These were the two faces of Florence. They had cast a spell on him as soon as he had arrived, and he knew they would keep him here to the end of his days - an event someone had decided to bring about sooner than anticipated.
Perhaps, he thought, if the Latin warning turned out to be accurate, his death, too, would be ascribed to the vortex of mysteries that seethe beneath the city and only occasionally bubble to the surface, almost as if to remind the world that evil, and only evil, is immortal and never fades. Not even if you cover it with the pure, virginal grace of a Botticelli Venus or try to crush it beneath the weight of Michelangelo's David.
When he got back to Headquarters he sent for Rizzo.
'Welcome back, chief,' Rizzo said, coming into the office. 'How was Vienna?'
'Like a dream. But now it's over. Nice way to start the new millennium, eh?'
'We certainly finished the old one in style,' Rizzo commented laconically. His mood seemed even grimmer than Ferrara's.
'So, nothing new on the Micali case, I gather.' 'Nothing at all. We checked everything we could. His friends, his bank account, even his relations with suppliers.
We turned his apartment upside down, examined every address book, notebook, every piece of paper. We questioned his neighbours - nobody has the faintest idea about anything.'
'What about the priest? Does his alibi still hold?'
'The parish priest confirmed that from one o'clock to just after two they went through the accounts together, then Don Sergio went off to get candles for the altar. We haven't found anything to contradict that. As for whether Don Sergio is gay, nobody's saying anything, and there's no way of proving it. If you want the truth, chief, I'm just about ready to throw in the towel. With everything else on my plate, I can't keep putting resources into this. When you get down to it, the man was a queer, pardon my language, and nobody except the priest seems at all sorry he died.'
'That's the curse of our profession, Rizzo. There's never time to concentrate on one thing, there's always something else to do. But we don't give up. Unsolved cases should never be closed. They should always stay with you, somewhere at the back of your mind. Sometimes a clue turns up out of nowhere after months or years, and you'd better be ready to grab it when it does. And anyway, the city is sorry he died, even if it doesn't know it. It's important to remember that deep down, Florence is scared. Because whatever you think of the case, there's still a killer at large. Maybe it was an 'accident', let's put it like that, and won't be repeated. But let's not forget how Micali was killed, the way the killer kept stabbing him. There was something too savage about it. It wasn't just some private settling of scores. That's my feeling, anyway'
'Mine, too. But what should I do? Hope that the killer strikes again? And how many times?' There was bitterness in his voice.
'Keep your eyes open. That's all I'm asking. What do you know about the two murders yesterday?'
'Everything. I was with Alfonsi at the old man's place. We only just got back. Poor guy made a full confession. The case is in the hands of the judges now . . . The other murder, now that's a different story. It might turn out to be as much of a mystery as the Micali case.'
'In this case, too, the killer stabbed his victim in the face and the upper part of the body'
'But the murder weapon was a gun. And there's no gay aspect, which I'm sure is at the root of the Micali murder. Alfredo Lupi was a married man with a little child.'
'That's true. Let's call in Violante and Serpico and have a brainstorming session. I don't know if you were told, but I've already been to the Via Santo Spirito.'
'Okay. I'll call them.'
While they were waiting, Ferrara asked Rizzo how he had spent the Christmas holidays, and he was about to reply when the telephone rang.
'There's someone called Beccalossi on the line,' the switchboard operator announced. 'He asked to speak to you or Superintendent Rizzo.'
'Beccalossi? Who's that?'
'The owner of the shop where Micali worked,' Rizzo whispered, his eyes lighting up with a sudden interest.
'Put him on,' Ferrara said, switching on the loudspeaker. 'Hello?'
'This is Superintendent Ferrara.' 'I can't hear you very well.'
'I put on the loudspeaker so that Superintendent Rizzo, who's here with me, can hear you,' Ferrara said, making sure he covered the rules for the protection of privacy.
'You sound distant.'
The advantages of technology!
'Don't worry, I can hear you perfectly well. Please go ahead.'
'I know it may not be important, but— well, you did say to let you know if . . . Anyway, I've just discovered there's something missing from the shop. I've been doing the end-of-year stocktake, and it turns out one of the black notebooks with a cross on the cover has vanished. The day before Micali died, there were twenty-two - he wrote it down in the ledger, he was very finicky. Since then I've sold four, and one ended up under poor Stefano's body, as I'm sure you remember. But there are only sixteen left.'
'I see. Anything else?'
'No, that's all. Is it any help to you?'
Anything might be of help. Thank you very much. And don't hesitate to call if you think of anything else. You've been a great help.'
He hung up. He remembered the forensics report, how they'd had to scrape the blood off what they'd thought at first was a little Bible or prayer book, but had turned out to be only a notebook with blank pages.
The two superintendents looked at each other disconsolately. The gleam had gone from Rizzo's eyes.
