Fara's face turned beet red when he saw the Marshal, who stepped back to let him into the duty room and at once turned away to talk to Lorenzini.
'Can you prepare a package for me for the Prosecutor's office while I get the paperwork done?'
'What size?'
'It's only a couple of capsules—oh, and put in this complete pack of them the chemist gave me. Save them a bit of time at the lab if they check against those—By the way, what's the matter with Fara? Not getting himself in any trouble, is he?'
'No, he just wanted a bit of advice . . . ' Lorenzini's eyes searched the Marshal's face and, finding it blank, felt free to add, 'Just feeling a bit homesick, really.'
'Well, he'll soon get over that—though I must say these boys these days don't look old enough to be here. That must be me getting old, mustn't it?'
'I'm afraid so.' Lorenzini smiled. 'It's happening to me, too, now, ever since we had our little boy. Must be paternal feeling at the root of it. The photos and house plan for the Torrini case have come, by the way, so if you can get through the reports we can have it all ready to go off by the time we shut shop.'
'If I can get through them . . .'
He just about made it. He did the search report and the receipts for the passport and capsules first, and then opened the packet of photographs in the hope of seeing something he hadn't seen, noticing some detail he'd overlooked. There was nothing. The perfumed suds on the cold pink water, the sightless eye turned towards him just above the surface. His own hand was still in the first picture after they'd turned her. The broken glass embedded in her buttock: it hadn't killed her. Whatever it had contained, she hadn't drunk from it. Why was it underneath her, though? He tried to imagine dropping a glass into the bath and the glass breaking. Well, you'd get out, wouldn't you? You wouldn't sit there fishing for the pieces, you'd get up . . . and slip perhaps and cut yourself—and wouldn't you scream? Or faint . . . whichever you did you'd make some commotion and Forbes—Forbes wasn't drunk, not yet he wasn't. They'd just come in and Signora Torrini saw them. She'd have said—or would that come under the heading of speaking ill of the as good as dead? He'd have to ask her. One thing he could check in the meantime. He called the Medico-Legal Institute.
'No, I'm sorry, he's not. Can I be of any help? I'm his assistant . . . yes . . . yes, I did—no, there's no need, I remember quite well that the cuts were post-mortem— there was a fair bit of seepage, the cuts being on the underside and immersed in water, but nothing like the bleeding such deep wounds would have caused had she been alive. Anything else? Not at all.'
A dead end. The diet, then. The only person he could think of to ask about that was the Signora Torrini, but she didn't answer her phone though he let it ring and ring, knowing that it might take her a long time to get to it. Odd. He'd been under the impression that she didn't go out, though of course the famous Giorgio must occasionally show up and perhaps take her somewhere. Well, if that was the way it was he would ask Forbes himself at some point. The idea didn't please him. He was still of the opinion that he would rather anyone but himself asked Forbes anything. He allowed the Signorina Müller to cross his mind briefly and dismissed her from it. It would almost certainly be one of the things she did not think about. He could imagine her reaction: 'Diets!' and the instant removal of the conversation on to a higher plane.
There was nothing for it. He began to type.
On arrival at the scene the presence of a cadaver in the bathroom of the habitation described in the enclosed plans was established . . .
The thing was to cover yourself for all eventualities. Tongue between his teeth, two plump fingers picking out the letters, he wrote:
From the on the spot evidence obtained, at the present time, no hypotheses of any specific crime emerge.
Reserving the right to communicate the results of my further inquiries I enclose:
—Death certificate.
—Search report.
—Sequestration report for two medicinal capsules.
—Sequestration report for the passport of FORBES JULIAN.
—Photographic file.
—Statements obtained from TORRINI EUGENIA and MÜLLER ELISABETH.
'Marshal?' Lorenzini tapped and came in with the package as the Marshal put his signature to this report which listed everything and concluded nothing.
He accepted the small box tied up with string. 'Ask one of the lads for a lighter, would you?'
Lorenzini held up a black plastic lighter between two fingers. 'Done'.
