‘She was. She did come. It wasn’t long before I went on holiday. I wouldn’t be likely to forget it. I’d been worried about Peruzzi’s financial situation, as I said, and since he never answered my letters—apparently he dumps anything from the bank on his son without even opening it—and since the son himself had told me he couldn’t bring his father to his senses, I warned my staff to look out for the Japanese apprentice and send her in to see me.’
‘So you spoke to her that morning?’
‘I certainly did—oh, there wasn’t a lot I could tell her because of confidentiality but, frankly, she was my last hope. His debts were such that I was faced with the prospect of foreclosing on his mortgage.’
‘Mortgage … I thought he owned everything—surely, it was his father’s before him? At least, so I’ve always heard.’
‘You’re right. They’ve been shoemakers for generations and certainly owned the place. He remortgaged about eight months ago.’
‘Eight months …’ After his heart attack. All the images in the marshal’s head were shifting, changing, going in and out of focus. He felt he was back where he started but with one difference. Not love but money …
‘The son can’t have been too pleased. I know he had no interest in taking over the business, let alone learning the trade, but it was his inheritance that was being spent, after all. How did he seem to you to be taking it?’
‘Surprisingly well. Each time he came to see me about some bigger overdraft, loans, the remortgage, he was worried but never angry. After Peruzzi’s illness, when things got suddenly worse, he said to me that his father had a very limited time left and that made it understandable that he should want to live life to the full. I tried to help him, discreetly. I said to him:
—I could refuse him this remortgage, you know. It’s not a good idea and you have power of attorney. If you think …
—How can I refuse my father anything? He may only have months to live. Besides, if I refuse him what he wants he’ll just take the power of attorney away, probably even quarrel with me, too. He has quite a temper. No, it’s out of the question.
‘Of course, when all’s said and done, he’s very comfortably off himself. He doesn’t bank here—his offices are on the other side of the river in via de’ Servi—but, frankly, an accountant with offices in via de’ Servi and a home address on the Lungarno is doing well. And he has his father to thank for it. His father, after all, encouraged him to go to university, never complained that he didn’t follow the family tradition.’
‘No. He’s very proud of his son. There was no quarrel there and, as you say, he has good reason to be grateful to his father and not want a quarrel now. Even so …’ The marshal remained silent a while, watching the bank manager’s pink fingers twirling a gold pen. ‘Even so, it seems to me that there’s a lot of money involved. I don’t mind telling you—in confidence, that goes without saying, because I shouldn’t really be telling you this—’ There was no reason at all why not but the best way to gain somebody’s confidence is to confide in them first. Or appear to. ‘It crossed my mind that Peruzzi had become very fond of this young apprentice. I didn’t know what terms their relationship was on, of course …’
‘Peruzzi? Peruzzi?’
‘I know. I felt the same. But all that money was going somewhere. The only thing is, by all accounts she had no money to spend. She was also engaged to be married, to a young NCO from my station.’
‘I see.’
‘No. No, you don’t see. I’ve had to face the fact that when she left him, as she did, he might have killed her. Nobody’s trying to cover anything up here is what I’m trying to make clear to you.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Hmph, well. I don’t know about of course not. These thing happen. But—and again, this is in confidence—the lad killed himself. Shot himself.’
‘Not the one that was on the news?’
‘Yes. His name was Esposito.’
‘That’s the one, yes—but that was in Rome, wasn’t it? Was he running away? I seem to remember it happened in an airport, or something.’
‘In the train. In Rome, yes. So, believe me, this is just about getting to the bottom of this young woman’s death. Peruzzi, you see, wanted them to marry. He had offered to help them buy a house. I got the feeling he was lonely. His wife’s dead, his son’s gone his own way. Akiko married and pregnant, settled here, meant a family for him, someone to hand on his skill to, a whole new start. He couldn’t disinherit his son by law, even did he want to, and it seems to me that his son’s the light of his life—at least since he lost Akiko.’
‘Akiko … ?’
