Some Bitter Taste (10 page)

‘Impressions?’

‘I think so. You never know, you see, except with hindsight, whether it’s a question of impressions or there really was something. I’m sorry, I’m not being clear, I know.’

‘You’re being perfectly clear, Marshal, though I confess I can’t quite see how she would have found that particular occasion of sin, entrusted to her parents’ acquaintance in those nonpermissive days. Well, now, let’s look at what the hospital gave me. I have Sara Hirsch’s clinical file here but I’ll try and give you a shortened version: It seems she was admitted to Santa Maria Novella at her own request, when the death of her mother, seven years ago, left her too grief-stricken to cope with daily life. She was afraid she was losing her mind. Her general health was checked out, given that undiagnosed illness often turns out to be the cause of tiredness and depression. She was found to be suffering from angina. A diet was recommended since she was a bit overweight—incidentally, her mother died in the same hospital, in intensive care, after a heart attack. Sara was seen by a psychologist and there’s a separate report here … bit long … says she didn’t seek help for about seven months after the onset of her depression, which in turn began some months after her mother’s death. The first delay seemed to puzzle the doctor more than the second—people are often reluctant to seek psychiatric help—but she doesn’t seem to have reached any satisfactory conclusion about it. She says the patient, when interviewed, was deeply anxious and became very agitated when questioned about her daily life, expectations, rapport with people around her, and so on. The overall impression was of a very isolated person who probably had no valid relationship other than that with her mother.’

‘No mention of a brother?’ asked the marshal.

‘Oh yes. Apparently he came up in every other sentence but she seemed unable or unwilling to give any precise information about him. This was so marked that the doctor made a note to the effect that she had doubts about his existence. I must say that, though this is a common enough phenomenon with lonely children, I’ve never heard of it myself in the case of an adult. Have you?’

‘No, no. There was no photograph, though, none of a brother, just the mother and father, according to the Rossis’ little girl. There could have been one, of course, and she didn’t show it.’

‘In the same way as she didn’t give concrete information about him? I must say, up to now, he sounds mythical to me. By the way, I only found one Hirsch in the phone book, eliminated, so I won’t waste your time with that. However, let’s go on. Questioned about whether she had ever worked, she answered that her mother had not wished it, that there was no necessity for it, that she herself had thought of it when she was young but had accepted the guidance of her mother, who would tell her, “Remember who you are, that you will one day take your rightful place in the world.” Oh dear me … that rather lends credence to what you were saving about her putative father, doesn’t it?’

‘She didn’t explain?’

‘She never explained, just gave out a series of apparently unrelated facts. The only thing she made clear was that she was desperately in need of help.’

‘Hmph. That’s exacdy how she behaved when she came to see me. It did occur to me that she was inventing the facts.’

‘But she was murdered.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll read you the psychologist’s conclusions: “The patient presents no difficulties in understanding the nature of her own condition and though she feels unable to look after herself at present she has a complete grasp of the realities of her life. Her anxiety is deep-rooted and arises out of real problems which she feels unable to discuss even in absolute confidence. It is evident that such problems are connected with her mother, with whom she nevertheless seems to have had a close and loving relationship. Her sensation of weakness and impotence she reports as having begun with the death of her mother without whom there is no one to ‘defend her interests’. The patient has clearly spent her life waiting for the problem she refuses to discuss to work itself out. The death of her mother, aside from the grief it would naturally cause, seems to have triggered a realisation of the passing of her own life, spent in waiting rather than living. No symptoms of paranoia. No history of manic behaviour. Reactive depression.”

‘That’s more or less it, really. Recommends tranquillizers, diet, fresh air, exercise, etcetera, etcetera. After that…’ The prosecutor sifted through the file, setting aside photocopies of electrocardiograms, blood test results, forms, and handwritten letters.

‘Here … she was readmitted after two years in pretty much the same condition. Same tests, different psychologist saying much the same things. “Reserved, anxious, reticent about cause of depression.” There’s even some question-and-answer stuff here:

‘
“When you say, ‘If things were as they should be,’ could you explain that a little better for me?”