'Ah. You go home, it's late. This can all be sent to the Prosecutor's office tomorrow. He'll hardly be there at this time.'
But the Marshal was wrong. As he let the hot red wax drop on to the string of the parcel, his phone rang.
'Damn!' Whoever it was had to wait until he had melted enough wax and had a hand free. It was Fusarri.
'Glad I caught you. I gather you've been at the Medico-Legal Institute. Bad news, eh?'
The Marshal, thinking it somewhat improper to give voice to the idea, said nothing. This only made Fusarri laugh. 'Now then, Marshal, don't tell me that a stomach containing a suitable mixture of alcohol and sleeping pills wouldn't have been as welcome to you as it would have been to me.'
No point in angering the man unnecessarily.
'Yes, sir. He would have said it was suicide, of course.'
'Of course. But better than nothing, which is what we've got now. You think he did it.'
'At present,' quoted the Marshal, referring unhappily to the report on his desk, 'no hypotheses of any specific crime—'
'Oof! We shall have to find one. Go and see him. Take his statement.'
'I thought perhaps that you—'
'No, no, no. You're the man for it.'
The Marshal's heart sank. Remembering just in time, he reached for the seal and pressed the State symbol and Carabinieri Tuscan Region Palazzo Pitti Station into the cooling red wax.
'Are you still there?'
'Yes, sir. I'll go tomorrow morning.'
'Excellent. I gather he's an intellectual type. He'd try to talk all over me. Pah! I don't think he'll be able to do that to you. Pity I can't be a fly on the wall for this meeting of two diametrically opposed minds, but there it is. Tell him I'm issuing a release order for the body. He can bury his wife.'
'And his passport . . . Should he ask, I mean.'
'Oh no! He's not getting that. Make the proper excuses, bureaucratic delays, everything under control, matter of days, all that stuff. By the way, there's money, I believe, quite a lot of it. I've had a solicitor round here—but don't you worry about that, I'll deal with it and inform you.'
'Thank you.'
Could it be that the Captain was right? That perhaps Fusarri—but no. 'Meeting of two minds!' He could only be making a joke of him.
'Not at all. It'll involve a few calls to England. Your talents are better employed elsewhere. You talk to Forbes. I rather think you'll frighten him.'
'I . . . frighten?'
'Do you wear those dark glasses of yours all the time?'
'It's an allergy I have,' the Marshal defended himself, 'the sunlight hurts my eyes.' What the devil . . . ?
'Good, good.' He rang off.
It wasn't right. Somebody eccentric like that—it wasn't right. You needed serious men in this sort of business, men like Captain Maestrangelo. It just wasn't right.
CHAPTER 5
A log fire was burning in the wide hearth. The Marshal was glad of it since there was no other heating in the converted barn. It hadn't been lit long, and every so often a fine curl of pale blue woodsmoke made its way up one corner of the mantelpiece. The sweetness of its perfume mingled with that of the freshly made coffee which the Marshal had reluctantly refused. He didn't want to accept anything from Forbes. He wasn't sure whether Forbes had just got up, or was making the coffee to give himself something to do other than sitting down and facing his visitor. Probably a mixture of the two.
There was a long-hai
red white rug in front of the fire which the Marshal kept his big black shoes away from. A very cosy room, though he wondered about the strength of the piece of bamboo furniture on which he was gingerly sitting. Pretty but frail, he thought, trying not to move an inch. When he did, it creaked.
Forbes was talking. He'd hardly drawn breath since the Marshal arrived. Talking mostly about himself. The Marshal wasn't listening—at least not to the content, only to the noise, the accent, the tone, the fear. When Forbes did at last present himself at the fireside, he brought with him two cups of coffee.
'You were only being polite, right?'
