The Villa Triste (45 page)

Pallioti shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

In fact, he was absolutely certain that she was right. He had been aware of it since he was a young man – the famous policeman’s instinct – and always a little uncomfortable with it, partly because, like all ‘gifts’, it had little to do with logic and even less to do with being deserving. His career, he knew, to some extent had flourished through no merit of his own.

Signora Grandolo was watching him.

‘You, for instance,’ she said. ‘You heard something, even through decades, didn’t you? That caused you to come looking for those three men the other night?’

He looked at her, cradling his glass in his palm.

‘Did you find them?’ she asked.

The clear, thick liquid shimmered, clinging to the edges of the crystal.

‘Yes.’

Pallioti could smell the faint trace of her perfume, mingling with the burning scent of the candle.

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I found them.’

‘And were they what you expected?’

‘I think so.’ He looked at her. ‘Two of them are dead. The third—’ He shook his head. ‘The third, Signora, is the sort of man we fought the war to be rid of.’

‘We’ll never get rid of them. Those sort of men.’ She reached out, her fingers touching the back of his hand. ‘That’s something else,’ she said, ‘that Cosimo taught me. That they’re part of us, those kind of men. That the best we can ever do is contain them.’

Her fingertips were as light as a butterfly’s wing.

When she smiled and took her hand away the memory of her touch lingered on his skin.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Pallioti swallowed his first espresso of the morning and put the cup down abruptly. It was Monday, the start of a new week and he had slept well, and woken to find that the rain had departed, leaving the air sharp and clear as crystal.

The barman raised an eyebrow. Pallioti nodded for another as he reached into the pocket where his mobile phone had begun to hop about like a cricket. He spent a few moments talking to Guillermo who, energized by his new fact-finding mission, had arrived at the office an hour earlier than anyone else. Having decided on their priorities for the day, and reiterated once more that it might be best not to share them with Enzo Saenz, or the magistrate, or, God forbid, the Mayor, should he for some reason appear in the office, Pallioti slid the phone closed and tried not to think of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. He was putting it away when his fingers encountered a folded piece of paper. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw the message left by the London Embassy giving him the personal contact number for Giovanni Trantemento’s pen pal, Lord David Eppsy.

Pallioti smoothed it on the sleek zinc countertop of the bar, then downed the second espresso, left an overly generous tip, and pushed through the door and onto the street. A moment later he stood, like the rest of the city, on the pavement with his mobile phone clamped to his ear. It was not until he was listening to a burbling and then a ringing that it occurred to him to wonder what time it might be in Sri Lanka.

By the time David Eppsy answered his phone, Pallioti had stepped into the corner of a small piazza, sheltering from the road and the sound of traffic. He concentrated on a line of wheeled rubbish carts parked against the opposite wall as he apologized for the disturbance of calling and explained who he was. As it turned out, he did not have to ask about the time difference, because Lord Eppsy told him.

‘Ha, ha,’ he said, not sounding remotely disturbed. ‘A voice from Florence! The past both literal and temporal! It’s evening here, Inspector. And I can tell you with confidence that ahead of you lies a very good day.’

Pallioti wondered what he had been drinking. Probably gin.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and added, ‘I am calling concerning a Signor Giovanni Trantemento. I believe you knew him?’

‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes,’ David Eppsy said quickly. ‘Had a message about something. Was why I got back to you. Spot of bother, I gather?’

Large spot, Pallioti was tempted to say. But he confined himself to simply stating that the man was dead.

‘Oh. Oh, dear. Dear me. How very sad. Poor old fellow. I am sorry to hear that.’

David Eppsy was either doing a very good imitation, or he was genuinely both surprised and unhappy to hear the news. He realized that, other than his sister, David Eppsy was about the only person who had even bothered to pretend to sound distressed on hearing the news that Giovanni Trantemento was dead.

David Eppsy swallowed. Pallioti thought he could hear the clink of ice cubes.

‘He was,’ the Englishman said, ‘well, a gentleman. Dying breed. Rare as the auk. And of course, a connoisseur, in his field. Highly respected. A pleasure to do business with. He’ll be a loss. Damn shame. Too rare, these days,’ David Eppsy said again. ‘A gentleman, of the old school. Too rare. I suppose,’ he asked a second later, ‘that it was a heart attack? Or—’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Apparently the embassy had told David Eppsy nothing in the message they had left asking him to get in touch. Just as well. Being of the old school himself, Pallioti still put some stock in the value of surprise.

‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that Signor Trantemento was murdered.’

