The girl glanced at her watch and then looked outside, to where the car was parked. It was empty. The ticket was clearly visible, tucked under the windscreen wiper.
'Don't worry about the fine. It's too late now.' 'It's just that I have a train to catch.' 'What time does it leave?' '8.13.'
'That gives us more than thirty minutes, plenty of time. Make the most of it, follow me. What exactly are you interested in?'
‘I’m studying arts, music and drama. I'm in my last year, preparing a thesis on banquets and theatrical performances at the time of Lorenzo de' Medici.'
'And can't you find those books in Bologna?'
'I imagine I can,' she said as they climbed the stairs. 'But I'm thinking of attending a course here in Florence and that's the reading list for it.'
'So we'll be seeing you again. Florence isn't so bad after all . . .'
'I didn't say I'd made up my mind.' She smiled: the smile of a young woman keeping an older man at arm's length.
While the two hobnobbed upstairs, Rita Senesi, who had looked on in amusement as the traffic wardens had swooped on the Porsche, was now watching the young man: he had first gone into the bar-tobacconist's next door, then had come out and was pacing in front of the windows, smoking nervously.
He was really good-looking, too, and very young. Nearly six feet tall, fair-haired, slim, well dressed - though she thought the expensive buckskin jacket a trifle premature after the merest hint of autumn that had brought the city to life today. Suddenly, he seemed to tire of walking up and down. He threw away his cigarette and came in.
Rita was about to point him upstairs, but before she could he said, 'I need a pen.'
'Ball point or fountain pen?' she almost stammered.
'A fountain pen, a good one.'
The accent was not Florentine. Rita thought she detected a slight American inflection.
She led him over to the display cabinet where they kept the expensive pens, took out two trays showing different brands, and placed them on top of the glass.
'These are the latest Auroras, these are Cross, Parker and ..."
With a determined, almost brusque gesture, the young man separated the two trays which were blocking his view of the pens inside the cabinet, and pointed. 'That one.'
It was a Montblanc Meisterstuck, one of the most expensive pens they had.
An excellent choice. Would you like it gift-wrapped?'
'It's for me. Just fill it for me, please.'
'Of course. That way you can try it.'
While Rita was inserting the cartridge, the young man took off his sunglasses. She handed him the pen and as she did so she looked him in the face. It made her shudder slightly. He had very clear grey eyes; cold eyes. As cold as ice.
The young man doodled a little on the notepad provided. 'It's fine.'
'It's better if you write something, your name, whatever . . .'
'I said it's fine. I'll take it.'
He hadn't even asked the price.
Rita made out a receipt. The young man paid the money without demur and she handed him the pen. He left the shop.
'. . . and if you don't mind me giving you a piece of advice,' Massimo was saying, 'you shouldn't neglect the pagan aspect of those banquets and theatrical performances, the element of ritual and magic. The combination of the Dionysian and the sacred in Florentine culture in the sixteenth century is a constant source of surprise. Especially in popular entertainments, but not exclusively. Think of Machiavelli and his Mandragola, with a plot based on the idea of gullibility: the husband deceived thanks to the supposed miraculous properties of a herb!'
'It's true, I hadn't thought of that.'
'If you're interested, I might be able to make a small contribution to your thesis. Come.' He led her to the section where the antiquarian and second-hand books were kept.
'Have a look at this,' he said, taking a volume half-bound in leather from one of the shelves. The title was printed in gold: Common Book of the Dead and of Things Believed Lost. 'We can't be sure, but many people think it's the only existing Italian version, translated by Giulio Delmino in Paris in 1530, of the infamous Necronomicon. You know what the Necronomicon is, don't you?'
'No.'
'It's the oldest known treatise on black magic, written by an Arab named Abdul Alhazred. Here, take it.'
'No, I couldn't do that. I could never afford it. I told you, I'm only a student.'
'Don't worry, it's not old, it's just a photostat. Not worth much, but the contents are fine. And besides, you don't have to buy it. Just promise to bring it back, that's all I ask. I insist, and when a Sicilian insists ..."
The girl hesitated, but took the book in the end. 'You're quite something, you know? That thing about magic is a great idea — none of my teachers said anything about it.'
'Welcome to Florence, signorina,' he said, amused.
*
Once he got back in the car, the young man wrote a few words in block capitals on the sheet of writing paper he had bought, along with a ready-stamped envelope, from the tobacconist's:
I SAW YOU TODAY IN GREVE. I KNOW WHERE TO FIND YOU, YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH IT. WHOEVER HAS INFLICTED TORTURE DESERVES ONLY TORTURE IN RETURN. AN EYE FOR AN EYE: THAT IS THE TRUE LAW OF THE LORD. I'LL COME AND FIND YOU. DON'T TRY AND ESCAPE. I'LL STILL FIND YOU.
And on the envelope he wrote:
FATHER SERGIO ROTONDI PARISH CHURCH OF SANTA CROCE GREVE IN CHIANTI (FI)
By the time the girl got back in the Porsche, he had already put everything in his pocket.
'How come it took you so long?' he asked gently.
