Property of Blood (8 page)

‘Don’t torment yourself. It’s bad for you and no help to your mother.’

‘She should have been in the country. We have a little cottage, you know, not too far out or she’d never get there. She always tried to get a couple of days’ break before the Milan fashion week, once everything was running smoothly, so as to be fresh for the show itself because it’s really hectic, nerve-racking. Only this year, because we’re going to New York for the first time in April, she didn’t go. I should have taken on more responsibility. She should have felt able to leave me in charge. If she’d gone this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘I don’t think that’s true. They could have been waiting their chance for days and would have gone on waiting.’

‘But why? Why us? We’re not rich enough.’

So here came the inevitable. There had yet to be a kidnapping where the family admitted being as rich as the kidnappers knew they were. They did their research and the magistrates did theirs and the polite veil was drawn before the public eye as undeclared money was discreedy withdrawn from off-shore accounts. Mistakes were made, of course, but, by and large, kidnappers know their business.

‘My mother’s business is successful—if you knew how she’s worked, the years of not breaking even, borrowing and borrowing. She’s made it now but she’s ploughed it all back to go for the foreign market. It’s possible, even probable, that there’ll be no profit this year. Do you know what came into my mind this morning as I was waiting for the doctor’s visit? The murder of Versace. Do you remember that day, the TV news? He was well known, of course, but it was only when people saw that house of his in Miami that they realized just how much money he’d made and it was a shock. Immediately there was gossip … Mafia … money laundering … God knows what… Do you think that could have sparked this kidnapping, drawn attention to the fashion world? And the Gucci murder? Such sums were mentioned …’

‘It’s good,’ said the Marshal carefully, ‘that you should give that aspect some thought because it will help us to trace the origins of the kidnapping.’

‘Does that matter so much—from the point of view of saving my mother, I mean? I realize it’s important to you.’

‘It’s important for both. If we know who set it up we’ll know whose job it is and where he can operate, where his territory is.’

I see. Even so …’ Leonardo got up from the deep leather armchair and began wandering around the room, distractedly staring at the paintings, the line of tasselled calendars, the medals, the immaculately tidy desk. ‘We’re not Versace, we’re not that famous—nowhere near—we make nothing in comparison.’

The Marshal had to tread carefully. If he lost the son’s confidence now, the arrival of Hines and a London detective would be the end.

‘Well, Versace, they say, started with nothing …’

‘And my mother started with debts! If you knew anything about my father …’ He stopped rambling round the room and faced the Marshal. ’You mean our name … is that…’

‘The property. This is something you should discuss with someone more competent and, besides, until a ransom demand comes through you don’t know how much they’ve found out about you. What you could be thinking about is where such information came from. It’s an unpleasant thing to ask you to do but I have to ask it. List everyone who works for you in any capacity, who knows about you, who frequents the house for whatever reason. Start with your own girlfriend if she’s new.’

‘No. No, she’s American and lives in Switzerland.’

‘The last one, then. Did you quarrel? Did you leave her?’

‘No. She left me. They usually do because I work day and night. No quarrel. I can’t believe—’

‘If you want to save your mother, make that list. Your regular workforce, your accountant, your gardener, anyone previously unknown to you showing a recent interest in your family. Everyone. Don’t be afraid. They’ll be checked on discreedy. They’ll never know. The name Brunamonti wasn’t picked out of the phone book with a pin. Do you understand me?’

Leonardo sank into an armchair and rubbed at his eyes as though forced to look at his world in a new way. ‘All right.’

The Marshal barely had time to decide whether to take the young man home or to suggest he walk and get some air when a carabiniere looked in and, excusing himself, asked the Marshal to pick up the telephone as Captain Maestrangelo wanted to speak to him.

‘I was hoping you were still there. Is the son with you?’

‘Yes. He’s here.’

‘You might bring him with you. We’ve found the car.’ He gave directions as far as the point where someone would meet them and rang off.

‘We’ve found her car.’

