Some Bitter Taste (17 page)

‘Of course I remember! It’s just not something I care to talk about.’

‘I understand. However, I’m sure that you in turn understand that in the circumstances, a woman having died—’

Rinaldi cut him short, saying slowly, deliberately, ‘I did not go to Jacob Roth’s funeral.’

‘I see. Fine. Well, then I don’t think we need trouble you further—unless there’s something you would like to ask, Captain?’

The captain, immobile, solemn, silent, indicated with the tiniest movement of one finger that he would not.

Rinaldi began to breathe easily again.

‘Marshal? Anything you would like to ask Signor Rinaldi?’

Somewhat taken aback, the marshal said, ‘No, no … I’m not—’

‘This is your case, after all, so please …’

The marshal cleared his throat and took the plunge: ‘I would like to ask Signor Rinaldi a question.’ He couldn’t do any fancy steps around it either. Besides, he didn’t want the man to feel at ease; he wanted to arrest him.

‘Who told you?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That he was dead? About the trust?’

‘His lawyer, naturally.’

‘What’s this lawyer’s name?’

Rinaldi was really alarmed now, and undecided. The marshal gave him no time for inventing names. ‘Only, Sara Hirsch left a name with me when she came to see me and I just wondered if, with there perhaps being a connection, it might be the same. We could check ourselves, of course, now we know about Jacob Roth, but you could save us the time … I can see it’s coming to you.’

‘Yes,’ snapped Rinaldi, T can save you the time. The name is D’Ancona, Umberto D’Ancona. And I can save you even more time. He’s dead. He and Jacob were practically the same age.’

They had to let him go. The marshal would have liked to go with him, stay glued to him until the man couldn’t bear it any longer and told him. Told him what? It made no difference. He was gone. They all talked so much, so many words…

‘Marshal?’

‘I’m sorry, didn’t quite hear you.’

‘You said there was no point in my giving you a search warrant for Rinaldi’s place, that you thought they didn’t find what they were looking for. How do you know?’

‘Something he said. Captain, you’ll have him followed?’

‘He’s being followed now and by the time he gets home his telephone will be tapped.’

‘Good, good … I can’t remember his exact words, I’m sorry. He was paying off those two porters and I was outside listening. Said he was paying them for nothing … something like that. I can get it out of one of the porters …’ All this talking. The marshal, on the edge of his chair, feet planted firmly on the ground, ready to stand, gazed hopefully at Captain Maestrangelo, who was used to him and knew he was no good at words. The prosecutor, who wasn’t used to him, was trying to understand. You could see that. You could see he wanted a smoke, too.

‘There was a cigar stubbed out. Everything Sara Hirsch said was true and I left it too late …’

The captain said, ‘Listen, Guarnaccia, you remember you said at first you felt this was some sort of eviction problem?’

‘It is. That’s why there’s no time to lose.’

‘But if the woman’s dead?’

‘Exacdy. They may not have meant to kill her but when she showed that card she had up her sleeve they attacked. Well, they must have wanted her out of the flat for a reason and maybe that reason is … They killed her by accident. She was in the way and what she was in the way of is what … Maybe the crime we should be investigating hasn’t been committed yet.’ He was getting to his feet. He had to get on.

‘I’ll walk down with you,’ the prosecutor said. He slung a crumpled linen jacket round his shoulders, shook hands with Maestrangelo, and picked up his battered briefcase. As soon as they were on the staircase he lit a cigar. When they reached their cars down in the cloister, the prosecutor delayed Guarnaccia again but only to say, ‘I did follow up your eviction idea and got in touch with the archives in Via Laura where documentation of any change of ownership is stored until such a time as the Land Registry is updated. It seems as if Rinaldi’s story is true. The building is the property of the RAE—Roth Art Education—Trust, registered in Panama. The Rossis bought the top floor from that trust two years ago. The reason for that sale could have been the extensive repairs that you mention as causing difficulties between Sara Hirsch and Rinaldi. What do you think? Unless we can trace private contracts stipulating the terms of Sara’s rental or usufruct, as the case may be, it’s not much help. Presumably, it was the usual avoidance of death duties trick, though I wouldn’t have thought a piece of property that size would warrant it.’

‘No. And …’

‘And?’