‘“There are problems. One day my life will be as it should be."’

‘“Have you concrete reasons for thinking that your situation in life is going to change radically?”

‘“Yes, I have.”

‘“And do you feel able to tell me what those reasons are?”

‘“Certainly not. They are very private matters and … complicated. It wouldn’t be easy for you to understand.”

‘Do you think she was blackmailing the father?’

‘If she was, she wasn’t very good at it. She was in tears because she couldn’t afford condominium repairs—of course, that’s just something the grocer said …’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I believe he wasn’t lying.’

‘So you think it’s true?’

‘Oh no, no … it can’t be true. No. That’s what her visit to me was about, as far as I could tell. She didn’t own the flat. The postcard saying “Now we know where you live” is typical of the type of unscrupulous lawyer who wants a quick eviction.’

The prosecutor looked at the papers removed from the Hirsch flat and stacked on his desk. ‘I’m not going to find house documents in that pile.’

‘No.’

‘And probably no rent contract either.’

‘Probably not,’ agreed the marshal.

‘Then we must find the owner through the city Land Registry—always hoping it’s not too many years out of date.’

‘What you might find among her documents,’ the marshal suggested, ‘is the name of her lawyer, a letter or something. She mentioned that she had one and that she was going to consult him when I told her I thought somebody was trying to push her out of the flat.’

‘That would be useful,’ the prosecutor agreed, ‘but I’m not counting on it, by any means. These folders came out of a filing cabinet. They were in perfect order. Anyone wishing to remove compromising documents would have had no trouble finding them.’

‘That’s…’

‘What is it?’

‘I’m trying to remember something she said to me in my office. When I suggested the idea of someone trying to frighten her into moving … something like she had a card—or maybe cards—up her sleeve.’

The prosecutor leaned back in his chair, frowning. ‘If she showed those cards she presumably signed her death warrant. What impresses me is that whoever she showed them to reacted so quickly and efficiendy. Aren’t you impressed by that yourself?’

‘I … no, no …’

‘But surely, Marshal, between her visit to you and her death—and she saw this lawyer, we assume before showing her hand.’

‘She might have just phoned him.’

‘But the speed of it! She must have been dead within two days and more likely one. I doubt if even the autopsy report when it comes in is going to be much more precise than that. Have you ever come across a homicide planned and executed that quickly—outside of organised crime, of course?’

‘No, I can’t say I have.’

‘Well then? You surely don’t think there’s any connection with organised crime?’

‘No, no …’

The prosecutor looked on the point of losing his much-vaunted patience. He stopped. The marshal was worried, not only because he had nothing helpful to offer but because he ought to find time to check in at his station before making another visit where he had even less to offer, the Villa L’ Uliveto. The prosecutor was kind enough to release him when he explained. He didn’t seem annoyed as they shook hands but you never knew with prosecutors. They were cleverer men than the marshal, educated men. They could conceal their annoyance and it would make itself felt later. He seemed like a nice man but it didn’t do to jump to conclusions, the way the prosecutor himself had done, going on like that about the speed and efficiency. They didn’t know for sure what the motive was and, even if they were right about it, the speed wasn’t nearly as odd as was the murder itself. If the motive was the contents of that safe and whoever took it had really been in the house before, surely there was no need to kill when a simple robbery would have caused less fuss. An unnecessary killing … speed and efficiency? No, no …

It was dark and it was sultry. Inside the small, unmarked car the marshal and Lorenzini felt suffocated. They didn’t open the car windows. The air in the narrow street was worse, equally hot and heavy with exhaust fumes. The young carabiniere in the backseat, on night rounds for the first time, was too eager for the marshal’s tranquillity. He’d seen too many youngsters fail through overenthusiasm and it was a constant source of worry to him. He looked at the dashboard clock. Almost midnight. They were parked in Via dei Serragli. To achieve that, they’d had to drive round the block four times and grab a place as the Goldoni cinema emptied towards eleven. The car was unmarked but they were in uniform. There had been some movement as the cinema filled for the last showing but now there were almost no pedestrians in the long, narrow street. The trattorie were long closed. The lamplight was punctuated here and there by the neon signs of a few bars. Still the cars streamed by.