'Let's begin with the motive,' Ferrara said to start the ball rolling. 'There's always a motive, however obscure. It may just be insanity, but there's always something that drives a man to commit murder. Once we pin down the motive, we're halfway there.'
They were again sitting round the rectangular meeting table, which was near the wall opposite Ferrara's desk.
'I'd rule out theft,' Chief Inspector Violante said. 'The victim's wallet was untouched, and nothing had been taken from the till.'
And a thief wouldn't have butchered the guy like that,' Rizzo said. 'Maybe it was the work of a religious fanatic, or a psychopath, maybe someone who went inside the shop because one of the religious objects on display reminded him of some terrible thing in his past. Once he was inside, he saw the assistant and for some reason he was like the embodiment of whatever it was that had happened to him. He flew into a rage and killed him.'
'I don't like it,' Ferrara said. 'It's too literary, too much like a novel. But we can't rule it out completely. It could provide a connection between the murder in the Via Santo Spirito and the one in Greve. The latest victim also worked in a shop full of religious objects. Though the fact that the killer used a gun in this case rather contradicts the idea of a sudden fit of rage. But I wouldn't rule out the idea that there's a homicidal religious fanatic walking the streets. Maybe he carries a gun for self defence.'
'In my opinion, Alfredo Lupi was the intended victim,' Rizzo said. 'I think the murder was premeditated. Let's look into his private life, find out if it's true that he had no enemies.'
'Good idea. What about you, Sergi, what do you think?'
So far Serpico had remained silent, seeming slightly embarrassed in front of his superiors. Ferrara had noticed, and was anxious to bring him into the discussion.
'I agree with you, but . . .' he hesitated. 'Well, I wouldn't dismiss the idea that there's a connection with the antiques racket. We all know how big it is in Florence, especially in San Frediano. Don't forget, the shop used to belong to Ricciardi. There may still be some underworld involvement. Maybe Lupi knew too much. Maybe he'd somehow found out something he shouldn't and paid for it with his life.'
'Good. I think we have more than enough to be getting on with. Right, let's divide it up this way. Rizzo, you look into Lupi's private life. Violante, check the religious angle. Sergi and I will concentrate on the underworld aspect. Let's see if any of our informers know anything. We may even get a t
ip-off.'
Like all policemen, he knew that most cases are solved thanks to tip-offs from informers, and that whole careers have been built on such things.
Once the jobs had been assigned, Ferrara stayed in his office for a few more hours. He signed the final report on the case of the old couple in Coverciano, looked through some of the files on his desk, wrote a report on the Lupi case for the prosecutor, and got on with various bits of minor business.
By the time he got home, it was after nine. As so often in the past, the first of January had been just another working day.
Petra had his dinner ready for him: sardines in grated cheese baked in the oven, one of Ferrara's favourite dishes. Petra was in a good mood - surprisingly so, he thought, when she showed him the latest anonymous message, which she had found among the mail that had accumulated while they were away in Vienna.
Perhaps because of her down-to-earth nature, or because time had passed and nothing had happened, Petra had quickly got over the shock of the first message and now seemed to regard these things as the work of some crackpot, not be taken too seriously. Especially as this one was very different from the first, both in tone and form.
There were no red stains, and the message had been produced on a laser printer. It read:
Dear Superintendent Gatto
Did you know that in the Kingdom of the Dead the last are already the first, but where the letters are concerned the first will be the last? Or is smoking cigars the only thing you know, you poor man?
That was all. No direct threat.
It was still possible that the two messages were not linked, although it did not escape Ferrara that both had arrived in conjunction with a particularly violent and mysterious crime. On the other hand, the new one could have arrived at any time while they were away, so it might not necessarily be linked to the previous day's murder. Nor was there any proof that the previous letter had been connected to the Micali murder.
He made up his mind to stick to the line of action he had decided on with his men.
He decided he wouldn't ask his friend Fuschi in Forensics to examine this second communication. He remembered only too well the strange look he'd given him when he had brought him the results of his analysis of the first message.
'I thought it was best to come in person,' he had said, the Monday after the Micali murder. 'I haven't done a written report. It's best if this thing doesn't get into the records.'
'Thanks.'
'Don't mention it. But there's not much I can tell you. The paper is ordinary A4 paper, the bloodstains are red paint, very easy to find, and the glue is the kind you can get in any stationer's. There were no prints of any kind, not on the letters, not in the glue, not on the paper. None.'
'That's fine. Thanks a lot.'
That was when Fuschi had looked at him with that strange expression on his face. 'Did you understand what I just said?' 'Yes, of course.' 'There were no prints.'
'I heard, I'm not deaf,' Ferrara had said, tensing.
'All right, you're the policeman, and I'm just a layman. But I can't help wondering how come the dead man's prints weren't on the paper. He must have touched it . . .'
'Obviously the killer must have wiped them off afterwards,' Ferrara had said, defensively.
'Instead of taking the paper away with him? He starts wasting time, when someone could come in at any moment and catch him red-handed? And for what? To let everyone know that he'd threatened him?'