‘Death duties payable by whom? Who was the heir? I’m sure Sara Hirsch must have expected to inherit something and didn’t. She ended up in a psychiatric ward twice, once after her mother’s death and again about two years later. If I can find out what happened to Jacob Roth and when … and he must be buried somewhere, for goodness’ sake.’

‘If he’s really dead. Documents of the property have his date of birth as 1913. He could be still alive, you know. I’ll have that checked out in England, too,’ decided the prosecutor.

‘Rinaldi, though …’

‘You want to arrest him, I know, but we don’t know what he’s up to. Let’s give him enough rope to hang himself. An incriminating phone call—’

‘He’s too clever for that. He won’t make a move.’

‘I’m afraid you’re probably right, that Falaschi and Giusti in their separate cells are our only hope. I’ll interrogate them tomorrow morning in the presence of a legal aid lawyer and let’s hope they stick to the story they told you.’

‘And if you find they already have a lawyer? Rinaldi will see to that and do it using a mobile phone.’

‘Then there’s nothing I can do. What about you? What’s your next move?’

‘There’s nothing I can do either except try and understand … Would you mind if I sent to your office for the photograph album that was in the safe—and the few photos we took from the flat as well?’

‘You needn’t send anyone. I’ll see they get to you the minute I get back. By the way, there hasn’t been time to mention it until now but I did telephone the Rossi parents and they had nothing but praise for you. I’m sorry if I caused you to worry needlessly.’

‘You did right to warn me. Given your experience.’

‘You have your own experience, you don’t need mine.’ He pressed the marshal’s arm. ‘Follow your instinct. You have no better friend. By the way, did you really have Umberto D’Ancona’s name?’

‘No, no …’

‘Ha!’

The marshal watched him get in his car and drive off. He stood still a moment, staring towards the exit, feeling for his car keys and his dark glasses. ‘I’ll find them,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll find both of them. Sara’s brother, if he’s real, and Jacob Roth.’ Glasses first. It was fairly shady in the cloister, where a fountain trickled, and the vaulted, stone-flagged passage leading out of it was dark. Beyond that, framed by the arched entrance, the rainwashed air in Via Borgo Ognissanti was dazzling under a clean, burning sun.

‘Don’t interrupt me unless you have to.’ As if Lorenzini ever did. He was the sort we all take for granted until they are sick or on holiday and life erupts into a thousand pimples of irritation. He closed the door quietiy as he left the office and the marshal setded down to open the big photograph album. It wasn’t dusty. It had been preserved with great care inside a brown velvet bag with a drawstring. The earliest photographs dated from the end of the last century, formal groups of ladies in high lace collars and piles of hair. The album probably wasn’t as old as those first pictures, which were mounted on thick board not at all adapted to the diagonal slits meant to hold them in place so that they were loose under their protective page of tissue. On the base of the mounting board was the name of the photographer, written diagonally in elaborate script difficult to make out, perhaps because the name was foreign.
Praha
was printed clearly. Prague, he supposed. Some pictures of individual ladies and of married couples had props, perhaps a marble column or archway, or a backcloth of a garden or country scene. Portraits of soldiers, seated rigidly holding one glove or standing in dress uniforms holding swords. What looked like an engagement photograph. The young man in uniform, staring straight at the camera, she looking up at him, leaning on his arm. The same couple in wedding clothes, this one mounted, loose in the page, the same Prague photographer, 1919. Then there was another wedding scene, this one with bridesmaids seated cross-legged at the front holding enormous bunches of flowers. There was no date but this was later, the marshal thought, probably the twenties, judging by the shining headbands low on the women’s foreheads, the narrow frock and pointed shoes of the bride. The pictures fitted into the slots now and were a little less formal. No more marble columns or painted trees. Barefooted children sat on fur-draped stools, girls and boys alike in dresses and loose curls, their names and ages added in sepia copperplate below.

‘Ruth, aged five. 1931.’

There she was, Sara Hirsch’s mother in a white sailor suit, a loose satin bow in her long dark hair. Another with a man and a woman in a park—real, not studio scenery. He turned back a page or two and found the same couple, the woman holding a baby wrapped in a long shawl. He looked more closely. They were in a doorway and the narrow strip of window to their right had the beginning of a name on it of which only the
H
was visible.