Five

D
uring the journey, which they made in an official car with a carabiniere driver, the Marshal sat in the back with Leonardo in case he still wanted to talk. Whether he was always that way or it was the effect of shock, Leonardo had no happy medium: either he opened his heart in a flood or he was silent. True, you wouldn’t expect him to make small talk, but the Marshal, who had been in so many similar situations, still found him remarkable. There wasn’t much traffic at this time of day—it was early afternoon by now—and they were soon out of the city, leaving great palaces and marble facades for a ribbon development of terraced houses, narrow, overused roads, and factories. A jeep belonging to the local force escorted them on a country lane leading away from the built-up area towards the hills. Despite the bright sun in a pure blue sky, the ditches on either side of the ochre-coloured lane were still partly crusted over with ice. At the foot of a steep tractor path the jeep stopped and the driver suggested they join him since it would be difficult for them to go any further by car.

They climbed aboard. The Marshal kept a close eye on his companion, unnerved by his collapse of yesterday, but he seemed calm and had some colour in his face. He looked much younger. He turned away now to look out at the hills to the right and the Marshal’s gaze followed his. No matter how bright the sunshine, no matter what the weather, these hills always looked black and inhospitable.

They hadn’t gone far up the steep track before the jeep pulled over into a field and stopped. Prosecutor Fusarri was already there with the Captain and a group of local men. Behind them, the Contessa Brunamonti’s black car, partially obscured by boulders and branches, was being photographed.

‘They’ve ripped the number plates off,’ the Marshal observed, ‘but does it look like your mother’s car?’

‘Yes. What does it mean? Is she …?’ Again his gaze turned to the dark, snow-powdered hills.

‘It doesn’t mean anything except that we’ve picked up the trail. That’s always easy enough. They change cars in some quiet spot. She could be in these hills or at the other end of the country. Stay in the jeep and keep warm until they’ve finished work and then they’ll ask you to take a look inside.’

It took time. No one expected to find any useful fingerprints but the car had to be checked for them, even so.

The Captain and the Prosecutor were deep in conversation, and the Marshal stood at a respectful distance, frowning. The car had been backed part way into a cave in the hillside. There were many such caves in these hills, some of them only big enough to hold a man, some big enough to hide a battalion.

The Marshal looked around for the carabiniere who had brought them. He couldn’t find him but he spotted Bini, the Marshal in command of the local station, and went over to ask, ‘Whose land is this?’

The local man lowered his voice. ‘Salis, Francesco Salis.’ It gave the impression he was afraid of the notorious bandit hearing him. ‘I’ve told the Captain there but he knew already, of course … been in hiding a good three and a half years now.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘It’ll be seven years this coming September.’

‘You know him then.’

‘I know him all right, but there’ll be no laying hands on him until the day he decides to come down. They say he can crouch double and run, and I mean run, crashing through the undergrowth like a wild boar. They once got on his track with the dogs but only one dog could run after him at a time through such a narrow space. He turned and shot at them until they gave up. Helicopter above never saw a thing. No, they’ll not get him unless he comes down. And it doesn’t look like he’ll be coming down now, does it?’

‘And if he gets a ransom payment?’

‘He’ll be out of the country before the rest of them release the victim. Believe me. I know him.’

‘Guarnaccia!’

The Marshal excused himself and joined the Captain.

‘Guarnaccia, get the son to take a look inside, will you? How are things … Is he cooperating?’

‘For the moment. It’s the arrival of the others I’m worried about. He’s so frightened and confused he’ll lean on me now but… Well, finding the car will help.’

‘I’m glad to hear it since it won’t get us much farther. We need to find more than the car.’

They found more. Not in the car. There was nothing to be seen there, though the forensic labs would certainly come up with evidence for what they already knew but would have to prove in court: human and dog hairs, for instance. They found a great deal more in another cave higher up the hill. Plastic water bottles, bits of food, a filthy old mattress, and, behind that, something written on the wall in English.

gone swiming

Leonardo, brought to examine it, crawled out of the cave, stood up, and was silent. He turned his head away from the Marshal’s enquiring gaze, muttering, ‘Sorry…’ and moved away from the group for a moment. Fusarri, an unlit cigar in his mouth, raised his eyebrows and, holding the cigar between his teeth, looked from the Captain to the Marshal.

