Some Bitter Taste (19 page)

‘I see. Well, I’ll report what you’ve told me to my commanding officer—and don’t worry, the possibility of a bigger robbery is something he’s mentioned himself. He’s also a great admirer of the villa and its garden. We’ll keep an eye on the place during August.’

‘Thanks. Well, I’d better be getting back.’ At the door he turned back to say, ‘D’you mind if I ask you a question? I apologise in advance if it’s indiscreet and you can’t answer. We were talking about it when we started on the lemon house this morning so when I said I was coming to see you … Everybody wants to know, including me, and I don’t think you can ever believe more than half of what you read in the papers. First there was this big story saying Sara Hirsch had her throat slashed and then half a paragraph saying it was a heart attack. Which is true? D’you mind my asking?’

‘Not at all. The heart attack is true as the article said.’

‘Thanks. I’m afraid the others will be disappointed—not out of any ill will to the poor woman, only because it would have been more exciting. Bye.’

He closed the door quiedy behind him. The marshal murmured to himself, ‘Something to talk about besides greenflies …’ Poor Sara. The disinherited and the super-inherited. Oh well, he was gradually getting a hold on the day-to-day problems of a rich man if nothing else. Slugs … !

‘Lorenzini!’ The door opened as he called.

‘I was just coming. There’s something wrong with these dates.’ Lorenzini plonked the Hirsch file back on the desk ‘They’re all correct. I’ve put nothing down on that list that’s not documented. I’ve left out anything that’s supposition or that depends on Rinaldi’s word alone.’

‘That’s good—as far as Rinaldi’s concerned, at any rate. Not really true, though, is it? I mean, this note here says Rinaldi took over the antique business just after the war. Now, we can check, of course, because it’ll be on his licence, and he knows we can check, but that’s where your dates are a bit unconvincing.’

‘There. I knew I was doing right to ask you.’

‘You could have worked it out for yourself. You’ve got his date of birth on this rough copy of his statement. ‘After the war’ is a bit vague, admittedly, but even if we make it 1950 when Jacob Roth retired from business and Rinaldi took over, you’ve got Roth retiring at something like thirty-seven and Rinaldi in charge at nineteen. I’m not saying it’s impossible but it’s a bit unusual, wouldn’t you say?’

‘That’s funny … I could have sworn I said the same thing to myself a while ago—but I’m probably imagining it with hindsight. Retired at thirty-seven, eh … ? Must have made a packet’

‘People did during the war.’

‘Some people.’

‘Yes. It’s late, did you know?’

‘Oh, Lord … Teresa will never speak to me again. Have you done the Daily Orders?’

‘There. Just need your signature. I’ve got a wife, too, you know.’

The phone rang. Teresa.

‘Am I to put the pasta on or not?’

‘Yes—no. Have the boys had supper? Well then, eat with them. Sorry. I still need to talk to Captain Maestrangelo. I’m going to ring him now. No, no, because I might have to go over there. You know he will, he never leaves his office before nine-thirty or ten. You’re right, he should …’

It was quiet over at Borgo Ognissanti Headquarters. As the marshal climbed the stone staircase someone came through the glass doors of the Operations Room, letting out the low buzz of a peaceful beehive. The doors swung shut and all was silence again. Upstairs, he walked alone along the polished red corridor. Through the windows on his left he could see, across the darkened cloister, a recreation room lit up and four lads in white T-shirts playing table tennis. Surely, even at this hour, it was too hot for all that bounding about. He stopped by a tall rubber plant and knocked on a pale oak door set in a stone arch. And well might the captain inhabit a monk’s cell. It niggled him a bit when Teresa said he was good-looking but apart from that she was right about him. He’d end up a general, but he should enjoy himself a bit, smile now and again. Even the prosecutor had touched on the subject.

‘Come in.’ He wasn’t smiling now. He was there, though, wasn’t he? He was always there when he was needed. Solid as a rock, careful, serious, a good man. ‘Ah, Guarriaccia … I was just thinking about you.’ And for some unknown reason, his dark face lightened for the briefest moment like the sun breaking through banks of cloud and just for a second he smiled.

The marshal was still sitting there, hands planted on his knees, waiting for Maestrangelo to put the world right for him. Probably he shouldn’t be taking up the captain’s time like this but you can’t see what people are really saying over the phone.

‘I think you might be being overly scrupulous, Guarnaccia.’

‘Do you? Perhaps I thought so, too, but I thought it best to tell you. Sir Christopher’s an important foreign resident. If that young man’s right and there is a robbery in August when we’ve just been up there for those knickknacks, and after this young man’s warned us, too … What I mean is, if somebody’s trying to pull the wool over Sir Christopher’s eyes in some way …’

‘They’re doing it to us, too?’

