by Marco Vichi
‘That happens to me a lot, when I go with rich men. Many of them are married with children, maybe they’re important people … At any rate, they’re keen not to be recognised.’
‘Had you ever been to that villa before?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘When?’
‘Last spring, I think.’
‘So you were still a minor …’
‘I’ve been making my own decisions for a while now,’ the boy said with a hint of mischievousness.
‘To continue. Were the same people present at the spring party? I advise you not to lie, since, as you’ve seen, I already know a lot.’
‘I’ve got no reason to lie, because I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Just answer my question, please.’
‘There were the same four as tonight and a few others.’
‘Was there a sprightly old man of about seventy with a crew cut?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describe the other four for me.’
‘One is fat and hairy, a brute who loses his head when he gets aroused. The guy who picked me up is about the same size as you and has a slight limp. Then there’s a tall bloke, very smart, with an icy voice, a real sadist. Then there’s the young guy, who’s very attractive, thin as a rail, and always seems sad. He lives all by himself in that big villa … Brrr, I wouldn’t live there even after I died …’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s like a museum. I’d rather live in a cemetery.’
‘Did they pay you well for the evening?’
‘I’ve got no complaints.’
‘Did you have … group sex?’ asked Bordelli, mildly embarrassed.
‘Do I really have to give you the details?’ the youth asked, half smiling.
‘Just give me a rough description of the troop formations,’ Bordelli said metaphorically.
‘Well … me and the cute guy play the girls, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Tell me a little more.’
‘So you’re a voyeur …’ the boy said with a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘Just go on, please.’
‘Me and the cute guy dress up as little children, in shorts and knee-high socks …’
‘And then what?’ the inspector insisted, a shiver running up his spine.
The youth, for his part, appeared calmer than ever. He was finally convinced that nobody had anything against him, and now he seemed almost to be enjoying recounting his exploits. He moved in his chair like a snake, accompanying his words with sinuous gestures.
‘We could hide anywhere in the villa we wanted. There are dozens of rooms, not counting the attic and cellars. A little while later the others came looking for us, growling like the giants in fairy tales, going Ugh ugh and stuff like that. And then when they found us … well, they got all excited and started yelling Viva il Duce!’ Rosario concluded with a complacent smile, looking at Bordelli with a docile expression.
‘Is that how it went at the party in the spring, too?’
‘No, we played a different game that time.’
‘What was it?’
‘Me and the cute guy were little children who needed to be punished, but the ending was the same.’
‘Did the old guy get in on it too?’
‘Yes, he took part in his own way … he stood aside, watching, and did it alone … if you know what I mean.’
‘Nice little party,’ the inspector blurted out in disgust.
‘What harm is there in it? To each his own.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘If you haven’t experienced something directly you can’t know if you like it or not,’ said the boy.
‘You’re right … Maybe you should try living a less depressing life, you might like it.’
‘My life isn’t the least bit depressing.’
‘Are you so sure?’
‘What about you? How can you stay cooped up in this squalid, dusty office? I’d kill myself.’
‘To each his own,’ said Bordelli. The lad shrugged and leaned his head to one side.
‘Can I go now?’
‘One more thing. Did you hear any of those nice gentlemen make any mention of children?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Did any of them boast about having fun with a little boy?’
‘After the riding party the fat one said they used to fuck little Negroes in Eritrea, and then he kissed his fingers in delight.’
‘The true soul of Fascism …’ Bordelli whispered.
‘I don’t give a damn about those things.’
‘And what about the cocaine, who obtains it?’
‘The sad young man, I think.’
‘Very well. That’s all I have to ask you. I’ll have someone take you wherever you wish to go,’ said Bordelli, standing up. The boy also rose to his feet, and arranged his scarf.
‘Inspector …’
‘Yes, what is it?’
Deep down he rather liked the poor kid.
‘I wanted … yes, it’s true … I think you’re a good person.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘You pretend to be mean, but under your shell …’
‘Never mind, Rovario.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I’ll have someone take you home.’
‘You’re too kind,’ said the boy.
Bordelli circled round behind the desk and put a call through the internal line.
‘Find Piras for me and send him up to my office,’ he said, then hung up.
‘I like that Piras, a lot …’
‘Stay away from that villa, Rovario. I’m telling you as a friend.’
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
‘I’m going to keep an eye on you, and if I see you talking to those people you’re going to be in big trouble.’
‘I swear to God that if the Jaguar comes back I won’t even let them see me,’ said the boy, crossing his fingers over his mouth and kissing them.
At last Piras arrived.
‘Have someone take him wherever he wants to go and then come back here,’ Bordelli said to him, pulling out another cigarette.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Goodbye, Rovario, I wish you my very best.’
Bordelli held out his hand, and the youth shook it ever so lightly.