'They couldn't find the books, they're not very organised. I only got three, in the end. But the owner's very nice, he even lent me a book.'
'Shall we go, then? It's nearly eight.'
All right, step on it!'
He didn't need to be asked twice. He set off with a squeal of tyres. After dropping the girl he returned home, undecided whether or not to send the letter.
'Pretty girl, wasn't she?' Massimo Verga remarked. 'Don't even think about it!'
'Come on now, you're not going to tell me she's too young for me!'
'That as well, if you want me to. But what I was thinking was, she's already taken. You saw him.'
'Good-looking young man. Daddy's boy, bit of a stud. Hot blooded, like all of them, but lacking experience.'
'He's certainly good-looking. The fair hair's fake, though. There's something weird about him. And that car! If he wasn't a foreigner, I'd say he was a pimp and she was a high-class call girl.'
'That's where you'd be wrong. She's a student. A whore she may be, but I don't think she's a professional.'
She cut him short. 'I think we should stop right there, don't you?' There was no point going down that road: it was a discussion they had had a thousand times before and it invariably ended with the cynical observation - one of his favourites - 'If all women aren't bitches, how come all men are sons of bitches?'
8 p.m.: Michele Ferrara's apartment
The evening news broadcasts on the local and regional TV channels had not given much prominence to the murder. They had simply stated the facts, without jumping to any conclusions. The journalists must be desperate for leads, and for the moment were keeping things vague. Some had even managed to get through to Ferrara's home phone - for some time now, he had arranged for calls to be transferred to him from Headquarters - only to be greeted by the answer machine. He and Petra had decided today that from now on they would only answer once they knew who the caller was.
Ferrara wanted to avoid his wife being subjected to any more intimidation.
Meanwhile, Petra had responded by making one of his favourite dishes for dinner: pappa col pomodoro. She put it on the table with a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino from the Antinori vineyards. It was a sign that, for her, life went on. They just had to be more careful.
'Why don't you go and stay with your parents for a while?' he asked as they ate. He knew it was useless,
but he had to try. He would much rather she were well away from danger.
'Because I've only just seen them and because they can cope perfectly well by themselves. You can't.' 'Come on, Petra, you know I—'
'Listen, Michele. What happened today isn't pleasant, but it's your job, right? You chose it, and I knew that when I married you. If we can't do anything about it, let's not do anything. If you can do something, let's do it. As far as I'm concerned, the only thing I can do is be there for you, and that's what I'm going to do.'
'It won't be easy, you know. And I don't want to feel as if I'm under any more pressure than I ought to be. This is a situation where my nerves need to be even steadier than usual. I have to take things very carefully, step by step. I can't afford any false moves. Above all, I need to keep a clear head. Knowing you're worried doesn't help.'
'Do you think I'd be any less worried in Baden-Baden? Don't be ridiculous, Michele. And the only pressure you're under right now is finishing your mash before it gets cold!'
Ferrara filled the two glasses almost to the brim with the excellent wine.
8.40 p.m.: Eurostar 9450, between Florence and Bologna
I must go.
Cthulhu is calling my mind.
I must go.
Cthulhu wants my mind.
I am going.
The words of the old book were dancing in front of Valentina's eyes, becoming blurred. She was tired: it had been a long, incredible day and it had really knocked her out.
The train sped on through the darkness, wrapped in the mists of the Apennines. She was sitting comfortably in a first-class carriage: ignoring her protests, Mike Ross had insisted on upgrading her second-class ticket.
Mike Ross. He had been a revelation. They had met by chance on an internet chat room a few weeks earlier and today she had seen him for the first time. They had arranged to meet in Greve, where he was doing research for his newspaper. She'd liked him, in an odd kind of way. Even those cold, piercing eyes of his had fascinated her.
Yes, she'd liked him, and that gave her conflicting emotions. Would he be her salvation? Would she ever find the courage to tell him everything? Could she trust him?
What a day!
It had started with that half-made decision - she was never sure of anything, that was her curse - to take an additional course at the University of Florence, some sixty-odd miles from where she lived. If she did finally make up her mind, she'd probably have to find a room there and leave Bologna, which might be a good thing.
An American stranger, Florence, black magic . . . And how would Cinzia react, Cinzia her flatmate in Bologna, to whom she was still connected in so many ways?
Confused by her own emotions, cradled by the swaying motion of the train and the warmth of the carriage, she closed her eyes.
Midnight
The pages of the black notebook with the gold cross stamped on the cover were uncut.
The hand moved rapidly and surely over the immaculately white first page. The handwriting was tiny, neat and precise.
October 1st 1999
In your name, Father, I have killed.
It was easy. Liberating.
Far more so than a Confession.
Now at last I am born!
I will go all the way, as you wish.
Do not take your support from me.
I will be the instrument of your vengeance, and mine.
PART TWO
A SERIES OF MURDERS
Florence 1999-2000
Michele Ferrara and his wife never got to see Placido Domingo in Cavalleria Rusticana, or the firework display that lit up Vienna.
They left the Austrian capital a few hours before midnight, missing the long-awaited New Year celebrations that brought the old millennium to a close and inaugurated a new one full of hope.
