by Marco Vichi
Finally, at 11.25, Signorini’s Alfa two-seater came out of the gate and headed towards town. The sports car went to the gardens of the Fortezza, hugged the wall, went through the railway underpass and then turned on to Via Belfiore. Piras exchanged a glance with the inspector and called Tapinassi on the radio.
‘I think this is it … Get yourselves to the Lungarno Santa Rosa.’
‘Roger.’
Signorini crossed the Arno and parked in the same spot as before, across from the blind alley of Via della Fonderia. The traffic on the street was continuous. Bordelli had already pulled over to the pavement, eyes following the young man as he hastily crossed the street and went down the alley. There was no sign of Botta, and the inspector grabbed the radio microphone and called Tapinassi.
‘Where are you? I don’t see Ennio …’
‘We just dropped him off on the Lungarno. We’re sitting tight at Porta San Frediano.’
‘All right, then, over and out … He must be hiding,’ Bordelli said to Piras. Despite his great faith in Botta’s abilities he felt rather nervous and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. Feeling Piras’s eyes boring a hole through him, he sighed and put it back in the packet.
‘There’s another solution to this problem, Piras.’
‘What problem?’
‘Smoking.’
‘And what would the solution be?’
‘If you started smoking yourself. That way it wouldn’t bother you any more.’
‘Go ahead and light your firecracker, Inspector. As long as the window’s open …’
‘The Lord will reward you in heaven,’ said Bordelli, rolling down the window and lighting up.
A few minutes later Signorini came back out of the alley. As he was trying to make his way across the busy street between cars and motorcycles, a bearded tramp with matted hair appeared on the other side. He looked filthy and staggered as though drunk. But it wasn’t a tramp …
‘Here we go,’ Bordelli whispered. Ennio was standing right in front of the Alfa Romeo’s door. Signorini finally managed to get across, looking all the while at the tramp with an expression of disgust. When he reached the car, Botta took a step forward and pretended to fall to the ground, grabbing Signorini’s coat. The young man pushed him away, ignoring his drunken apologies, then got into the car and drove off, spraying mud with the tyres.
‘I have a hard time believing he actually did it,’ said Bordelli, starting up the car. He waited until the Alfa was out of sight, put the car in gear and drove up to Botta with the window down.
‘Did you manage it, Ennio?’
‘Don’t ask me pointless questions, Inspector,’ said Botta, dropping Signorini’s wallet between Bordelli’s legs.
‘You’re a genius … Come on, get in, I still need you for something.’
As Botta was getting in the car, the inspector opened the wallet and rifled quickly through it.
‘Bingo,’ he said, showing the others a bulging piece of folded-up tinfoil. He handed it to Piras and drove off, hoping to catch up with Signorini’s Alfa. He honked the horn to get the other cars out of his way, swearing between clenched teeth. Ennio was combing his hair in the back seat, looking in the rear-view mirror. Piras opened the foil packet carefully, then brought it to his nose to smell the white powder.
‘It’s not cocaine, sir.’
‘It’s not?’
‘Morphine.’
‘Bloody hell …’ Bordelli muttered, thinking of the traces of morphine found in the little boy’s blood.
‘And rather high quality, I’d say.’
‘How many grams?’
‘About five, more or less,’ said Piras, folding the foil back up.
‘Fifty thousand lire?’ Bordelli asked. Ennio leaned forward to give his own opinion.
‘If it’s good stuff, even a hundred.’
‘Didn’t you tell me you steered clear of the nasty stuff?’
‘It’s true, but I still know the going rates.’
‘You know you really looked like a proper tramp, Ennio?’
‘I was an actor in my youth, Inspector.’
‘Sooner or later I’ll find out you sang with Celentano,’ said Bordelli, giving a smile. Piras kept rifling through the wallet but found nothing else of interest. He put the morphine back inside it and then laid it in the glove compartment.
