Some Bitter Taste (27 page)

‘Of course,’ observed the captain, ‘we don’t know what Jacob and/or Sir Christopher sold and what was stolen from them by the people to whom they had been more than generous.’

‘The stuff filled the lemon house twice over,'Jim said, ‘and the
head gardener
says that Sir Christopher was bound by the terms of his father’s will that gave Rinaldi usufruct only, though he would have liked to leave Rinaldi his flat and shop.
So…
when Sir Christopher was gaga, the lawyer and the secretary sold it to him for a pittance. Wobbly signature on unread contract as on fake will and their fence’s lips are sealed.’

And they believed him but where was the proof?

Still, the prosecutor’s curiosity had been, in some measure, satisfied and so had the captain’s.

‘He actually smiled,’ remarked the prosecutor to the marshal now, ‘not there and then but afterwards—I mustn’t take the wrong turning here, like I’m always doing … is this it? Yes—did you see how pleased he was? I think he actually touched the frame with one finger. Do you remember?’

‘Well,’ murmured the marshal, feeling in his pocket for dark glasses as a lively spring gust drove off a rain cloud and the sun appeared, ‘not every day do you see a drawing by Leonardo in private hands.’

‘No,’ admitted the prosecutor. ‘It’s not the same, is it, as seeing one in the Uffizi? I don’t know why … At least they couldn’t make that disappear. Tagged by the ministry, it would attract far too much attention. Did you ever wonder what would have happened to Ruth and to the children, if Jacob had spent his energies and manic determination on being a painter?’

‘They’d have been just as badly off,’ said the marshal firmly. ‘Ruth would have taken second place to his painting instead of to Rose. She would have sacrificed Sara to Jacob’s demands and Sir Christopher would have still been a fourth-rate amateur painter. Only he’d have tried to get attention through his father’s reputation instead of through his fancy, tided friends.’

The prosecutor lifted one hand in surrender. ‘Forget I asked.’

The marshal himself had been satisfied on one point. He had an inkling now of what a rich man’s daily problems might be, first among them being money worries. Jacob’s grandiose ideas had been all very well at the outset. He’d bought that place for a song in the years under the postwar republic when the Florentine nobility had started to unload property in the face of new taxation and the confiscation of neglected land. He married the money to maintain it all but by the time he died it was no longer enough and, in recent years, Sir Christopher had started eating into his mother’s capital to keep his standard of living up to the level of his expensive guests. Lapsing into full-time invalidism was the only alternative to ruin. The triumvirate had been wresting from Caesar an empire with just about enough money to keep it ticking over and nothing for the massive restoration needed after years of neglect. And they’d be bound by law to carry out the restoration because the villa was a registered building. The situation had long been desperate. They needed to liquidate everything possible, including the flats above Rinaldi’s in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti and, especially, whatever they could subtract from what Sir Christopher had inherited from his mother, including the Monet. The last thing they needed was a daughter making an unexpected claim on the estate. The prosecutor had said that their Machiavellian minds would find a way, now they were rid of the problem of deceiving Sir Christopher and frightening Sara, and he had turned out to be right. Jacob’s trust stipulated that, after Sir Christopher’s death, the villa must be used for educational purposes. That was a broad term. It stretched easily to expensive residential courses taught by famous names to those rich enough and idle enough to populate the villa with the sort of people it was used to accommodating. As regards the clause mentioning the education of Jewish boys of talent, especially in the arts, D’Ancona, the only surviving Jewish trustee, had been outvoted and the clause was forgotten. It was good to think of Jim, a survivor if ever there was one, and the head gardener, of course, still caring for Rose’s garden, weeding it after the rain. She had loved her garden and, despite what she had suffered there, had left it in the care of those who loved it and her.

‘Do you think the car smells of cigars? Only, my wife thinks I’ve given up … We’re nearly there. I must say, you don’t seem too put out about that villainous trio getting away with it. After all, you did all the hard work.’

‘Me? No, no … Besides, God doesn’t pay on Saturdays.’‘ What? Do you know something I don’t know?’‘Oh, no. Nothing really. I hear a bit of gossip from up there now and then. I gather they still employ a few boys in straitened circumstances for a pittance. I also gather that they’re chosen for their looks rather than their clean records and that there’s been a lot of quarrelling about it. If the weather stays fine they’ll soon be wheeling out the lemon trees…’

‘Wheeling out the … Oh, I see. You think they’ll get theirs without any help from us.’

‘They shouldn’t have thrown that young Kosovar boy out. He was worth his weight in gold.’

‘Where’s he gone, do you know?’

‘I don’t. I only know he was upset that they didn’t let him stay for the funeral.’

They drove through a village and took a small road dropping into a valley, then an unmade one rising high into the hills.

‘At this time, the younger children, at least, will have eaten.’

They had. The well-setded ones ran to the car, shrieking, took their hands, and pulled them in six directions at once—to see the new dog, the baby rabbits, a broody hen, a school report, a new television. The recent arrivals watched, wary but interested.

The prosecutor greeted his old friend, ‘father’ to this big family, and asked, ‘Where’s Nicolino?’ He’d talked about this seven-year-old as the car climbed the hills. A child sexually abused by his stepfather, who then murdered his mother. The little crowd opened up. Nicolino appeared and said, ‘Who are you?’