‘That’s the young woman’s name.’
‘Ah, yes. Sweet little thing, very pretty.’
‘I’m wondering if perhaps he was somehow investing money for her, maybe buying property in her name. So you see, I need to know what you said to her and how she reacted.’
‘I didn’t tell her much, how could I? It was far too delicate a matter. I can tell you that, if he was salting money away and she knew about it, she must have been a very cool customer indeed. She was perfectly calm and composed. I just told her I needed to see Peruzzi urgently and that he didn’t answer my letters. She said:
—He doesn’t like to come. He said to me I have to learn to be manager because when his son inherits the shop he won’t want to run it. I file everything and in spring Mr Peruzzi’s son comes to take the file away. Mr Peruzzi doesn’t want to do this.
—I understand, but I must see him. It’s very urgent. I can’t give you confidential information, do you understand that?
—Yes.
—And you’ll tell him to come and see me, that it’s absolutely urgent?
—Yes.
‘Of course she didn’t.’
‘She never got the chance,’ the marshal said. ‘Peruzzi never saw her again. She died that day, I think, though I’ll probably never know for sure. Do you remember what time she left here?’
‘Not precisely but …’ He reached for his desk diary and turned back the pages. ‘May … twenty-first. Here, I made a note. Peruzzi—that was to remind me to speak to the young woman and … yes, I had an appointment at head office at twelve so she can’t have been with me more than a quarter of an hour, if that … Oh, dear …’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve just realised: as I say, I had an appointment. I showed her out of here and then I suppose I must have packed my briefcase. When I walked through to the main door she was still here, talking to someone who was holding her arm. I didn’t think anything of it at the time but if something happened to her that day, as you say, then …’
‘Were they quarrelling?’
‘No … It was probably nothing.’ The manager looked unhappy. It was clear he was wishing he hadn’t spoken and now didn’t know how to stop what he’d started.
‘Something made you notice, even so.’
‘As I said, she was a pretty little thing. I noticed her face was red, that’s all. She was crying. She’d struck me as so calm and efficient before.’
‘I see. And was the person she was talking to one of your customers?’
‘No. No, he wasn’t a customer. I don’t know who he was. It only comes back to me because you said—well, he was wearing a carabiniere uniform. Possibly one or more members of my staff can confirm that. I’m sorry.’
The marshal sat there a moment in silence, hearing his own breathing. Some vague thoughts played around on the edge of his consciousness, such as that it’s only too easy to let wishful thinking lead you away from the facts, that it didn’t do to try to solve cases that you were emotionally involved in, that death extinguishes … death extinguishes …
Ideas that faded before they penetrated. His breathing deepened. He felt very quiet.
Somebody knocked and came in. It was a bank clerk with Lorenzini.
Before either of them could speak, the marshal stood up. ‘I have to go.’
What
was the matter with Lorenzini, staring like that?
‘You’ve got the warrant? The manager here will give you a printout of all Peruzzi’s transactions over the period he’s been concerned about.’
‘Yes but—I need to have a word with you—’
‘Not now.’ He turned to look at the manager and say, ‘I imagine it must have crossed your mind that all this odd shifting about of money might be about avoiding death duties rather than enjoying life?’
‘Yes. Naturally. Once he knew how ill he was …’ The marshal said to Lorenzini, ‘You see.’
‘See … ?’
‘Money … I have to go.’
The manager got to his feet, looking a bit flustered. ‘Marshal, warrant or no warrant, I hope you’ll make it clear to the Peruzzis that I wasn’t the one to suggest to you anything regarding tax evasion. I’m sure you appreciate …’
‘Of course. Don’t worry. If that’s all it is, it doesn’t interest me. I’m interested in a murder and a suicide, and a very distressed mother.’
‘I understand. We never discussed death duties.’
‘I’m sure you were very discreet.’
‘No, no, Marshal, I’m quite serious, as you were when you told me you weren’t looking to cover anything up and I believed you.’