‘Good Lord!’

There was a pause.

‘Good Lord!’ David Eppsy said again. ‘Murdered? How on earth did that happen?’

‘I am afraid, in the most common way,’ Pallioti said. ‘With a gun. Someone shot him, in his apartment.’

‘Good Lord. How horrible.’

‘Yes.’

You don’t know the half of it, Pallioti thought. He had a sudden vision of the terror on Giovanni Trantemento’s face, of his broken glasses, his open mouth. Of Enzo, reaching down, dabbing his finger and pronouncing, ‘salt’. He shoved it aside.

‘The reason I am contacting you,’ Pallioti went on, ‘and I am sorry to take up your time, is that we found a letter from you to Signor Trantemento. It arrived the day he was killed. 1st November.’

‘Ah.’ There was a pause. ‘Ah, yes,’ David Eppsy said. ‘Yes, of course.’

Pallioti had not really expected him to deny it, but he was glad, all the same, that he hadn’t.

‘I had just written to him, about our little – arrangement.’

For the first time a note of coyness crept into the Englishman’s voice, a slight furtive edge. Pallioti ignored it.

‘The letter,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me, exactly, what was in the envelope?’

There was a pause.

‘Well, the note, of course. I assume you have that.’

‘Yes. And what else?’

‘Ummm.’

David Eppsy lowered his voice. Pallioti could hear him walking. There was the crunch of what might have been gravel, the creak of a wooden floor.

‘The note, yes,’ Pallioti prompted. ‘And?’

David Eppsy cleared his throat.

‘A money order,’ he said. ‘For three thousand pounds. Whatever that is in euros.’

‘I see. A money order?’

‘Well, two, actually. Bit more discreet, that way. They were issued—’ David Eppsy laughed, and for the first time Pallioti felt sorry for him. ‘Issued by Western Union,’ he said. ‘Rather good, actually.’ His voice was suddenly overly jovial. ‘Like book tokens. Saves you writing a cheque.’

‘Yes,’ Pallioti said. ‘Exactly. Will you have a record of the numbers?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes. Of course.’

David Eppsy sounded so pleased at the idea of being helpful that Pallioti wondered if he were a younger son.

‘Of course,’ he added. ‘At least I should think so. Somewhere at home.’ His voice fell again. ‘Do you need them now?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I suppose it’s possible. And I do want to help. I could arrange for someone – but it would be rather, well—’

‘I don’t need them now,’ Pallioti said. ‘I may not need them at all.’

‘Well, if you do—’ The relief in the man’s voice was palpable. ‘And if there’s anything else I can do. Anything at all. Poor old fellow.’

‘Yes,’ Pallioti agreed. ‘Poor old fellow. Forgive me,’ he added, ‘for interrupting your holiday. You have been most helpful.’

‘Inspector!’ David Eppsy broke in just as he was about to finish the call. ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘I wonder if – well, has there been a funeral yet?’

‘No. No,’ Pallioti said. ‘We’ll be releasing the body shortly. To his sister and nephew.’

‘Well, when there is, a funeral, if you know – would it be possible for someone to contact me? I’d be grateful.’ He gave a little laugh. It didn’t sound very jolly. ‘One likes to send flowers,’ David Eppsy said. ‘Gesture of respect, and all that.’

‘I’ll be certain to let you know. I’ll call you myself.’

‘’Preciate it. Damn shame.’

Half a world away David Eppsy was still muttering when Pallioti closed his phone. He stood for a moment, watching a pair of pigeons as they squabbled over an orange peel beside one of the rubbish bins. They puffed their feathers, cooed and strutted, then lost interest and flew away. Pallioti opened his phone again. He made one brief call before he turned and walked quickly towards the river.

It was barely 9 a.m.; people were still scurrying to work. A bus turned into the street, somehow avoiding taking the corner with it, and lumbered up the pavement. The door to Giovanni Trante-mento’s building burst open just as it pulled away. A woman dashed out. She ran a few steps towards the bus stop, then stopped and swore. Pallioti caught the huge front door before it closed. As he slipped inside, he saw the woman step into the street. Shaking her head and buttoning her coat, she mounted the opposite pavement and started the now inevitable walk to work.

Letting his eyes adjust to the internal twilight, Pallioti looked around. He realized he had expected to see the solid little figure of Marta Buonifaccio standing in her usual spot beside the huge fireplace. But she was nowhere in sight. On the far side of the hearth, her door was closed.

