The Innocent

by Magdalen Nabb

  ‘It stops there,’ the captain said. ‘As you can see, it was written on hotel stationery. He didn’t finish it or sign it but he put it into an envelope and sealed it at some point. It was in his back pocket. Naturally it was sent with the rest of his effects to his mother. I spoke to her myself.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘As you’d expect. I got the impression that she’d been afraid all along that it might end like this. She said:

  —He was so like his father. I never told him so and he really had no memory of him. My husband, Gennaro, was a lovely man, so handsome, but he took things too much to heart. He had rheumatic fever as a child and his mitral valve started giving him trouble when he was only in his thirties. In the end he was too sick too often to hold down a job. He felt he’d let us down, that I’d be tied to an invalid all my life and I should never have married him. Naturally, nobody would insure his life. I never talked about it to Enzo—should I have done? People get shot every year when the hunting season opens so I thought, if he heard anything, he’d just assume there’d been an accident. I gave Gennaro’s revolver to one of his friends to dispose of. It might have been better, after all, if we’d talked about it. And besides, it’s as if he knew … after all, Enzo wasn’t on duty, he wasn’t in uniform, so why was he carrying his gun? Children sense the things we don’t tell them …

  ‘She asked me to thank you particularly.’

  ‘Me?’ The marshal was surprised.

  ‘He always told her you were a father to him. I had the impression she felt he was more in need of a father figure than a wife for the time being. Incidentally, the magistrate has released the body. I was able to tell her that, at least—I’m sorry I couldn’t help you as regards the autopsy, but as I said …’

  ‘No, no … It didn’t matter, as it turned out. Forli was able to help. She can bury her son without the added distress of any suspicion. I hope so, anyway … And Akiko?’

  ‘They’ll release her body tomorrow and the consulate will take over from there. What about your case? How’s it looking?’

  ‘Not good. Peruzzi’s not going to testify against his son so we lose our motive, for what motive’s worth, and we’ve no physical evidence and no witnesses.’

  ‘What about the bank manager?’

  The marshal shrugged. ‘Peruzzi’s son had power of attorney. We’d need more than that.’

  ‘I thought he’d confessed to you?’

  ‘He tried to, for what it’s worth, given that we were alone and I hadn’t warned him of his rights. He seems convinced that I’m bound to agree he did the right thing—but you know who his lawyer is?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, then. He’s already pointed out that nothing that was said before his arrival on the scene has any validity. The first story he came up with was that his client was nowhere near the scene, didn’t follow the couple, etc. etc., that I’d invented the whole story. That’s when I told him about the CCTV footage. It showed Akiko hesitating and then going into the gardens. Once we knew she’d been followed, we ran the tape on and saw Gherardo Peruzzi hurrying after her. The delay was because he had to buy a ticket. Akiko had come in the gate with Esposito. Once he hears this, the lawyer comes up with a new story, admitting his client’s involvement but claiming that after a chat on the ledge of the pool, she had lifted her feet to show him the shoes she’d made and it was when he got hold of one to examine it that she fell back into the water. There’s probably something of the truth in that, for what it’s worth.’

  ‘And then? He left her to drown?’

  ‘Oh, not at all. The water’s very shallow. It never crossed his mind that she’d drown, only that she’d be annoyed with him for causing her a soaking. So he rushed off.’

  ‘Taking with him the shoe that came off in his hand?’

  ‘And the bank receipts and all her documents but everything went down that drain except for the shoe which stuck. Anyway, the lawyer’s requested the CCTV film and when he sees it’s not a good enough full-face picture of his client, he’s likely go back to story number one. In any case, whatever damn-fool story he brings to court in the end, he’ll throw up enough dust and confusion to muddle judge and jury, and make a conviction impossible, given that we have no physical evidence. I ought to tell you that the last time I talked to him he was threatening to drag Esposito’s name into it. I’ve no doubt at all that he saw Esposito go back into the station but that’s not what he’ll say.’

  ‘He could make it look like a cover-up, is that it?’

  ‘Easily. Their relationship, the baby, the quarrel, the talk of an abortion … Gherardo Peruzzi barely knew her and, without his father’s testimony, he had no motive.’

