Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (37 page)

‘Who’s the sucker?’

‘A rich, melancholy young man.’

‘I’ve heard the sulphur mines are a good cure for melancholy …’

‘I’m almost certain the guy goes and buys cocaine in the blind alley of Via della Fonderia. Are you aware of any dealers on that street?’

‘I’ve nothing whatsoever to do with that stuff, but if you want I can ask a friend.’

‘When?’

‘Give me just one minute.’

Botta walked away, towards Via Romana, an area the flood waters hadn’t reached. A hundred yards or so farther up, he disappeared into a doorway. Moments later he reappeared and returned to the inspector, whistling. He spoke in a very low voice, without moving his lips.

‘A bloke from Genoa, thirty-five years old. He’s a bartender at a nightspot and does a little business on the side as a top-up …’

‘Cocaine?’

‘A bit of everything, but he’s small potatoes. Not even worth the cost of a day at Murate.’

‘I couldn’t care less about a dope-dealing bartender, I’m looking for something else.’

‘Tell me what you want me to do.’

‘The next time the guy goes to Via della Fonderia, I want you to grab his wallet before he gets back in the car. And let’s hope we find some cocaine in it.’

‘How will I know when he goes there?’

‘Tomorrow morning I’ll send an unmarked car to keep you company, and when the time is right, I’ll call you on the radio.’

‘Having policemen around isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but if it can’t be avoided …’

‘It’ll only be during the day. At night I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘Thanks for being so sensitive, Inspector.’

He didn’t leave the station until after midnight, feeling dead tired and wondering whether he would come home to the same surprise as the night before. The same stale smell of heating oil and sewage hung in the air, but the situation in the streets was much improved. In the glow of the street lamps one could still see the thick black line running across the fronts of the buildings, getting higher and higher the closer one came to the Arno.

When he got to San Frediano, the neighbourhood was still in darkness, but he was finally able to park the 1100 just outside his door. Only two or three other cars were parked along the street. It felt like the late forties again.

He’d finally remembered to buy a little gas heater, along with a small gas canister that was as heavy as a boulder. He reached the third floor out of breath and was greeted only by darkness when he opened the door. He went to look in the bedroom, convinced he would find her in his bed. He was wrong. On the pillow lay a note:
Shhh
. Well, it was better than nothing. He sniffed the piece of paper and thought perhaps he could smell her scent. He was dying to hold her in his arms but didn’t feel like going to look for her. He would play along and patiently wait for her to decide.

He lit the heater to warm the room up a little, then went into the dining room and sat down to smoke his last cigarette. What time had Eleonora come by? Why hadn’t she stayed? Had she got tired of waiting and left? Or had she already known she wouldn’t stay?

He returned to the bedroom, determined not to tax his brain with pointless questions. The air was barely less cold than before, but to make up for it, it now stank of hot metal. He didn’t have the strength to read even one page of Herodotus. He closed the gas bottle, turned off the torch and got into bed. How long would it take for him to fall asleep? In the silence, every so often he thought he heard a key turning in the lock, but it was only his imagination.

MASSIVE CLEARANCE OPERATION

BUT SITUATION REMAINS CRITICAL

HOPE RETURNS TO THE STREETS OF FLORENCE INCIDENTS AT SENATE AS MORO SPEAKS

He left the house very early the next morning and went to watch the gate in Via Bolognese in person with Piras. He felt the need to follow developments from up close, to keep from thinking about Eleonora. An unmarked car with Tapinassi and Rinaldi in it was still shadowing Ennio, with the radio on.

The cleaning lady, the dustbin lorry, the delivery boys, the same things as the previous morning. A lethal bore. In order to smoke in peace, Bordelli got out of the 1100 and went for a little walk. The cleaning lady came out at twelve on the dot and headed down the pavement towards town.

Waiting, waiting …

The red Alfa popped out on the street at 3.25. As usual, Signorini got out to close the gate, then drove off with a roar. He always opened and closed the gate himself, therefore had no one to perform this service for him. Piras called Tapinassi’s car to tell them to get ready. Across from the Trattoria da Cesare, the Alfa turned on to Via Nazionale. It then parked in Piazza Indipendenza, and the driver got out and continued on foot towards the centre of town.