‘Bye bye, Inspector,’ he said, giving a little bow and then going out with Piras. Bordelli lit the cigarette and dropped into his chair. It was almost three …
If Rosario was telling the truth, he couldn’t identify the villa on Via Bolognese even if he wanted to. As long as they didn’t come back for him at the Cascine, there was no way for him to alert the four friends. But what if he was lying and knew how to get in touch with them? What if he filled them in on the situation? There was no choice, Bordelli had to take that chance. He couldn’t very well throw the kid in jail and leave him there. Deep down, though, he wasn’t worried. Something told him that Rovario was telling the truth. The monsters would never find out …
But he was reasoning as if he now knew for certain that they were the killers … He had to go about this much more slowly and take care not to let himself fall prey to suggestion … But it was hopeless. He was unable to rid himself of the terrible sensation that he had the maniacs who had raped and killed Giacomo Pellissari in the palm of his hand. He blew the smoke up to the ceiling, trying to put his thoughts in order and work out what his next move should be.
Piras came back a few minutes later with a typewritten page that he laid down on the desk. It was the information gathered from the number plate of the Peugeot. The car was registered in the name of Gualtiero Sercambi, born in Parma, 16 February 1922, residing at 12 bis Viale Michelangelo since ’49. No record.
‘Does that name mean anything to you?’ Bordelli asked.
‘No …’
‘Let’s drop Gattacci’s house from our surveillance. He hasn’t reappeared, at any rate … and let’s keep an eye on this Sercambi.’
�
�What’d the kid tell you?’ asked Piras, squinting with disgust at the smoke floating in the air.
‘I’ll sum it up briefly …’
And he quickly recounted the things he’d learned from Rovario, admitting at the end that he felt he was on the right track.
‘But even if they are the killers, how are we going to prove it?’ asked Piras, uncharacteristically pessimistic. Bordelli remained thoughtfully silent for a moment, then stood up with bones cracking.
‘We’ll have to sleep on it, Piras. We’ll talk again in the morning.’
Driving home, he kept on thinking about the little party in Via Bolognese. Were they really the killers? Were they the gang of monsters who’d killed the boy? Had the phone bill he’d found actually worked a miracle? Had that silly piece of paper actually turned out to be Ariadne’s thread that led out of the labyrinth? What the hell should he do now? Even if they really were the monsters, years of surveillance might not yield a thing. And they could keep on picking up boys at the Cascine and playing hide-and-seek … So what? They could do whatever they liked in their own homes. Maybe Giacomo Pellissari had only been an accidental victim, and with a murder on their hands the fun-loving friends would be very careful not to take any more risks. Surveillance wasn’t very useful, unless they happened to kidnap another little boy.
In spite of everything, Eleonora continued to hover above his thoughts. Who knew where she was at that moment? He had to find the time to go and look for her tomorrow. All of a sudden, he slapped his forehead … the gas heater, dammit! He’d forgotten about it again.
Crossing the Ponte alla Vittoria, he saw a few human shadows looking out over the parapets at the river. A couple of drops of rain had sufficed to reawaken fear, even though the Arno was so low you could barely see it. When he reached Viale Petrarca he parked the Fiat along the walls, as usual. He proceeded through the darkness, lighting his way with the torch, when to his great relief he saw that the scrapers had also passed through San Frediano. A few wrecked cars and several mountains of debris had been carried away.
He went through the front door and started up the stairs. Three-twenty. He was exhausted and desperately needed to rest his weary bones. He reached the third floor panting heavily. Entering the flat, he went straight to the bedroom and his heart skipped a beat. In his bed lay Eleonora, sleeping, her hair spread out over the pillow and her lips slightly parted. He felt so emotional he had to flee to the kitchen. He started smoking a cigarette, trying to calm down. He would never have had the courage to surprise her like that, for fear of appearing over-eager. Whereas she hadn’t given it a second thought, had come into the flat and got into bed. That was what modern girls were like.
Suddenly, what he hadn’t even dared to hope just a short while ago now seemed perfectly normal. She was sleeping in his bed as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He crushed his cigarette in a small dish and went back to the bedroom. He set the torch down on the floor, so as not to make too much light. He undressed, turned off the torch, and in total darkness gently slipped under the covers, trying very hard not to brush against her. He didn’t want to wake her up. Suddenly she moved, faintly moaning, then stopped. She must have woken up. He thought he could feel her smiling, and a small hand reached out in the darkness and touched his stubbly face. He took her hand and kissed it.
‘What time did you get here?’
‘Shhh …’ she said, and pressed her body against his. They exchanged a long kiss, caressing each other all the while. Eleonora then jumped on top of him and they made love in an entirely different way from the first time. Afterwards they fell immediately asleep.
When Bordelli opened his eyes, the room was bright with daylight. He found Eleonora’s face half an inch away from his, more beautiful than ever. She was already awake and looking at him without saying anything. He opened his mouth to speak, but she put a hand over his lips.
‘Shhh …’ She pulled him on top of her and forced him to resume the discussion interrupted by sleep. For the whole time Bordelli managed not to think of the monsters of Via Bolognese, but the moment he collapsed on to the bed, there they were again in his mind. She turned her back to him and pressed up against him, hot and wet with sweat. A well-deserved rest after the battle. They were both a bit out of breath. Bordelli would have liked to speak, perhaps to tell her what he’d done the night before, but he didn’t dare breathe a word. They lay there in silence, pressed together like two spoons in a cutlery box. From the street came the sound of an approaching bulldozer, then some voices, but all the bustle outside only made the bed seem more intimate and secret. The bulldozer drove past, then another followed, stopping almost directly under the window, and began shovelling debris.