And after that it would have been an exaggeration not to drink it. Blast the man! Hadn't the Signora Torrini said that Forbes did things for her even though she didn't really want him to, so as to make himself liked? He understood that now. He had very much wanted the excellent coffee, but he hadn't wanted it from Forbes. Probably, the Signora Torrini had wanted her lemon trees protected but she wanted it done by her son. No doubt Forbes had done a good job. He had also made good coffee. Which made matters worse. How he talked! He was in the bamboo armchair opposite now, legs crossed one over the other, a long delicate finger caressing his beard and his elbow poised on one knee. The knee was shaking. Only very slightly, but it was shaking.
He was losing his hair very quickly, the Marshal thought, looking at the receding temples and remembering the almost bald crown. Yet he looked young. Perhaps because his skin was so soft and pink, as was often the way with northern people.
'In this job you can't allow your emotions to interfere or you're out. I have a deadline to meet.'
'Job . . . ?' The Marshal came briefly to the surface. As far as he knew, Forbes had no job.
'This article I'm writing for an English Sunday. The deadline's tomorrow. I'm trying to work in spite of everything. She would have wanted it.'
The Marshal stared at him. He took a sip of the coffee without thinking and then, annoyed with himself, placed it on the low bamboo table between them.
Again he looked hard at Forbes before announcing: 'I'm here to tell you—' Forbes had never asked why he was here—'that Substitute Prosecutor Fusarri has signed a release order for your wife's body. You might wish to bury her tomorrow or the next day at the latest.'
'I can't. My friends, a couple we know—she's English and he's Italian—-they're going to see to everything for me. They think a lot of me and they know I need to write this piece and I can't deal with things like that.'
'There comes a time in all our lives,' pointed out the Marshal, 'when we have to deal with "things like that". Are they friends of yours, these people, did you say, or were they friends of your wife's?' Signora Torrini might be daffy but she'd got this chap sized up, and very useful it was, too.
Forbes's face was red with annoyance. 'Mine, if anything. Especially Mary, the wife. To be honest . . . well, she's always been a bit in love with me. These things happen, you understand, in certain circles. They're accepted.'
Very nice, the Marshal thought, particularly if it results in someone else organizing your wife's funeral for you.
Forbes sat back elegantly in his bamboo armchair and opened one hand in an adopted Italian gesture.
'I shouldn't have brought it up. I realize it's difficult for someone like you to understand. There are different standards in different ambiences.' The flourish of the hand was perfectly controlled but the Marshal knew without needing to look that the leg swung over his knee was still shaking and that the foot was tapping at the air to cover it up.
'Very nice furniture, this,' he said to try and cover up a sinister creak, the result of his shifting a little, to observe Forbes better.
Forbes was disconcerted, and the further speeches he was working up to on the question of different ambiences disintegrated on the spot. The Marshal was equally disconcerted at having started a hare when least expecting to. The furniture seemed to agitate Forbes a great deal more than the funeral.
'It was meant to be a surprise, that was the whole idea-it was a present and yet you'd think—who told you about it anyway?'
'Told me about it?'
'Somebody must have—La Torrini, I imagine, I know you went to see her.'
'Yes, I did.' What was the matter with the man? 'We didn't discuss your furniture.'
'Fucking hell!' He suddenly turned his face and covered it with one hand. He was weeping.
The Marshal waited in silence. It wasn't just when he was drunk, then. Why, though, should he have burst into tears at the mention of his furniture? After some moments, a possible explanation occurred.
'You say these things were a present. Were they for your wife's birthday?'
Forbes pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose loudly. 'Sorry. No, not her birthday. For Christmas.'
'I see.' The Marshal watched him rub a hand over his face.
'I just thought you'd have bought something for your wife that day.'
'What day?' He was reaching for his coffee cup, pouring more from the octagonal pot he'd left close to the fire.
'The day she died. It was her birthday.' !
He hesitated, almost dropped the coffee pot, burned himself saving it. 'Christ! I've burned myself!' He jumped up and went to the other end of the room which served as the kitchen. Still swearing, he opened the ice compartment of the fridge and put his hand inside.
'You'd forgotten?'
Forbes pretended not to hear.
