Broken Chord

by Margaret Moore

  “Well, that puts him out of the picture for a while. Face it sweetheart, it was never on.”

  “That’s what you think. I’m eighteen next month and I’ll do what the hell I like.”

  “What are you going to do, marry a cripple and wipe his bum for him?”

  “Maybe. Better a cripple than a freak.”

  He stood up and suddenly punched her hard in the belly. “Don’t be such a bitch. You know I won’t stand for it.”

  She gasped and doubled over, feeling tears spring to her eyes. “You bastard.”

  “No, sweetheart, remember you’re the bastard.”

  She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and said angrily, “Next month I’m out of here and I hope I never see you again. The only good thing about all this is that I’m free.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t take your freedom? Come on, you can tell me, did you kill the old bitch?”

  “Lapo, are you mad? Of course I didn’t. Did you?”

  “Why should I?”

  “How should I know? I expect your inheritance will come in handy.”

  “Money always comes in handy, but I’m doing alright as it is, thank you, so no, it wasn’t me.”

  “Well, it can’t have been Teo. He does nothing but throw up, so it was either his charming little wife or that creep Guido. Which do you fancy, Lapo?”

  “I go for Guido. Hell hath no fury like a toy boy scorned or something.”

  “I can’t really see Isabella doing it, but then I can’t see Guido doing it either. Don’t you remember how he fainted when Mamma cut herself? He faints whenever he sees blood.”

  “Well, someone did it and I’ll bet you anything you like, it was him. Perhaps his rage allowed him to overcome his phobia,” said Lapo.

  “Of course it could have been someone from outside but if it was, then it wasn’t a burglar. I haven’t seen that anything was missing, have you?” Marianna massaged her abdomen but she seemed to have forgotten the pain as she thought things through.

  “No, so maybe there’s someone else who had it in for her. She wasn’t awfully nice to people you know. Perhaps it was a member of the Rossi family. She’d been to see them that afternoon.”

  “Do the police know that?” asked Marianna.

  “No. We’ll tell them tomorrow. It should be quite amusing for everyone to have the Rossi family investigated.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Lapo. You’re sick in the head. Piss off out of my bedroom and keep your hands off me. For all you know I might be dangerous. Watch out, Lapo. You don’t really know what I’m capable of.”

  He looked into her cold blue eyes. “I expect I do, but remember, anything I do to you, you deserve. Keep a guard on your tongue and it won’t happen again.”

  “Make sure that it doesn’t.”

  The children were awake and clamouring, “We want to go swimming.”

  Isabella thought Teo looked incapable of doing anything. She said, “OK, I’ll take you down to the pool. Papa needs a rest.”

  “Thank you,” said Teo.

  “I wish we hadn’t let the au pair go on holiday.”

  “It was logical. We were here and didn’t think we’d need her.”

  “But we do need her. You’re distraught and incapable and I feel more or less the same way as you do.”

  “No, Isabella, I don’t think you do. This thing doesn’t really touch you.”

  “Let’s just say I have other things on my mind as well.”

  They stared at each other, neither willing for the conversation to develop. It wasn’t the right time. ‘When was?’ Isabella asked herself bitterly. ‘When is ever the right time to ask your husband if he’s going to leave you.’ Teo dropped his gaze. He couldn’t meet her eyes. The last thing he was capable of doing was discussing their situation, not now, not today and probably not in the near future.

  “I’ll have a little rest and then I’ll join you.”

  As soon as she’d left with the girls, he picked up his mobile, “Marisa, it’s me. I can’t see you tonight; something’s happened…”

  Marianna had changed her clothes and now presented herself to Officer Tardelli who was standing in the hall on guard.

  “I need to go to the hospital. My fiancé is ill. If you give me the go ahead I’ll phone for a taxi.”

  Tardelli said, “Wait a minute,” pulled a mobile out of his pocket and went outside into the still very hot late afternoon sun to make his call. When he came back in he nodded. “It’s OK, but come straight back.”

  “Oh, I will. I expect the news has broken and we’ll be hounded by the press.”

  “I’m afraid so. There are some journalists at the gate now.”

  “Damn.”

  “Is there a back entrance?”

  “No, only the old tractor track.”

  “Well, you can always duck down when your taxi goes through the gate.”

  “Perhaps I should wear a burka.”

  “Or just a cloth over your head.”

  “There’s no point, they’ll only follow the taxi to the hospital and see me when I get out. Well, whatever. I’ll just have to risk it.”

  She phoned for a taxi and waited impatiently, standing under one of the huge palms that heralded the entrance to the courtyard. Roberto was all that mattered. Lapo might think she didn’t really love him, but she did, very much, more than she’d imagined possible. His accident had made it quite clear to her that she wanted to be with him under any conditions whatsoever, no matter how damaged he might be. This amazing discovery had given her an incredible sense of purpose and now, with freedom only a month away, she was ready to fight any battles that were necessary. Only another month to go and economic self-sufficiency would mean that her destiny was under her control. No more Mamma sending her off to New Zealand, no more Lapo telling her Roberto was a pauper. No more anyone telling her anything she didn’t want to hear.