They spotted the red Alfa on Viale Strozzi and followed behind it, hidden by the traffic. Signorini then went up Via Bolognese and stopped in front of his gate. He got out to open it and, after driving the car through, got out again to close it. Bordelli turned round in a space at the side of the road and went back towards the villa, parking the car some distance away from the gate.
‘Let’s see how long it takes him to discover the trick,’ said Bordelli, glancing at his watch. Twelve minutes past twelve.
‘I’ll give him five minutes,’ said Botta, leaning forward for a better look.
The Alfa came back out of the gate at sixteen minutes past the hour. Signorini hurriedly reclosed the gate, then got back in the car and blasted off.
‘You follow him, Piras. I’m sure he’s going back to his dealer … Ennio, you come with me,’ said Bordelli, putting Signorini’s wallet in his pocket. He got out of the 1100 with Botta. Piras got behind the wheel and was off like a rocket.
‘This time I have a feeling there’s a nice big lock to contend with,’ said Ennio.
‘You’re wrong. There’re two.’
‘I can handle as many as you like, Inspector. The more the merrier.’
They descended the incline of Via Bolognese and stopped to chat right in front of Signorini’s gate like two friends discussing football. Botta studied the lock and smiled. Bordelli squeezed his arm.
‘Need much time to open it?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘As much as if I had the key,’ Ennio blustered. Bordelli took a last look at the road to make sure nobody was watching.
‘Let’s go …’
They approached the gate. Botta quickly pulled from his pocket his passepartout, a piece of thick iron wire tapered at the point. He stuck it into the lock, which clicked almost at once. They hurried through, closing the gate behind them. A small pebbled driveway climbed up towards an immense eighteenth-century, three-storey villa surrounded by centuries-old trees.
‘If this was my place I don’t think I’d be so melancholy,’ said Ennio.
They looked around to check whether anybody could see them, but the closest homes were hidden behind trees and high garden walls. They could move about freely. They headed for the villa, walking between two rows of plants in large terracotta pots. It felt like a world apart, far from the noise and smell of common mortals. The only incongruous element was a beaten-up Fiat 600 parked under a huge oak. They climbed the stone staircase and arrived outside the great door. Botta bent down to look at the lock.
‘Shit, this one’s trouble,’ he said, in the tone of a connoisseur.
‘How long will it take to open it?’
‘That’s not easy to say.’
Grabbing his passepartout, he got down to work. Bordelli looked at his watch impatiently.
‘If you haven’t managed in ten minutes …’
‘I need silence, Inspector. This is a delicate procedure.’
‘Sorry.’
The minutes went by, with Botta more and more absorbed in his task. His thick fingers moved quite delicately, as if he were applying plaster with a lizard’s foot. Finally they heard a metallic click, and the door opened.
‘There we are. How long did it take me?’
‘Six minutes.’
‘Could have been worse.’
‘Thanks, Ennio, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Piece o’ cake,’ said Botta.
‘I’m going inside to wait for Signorini. Sorry to send you away on foot, but at the moment I have no choice.’
‘No problem, a brisk walk never harmed anybody.’
‘Ciao, Ennio.’
‘Good luck, Inspector.’
Bordelli went inside and turned the doorknob to make the lock catch. The daylight streamed in through the slats in the closed shutters, and visibility was pretty good. The entrance hall alone was four times as big as his flat. Patterned floors, dark furniture, antique paintings, fancy ceramics … Every detail oozed wealth. A monumental staircase led to the upper floors. Reaching the top of the first flight, he went down a broad corridor with a number of doors. He started wandering about the rooms. He’d never been inside a house like this before. Vast salons, silk Persian rugs, Renaissance suits of armour, statues, tiger and lion skins with embalmed heads and glass eyes, modern television sets and lamps, glass-fronted cabinets with lead-lined panes, paintings ancient and modern, elegant little sitting rooms with sofas and low tables, a music room with a grand piano, other doors and other rooms connecting with one another in an unending labyrinth … A perfect setting for playing hide-and-seek.