‘Call Tapinassi again and tell him it was a false alarm,’ said Bordelli, and he got out to tail Signorini on foot. He watched him walk with a hesitant step, bent slightly forward.

The young man went on a long hike through the flood-stricken areas, a bit like a tourist visiting the ruins of an ancient city. He was smartly dressed and rather conspicuous amid the filth. As he walked by, the people toiling in the mud watched and whispered comments to each other. When the daylight began to fade, Signorini went back to his Alfa and drove home.

Bordelli decided to call off the night-time surveillance. He wasn’t interested in where Signorini went at night. He had another purpose: to scare the kid, threaten him, force him to talk. It was his last hope for keeping the case from being shelved. He had to give it a try, even though he had no evidence to hand, no real clue at all … Was his intuition corrrect? Had he really cornered Giacomo’s killers? He was ready to do anything to find out. It was do or die.

When he went home that evening, he noticed with relief that electrical power had returned to the neighbourhood. It seemed like the end of a nightmare. In some ruined shops there were still a few insomniacs keeping busy, while above he saw a number of heads hanging motionless over the windowsills. He looked up at his bedroom window … it was illuminated. He raced up the stairs and opened the door with his heart in his mouth. Lights were on in the hallway and kitchen as well.

‘Is that you?’ he called out, going into the bedroom with a half-smile on his lips. The bed was exactly as he had left it, and there wasn’t even a note on the pillow. What a nincompoop … The light switches had been on since the day of the flood. He should have remembered.

Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this game of expectations and surprises, he thought to himself, putting the very last cigarette of the day between his lips.

He made his way around the flat, seeing by the light of the lamps the state it had been reduced to. Muddied floors, kitchen sink overflowing with plates and cups, dirty clothes on the backs of chairs. The bathroom smelled like a sewer. He tried turning on the tap in the bathroom basin, and after some gurgling, a stream of dark water started to come out. He really hadn’t expected it, and couldn’t help but smile. He let the water run for a while. He pulled the chain to flush the toilet, and the familiar sound was a joy to hear. The tap water was becoming gradually clearer, though there wasn’t much pressure. As he always left the water heater on, he turned off the basin tap and opened the one on the bath. Waiting for it to fill up, he went and grabbed the gas heater and lit it.

Easing himself into the hot water, he moaned with pleasure. He lay back, eyes closed, enjoying this unexpected well-being. Realising he was in danger of falling asleep, he pulled himself up. He grabbed the soap and scrubbed himself long and hard, scraping his skin.

When he got out of the tub, the water was black with all the filth he had been carrying around for the past few days. He felt five pounds lighter.

The air in the room was stifling, and he turned off the little heater. Then he shaved, standing naked in front of the mirror. He felt like a different man. Wrapping himself in a bathrobe, he raced to the bedroom. He quickly changed the sheets, put the blankets on top, and slipped into bed. He managed to read only a few pages of Herodotus, before turning out the light. After all those days in the dark, the glow of the street lamps through the slats of the shutters gave him a warm feeling. The only thing missing was her …

TEN DESPERATE DAYS IN FLORENCE AND OTHER TOWNS

BARGELLINI TAKES STOCK OF THE DISASTER MANY PARTS OF TUSCANY STILL ISOLATED

At 7 a.m. that morning the unmarked cars took up their positions. Same formation as before. Piras and Bordelli in Via Bolognese, Rinaldi and Tapinassi in San Frediano outside Botta’s place.

It was a Sunday. The cleaning lady didn’t show up; no dustbin lorries, no delivery boys. The waiting was more boring than ever. Bordelli had great difficulty restraining himself from lighting one cigarette after another, as when he had been on the cruiser
San Giorgio
staring at the empty horizon …

Finally, at 11.25, Signorini’s Alfa two-seater came out of the gate and headed towards town. The sports car went to the gardens of the Fortezza, hugged the wall, went through the railway underpass and then turned on to Via Belfiore. Piras exchanged a glance with the inspector and called Tapinassi on the radio.

‘I think this is it … Get yourselves to the Lungarno Santa Rosa.’

‘Roger.’