‘Well, yes. I must say I found the whole story a bit odd.’

‘And you didn’t like that man Porteous.’

‘No, no … I’m not saying that. It’s not a question of … No, you’re right. I didn’t. Anyway, that’s one side of the thing. The other is that I feel … this Hirsch case—’

‘Yes, I know the prosecutor’s very pleased with the way you’re handling that.’

‘That’s very kind of him but I don’t think he realises that it was very bad that I didn’t go round to see her before I did and I don’t want to make the same mistake again.’ The marshal rubbed at his face. He was tired and hungry. He shouldn’t be here. What was the use?

‘You surely don’t imagine that popping round for a chat with the woman would have stopped whatever was going on?’

‘No, of course not. I’ve said the same myself, no. Yes. It might have done. Rinaldi’s in this. Maybe if he’d seen me going up there he might not have taken the risk. No, no … you’re right. Only, I keep missing the boat or making the wrong decisions. That business with the Albanian girl, now, was very bad. If I’d—’

‘If you’d done the right thing, whatever you imagine that was, the entire Albanian problem would have disappeared overnight, is that it? How is the girl?’

‘They’ve operated again. Rinaldi hasn’t called anybody?’

‘Nobody. Nothing at all from the listening post, I’m afraid.’

‘I thought as much. Has he been out?’

‘No. Went back to the shop for a bit and then closed up. Our man saw him opening the shutters on the first floor. You’ll be the first to know if he makes a move.’

‘He’s too clever for me.’

The captain sat back in his chair and looked hard at the marshal. ‘The prosecutor doesn’t think so, as I said.’

The marshal wanted to say, ‘You shouldn’t give the wrong idea about me, get up people’s hopes. It’s not right.’ But he had too much respect for his commanding officer to openly contradict him. He frowned at the toe of his left shoe and said, ‘He’s going to interrogate Falaschi and Giusti, the two porters, tomorrow. I should think he’ll be able to understand what’s going on.’

‘I thought you’d got the whole story out of them, that it was on Rinaldi’s orders that they snatched the Hirsch woman’s bag and got the keys copied, then went in there to frighten her.’

‘Oh, yes. That, yes. They say he told them to frighten her into giving up the combination of the safe and they were to remove the contents, a file of documents with a label saying APT DOCS., her address book, and all videos they could find. There’s an autopsy report on my desk that’ll like as not provide a reconstruction of her accidental death at their hands …’

The captain waited a while and, when nothing more was forthcoming, said, ‘I’m not sure I’m getting the point…’

‘No, no … that’s right,’ the marshal said unhappily. ‘It’s all very well but what is the point? I mean, I do think that this morning those two told me all they had to tell. They’re not bright, you see, and of course neither am I. So let’s hope the prosecutor can make some sense of it all before …’

‘Before?’

‘Before whatever Sara Hirsch was threatening to mess up happens. I’ll be too late again, you see. The secret’s in the photographs. By God, I’d give a lot to see a photograph of Jacob Roth.’ Detaching his morose gaze from the toe of his shoe he looked at the captain. He tried to concentrate but he couldn’t get that picture out of his head. Not the picture of Jacob Roth, which he wanted to concentrate on, but the one that kept flashing in its place, that he couldn’t fight off. A small figure teetering on the verge of the motorway, stepping forward as she saw him, a trusting smile on her face, into the path of a speeding car. Then that stomach-tightening crunch. ‘I’ve seen some terrible things in my time but I don’t mind telling you …’ But he did mind, and he couldn’t tell. ‘Have you found Lek Pictri?’

‘Not yet but it won’t be too difficult and I’m not even sure I want to arrest him at this point. It won’t help the girl and if we leave him on the loose we have at least a chance of eventually getting to the bosses of this gang at national level.’

‘That’s true. She’s become like a small child and no mother near her …’

‘You can’t save everybody, Guarnaccia. The problem’s too big. And the worst of it is, every time something like this happens, racism increases a hundredfold. We’ve got law students from Kosovo working as builder’s mates, teachers scrubbing floors, a displaced workforce doing all the dirty jobs we Italians don’t want to do and they’ll never hit the headlines. They’re invisible. People only know about theft and prostitution and episodes like the girl thrown out of the car. Let’s hope that sooner or later things will calm down over there. For one thing, we’ve few enough men as it is, without having to police Albania as well. We have to pay extraordinarily high salaries to get our men to go over there. Lord knows where it’s going to end. Guarnaccia, go home. Go home to your wife and children. You’re tired, that’s all that’s wrong with you.’