Eleonora bent her head back to graze his cheek with her lips, then got out of bed. It was the first time Bordelli had seen her standing completely naked, and he found her much more beautiful than he had imagined. Perhaps the right word was ‘gorgeous’.
The girl got dressed in a hurry, because of the cold, amusing herself by imitating a stripper’s movements. Bordelli cursed himself for not having bought a heater.
‘You are so beaut—’
‘Shhh,’ she said, finger over her lips. She left the room and went into the kitchen to get the coffee pot going.
Bordelli couldn’t help but think about the day ahead. He had an idea what he needed to do to find out whether they were really the killers. He had to find the weak link in the chain and try to make it break – that is, make him confess. The butcher seemed like a tough customer, someone who couldn’t be shaken so easily. The lawyer was no doubt accustomed to lying and dissimulating, and must certainly know a thousand ways to defend himself from baseless accusations. Gattacci had fled who knew where, and despite appearances, he wasn’t without resources. Which left the others: the distinguished man with the Peugeot and the youngster who lived in the villa. Which was the weaker of the two?
Hearing Eleonora lock herself in the bathroom, he got out of bed and dressed in a hurry. He would have paid pure gold to take a hot shower with her. He ran to the kitchen to take the coffee pot off the burner and then rinsed two little cups as best he could with a little mineral water.
Eleonora came into the kitchen and signalled to him not to talk. They drank their coffee in silence, looking into each other’s eyes. She then set her cup down on the table, drew near to give him a light little peck on the lips, and left. Bordelli sat there for a few seconds, stunned, staring at the empty hallway. Then he roused himself and looked at his watch. Ten past eight. He went into the bathroom to try to wash. As there wasn’t much water left in the drum, he decided not to shave.
He went out and passed by a bulldozer at work as he headed for Piazza Tasso. He felt like a lion. As if he were twenty years old. Turning round to cast a glance towards Via del Campuccio, he saw Ennio in the distance, emptying a bucket of mud into the street. He didn’t have time to shout a greeting before Ennio disappeared back into the building. A patient man, poor Ennio.
He got into the Fiat 1100, then contacted headquarters as he was turning on to the Viali. The morning surveillance shift had just begun: Piras was in Viale Michelangelo at Sercambi’s villa, and the car that had been watching Gattacci’s house had moved to Via Bolognese.
He stopped in Piazza della Libertà to buy La Nazione.
A GLIMMER OF HOPE
IN THE CITY’S GREAT BATTLE
MACHINES BEGIN TO ARRIVE TO FREE FLORENCE OF DEBRIS
At headquarters he shut himself in his office. Grabbing a clean sheet of paper from a drawer, he lit a cigarette and wrote down the five names that were now lodged in his brain: Livio Panerai, Moreno Beccaroni, Alfonso Gattacci, Gualtiero Sercambi, Italo Signorini. He sketched a sort of caricature of each, even the young owner of the villa, whom he’d never seen. Were they really the monsters? He rolled the paper up into a ball and tossed it into the rubbish bin. He had to learn more about Sercambi and Signorini, find out what kind of people they were. By now he was
ready to try anything to get to the bottom of this. He could always bluff if need be. He just had to find the right target.
There was a knock at the door. An officer delivered a message from Piras and quickly left. The inspector read the handwritten note:
The Peugeot 404 came out of the gate in Viale Michelangelo just before nine, with two people inside: one in the driver’s seat, the other seated in the back. It went as far as Piazza del Duomo and stopped outside the front door of the Episcopal Curia. (‘Holy sh—’ Bordelli muttered, goosebumps on his arms.) The passenger got out. Under his coat he was wearing a cassock. He opened the main door with a key and disappeared inside. The Peugeot drove away, and we followed it to the San Lorenzo market. The driver calmly did some shopping and then returned to Viale Michelangelo.
‘Bloody hell …’ Bordelli raced out of his office to the radio room, where the men on duty were still coordinating rescue efforts for victims in the surrounding countryside. He called Piras and asked him to describe the driver in his report, and the man who’d gone into the Curia building.
‘I only saw them from far away,’ said the Sardinian.
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘The driver looks about forty, and he’s short, sort of fat, chestnut hair. The prelate is tall, slender, upper-class and doesn’t have a hair on his head. That’s about all I can tell you.’
‘It’s good enough for now,’ said Bordelli.
‘Any orders, sir?’
‘Never mind about the driver, but keep tailing the prelate. Over and out.’
He went back upstairs to his office and stood in front of the window, looking at the sky. Who was Gualtiero Sercambi? A villa in the hills of Florence, a personal chauffeur, a priest’s cassock … It all pointed to his being a high-ranking prelate in the Curia, but Bordelli needed to know more. Given his haste, he had no choice but to ask Batini, an old journalist who knew every corner of Florence as well as he did the insides of his pockets. He called the brand-new offices of La Nazione, flooded barely a month after their inauguration, and asked to speak to him.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello Federico … It’s Bordelli …’
‘Oh, hello, copper. How are you?’