'Have to put something on it . . . ' He ran up the spiral staircase at a speed the Marshal wouldn't have thought possible. He was used to it, of course. He was running away from the question, too. Well, there was no hurry.
Even so, he wasn't finding out anything and perhaps he never would. He had no idea how to tackle this Forbes chap, and he was afraid his dislike was making itself felt. That could result in a complaint, protests from the consul, the ambassador . . .
He could hear Forbes fiddling about upstairs. He was gone for quite some time and came back with his right hand inexpertly bandaged by his left. The Marshal made no comment on this, but continued, as though Forbes had never moved.
'I was saying that you forgot your wife's birthday. I hope she didn't take it too badly.'
'She didn't . . . know. I mean, she never mentioned it so I suppose she'd forgotten it herself . . . ' His eyes were shifting rapidly about the room. The Marshal, trying to make out where he was looking, concluded that he wasn't so much looking at something as for something.
'Funny,' he said slowly, 'all her friends forgetting, too, though if you forgot and they didn't, perhaps she avoided saying. Women are like that, don't you find?'
'I've no idea,' snapped Forbes. 'If there's nothing else— I did tell you I've work to do.'
'One or two things,' the Marshal said carefully to the settling fire. He didn't move. He felt, rather than saw, that Forbes's frantically seeking eyes had frozen. Settling back just a little in his chair, he spotted it too. A brown leather handbag. It was hanging from the back of a straight chair.
'I should explain,' he said, 'as you weren't feeling too well at the time, and probably didn't notice, that our technicians examined everything in the house for evidence—in particular, evidence of suicide. Note, pills and so on.'
Forbes fell silent. He thought for some time and then his eyes glanced off the Marshal's as he tried to look him in the eye, man to man, and failed.
'She always picked up the post. They leave it in a box near the gate. That day she stuffed it in her bag. She said there was nothing interesting . . .'
'Very tactful.' The Marshal took out his notebook.
'What are you doing?' said Forbes in alarm.
'Don't worry,' said the Marshal calmly, 'I'm not making a note of the fact that you forgot your wife's birthday. But last time I was here, you were in no state to give me a statement of the events of the day which ended in her death. Can I take it now? Did you quarrel that day?'
'No!'
'What time di
d you get up in the morning?'
'Early. At least I did. I started work on my article. Celia slept late because she'd had trouble getting to sleep.'
'Did that happen often?'
'I don't know . . . I only noticed if she told me and stayed in bed late. Otherwise I fall asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.'
'You must have a clear conscience.' This was an attempt to be more pleasant, but he realized afterwards that he probably should have smiled or something. .
'I work very hard!' One leg was still crossed over the other but he had ceased to affect relaxation with his arms, which were now folded tightly on his chest.
'And you worked very hard that morning. For how long?'
'I couldn't say. A couple of hours. Then we had something to eat.'
'What?'
'What did we eat? An English breakfast. I made it.'
'An English breakfast? What is that? Eggs . . . ?'
'Eggs and bacon, tomatoes, sausages, fried bread. We liked to do that sometimes and then work straight through to supper-time.'
'And your wife ate all that stuff?' Well, you never knew, it might be one of those favours he insisted on doing when all she wanted was a cup of coffee. 'She wasn't on a diet?'
'Why should she be on a diet?'
'Her stomach was empty when she died. What time did you have this English breakfast?'
'Tennish.'
That, he supposed, accounted for it, though he'd have to check with the pathologist. From ten to six she hadn't eaten. He made a note in his black notebook, taking his time over it, hoping for some reaction from Forbes but none came. He could hear talk of the pathology of his wife's death without a flicker and burst into tears over the furniture!
'And the rest of the day?'
'We were out. We went down into town to the post office. Then we split up. She went to get her hair done—they stay open over lunch and it's the quietest time . . .'
He bent to place two more logs on the fire and fidgeted with them for an unnecessarily long time. The Marshal waited in silence.
Forbes sat back abruptly. 'We met up when the shops opened and did—'
'Where were you?'
The Marshal at the Villa Torrini Page 7