Two murders in a single day: there was no way Ferrara could stay out of the country. Informed of the first murder early on the morning of the 31st by Rizzo, and of the second after seven that evening by Sergeant Moschino, he had booked the first available flight, Lufthansa from Vienna to Milan. At Linate airport, a police car had been waiting for them, provided by Milan Police Headquarters, and they had reached home just before two in the morning on Saturday 1 January.
They and the driver they had been assigned had toasted the New Year in a restaurant off the autostrada near Parma, drinking poor-quality sparkling wine out of paper cups. Ferrara had felt really bad for the driver: the poor man was doing his duty, making an effort to seem as if he was in a good mood even though he was probably thinking about his girlfriend celebrating without him.
Petra, as usual, had been wonderful. With typically feminine nonchalance, she had found out the driver's tastes in music, reading matter, drinks, even mobile phones, and had showered him with the best gifts she could find on the shelves of the service area shop.
They did not sleep much that night, but it was more than sufficient for Ferrara.
The ten days they had spent in Vienna had done him a world of good. Massimo had been on great form. He'd brought along his new girlfriend, a very beautiful, very pleasant Venetian woman of about forty named Lucrezia, who had even won over Petra. Naturally, they had visited the Prater, the museum district, the Imperial Palace, and Schonbrunn Palace and park, and Massimo had made everything even more fascinating and enlightening with his constant anecdotes and explanations. They had dined and danced on a boat sailing along the Danube, laughed on the bridges, joked on the streets - in spite of the fact that the weather was bitterly cold. Above all, they had been struck by the remarkable contrast between the historical town and some of the startling new architecture they came across. It was a contrast you would never see in Florence, a museum city par excellence, or in other Italian cities.
Ferrara had realised from the start just how much he needed this break. Things had not been going well, and he had been getting into an ever more sombre mood as the year drew to its end. There was no real progress in the Monster of Florence case, no trace of the anonymous letter writer who had threatened his life, and Rizzo's investigation had reached a dead end. The Micali murder seemed destined to become one more bulging file in an already abundant archive of unsolved cases.
And a blot on his reputation.
*
He was in his office by eight o'clock on Saturday morning.
The newspapers were waiting for him, neatly piled between his computer screen and the printer on the left-hand table. They devoted a great deal of space to the previous morning's murder, much more than to the one that had been discovered in the evening, which, according to them, was an open and shut case:
FLORENCE: MAN STABS WIFE TO DEATH was the headline in La Nazione. The item itself was brief.
A startling discovery was made in Florence on the last day of the year: a mentally disturbed man who had stabbed his wife to death and kept watch over the corpse for several days. The victim was Lina Pini, 75 years old, who lived with her husband, V.R., also 75, in the Via del Confine, in the suburb of Coverciano. The murder was discovered on the evening of 31 December by Squadra Mobile officers responding to an emergency call from relatives who had been trying without success to contact the couple by telephone. Early investigations have established that Signora Pini had been dead for several days and that during that time her husband, who had superficial cuts on his chest, perhaps caused by a suicide attempt, had remained by her side. He was arrested for murder and is being kept under guard in hospital, where he was admitted because of his mental condition.
The tone of the various headlines about the previous morning's murder was quite different. They screamed from the front pages:
MURDER AMONG THE ANTIQUE FURNITURE
DEATH GOES SHOPPING
SLAUGHTER IN THE HEART OF SAN FREDIANO
MURDERED BENEATH A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY CRUCIFIX
They all said that the crime had taken place early in the morning, soon after the shop in the Via Santo Spirito had opened. The dead man was a young assistant
who had worked there for some time. His name was Alfredo Lupi, and he had recently celebrated his thirty-second birthday. He had been shot twice, after which his assailant had stabbed him many times, leaving his body mutilated and his face horribly disfigured. There were no eye witnesses. As far as anyone could tell, the murder had only taken a few minutes. Nothing was yet known about the killer or the motive.
There followed interviews with friends and acquaintances of the dead man. None of them could think of any explanation as to why such a good man, a hard worker, devoted to his family - a wife and an infant son - should have been so horribly murdered.
Ferrara phoned the switchboard to find out who had dealt with the two cases. He asked to be put through to Alfredi, who had been called to the Via del Confine, and sent for Serpico, one of the two officers, along with Chief Inspector Violante, who had been handling the case in the Via Santo Spirito.
'Good morning, chief,' Alfredi said when the switchboard connected him.
'The murder last night. Is the case really closed?'
'Seems like it. The judge thinks so, too. It was the husband, poor old guy. No doubt about it.'
'Okay. Send me the file. I'd like to take a look at it before signing the final report.'
'Of course, chief.'
Ferrara hung up and lit his first cigar of the day.
*
Serpico did not have much to add to what the papers had already reported.
'When we arrived on the scene,' he said, trying to sound as official as possible, 'one of the first things we did after finding the body was to interview the neighbouring shopkeepers. We also summoned the victim's wife, Luisa Conti, twenty-six years old, to Headquarters for an initial interview.'
A Florentine Death Page 4