The man’s face was slightly pink but his gaze was straight and unwavering as he offered the marshal his hand. ‘It crossed my mind, that’s all—and I might add that it also crossed my mind that even a bad-tempered shoemaker can have a past, and that he might be being blackmailed.’
This time it was the marshal’s turn: ‘Peruzzi? Peruzzi?’ Lorenzini was scribbling something which he pressed into the marshal’s hand.
He put on his hat and sunglasses, crossed the road and walked up the sloping forecourt towards the Pitti Palace, wondering why he felt so dreadful all of a sudden. Someone said, ‘Afternoon, Marshal. Isn’t this terrible? Let’s hope it doesn’t keep up all summer.’
‘Afternoon … yes …’ The heat. The forecourt was exposed to the worst of it. The sun was beating down, burning through his hat and the shoulders of his uniform. He was tired but he would keep going steadily. That was the thing: keep going steadily. His driver was waiting under the archway in deep shade. Good. He got in and stared for a moment at Lorenzini’s scribble, his thoughts elsewhere. Then he read it.
Esposito and J girl on our CCTV 12.04
21 May
It felt like a blow to the stomach, yet his reaction was superficial, just something to be dealt with. He called Lorenzini. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Yes. I’m still at the bank but the manager’s left me alone in his office for the moment.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘I checked through all the reports for May twenty-first. Esposito was out that morning. He and Di Nuccio went to Signora Verdi’s house to catch out those confidence tricksters, you remember, the ones saying they were from the gas company?’
‘I remember. And then?’
‘Di Nuccio was driving. Going back, Esposito said he’d get out in Piazza Pitti, said he had to do something. Di Nuccio dropped him outside the bank.’
‘I see.’
‘I looked through the CCTV tapes of our entrance to see what time he came in. He and the girl were outside here at four minutes past twelve. They looked as if they were quarrelling. He looked at his watch and came in. She stood there for a bit, took a few steps towards the exit then turned back and took the main path to the right into the gardens.’
‘Did Esposito go out again?’
‘I ran the tape on but if he did he wasn’t in uniform. There was a fair bit of movement there, people coming from the park keeper’s office as well as people coming out of our place with it being the same entrance.’
‘Even so, the others must know if he ate with them.’
‘He didn’t, hadn’t done for days. He was always shut in his room when he was off duty, you know that. I’ve got nothing precise until two thirty when he was with the magistrate dealing with that suicide—man with five kids who lost his job and poisoned himself. So: it’s not the perfect alibi like you wanted, not an alibi at all, really.’
‘No.’
‘What do you want me to do next?’
‘Nothing.’
They crossed the river and the driver stopped in via de’ Servi at the cathedral end.
‘Dott. G. Peruzzi, Accountant, 2nd floor’ was engraved on a big brass plate inside the marble entrance. The marshal took the lift up and rang the accountant’s doorbell. The door clicked open and at the end of a green-carpeted corridor a tall, elegant man with thick black hair and a pale-grey suit appeared in an open doorway. The marshal was a little disconcerted. At such a fancy business address as this he had expected a flurry of secretaries, perhaps even a long wait. Then the man uttered only one loud word: ‘Shit!’
Then he went back into his room leaving the door open.
Ten
He didn’t hurry along the corridor. On the contrary, he felt he was slowing down. His footsteps made no sound on the thick green carpet. Perhaps it was that, together with the wooziness caused by lack of sleep, which made him feel he was back in his nightmare. Again his chest hurt with a sort of burning anxiety, his mind quite blacked out. The walk along that carpet seemed to be in slow motion, giving him time to pick up thousands of tiny details, signals, absences. No phones rang, nobody hurried past him, carrying papers from one office to another, although there were many closed doors. A trail of cigar smoke. The corridor opened out at the end into an ample, carpeted space. The marshal was aware of a big desk to his left, of a summery perfume and the thin brown shoulders of a young woman whose eyes were following his progress in silence. He didn’t turn his head. His gaze had never left the open door straight ahead. He walked through it and stood still.