  ‘I see.’ The captain remained silent, thinking. ‘He did more or less confess to you, though.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I mean about there being some truth in the second story, about her lifting her feet to show him her shoes. Why wouldn’t she trust him? She trusted his father. He said he stood watching her for a bit. She sat down on the edge of the pool and took a package with a sandwich in it from her bag. Only, she didn’t eat it. She just sat there with it in her lap looking straight ahead and crying. He went forward, then, and sat down to talk to her. Probably, he pretended to cheer her up. I can well believe he pretended to admire her shoes. He was a Peruzzi. She trusted him.

  When we were leaving his office. He took a last look around at his riches and said:

  —She was so tiny … it was just like flipping a little doll into the water.

  He looked puzzled more than anything. He couldn’t understand how such an insignificant episode could make such a change in his life. He’ll confess to me again, though.’

  ‘With a lawyer like that? Guarnaccia, you know this man. You know he’ll never allow it.’

  ‘Even so. He won’t be able to prevent it. His client will insist. He’s quite determined to convince me he was in the right. After which the blasted lawyer will get him off with manslaughter anyway. There’s nothing to prove pre-meditation. He had his father’s temper. The water was so shallow, the piece of statuary invisible. We can never prove he didn’t run off thinking he’d only given her a ducking.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t know. To be honest, I doubt if he knows himself. Perhaps, for him, it had no more importance than swatting a fly. Well, it’s late. I must be getting back.’

  They stood up and walked together to the door. When they got there it was clear to the marshal that the captain had something he wanted to say. They both paused. Without looking at him, the captain said very quietly, ‘Somebody else asked me to thank you—though I said you’d be more than pleased if she called you and thanked you herself. I hope I did right.’

  ‘Of course. And she did call me, yesterday evening. It was very kind of the signora even to remember such a small thing.’

  ‘It was important for her.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true. I was sorry to hear she’s leaving us.’

  ‘Yes. She’s completed her researches and has decided she should go home to France to write her book. Her parents are getting frail and she feels she should be near them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The captain’s face was strained and very pale. He said goodnight and turned back to his immaculate desk. The marshal closed the oak door and walked the empty corridor to go down to the cloister. The streets outside were darkening. The marshal was anxious to be home.

  That first year that Teresa and the boys moved up to Florence, the marshal hadn’t been able to resist teasing Giovanni about his combined birthday and name day:—The mayor has organised a huge firework display and the Palazzo Vecchio—you remember, the one with the tower where the mayor’s office is?—well, it’s going to be lit with torches like a castle in a fairy tale …

  The solemn little boy had listened, wide-eyed and silent. He had still been too excited to speak when they went out into the blue night to lean on the warm parapet of th
e Santa Trinita bridge. Hundreds of families lined the river banks, tiny children perched on dads’ shoulders. The street lights went out and the first enormous explosion of pink and gold light burst and sprayed down to meet its own reflection in the black water. Giovanni was too overwhelmed to join in the chorus of ooohs and aaahs. Totò caught on as soon as he saw the crowds but his brother’s stunned amazement rendered him quite oblivious to taunts.

  When his dad stood him on the bridge, holding tight, he turned his dark head against a glittering green sky to whisper:

  —Dad, it’s brilliant, isn’t it?

  Of course, once they started school, he soon found out that San Giovanni was the patron saint of Florence, but the tease became a family tradition:

  —Well, the mayor’s done you proud again this year …

  This year, though he was doing his best to seem normal, the marshal had just returned from Esposito’s funeral in Naples and, though he’d booked a birthday supper at Lapo’s as promised, he almost wished he hadn’t because closed shutters and a ‘For Sale’ sign were an ever present reminder throughout the meal that the predictable second heart attack had spared Peruzzi the pain of his son’s trial.

  The boys were too excited about the match to notice. Teresa said nothing but squeezed his arm once or twice to bring him back to her.

  In an effort to be cheerful, he relayed to her what Lorenzini had told him that morning. He’d gone to last night’s dinner and concert at the social club where Nardi was to perform in the presence of both Costanza and Monica. Teresa had been following this story for years.

  ‘And was there a row?’

  ‘There certainly was. Just after he sang “I left my heart in San Francisco”—making up half the words, according to Lorenzini, who speaks English. It had been a big meal—’

  ‘Did they have three kinds of pasta like us?’ asked Giovanni, looking interested.’

  ‘At least. Maybe more. And Florentine beefsteaks.’

  ‘And cake?’