‘I take it his reaction means he’s sure his mother wrote it. I wouldn’t have thought myself that handwriting done with a stone could be recognizable, which must mean the words convey some message to him. They don’t to me. Captain?’

‘No, but…’

‘Come on, now, Maestrangelo. Your English, as I remember, is excellent.’

‘It’s good enough to know that there’s something wrong with the spelling.’

‘Really? You mean it’s a fake? Done by the kidnappers perhaps? It’s odd enough, after all, that they didn’t scratch it off since it wasn’t hidden.’

‘It’s odd enough that they didn’t clear the place out altogether. They might have had reason to leave in a hurry, I suppose, but…’

Fusarri removed the cigar and waved it. ‘This whole setup’s a fake? But the car’s real.’

Yes. And the son’s reaction is real. Marshal?’

The Marshal went over to where Leonardo was sitting on a boulder, staring up at the hills as though unable to drag his gaze away. It was with difficulty that the Marshal gained his attention.

‘She was here. That was a message for me. She was right here …’

‘It’s not written correctly, is it? We were wondering if, in fact, it had been written by her captors. They might be trying to confuse the trail by creating a false hide-out.’

‘No, it’s … No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s because … It’s a message to me. When I was a child I went to Italian schools and spoke Italian with my father as long as he was with us. My mother always spoke to me in English and tried to teach me to read and write in English, too. She read to me a lot… I’m afraid English spelling was beyond me. I’m not too hot at it even now, to tell you the truth. When I was about thirteen or fourteen I did a swimming course in the afternoons, and if my mother was down in the workshop I’d leave a note in the house to remind her. That’s what I always wrote, no matter how often she corrected me, so that, in the end she began pronouncing it the way I wrote it and it became a private joke between us. She was here. If I’d come to you at once …’

‘Don’t torment yourself.’

‘You’re right, I know. “If only I’d known.” The most useless phrase there is. Tell me what to do.’

The Marshal gave an inward sigh of relief and explained to him about the three questions he must prepare with his sister, the phrase his mother had written being a perfect example of the sort of information they should ask for.

‘And what do we do with them when we’ve prepared them?’

‘You’ll be told.’

‘By them, you mean?’

‘yes.’

Francesco Salis, born in Orgosolo, Sardinia (official occupation: shepherd, real source of income: kidnapping), had been on the run from the law, as the local force knew and Records confirmed, for three and a half years. The Captain needed to know everything there was to know about Salis, his fellow criminals, his previous convictions, his habits, his money-laundering possibilities, and any white-collar prison contacts who could link him with the Brunamonti family or their business. He had a good man on his investigating team, a Sardinian himself and a veritable bloodhound, who was destined to work a lot of extra hours in the next few weeks. The Captain himself, who had worked every hour God sent every day of his military life, worked even more without noticing it. Prosecutor Fusarri managed to make himself available at any time of the day or night without appearing to be working at all.

The Marshal went to see Signora Salis.

He took the local man, Bini, with him. Bini told jokes. He told them incessantly. Goodness only knew where he got them but they weren’t very funny. There weren’t that many of them, either, so that by the time the jeep had gone three kilometers further than the point where the car was found he was repeating himself.

‘I bet you’ve never heard this one: Why is the city of Florence like a woman’s body?’

‘What? I’m sorry, I…’ Guarnaccia, miles away, deeply worried by something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, came to with a start. One of the problems of living in Florence was that you got bombarded by Florentines with a mass of complicated information you didn’t want and the rest of the time you got bombarded by visitors with requests for that same information which you didn’t remember.

Bini, not fussy about a response, rolled right along.

‘Then lower down again there’s the bottom fortress…’

Before picking him up in the nearby village square, the Marshal had drunk a politic cup of coffee in the Bar Italia, and the barman, after saying his say about Salis, had brought up Bini’s name.