‘Peruzzi, Gherardo.’
‘Present.’ Imitating a schoolboy answering to the morning register. He was sitting tipped right back in a leather office chair, his long legs stretched out under the big antique desk, a cigar in his mouth.
The marshal was in no hurry, now. He had all the time in the world to look at the man and his room. It was a big room. There was no green carpet here but polished wood and fine Persian rugs. He’d spent enough time in the antique shops of Florence to recognise the value of the few enormous pieces of furniture in the room. The light fixtures were modern, the paintings on the walls old. The marshal saw himself in a massive mirror that could have reflected five of him, framed in carved and gilded wood which in turn reflected the gold flame on his own hat. He took the hat off, breathed out slowly, met the ironic stare of the man in front of him. He had no intention of speaking first. He knew he’d found what he was looking for. It was enough.
‘Are you going to arrest me? Or are you going to sit down?’
The marshal looked about him, chose a solid chair and sat down with his hat on his knee.
‘How did you find out? I’m just interested. It doesn’t much matter.’
‘No. It doesn’t much matter. Except perhaps to your father.’
‘My father’s a fool. As you must have noticed—I take it you know him.’
‘Yes, I know him.’
‘Spent his life in that poky little dump scratching away at his old-fashioned shoes. A modern factory could churn out a thousand pairs while he’s fiddling around with one.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’
‘So, how did you find out? Had she said something about her talk with the bank manager to her little boyfriend. She said she hadn’t, the bitch.’
‘She hadn’t. You knew about the bank manager’s intention to talk to her, I imagine.’
‘Of course I knew. I could hardly do anything but agree. He was threatening to foreclose.’
‘Why go so far? Why, when you’d got away with all this’—he gazed at the riches all around him—‘for so long, so easily.’
The young man shrugged. ‘I fancied a BMW. Had a bit of an accident in t
he Mercedes. And besides, I wanted to buy this place. Paying rent’s a mug’s game.’
‘Like making shoes.’
‘Right.’
‘Tell me, do you have any actual clients?’
‘A couple. Small stuff. Girl out there deals with them. I don’t need to pay her much and she doesn’t need to work much. Probably spends her time sending e-mail jokes to her friends.’
‘I suppose she was the one who really did your father’s accounts?’
‘That’s what I pay her for, isn’t it?’
‘She never suspected anything?’
‘Why should she? None of her business how my father spent his money, was it?’
‘Your father didn’t spend his money.’
‘More fool he. He wouldn’t know how to. He hasn’t a clue about the real world—never put his nose out of that hole of a workshop—do you know how often he and my mother went on holiday? Once. Once! They went to Pietrasanta for their honeymoon. Deckchairs and bicycle rides along the seafront. Christ! Is that pathetic or what? After that, they used to shut in August and go round the museums together like a pair of stupid tourists. Or else on a “nice little day trip”, as they called it, to San Gimignano and Siena. I used to say to him:
—Why don’t you go abroad, get out of your rut?
—Why should we go abroad? We’ve got the finest art and the finest buildings in the world right here. And we’ve got the sea and the countryside and the mountains, not to mention good food and wine and great museums. Where could we go that’d be better than here?
‘There ought to be a museum to put him in, and all the Florentines like him.’
‘You’re a Florentine, too.’
He laughed, a very loud laugh. It could be bravado but it really didn’t seem to be. His eyes glittered but not with fear. It was as if he had been rehearsing this for years, waiting for the right audience.
‘What about your mother? Was she unhappy with the life she had?’
‘You’re kidding. She was just as bad as he. Worked in a shoe shop all her life and never went anywhere. And living above the shop. Like the Middle Ages—I can tell you, when I was in my last years at school I never brought my friends home. I mean, can you imagine? I had one friend who lived in a massive house in its own grounds up on the via San Leonardo and another who lived in a villa with a swimming pool in Fiesole. And my mother’s saying:—Bring your friends home, they’ll always be welcome.—I ask you!’
The Innocent Page 16