The prosecutor told him and said, T heard you’d arrived here yesterday and thought I’d come and see how you were getting on. This is Marshal Guarnaccia.’

‘I’m stopping here.’ At the sight of a uniform, the little boy backed up against the ‘father’, who put a hand on his shoulder. ‘And this is my dad now.’

‘Good. We came to see Enkeleda, too.’

‘I know where she is. I’ll take you, if you want.’

‘Thank you.’

He led them along a path and then down a grassy bank, telling them this was a shortcut and offering a helping hand to them both. Very proprietorial. Wild daffodils bobbed in the wind and you could see for miles across the valley. On the lower path, Nicolino paused to warn them in a whisper, ‘She’s cleaning out the rabbits. She doesn’t like it if you make a noise because of the babies.’

The prosecutor whispered back, ‘We won’t, don’t worry.’

The rabbit hutches were ahead to their left in a long line. They had to go forwards in single file. They didn’t see her at first, crouching there in darkish clothes, very still. Then the prosecutor stopped and turned, waiting for the marshal to catch up with him.

‘Look at her …’

The claw-footed stick which had replaced a walking frame was parked by the first hutch in the line. Enkeleda was farther on. Her dark hair had grown back nicely and hung in soft childish curls on the back of her collar as she bent over something held in her two hands. It was a moment before she noticed the interruption. Then she turned and saw them. Her eyes were alight with wonder at the tiny brown-and-white rabbit quivering in the palm of one hand held close to her chest. She wobbled a bit as she turned, and the marshal, seeing her on uneven ground, put out a protective hand. She misunderstood and held her tiny burden out for him to see. With care—but it was only care for the baby rabbit—she began to walk towards the marshal, smiling.

What with one thing and another, it was a little after five when he got back to his station. He unlocked the door and then stood there in the waiting room, keys in hand, staring.

‘Yes, it’s me. It’s been a long time. Don’t you recognise me?’

How could anybody fail to recognise Dori with her dazzling blond hair and her shapely red lips—even with her amazingly long legs hidden by jeans.

‘Of course I do, but what are you doing here? Come on, come in my office.’

When she was sitting in front of him, offering no explanation, he asked, ‘What about the baby? Boy or girl?’

‘Dunno. Lost it at five months. I was ill for ages. Never again.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that—but don’t say ‘never again’. It’ll pass, you’ll see.’

‘No, it won’t. I can’t have any more and just as well. Listen—can I smoke?’

He gave her an ashtray. Once she’d lit up, she looked at him with a mixture of wariness and affection.

“You’re the only person who’s ever been nice to me … so I wanted to tell you because if I don’t somebody else will. You’re bound to find out. I’m going back on the game.’

‘What? You’re
what? And
Mario?’

‘Oh, Mario.. Jesus … I mean, he trotted off every morning at a quarter to eight and I was supposed to clean up his crumbs and wipe the floor over and then he’d come trotting back again and I was supposed to have the water boiling for his pasta and then it was one long whinge—there are no clean shirts, have you seen the fluff under this bed? Where’s the other sock to this? You’ve forgotten to get milk again … No, no, I couldn’t stand the boredom. So I upped and offed.’

‘Back to Ilir?’

‘Why not? He’s out now and he wants me back. Nobody ever earned him as much as me and he kept me in style. We ate in a restaurant every night. I like a good time and I get clients who give me a good time, you know what I mean? I like champagne and a few presents. I’m not spending the rest of my young life washing the floor of some poky little kitchen for a boring spotty clerk who thinks he’s earned the right to have his socks washed for a lifetime because he’s been good enough to
save me
from the streets.’

‘But what about when you’re not young anymore?’

‘Well, it’s all over then, isn’t it? Get it while you can, I say. I just … I wanted to tell you myself. It’s not that I’m not grateful to you. I know you meant well. Are you pissed off with me? You are, aren’t you?’

‘No, no …’

‘You’ve every right to be. I’d better go. I’m sorry. Because of you, I mean, not that little prick Mario, only because of you. I know you did your best.’

Carve it on my tombstone, thought the marshal, watching her leave through a skein of cigarette smoke.

He wished that Giorgio had come to see him instead of disappearing. Gjergj, that was his real name. Nothing was ever heard of him again but the marshal never forgot him. For some reason, that one remark stayed in his mind.
They ‘d put his blue pyjamas on. He didn’t like them.’

Had he gone home to Kosovo? They were still fighting there. Wherever he was, the marshal wished him well.

O
THER
T
ITLES IN THE
S
OHO
C
RIME
S
ERIES

J
ANWILLEM VAN DE
W
ETERING

The Amsterdam Cops: Collected Stories

S
EICH
M
ATSUMOTO

Inspector Imanishi Investigates

P
ATRICIA
C
ARLON

The Souvenir
The Whispering Wall
The Running Woman

Crime of Silence
The Price of an Orphan

The Unquiet Night

Death by Demonstration

Hush, It’s a Game

Who Are You, Linda Condrick?

P
ETER
L
OVESEY

The Vault

The Last Detective

On the Edge

Rough Cider

The False Inspector Dew

Diamond Solitaire

The Reaper

Diamond Dust

The House Sitter

J
OHN
W
ESTERMANN

Exit Wounds
High Crimes
Sweet Deal

M
AGDALEN
N
ABB

Death of an Englishman

Property of Blood

Death in Autumn