‘You wonder where the devil they’re all going at this hour,’ grumbled the marshal as he always did.

‘Discos, clubs,’ replied Lorenzini automatically.

Via dei Serragli was where Ilir’s cousin, Lek Pictri, had his ‘building firm’. What he really had was a biggish flat on the second floor on the right, almost opposite the cinema. At any given time there might be up to eight Albanian immigrants living there. Lek Pictri’s scam was to take these men in and register them with the police as employees in his building firm, which existed only on paper. As fully employed, though illegal, immigrants, their status was legalised and they were given police permits and residence documents. Once they obtained these, they soon moved on—to contacts of the Pictri cousins, usually to a profitable life of crime—leaving space in the flat for new arrivals. Nobody knew yet exactly what price they paid for this service but it was suspected to be part of a countrywide network which controlled the costly and dangerous journey from Albania and this legalisation process, and trade in prostitution and drugs. The marshal himself had uncovered the legalisation scam through a complaint from an old ‘business acquaintance’ of his, living on the same landing, Giancarlo Renzi. Renzi was a respectable Italian thief who objected strongly to the influx of foreign talent in the criminal world. The marshal and his men were already out on their twice-monthly night rounds when Renzi’s call was put through to them on the car radio.

‘I heard a commotion on the landing so I watched through the spy hole in my door.’

‘And you’re sure they were armed? It’s important,’ the marshal insisted.

‘I’m sure one of them was. Don’t know about the other two. He was holding a gun to a girl’s head, for Christ’s sake. There’s never been women in there before. If they’re going to start running prostitutes from here, that’s the limit. I’ve got two teenaged daughters to think of. It’s bad enough foreigners are going in and out at all hours. If you don’t do something—’

‘We are doing something. We’re on our way.’ Where arms were involved, the marshal could go in without a warrant. Even so, if the network was as big as they suspected, they needed more time, more information, before making a move. Lek Pictri alone was no use to them. They didn’t want to put him on his guard. The regular night patrol car acting as their backup checked in on the radio.

‘One one seven here. We’re in Piazza Santo Spirito. Drug arrest at the mobile station. Have you decided to go in?’

‘I’m not convinced. We’ll stay here and observe for now.’

The marshal knew he should make a decision but instinctively he held back.

Lorenzini touched his arm.

‘Door’s opening.’

It wasn’t the Albanians but Renzi, waiting for a gap in the traffic and then shuffling across the dark road wearing a T-shirt that didn’t cover his belly, shorts, and flip-flops. He removed the cigarette from his mouth between thumb and forefinger to complain, ‘What are you doing, for God’s sake? It sounds like they’re killing that girl!’

The marshal and Lorenzini opened their doors. Small fry or not, if Pictri was beating a girl, they couldn’t sit still.

‘Stay there,’ the marshal told the carabiniere in the back.

But they hadn’t time to get out of the car before the door across the street opened again and three men and a girl got into a white Mercedes that moved off noisily, winging a parked car on the left and then one on the right farther along before picking up speed as it made for the Porta Romana and the city limit. They slammed their doors shut and followed, leaving Renzi standing in the road, shouting after them.

The marshal called in their backup.

‘If they get on the motorway we haven’t a hope of keeping up—apart from the size of the car, they’re driving like lunatics.’ Their own little car was chosen for discretion, small alleyways, and city parking.

As the marshal had feared, the white car swerved onto the Porta Romana roundabout and took the road to Siena. The next roundabout along would take them onto the motorway, where they could really get up speed.

The backup car hit Via dei Serragli just as the cinema was emptying again. In a street like that, one blocked-in car trying to edge into the road could jam the honking traffic right back to the river. Add a bus stuck across the junction with Via Sant’ Agostino at the traffic lights and the whole Quarter would clog up. It did. All the drivers were honking in fury except the two carabinieri in the patrol car, one of whom got out to help by trying to shift a huge motorbike. The marshal received this news over the radio, which advised, ‘Try and keep them in sight. Once we’re clear of this mess, we’ll be with you in seconds.’