Further on, he identified the same couple, a little more mature now, no doubt photographed in honour of some anniversary, she in a big carved chair, he standing behind her in a tight suit and stiff rounded collar. Sara’s grandparents. The last part of the big album was empty. The world had stopped in 1939 for them. Sara’s mother, Ruth, had brought this—the seven-branched candelabra, the prayer shawl, the Talmud, and the rest, her history, her inheritance—to Florence, where her parents had contacts, where they thought she would be safe. A little girl carrying a great burden. The marshal had no doubt that Samuel Roth in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti was the contact. And Jacob Roth, the son who was so clever…

‘I’m willing to bet that he was Sara’s father!’ said the marshal. ‘So now, where’s
that
photograph? I’d swear young Lisa Rossi said—’ He was lifting the receiver when Lorenzini knocked and came in. ‘What is it?’

‘Someone to see you. It won’t take a minute. It’s not that—’

‘No, no. It’s all right. Send him in.’ Because he was sure of his ground, could hold the entire picture in his head. No amount of talking could disturb him now.

‘It’s a she.’

‘What?’ But Lorenzini had withdrawn.

Dori appeared.

‘No … !’

‘Yes! I’ve done it and here’s the ring to prove it. Registry office, of course.’ She looked wonderful. She had always been beautiful but now there was a difference. Perhaps it was because she was dressed more discreedy, perhaps because she was living a more regular life. The pregnancy still didn’t show but then she was so very tall and slender. T can see you’re busy’

‘That’s all right. Sit down for a minute.’

‘Okay’ She sat. ‘What’s that? Your family album?’

‘No, somebody else’s.’

‘Hm. That reminds me: You lied to me about Mario’s mother. She’s dead.’

‘I know. Sorry …’

‘It’s all right. You’re a good man. You’ve been to see Enkeleda in the hospital a couple of times, haven’t you?’

‘She told you? She’s herself again?’

‘You’re kidding. They say she has a mental age of about five and is likely to stay that way. That woman in the other bed told me you’d been, the one with her skull all stitched up—Christ!’

‘I know …’

‘Anyway, they’re trying to get her moved to some place where they’ll teach her to walk. She seems happy enough. That bastard Lek …’

‘Yes, well, don’t forget your friend, his cousin Ilir, who wasn’t averse to that sort of work himself with girls who didn’t play ball.’

‘Ilir’s all right. I’d best be going, leave you to your family album. Thanks again, Marshal.’

‘Your testimony’s all the thanks I need.’

‘And thanks for going to see Enkeleda, as well. Poor little bugger.’

‘She’s had bad luck.’

‘Yeah, right. She was born female.’

Enkeleda … When Dori had gone, the marshal thought about that broken little body as he dialled the Rossis’ number. Even if she learned to walk, what then? Where would she walk to?

‘Signora Rossi? Marshal Guarnaccia here, good evening, good evening. I wonder if I could have a quick word with your little girl—no, no, just something she told me that I’d like to check on—and, Signora—if you wouldn’t mind leaving her alone while she’s talking. She feels she was in Signora Hirsch’s confidence and I’m trying to respect that—no, I don’t think she knows anything dangerous, besides which she’s very discreet … thank you. Lisa? Lisa, do you remember telling me about the secret photographs in the safe? No, I’m sure you haven’t and neither have I. Just tell me again: There was a photo that Signora Hirsch said was of her mum and dad. Can you tell me any more about it? For instance, did it look like it was taken in a photographer’s studio or a house or outdoors? What? It was? You’re sure of that—she told you so? I can imagine, yes, a very long time ago. And was anybody else in the picture? Just the two of them—how old did you think they were? Try and tell me what they looked like. I see. All right, Lisa. Now, try and remember: Did she ever show you a photo of her brother, or even say she had one of him? No. And the secret picture was the one of her mum and dad? And the flowers, the picture of the flowers. Thank you, Lisa, you’ve been a big help. Yes, it’s very important … and still a secret for the moment, yes. You mustn’t worry about that because I’ve asked your mum not to ask you. When it’s all over we’ll both tell her. Put her back on the line … Signora, thank you for your help—oh, you did. Yes, it’s true. Two men have been arrested. You’ve heard already … the seven-thirty news? Is it as late as that?’

He mustn’t be late for supper again. Nevertheless, he sat a moment, taking in what Lisa had told him.