‘Heart of gold, always ready to do anybody a good turn, generous to a fault. I won’t hear a word said against him but he’ll bore you to death. It’s awful really, when you think about it, that we all prefer an entertaining rogue to a saint who keeps repeating the same dull jokes.’

The Marshal wasn’t an exceptionally patient man but he was, as good luck would have it, an abstracted listener who had never in his life followed the plot of a film. And since Bini wasn’t fussy about feedlines they went along quite comfortably.

‘There’s the place.’

They were at the edge of Bini’s village on the brow of a hill, looking down at a pale ribbon of road that wound through a narrow valley, little more than a trough between steep slopes really, and up to a tiny village on the crown of the next hill. The Salis place was to the right of the road in the middle of the trough and was the only building there.

On reaching the dismal-looking house, they parked the jeep in the yard, where there was a washing line, an empty dog kennel, and a beaten-up car with its roof, back, and licence plates cut away, a makeshift such as farmers often use for moving bales, barrels, or dead animals.

The Marshal was surprised by the age of the woman who reluctantly admitted them, thinking at first she was Salis’s mother since she was grey-haired and looked sixtyish. Her teeth were bad and her clothes stained. Ransom money went to buy land, sheep, even bonds made out to the holder. The kitchen looked as if it had been furnished from a rubbish tip and probably had. They sat down at a Formica table and were given strong red wine in kitchen glasses.

‘You’re wasting your time here. He has nothing to do with this.’

‘This what?’ It was Bini who did the talking. The Marshal listened to what the woman didn’t say.

‘I have my eyes and ears.’

‘The car’s on your land. And a used hide-out.’

She didn’t answer that.

‘When did you last see him?’

She shrugged.

‘Don’t tell me he isn’t in touch with you.’

‘He hasn’t come down in a year.’

‘So who’s taking food to him?’

Another shrug. T don’t hold with it, if you want to know.’

‘With what?’

‘This kidnapping business. At least not when it’s children.’

‘It’s not children, though, this time, is it? Still, you get little enough out of it, that’s true.’ Bini looked about him. The kitchen was imbued with the smell of years of cheese-making but was severely clean. ‘It’s no life for you living in this place alone. Don’t you ever think of going home to Sardinia? You must still have family there.’

‘They wouldn’t have me if I left my man. He’s my husband and this is our land. What about you? You haven’t much to say.’ This was, of course, directed at the Marshal, who cleared his throat and looked at the plastic flowers on the washing machine.

‘I was thinking the same as my colleague here. It must be a hard life for you. Have you sold his flock? I notice there’s no dog outside.’

She gave a start and then glared from one to the other of them. They couldn’t get another word out of her and soon gave up trying.

Back in the jeep, Bini told a couple of jokes while the Marshal thought about the woman’s life in that isolated farmhouse until he was interrupted.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you’d have done better not to mention the dog. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that with the trouble he’s already in he’d have more sense than to do a job that could send him down for good.’

‘It might make him a lot of money. He hasn’t much to lose, I suppose. Has she sold his flock then?’

‘Right away. No shepherd boy will work for them, not now. She had no choice.’

It wasn’t late and it had been another bright, windy day but the sunlight had already gone in this valley so overshadowed by the nearness of the high black hills.

When they drove past the track where the car had been found, the Marshal’s ill-defined worry surfaced again. A car was bound to be found, no point in the kidnappers’ worrying about that, but they could have left it to be found near a motorway going south, or at least on somebody else’s land.

‘Bini, I can’t help thinking that setup’s a fake. Salis, they say, is a professional and not a fool.’

‘Losing his grip in his old age, perhaps. He’s nearer sixty than fifty, you know. And then, over twenty years in Tuscany … must have lost his Sardinian instincts. Anyway, the car and the message are real, aren’t they? It’s beyond me. Need a bigger brain than mine to make sense of it.’

The Marshal, with an even humbler opinion of his own brain, having already collected and stored most of the information necessary to the understanding of this contradiction, dropped the matter.