So he plodded back down to the cloister, hearing only the sound of his own breathing, his heavy steps on the stone staircase. He still hadn’t got round to reading that autopsy report. Tomorrow was another day …

‘You’re hungry, that’s all that’s wrong with you,’ was Teresa’s verdict. And that was certainly true. ‘Shall I do you a slice of meat?’

‘Just pasta.’

In the kitchen, showered and comfortable in T-shirt, ancient khaki trousers, and flip-flops, with a big bowl of pasta and a glass of red in front of him, Teresa chatting quietly as he ate, the world righted itself.

A one-edged cutting tool, possibly domestic, which has cut a flap of skin upwards almost as far as the left ear. Other small cuts under die left side of the jaw showing die probable angle at which (he weapon was held by a right-handed person threatening the victim from behind. The flap effect due to the victim’s sliding down through the attacker’s grasp during the infarct, which caused collapse, followed at a short interval by death…

‘Hello? Marshal Guarnaccia speaking. How are you, Signora? No, no … not at all.Tell me—oh, dear, dear, dear. These youngsters have no consideration—no, Signora, no! If anything had happened to him you’d have heard before this. Has he ever stayed out all night before or—no, well, I can tell you it happens fairly often. You’ll find he’s stayed overnight with some friend. You ring round his friends’ houses, that’s the best thing to do. He’s a sensible lad and probably thought better of riding his moped home if he’d been celebrating a bit too much … good, good … passed with flying colours? Oh, Signora! Let him celebrate leaving school—is it?—it’s him coming in? I’ll ring off—and, Signora, don’t let on you rang me. Congratulations!’

Followed at a short interval by death—

‘Hello? Marshal Guarnaccia, Pitti Station. Mr. Prosecutor, good morning. I’m afraid I’m still reading the autopsy report.’

‘That’ll do any time. There’s nothing in it you don’t already know. I’ve just finished with Falaschi and Giusti.’

‘And the lawyer?’

‘Legal aid. Rinaldi hasn’t coughed up for one, it seems. He’s being very circumspect.’

‘Yes …’

‘That’s not your view?’

‘I just thought … well, it means he’s not afraid of them. I thought that when I overheard them in his apartment. It was Falaschi, I think, who tried to threaten him—I suppose because he wasn’t paying what he promised. It didn’t bother him at all. I’m afraid they just don’t know anything worth knowing. I got the impression they’d shifted some hot stuff for him but he couldn’t care less.’

‘Not being circumspect then? Just isn’t bothered.’

‘I’m afraid so. I talked to my second-in-command, Loren-zini, about him. His words were “He’d laugh in our faces.” He reckoned we’d do well not to believe anything he says and I suppose he’s right-—’

‘I’m sure he is. The trouble is, he’s not saying much to believe or not believe, is he? Marshal? Marshal, are you there?’

‘Yes. I have to find Jacob Roth and I was thinking …’

‘Hello? Marshal?’

‘Lawyers … excuse me, I’m looking in the phone book … Lawyers often go in families, don’t they?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘So the lawyer, Umberto D’Ancona, maybe had a son or a nephew and Sara Hirsch went to him … yes … here. Of course, the phone book’s a bit out of date.’

‘Not as much as the Land Registry. Have you found somebody?’

‘Yes. An Umberto, too, so it’s sure to be a relation. It’s in Via Masaccio. I’ll go over there right away if you’ll excuse me. I’ll telephone you the minute I get back.’

‘Lorenzini! I need a driver. Look after things here. I have to go out.’

When they reached Via Masaccio on the other side of the city, the marshal, having deemed it appropriate to wear his uniform jacket, was miserably overheated. His driver—young, slim, and in shirtsleeves—double-parked and asked, ‘Will you be long? Should I try for a parking space? I’d better stop in the shade at least.’ He got no intelligible answer. The marshal got out, his eyes behind their sheltering sunglasses fixed on the town house of a sort common to this area. Iron railings enclosing laurel and oleander, not what you’d call a garden. Probably something bigger behind … u. D’ANCONA on the brass plate. He rang. A young woman, probably from the Philippines, opened up, took his name, let him in. In the entrance hall, dark, with fancy red, black, and white tiling, a short, dark young man, no doubt the maid’s husband, looked out from a passageway on the right to check on him, then disappeared. The marshal was left waiting near an aspidistra in a huge majolica pot, and then shown into a room that seemed to contain more books than furniture but a lot of both. There were open French windows giving a faint breath of cool air though the dark green outer shutters were pulled almost closed against the heat. A desk lamp was on. Behind the heavy desk in a big chair sat a small man. This was no son or nephew. This was the man himself. Great age had reduced his face to what seemed a skeletal form. His skin was bluish white where it was stretched over his temples and the bridge of his nose, and almost transparent except for the soft pale brown spots on his forehead.