He turned towards the cage of the tiny elevator. Its door was open, the coffin-like box waiting to be called into action. He considered it for a moment, then turned away towards the stairs.

It was like climbing out of a well. The building improved with height. At every landing, there was a little more light. Even so, it wasn’t until he reached the landing above the third floor that he was actually able to look out of one of the windows. And then only if he stood on tiptoe. He craned upwards. All he could make out was the blank wall of the palazzo on the other side of the alley and a slice of sky above. Reaching up with both hands, he pushed on the leaded diamonds of glass. The frame did not give at all. Nor could he see a latch. As he suspected, it was welded shut. Satisfied, he turned and went back down to the hall.

He had knocked four times at the door on the far side of the fireplace, each time with a little more urgency, and was still getting no response, when he heard the voice behind him.

‘You’ll be bloody lucky.’

Pallioti spun around, expecting to see the squat Russian-doll shape of Marta herself. But it was not Marta. Instead, it was another old crone. ‘She’s gone,’ she said.

‘Gone?’

‘Gone!’ She shouted it at him, as if he were deaf. Pallioti tried not to flinch.

‘Do you know where?’ he asked.

‘Not a clue,’ she replied, eyeing him.

The woman, who might have come up to Pallioti’s chest if she stood on her toes, swung the shopping bag she was carrying as if she were considering using it as a dangerous weapon.

‘I’ll tell you though, it’s bloody inconvenient,’ she added. ‘You should have seen the mail. All over the floor when I came in. Them up there’ – she nodded towards the upper storeys of the building as though she were talking about the gods on Olympus – ‘having kittens. Why they couldn’t pick it up themselves, don’t ask me. I had to spend a bloody hour sorting it. Chinese food, taxis—’ She leaned forward and hissed between her teeth. ‘Blue movies.’ She looked at Pallioti and nodded. ‘You name it, they put it through the door. Although,’ she said, ‘I’d lay money, someone asked for the films.’ She nodded as if she was imparting the wisdom of the ages. ‘They don’t waste flyers where there isn’t any business.’

‘No,’ Pallioti said. ‘No, I’m sure you’re right, Signora—?’

‘Who wants to know?’

He started to reach for his credentials, then thought better of it. If he wanted Marta to talk to him, which he did, he probably wouldn’t persuade her by causing gossip about visits from the police.

‘I’m a friend,’ he said, smiling. ‘Severino Cavicalli,’ Pallioti added quickly, extending his hand. He hoped the proprietor of Patria Memorabilia would forgive him, but it was the first name that came to mind.

‘Cara,’ she said. She considered his outstretched hand for a moment before extending her own. Enclosed in a red mitten, it looked like a small paw. ‘Cara Fratto. I clean for them.’ She nodded at the stairs again. ‘Three days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year, including Easter. They’re babies, can’t even cook a meal for themselves. I leave their dinner with a note telling them how to put it in the oven.
Nati con la camicia
.’ The unliteral translation of
Born with a silver spoon in the mouth
. Cara Fratto rolled her eyes. ‘But they pay well.’

‘Do you have any idea,’ Pallioti asked, ‘when Marta might be back?’

She shrugged in a way that suggested that perhaps she did, and perhaps she didn’t. Pallioti tried another tack.

‘Do you know how long she’s been gone?’

This time the shrug came with an answer.

‘Well, I haven’t been for three days and there was certainly that much mail. All over the floor. What is it? People get a university degree and they can’t bend down? Not only that, they see me and they walk right past. Not a word of thanks. Nothing.’ She leaned towards him. ‘You wait,’ she added. ‘You just wait. You get old you become invisible. Poof!’

Pallioti started slightly. Which apparently gave Cara Fratto some satisfaction. She treated him to a grin that creased her wizened-apple face.

Pallioti nodded sympathetically. Feeling that they had formed some kind of bond, he decided to push his luck.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I guess Marta’s probably visiting family.’

Cara gave a sharp snort.

‘If so, it’s the first time in ten years.’ She raised the shopping bag. ‘They can’t cook,’ she said, jerking her head towards the stairs, ‘but there’s nothing they don’t know. According to them, Marta doesn’t have any family. Also according to them, I don’t get this in the refrigerator, the spinach will wilt, the pears will rot, and the cheese will sweat. After that, the world will probably come to an end.’

She turned towards the elevator. Pallioti watched as she pulled back the metal grille and dumped the shopping bag on the floor. Cara Fratto closed the door, pushed a button, stepped back and watched as the gears started to grind. She gave a nod of satisfaction, then turned towards the stairs.