  The taxi drew up and she got in, giving a little wave to Tardelli, who quite sincerely thought she was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, not sexy, in fact almost remote, like a Madonna, but beautiful. She looked chaste and unattainable. She took your breath away.

  It was late afternoon when Jacopo Dragonetti turned his car onto the motorway and settled down for the stressful drive in heavy traffic that had been his lot every evening since his transfer to Lucca. His assistant, Bruno, who had been on holiday for two weeks in Sardinia, would be joining him the next day, something for which he was heartily grateful. Vanessa was still at home but he knew she was going to a concert that evening. He briefly considered joining her, but he was so hyped up about the murder that he wanted to go over things in his mind. Or perhaps it would be better to stop thinking about it and go out with Vanessa? Every moment he spent with her was important. She’d brought about such a remarkable change in his life. After his divorce from Diana, who had married her rich businessman with whom she was much happier, he had been very lonely. Diana had never been able to take his erratic timetable or the fact the he’d sometimes be called away in the middle of a dinner party, but of course that was not the only reason. A far more profound problem lay at the root of the dissolution of their marriage. The divorce had been the official end of something that had finished some years earlier, for reasons he preferred not to think about. He managed to stifle the wave of sadness that always accompanied thoughts of the past. Fate would drop a catastrophe into your life and somehow you had to carry on living. They had, but at an enormous cost to both of them. They had done what was necessary to guarantee a normal life for Veronica and Melissa, who had been too young to fully understand what had happened to their brother. Diana was overprotective and became hysterical every time one of them got even the mildest of childhood illnesses. He and Diana had remained on good terms and the girls had settled down in their new home, with an adoring stepfather, in a villa with a swimming pool, and a pony each. He was sure they preferred it to his ancient family home in the centre of Florence. In a few week
s’ time, he would be taking the girls to the south of France for two weeks of sun and sea, and for himself a blessed holiday from work.

  He was tired. He hated this drive every morning and back home again in the evening. The motorway was a mass of unrelieved heavy traffic and as he drew nearer to Florence, it got worse. Once he was off it, he would have to cross Florence and that could take anything from fifteen to thirty minutes. The city was thronged with foreigners, tourists who left their empty coke cans and beer bottles in the gutters, who sat on the Duomo steps to eat their greasy sandwiches and who, he thought, must be quite mad to traipse about in the city’s summer heat. Late July in Florence was always a nightmare. All the Florentines, who could, had left the city and were either in the mountains where it was cool or at the sea where the sea breeze made the heat far more bearable. But even there the overcrowding was horrific. Beach umbrellas were set close to each other, allowing only the minimum space for two deck chairs and a sun-bed. The best beach umbrellas, ‘the ombrelloni’, nearest the water, where there was a chance of a breeze, had all been booked since time immemorial by season ticket holders who seemed to pass down the privilege of paying exorbitant sums of money for their four months use, to their children and grandchildren. Jacopo was lucky. A friend in the south of France was letting him use his house on the sea. It was set on the rocks near San Raphael and one could plunge from the terrace into the sea. He loved it there. Sitting under the loggia as evening drew near, or eating his breakfast early before the others had got up, listening to the sea, were amongst his favourite things to do.

  A car behind him hooted violently and he became aware that the standstill queue at the turnpike had finally moved on while he had been daydreaming and it was his turn. He kept meaning to get a Telepass but never seemed to have the time to actually get there and do it. Having one would at least mean he didn’t have to queue to get on and off the motorway. He watched with envy as cars sailed through the barrier which automatically raised its striped bar for them. He would make it a priority.

  He drove across the steaming city and knew that as soon as he left the air-conditioned car he would be drenched in sweat. The humidity was appalling. The last bit of road was the most difficult. The street he lived on had been taken over by street vendors of various nationalities, generally known as ‘vu comprà’ because of the way they mispronounced the question, ‘Vuoi comprare?’; ‘do you want to buy something?’ in Italian. Their goods were laid neatly out along the pavement so that passers-by were forced to slow down and run the gauntlet of verbal aggression, or step into the road. He skilfully manoeuvred past them receiving smiles and the odd wave of the hand. It was impossible to dislike these men who had probably braved a dangerous sea voyage to get here and were doubtless maintaining large families back home. They were a colourful addition to the streets of Florence, and many other towns, and tolerated by most. In fact many Italian women, especially the young ones who were pretty strapped for cash themselves, bought the imitation designer bags, the colourful scarves and cheap jewellery from them.

  He turned the car into the dark tunnel which was the old entrance to his crumbling family Palazzo, once used by carriages. It was now his garage. The low, vaulted ceilings never failed to please him and at the end of the tunnel the gloom was relieved by light that came through the iron gate and that beckoned him towards the small enclosed courtyard garden. He got out of the car and was aware of the heat even in this shady space. He stretched his legs and walked towards the light. As he opened the gate he felt a familiar sense of peace envelop him. Coming home was the best part of every day. Perhaps it was even worth all the rest just to achieve this moment. A small shadow detached itself from the cool shelter of a large plant and came to greet him. “You’re like a little dog, Rossini,” he told it and they went in together.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lapo went up to his bedroom. He wanted to go out but, as that was forbidden for the moment, he would have to find some other means of amusing himself. He turned on his PC. Thank God for the internet, which catered for the most extraordinary tastes, some even more perverse than his own. His hand strayed down to his trouser zip. He touched the comforting bulge he felt there. That was all that mattered to him: sex and the various ways he had found of satisfying his amazing and unusual appetite.