  ‘Probably cake as well. Anyway, after all that, Nardi had sung for almost an hour and he was exhausted. He told Costanza he wanted to go home. She was enjoying herself and wanted to stay. Words were said that would have been better said in private at home and Monica, who was at the next table with her mother—who’s almost ninety, incidentally, and eats like a horse—looked up and shouted at Nardi:

  —You ought to be ashamed of yourself, speaking to your wife like that and in public, too.

  —And you mind your own business! She’s my wife and I’ll speak to her any way I want!

  ‘He told his wife to suit herself but he was off. He got up and left the table but Costanza didn’t budge. After a minute or so, she leaned towards Monica and said:

  —He’s going nowhere. I’ve got the car keys and the house keys.

  ‘An hour later the two women were in a huddle and those who were listening in said they came to an ad hoc financial arrangement that suited them both and confidences were being exchanged:

  —If you knew what I went through in that first twenty years of marriage, it’d make your hair stand on end. A different one every week. I couldn’t hold my head up. And the money it was costing when we’d two children to bring up.

  —It was the same with mine until he had his stroke. After that it was whine whine whine and he wouldn’t so much as blow his own nose. Ten years of that I had. It’s a good thing we live longer. At least we get a bit of peace and quiet at the last.

  ‘Lorenzini says there’s no question of Monica pressing charges for assault.’

  ‘In that case, there wasn’t really a row.’

  ‘Yes, there was. I haven’t got to that yet. While all this was going on, Nardi was chatting up some woman at another table. Had his arm round her, by all accounts. When they noticed, both Monica and Costanza got up and marched over there. That’s when the real row started. Lorenzini had to break it up.’

  ‘You mean they attacked her? Physically attacked her?’

  ‘No, no … They attacked him. Got a few good ones in before it was stopped, too. Lorenzini admits he was wary of Monica’s nails in particular—and he wasn’t in uniform, of course, so they could easily have pretended not to recognise him.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is, there’s no understanding what some women see in some men.’

  ‘No …’ admitted the marshal with a worried frown. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well. Anyway, Lorenzini says Nardi cleans up well. He had his teeth in and it seems he has a very good voice for a love song. Seductive, Lorenzini said.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Birthday cake for Giovanni!’ shouted Lapo, carrying it out, held high. He was followed by a very smart young waitress bringing spumante and glasses. The rest of the diners joined in the toast and the singing. Lapo sat with them a while.

  The smart young waitress was on loan from the restaurant opposite where the young owner turned out to have a feeling for the Quarter after all.

  ‘It’s just for this month. Things get a lot busier in July. But in any case, we can’t keep our Sonia at home looking after her grandma for any longer than that. She’s been terrific but it’s not right to sacrifice her and if the wife stopped at home I’d have to employ a cook. We can’t afford that. My mother-in-law could have a third stroke or she could go on for years, bedridden after this second one. There’s no way of knowing. What could I do?’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘After I’ve sold up? Well, there’ll be a bit of money in the bank. The wife fancies taking over a little stationer’s and toy shop not far from here. It’ll be a lot less work for her and she’s used to a bit of company. I’ll probably spend a bit more time in politics. I might be looking for your vote next time round.’

  ‘That won’t surprise me at all. Your regulars are going to miss you. Where are they going to eat?’

  ‘Here. That was part of our agreement. My regulars go on eating here at lunchtime at a special all-in price. He turned out to be a decent enough bloke, after all, even though he is Milanese.’

  They left for Santa Croce and took their seats in time to watch the first horses in the procession file into the floodlit square. The crowd remained peaceable enough at the passage of judges, halberdiers and guildsmen, but there was tension in the air when the two eliminated teams appeared and a groundswell of aggression rose with the entrance of the finalists. For now it gave vent to nothing worse than carnations raining down like arrows to crisscross the sandy pitch in white and bright dyed blue. The marshal hoped for the best but violence was always to be budgeted for and he thought it likely that he would regret having said yes to this.

  But when the canon fired and the first scrum erupted into a fight, Giovanni pulled at his arm. The marshal turned, frowning at the effort to hear him despite the roaring, raging crowd. Giovanni’s eyes were popping with the pleasure of pasta and beefsteaks and cake and spumante and football, and fireworks to come.

  ‘Dad, it’s brilliant!’

  On the other side of Giovanni, Totò, well fed and happy, was bouncing up and down waving a white flag for Santo Spirito, screaming support. On the marshal’s left, Teresa squeezed his arm, whether in enthusiasm or apprehension he didn’t know. But the nightmare faded. He started concentrating on the game. You could never tell. Maybe this year the Whites would win.