with the prosecutor in any way. He didn't really care how upset she was - he already had enough problems of his own. What he wanted from her was a favour.

Anna Giulietti belonged to an old family, which had numbered some important church dignitaries among its members, including a famous nineteenth-century cardinal.

'I don't know,' she said over the phone when he invited her. 'Do you think it's ethically correct?'

All I'm proposing is a working lunch.'

Anna Giulietti thought it over. 'Not today perhaps, I have an appointment in Poggibonsi at three.'

'Do you know Latini's, in Certaldo? It's right near there.'

'Of course I know it.'

'I'll pick you up at midday'

'Okay'

'I've never married and I don't regret it. My love life is fine, but isn't really very important to me. I've always devoted myself to my work. Work is my life. My father was an appeal court judge, my grandfather a notary'

Prosecutor Giulietti was talking as they drove across the gentle hills to the south of Florence.

For the occasion, Ferrara had dusted down his old Mercedes 190, which he almost always kept in a garage and only used when he had to go outside the city. It had clocked up more than 150,000 miles, but the softly purring engine sounded as good as new.

It was a beautiful day, the air almost warm. From time to time the fragrant scents of the countryside filtered into the car - and so, occasionally, did the pungent odour of a newly fertilised field, but even that wasn't unpleasant.

Anna Giulietti had opened up during the journey. Professional and detached at first, she had allowed the conversation to become more personal as the miles sped by. It was what Ferrara had been hoping for.

'Well,' he replied, 'I am married, and I don't regret that, either. I think every choice we make in life is the right one, as long as we make it consciously'

'I've heard about your wife. They say she's an excellent cook and an amazing gardener.'

'I consider both those statements true.'

'You're a lucky man, then.'

Ferrara thought about that for a moment. 'I suppose I am,' he concluded, as they parked in an open space in front of the petrol pump that partly hid the entrance to the restaurant.

They were greeted by Latini himself. He was one of the sons of the owner of the famous restaurant of the same name in Florence. He was a short, jovial man, who knew Ferrara well. He led them to their table, where they were joined by his wife, an American woman who was equally affable and whose great contribution to the restaurant was her superb desserts.

They ordered, but Ferrara waited until the wonderful antipasti - including the unmissable crostini with Colonnata lard - arrived before asking, 'Have you had a chance to look at my report on the victims' faces?'

'Yes, and I passed it on to the experts, along with the photographs. The "r"s are perhaps a bit far-fetched, but the "F" and the "E" are quite clear. It's just a theory, of course, and a horrifying one. The idea of a killer playing Scrabble with the dead is pretty scary. If you're right, I have to hand it to you, you did a fantastic job. But that's nothing new.' She smiled. Latini's antipasti and wine had definitely relaxed her.

'Thanks for the compliment.'

'It wasn't a compliment. I don't do compliments. It's the truth. And besides, I'm sure you know that in the game of Scrabble, the word "Ferrara" is worth 10. The top mark . . .'

Ferrara looked at her closely.

Are you surprised?' she asked. 'Why should you be? A lot of people think you're an outstanding detective. I know I sometimes give you the impression of being on your back. I'm sorry. I can't help it. It's my job.'

And it's what Gallo wants,
Ferrara thought.

'I understand,' he said. A pity those people you mention don't include the press.'

'They've been down on you, that's true. But it's a sign that they identify you with the whole of the police force, and not just because you're the head of a squad. The truth is, they have confidence in you, and they're provoking you because deep down they know, or hope, that if there's anyone who can stop this killer it's you. And let's not forget they have papers to sell. Stories about serial killers, and the general public being scared, are bigger circulation boosters than football derbies. When you get down to it, they're just doing their job. I wouldn't worry too much about it.'

'I'm not the one who's worried,' he reassured her.

She knew what he meant. The Commissioner and the Prosecutor were the people directly responsible for the maintenance of public order. They were the real targets of the press campaign, and theirs were the heads that would roll if the situation got worse.

'All you have to do now is your duty. Bring us the head of the serial killer on a silver platter.' She said it in a jocular tone, as if to lighten the atmosphere.

'If my theory is correct, we're not dealing with a serial killer.'

'What do you mean?'

'This killer has a very specific plan, with a beginning and an end. He doesn't kill for any of the reasons that usually drive a serial killer. He has a very precise, clearly reasoned motive. He's practically announced seven murders, and he's carried out four of them as planned. He still has three to go. Then he'll have finished and he'll vanish for ever. He'll probably carry on with his normal life, as an office worker, a school principal, a doctor, who knows? - maybe a priest.' There was a clear insinuation in his voice as he uttered these last words.

'What do you mean?'

Ferrara hesitated, and looked into her eyes for a few moments. 'Prosecutor Giulietti, you and I are on the same side, aren't we?'

'Obviously. Always remembering that we have different roles and prerogatives, of course.' She was slightly on the defensive: she couldn't see where Ferrara was going with this.

'Obviously' he repeated. 'So you could give me a hand, if need be.'

Anna Giulietti became even more defensive. 'In what way?'

Ferrara told her the whole story of Don Sergio, up to and including Father Francesco's veiled hints.

She followed the story with rapt attention. But she was equally attentive to the storyteller: the conviction in his eyes, the certainty in his measured gestures, the drive in the succession of sentences with their almost imperceptible Sicilian cadence, the calm vigour of the foreseen conclusion. 'Will you help me?'

She thought it over. 'Why not go to the archbishop?' she asked at last.

'Because behind Don Sergio's disappearance, there's something we don't know, something even Father Francesco doesn't know. Something the Church is trying to keep quiet. It could be that the priest is insane, but I don't think that's likely. I think there's something else, something the archbishop wouldn't hesitate to cover up, if I, a mere public official, went directly to him. You know as well as I do that the Church has the means to do that. There are secrets that a police superintendent or a deputy prosecutor will never scratch the surface of.'

They both fell silent as Signora Latini's speciality, the pear tart, arrived. Only Anna Giulietti had ordered it, not Ferrara.