  Somehow Marta got herself together and began to prepare a supper out of leftovers. Piero helped her. They avoided talking about the murder and concentrated on practical matters.

  “I don’t expect they’ll want a lot, but on the other hand no one ate much at lunch, so maybe they’ll be hungry.” She sounded worried.

  “I think that cold cuts, a salad and the cheese board will be fine.”

  “What about tomorrow? How am I going to manage without cook and Franca?”

  “I’ll help you. We’ll keep it simple.”

  “Piero, what do you think will happen here?”

  “God knows, but we’re alright. We can retire if you want to. We’ve always talked about a farmhouse in Tuscany and a dog and a couple of cats. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “I’m not sure anymore. It sounded wonderful when it was in a distant future, but if it’s going to be soon then it sounds frightening.”

  “Why? We’ve pulled up our roots often enough before, following the family all over Europe. Come on, Marta.”

  “Yes, but the family were our roots. Now we’ll have no one.”

  “We’ll make friends.”

  “In an isolated farmhouse?” She sounded incredulous.

  “Well, maybe we’ll get something on the edge of a village and get to know the locals.”

  “The yokels, you mean. Oh Piero, we’re not used to that sort of person.”

  “Would you prefer the sea?”

  “I don’t know. I just want things to go on as before. Then there’s Lapo.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m very fond of Lapo. I can’t leave him; he’s like a son to me.”

  “Marta, I don’t think he feels that,” he said gently

  “I’m sure he’s fond of me,” she said stoutly, because she couldn’t bear to think that it wasn’t that way.

  Piero kept his counsel. He, personally, thought that Lapo was such a mess that he wasn’t able to be fond of anyone, let alone feel love for them, and that included his mother. His life had been distorted by his deformity. He was turned in on himself. His cruelty was quite extraordinary. It was as though he had to make others pay, with their pain, for his anguish. Even as a child, as soon as he’d reached the age of reason and had become aware of his situation, he made others pay for it, starting with animals, which was why they no longer had any pets. Piero didn’t love Lapo and he would have hated to have him for a son. Marta’s attachment to him was not founded on logic. She loved him, was besotted with him, and everything was tainted by her love: her way of seeing Lapo and her way of excusing his actions. Of course she knew all the terrible things he’d done but she never laid any blame on him. He was always to be understood, and she expected Piero to feel the same compassion that she did for someone who had been dealt such a difficult hand in life. Piero actually felt more compassion for those who had been the targets of Lapo’s wrath: the animals he’d had to put out of their misery and then buried, the prostitute with a broken arm and a swollen bruised face who had accepted money to keep her mouth shut. He felt they were victims in a far more tangible way than Lapo was. Sometimes he’d wondered how Lapo would feel if he had to bear physical pain rather than the mental suffering that everyone blazoned forth as the motive for his actions. Piero had found himself wanting to strike the boy. He remembered the cat that had been soused in petrol and burnt, and his own overwhelming rage. Marta had said that Lapo at the age of ten had not understood what he was doing, but Piero knew that the boy was well aware of the suffering he caused others and even worse, he enjoyed it. For a moment he asked himself whether Lapo would have been capable of killing his own mother.

  Marta’s voice b
roke into his thoughts. “I could make a quiche.”

  “Not today. You’re too…” he looked for a word, gave up and said, “tired. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “It’s the children I’m worried about. They don’t like salad.”

  “You could do a little pasta with oil and parmesan cheese for them. And an omelette. They don’t eat with the rest of the family anyway in the evening.”

  “Perhaps I will. Oh, it’s all so upsetting. I shouldn’t even be in the kitchen doing the cooking but I don’t know what else to do. Who knows when they’ll let cook come back.”

  “The next few days are bound to be difficult but we’ll manage.”

  “The next few days! I think things will be difficult from now on until we die.”

  “Marta, that’s very dramatic. Think of our retirement. No more work.”

  “I am, that’s what’s worrying me.”

  He moved over and embraced her. “It will be nice to have more time together. We can make all those little trips you’ve always wanted to make. We can go to America and see your cousins, and I haven’t seen my brother in England for years. We’ve always been tied up with the family here and never had any time to do the things we want to do.”

  “It’s just that I can’t imagine life without them.” Her voice became a wail.

  The children splashed happily in the pool in the early evening warmth while Isabella sat on a deck chair in silence. Everything was the same as yesterday: the same clear water, the children laughing and playing, but everything was different now. So much had happened; so much had not been said. She was absorbed in her own thoughts.

  “Papa, Papa!” called Camilla.

  Isabella looked up and watched him approach: her husband, her unfaithful husband and what else was he? She repressed a shiver of fear.