He stopped in a study lined with dark-wood bookcases soaring up to the ceiling and crammed with books. It looked like one of the more frequently used rooms. Two large modern armchairs, a low, small crystal table covered with books and bottles, an antique grandfather clock almost six and a half feet tall. Between the two windows, somewhat aslant, a magnificent desk with a typewriter on it. There was a sheet of paper in it, and he bent down to read the only written line: At that moment Ruggero understood what had actually happened and felt a … Beside the typewriter were more pages, face down. He picked them up, and on the first page saw: Italo Signorini / He Who Does Not Die Repeats Himself. Odd title. It must be a novel. He read the opening lines:
Ruggero was not made to be in the company of others. In fact he hated people. Hated them because he was afraid of them. As a child he was so shy that if anyone ever spoke to him he would turn bright red. He sought solitude, darkness, silence. He’d never known his mother, who died when he was only a few months old. His father was an imposing, wealthy man who never laughed. They lived in a large, dark villa surrounded by a park …
The outpourings of a spoiled child, he thought, putting the pages back. In a drawer he found a few new syringes and a large wad of cotton. Towards the back of the drawer and partly hidden was a nine-calibre Beretta wrapped in a piece of deerskin and loaded with a full magazine. An illegal weapon. He put it in his pocket and continued his visit.
On the second floor were more sitting rooms and countless bedrooms that smelled rather musty. Four-poster beds, tapestries, wardrobes with time-blackened mirrors. The only lived-in room was the one in which Signorini surely slept. Shoes on the floor, clothes strewn everywhere, books, bottles, glasses …
Almost twenty minutes had gone by. Bordelli went calmly down to the first floor and back to the study. He collapsed into an armchair and lit a cigarette. All he could do was wait, but the wait was completely different this time.
Finishing the cigarette, he lit another. In the silence he could hear the slow ticking of the grandfather clock. Extracting the tinfoil with the morphine from Signorini’s wallet, he set it down on the arm of the chair. Leaning his head back, he started staring at the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. He was about to play his last card, and if he lost he would have to give up. He’d proceeded blindly, coincidence by coincidence. Starting with a phone bill, he had ended up at a villa in Via Bolognese, but he still didn’t have a speck of proof, only hunches and feelings …
At last he heard a car engine approaching. A braking on the pebbles, the car door slamming, the front door opening, hurried steps up the stairs and down the corridor … Signorini entered the study, turned on the light and froze in disbelief. Before he was able to say anything, Bordelli held up the foil with the morphine.
‘I believe this is yours,’ he said with a cold smile, remaining comfortably seated.
‘Who are you?’
‘There was no need to go back to your Genoese friend in Via della Fonderia.’
‘How did you get inside?’ Signorini stammered, turning pale.
‘Your door doesn’t close properly.’
‘Who are you?’
‘It depends. I could be a good friend, or I could be your downfall,’ said Bordelli, fiddling with the tinfoil.
‘That stuff’s not mine.’
‘But it was right here in your wallet,’ he said, taking the wallet out of his pocket and tossing it on to the little table.
‘You must leave at once, or I shall call the police,’ the young man threatened, terrified.
‘Go right ahead. But with the drugs you’ve got here, I’d think twice if I were you,’ Bordelli insinuated, tossing the foil next to the wallet.
‘What do you want?’ Signorini asked brusquely. He had gentle features, a weak chin and a dissolute gaze. Clearly he’d never worked a day in his life.
‘Please sit down and let’s talk.’
‘I have no time to waste with you,’ said Signorini, and he ran over to the desk, opened the drawer and searched around inside for something he couldn’t find.
‘Are you looking for this?’ Bordelli asked, pointing the Beretta at him.
‘What are you doing? Are you mad?’
‘That’s enough fooling around, now sit down,’ the inspector ordered him, gesturing with the barrel of the pistol at the free armchair. After a few seconds of indecision, the youth sat down in the chair, his legs shaking.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘You know what they do to young guys like you at the Murate?’
‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’
‘Sort of,’ said Bordelli, laying the Beretta on his thigh while still squeezing the butt.