Signorini crossed the Arno and parked in the same spot as before, across from the blind alley of Via della Fonderia. The traffic on the street was continuous. Bordelli had already pulled over to the pavement, eyes following the young man as he hastily crossed the street and went down the alley. There was no sign of Botta, and the inspector grabbed the radio microphone and called Tapinassi.

‘Where are you? I don’t see Ennio …’

‘We just dropped him off on the Lungarno. We’re sitting tight at Porta San Frediano.’

‘All right, then, over and out … He must be hiding,’ Bordelli said to Piras. Despite his great faith in Botta’s abilities he felt rather nervous and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. Feeling Piras’s eyes boring a hole through him, he sighed and put it back in the packet.

‘There’s another solution to this problem, Piras.’

‘What problem?’

‘Smoking.’

‘And what would the solution be?’

‘If you started smoking yourself. That way it wouldn’t bother you any more.’

‘Go ahead and light your firecracker, Inspector. As long as the window’s open …’

‘The Lord will reward you in heaven,’ said Bordelli, rolling down the window and lighting up.

A few minutes later Signorini came back out of the alley. As he was trying to make his way across the busy street between cars and motorcycles, a bearded tramp with matted hair appeared on the other side. He looked filthy and staggered as though drunk. But it wasn’t a tramp …

‘Here we go,’ Bordelli whispered. Ennio was standing right in front of the Alfa Romeo’s door. Signorini finally managed to get across, looking all the while at the tramp with an expression of disgust. When he reached the car, Botta took a step forward and pretended to fall to the ground, grabbing Signorini’s coat. The young man pushed him away, ignoring his drunken apologies, then got into the car and drove off, spraying mud with the tyres.

‘I have a hard time believing he actually did it,’ said Bordelli, starting up the car. He waited until the Alfa was out of sight, put the car in gear and drove up to Botta with the window down.

‘Did you manage it, Ennio?’

‘Don’t ask me pointless questions, Inspector,’ said Botta, dropping Signorini’s wallet between Bordelli’s legs.

‘You’re a genius … Come on, get in, I still need you for something.’

As Botta was getting in the car, the inspector opened the wallet and rifled quickly through it.

‘Bingo,’ he said, showing the others a bulging piece of folded-up tinfoil. He handed it to Piras and drove off, hoping to catch up with Signorini’s Alfa. He honked the horn to get the other cars out of his way, swearing between clenched teeth. Ennio was combing his hair in the back seat, looking in the rear-view mirror. Piras opened the foil packet carefully, then brought it to his nose to smell the white powder.

‘It’s not cocaine, sir.’

‘It’s not?’

‘Morphine.’

‘Bloody hell …’ Bordelli muttered, thinking of the traces of morphine found in the little boy’s blood.

‘And rather high quality, I’d say.’

‘How many grams?’

‘About five, more or less,’ said Piras, folding the foil back up.

‘Fifty thousand lire?’ Bordelli asked. Ennio leaned forward to give his own opinion.

‘If it’s good stuff, even a hundred.’

‘Didn’t you tell me you steered clear of the nasty stuff?’

‘It’s true, but I still know the going rates.’

‘You know you really looked like a proper tramp, Ennio?’

‘I was an actor in my youth, Inspector.’

‘Sooner or later I’ll find out you sang with Celentano,’ said Bordelli, giving a smile. Piras kept rifling through the wallet but found nothing else of interest. He put the morphine back inside it and then laid it in the glove compartment.

They spotted the red Alfa on Viale Strozzi and followed behind it, hidden by the traffic. Signorini then went up Via Bolognese and stopped in front of his gate. He got out to open it and, after driving the car through, got out again to close it. Bordelli turned round in a space at the side of the road and went back towards the villa, parking the car some distance away from the gate.

‘Let’s see how long it takes him to discover the trick,’ said Bordelli, glancing at his watch. Twelve minutes past twelve.

‘I’ll give him five minutes,’ said Botta, leaning forward for a better look.

The Alfa came back out of the gate at sixteen minutes past the hour. Signorini hurriedly reclosed the gate, then got back in the car and blasted off.

‘You follow him, Piras. I’m sure he’s going back to his dealer … Ennio, you come with me,’ said Bordelli, putting Signorini’s wallet in his pocket. He got out of the 1100 with Botta. Piras got behind the wheel and was off like a rocket.