‘How much do you want?’
‘Normally you ask prostitutes—’
‘How much money do you want?’ the young man repeated.
‘You want to know how much my silence is worth?’
‘Silence about what?
‘Giacomo Pellissari,’ said the inspector, looking him hard in the eye. Signorini shuddered and for a few seconds seemed out of breath. He tried to remedy the situation with a horrific smile.
‘I don’t understand …’ he mumbled, despair in his eyes. He looked as if he felt cold, and his nose was running.
‘Who strangled Giacomo Pellissari?’ Bordelli asked, more and more convinced he was on the right track.
‘What? I don’t know any Giacomo by that name.’
‘Was it Panerai? Or Beccaroni?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Or maybe it was that old Fascist Gattacci? Or Monsignor Sercambi?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about …’ said Signorini, pale as a ghost.
‘Well, whoever killed him, you’re all guilty.’
‘You’re insane. I don’t—’
‘All right, then, I’ll have you arrested for drugs trafficking,’ Bordelli interrupted him, flashing his badge. The young man’s eyes widened.
‘What trafficking? I just buy some every now and then for myself.’
‘And for your orgy mates.’
‘Orgy?’
‘Never mind, you’ll have all the time in the world to explain these things to the judge. And while you’re waiting you can rest on a nice little bunk in Murate prison.’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ Signorini whispered, white as a corpse. The inspector smiled.
‘Unfortunately the Italian justice system is as slow as treacle. It’s not uncommon for some unlucky wretches to be forgotten for a long time in prison.’
‘I haven’t done anything …’
‘You’ll see what a wonderful experience it is. There are some lifers who haven’t seen a woman for twenty years, but they don’t have any problems with the other sex … Especially with a pretty boy like you.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘You’ll get used to it soon enough, if that’s any consolation.’
‘I don’t want to go to jail …’ Signorini
muttered, standing up robotically.
‘Who killed the little boy?’ Bordelli insisted. It was the first time he had said that the victim was a young boy, but Signorini showed no surprise. Therefore he knew perfectly well. They were the monsters, Bordelli was sure of it now.
‘I don’t know anything …’ Signorini babbled, dropping back into the chair.
‘I’m afraid you won’t be playing hide-and-seek with your friends for quite a long time,’ Bordelli said stingingly.
‘But who …’
‘Don’t be so surprised, Signorini. I know everything. I’m still missing a few details, but I know exactly what happened,’ he bluffed. He’d seized his prey by the throat and was waiting only for him to succumb.
‘I … don’t …’
‘You kidnapped the boy, took him to the flat in Via Luna and—’
‘No!’ Signorini was terrified.
‘You all had your fun raping him for three or four days—’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Then you got bored with it and so you killed him and buried him in the hills of Cintoia … Have I left anything out?’
‘No, no, that’s not right!’
‘It’s not? Did you rape him and kill him in this beautiful villa?’
‘No, no, no, no …’ the young man groaned, his voice cracking.
‘What were you thinking when the little boy screamed and cried, Signorini? That he was having as much fun as the rest of you? That they were moans of pleasure?’ the inspector asked in a terrifying voice. The young man merely looked around with his mouth open, bewildered.
‘You tortured a thirteen-year-old boy to satisfy your cocks, you showed him what hell was like, and then you swept him out of the world like a pile of dog shit … If it was up to me, I would kill you all one by one,’ Bordelli concluded, squeezing the butt of the pistol.
Signorini sat there in a daze for a few seconds, then buried his face in his hands and burst out crying, howling like a beaten dog. He slid out of the armchair and ended up face down on the Persian rug, sobbing more and more violently. It seemed he would never stop.
Bordelli observed the spectacle in disgust, thinking that Signorini’s tears pretty much sealed the fate of the band of monsters. Slowly he began to feel an inrush of immense pity for this spoiled young man swimming in wealth, but it seemed to him an unhealthy emotion, to be driven back into the shadows.