Ferrara cut him short. 'Let me sort that out.' He realised that he wasn't handling this very well.
Maybe he'd have done better to show it to Massimo, who was fond of puzzles, he'd thought at the time.
Promising himself he'd talk to Massimo as soon as they got back from Vienna, Ferrara had put on a CD of arias sung by Natalie Dessay, Petra's latest discovery, determined to finish the evening with music and his wife.
2
The Ferraras had not been the only ones to interrupt their holidays.
Valentina Preti had hurried back to Bologna from San Vigilio on 29 December, two days before New Year's Eve. Exactly a week after she had arrived.
She had been close to a nervous breakdown when she left Bologna, but by the time she got back she was more confused and uncertain than ever. But one thing she knew was that she had to end the relationship that was threatening to ruin her life for ever.
Valentina went back at least twice a year to the beautiful Art Nouveau hotel her family had owned for three generations: at Christmas and either at Carnival or at Easter. Not usually in summer.
Having practically been born with skis on her feet, she loved hurling herself down the long pistes that surrounded the peak of the Plan de Corones. But in summer she preferred the beaches of southern Italy or the Greek islands, or going for weekend breaks in the Cinque Terre or on the Golfo dei Poeti.
She had been living in Bologna for four years, sharing an apartment with her friend Cinzia Roberti. After finishing school at the age of eighteen, she had enrolled on an Arts, Music and Drama course at the University of Bologna: at last an opportunity to move away from the narrow horizons of that corner of the Dolomites.
Her friendship with Cinzia had made it easier. Two years younger than her, the daughter of a Bolognese surgeon, Cinzia Roberti was almost her exact opposite. A wild animal', was how her father had described her indulgently, as if that were an excuse for her behaviour. Short and thin, with black hair, she was at least as impulsive, independent, stubborn and determined as Valentina was docile and indecisive. They had known each other since they were children. The Robertis had been coming to San Vigilio di Marebbe since 1990, the year that they had discovered the Hotel Passo Selva. They had been impressed by Valentina's parents, who always welcomed their guests as if they were part of some ideal extended family, with the great Art Nouveau building as its epicentre, and had returned regularly every year for a week's skiing.
Valentina was twelve that first year and Cinzia ten.
At first, relations between the two girls had not been easy. The differences in their characters and above all in their ages, so much more obvious when they were children, had immediately caused friction between them. Cinzia, who was used to getting her own way, couldn't stand being in someone else's house, where she was no longer in charge, and Valentina did not understand why she had to be nice to a snotty-nosed kid who was so bossy and unpredictable. But their parents had been patient with them, and over the course of time they had developed a mutual tolerance, which eventually turned into genuine friendship.
When Valentina had chosen her university course, Cinzia had managed to convince her family that, although she was only sixteen, she absolutely had to have her own space, preferably near the university, which she herself would be attending in a couple of years' time.
The Pretis and the Robertis had put their heads together and rented an apartment for the two girls.
At first Valentina returned home every weekend, but that had soon proved tiresome, and she'd started spacing out her visits. But she always came back at Christmas.
This Christmas in particular, she really needed time to think. The end of her studies was approaching and she still had no idea what she wanted to do. And her friendship with Cinzia had deteriorated badly.
In the last few months, they had done nothing but quarrel. Cinzia had not liked the idea of Valentina taking a course in Florence, even though in nearly three months Valentina had gone there no more than four times. Nor had Cinzia approved of her friendship with that American journalist. True, he was often away for work reasons and Valentina had only seen him once since their first meeting, but they kept in regular contact over the internet and occasionally by mobile phone.
On 21 December, Valentina and Cinzia had had yet another furious row, and Valentina had decided to leave early and stay with her parents at least until Twelfth Night. She needed time to recover, and to think. What she did not know was that, instead of bringing her peace, the Christmas week would be one of torment, in
tensifying the passions seething inside her.
'You're more beautiful than ever!' her father said as he picked her up from the station at Brunico.
He was the same as ever. Plump, well-dressed, cheerful. And the same thing happened that always did whenever she saw him: she felt her old sense of guilt returning.
During the ride, they talked about her studies and about the latest developments at the hotel: her mother was building a gym, with sauna and massage, to replace the lofts on the top floor.
'But we haven't touched your room,' her father assured her.
Snow was falling and it was already dark, but there was the unmistakable outline of the great hotel with its pointed turret. All the lights were on, and their warmth reached out to greet her.
Her mother was waiting for her, along with Carlo, the old groom, and the doorman. As they embraced her, she felt an acute sense of nostalgia.
She walked around the ground floor and said hello to some of the guests who were playing cards or chatting in the bar as they waited for the dining room to open. Then she went down to the kitchen, where the cook was making dinner - pure Ladin cuisine - and the waiters were busy with the wines. The big room was filled with the smell of panicia, the local barley soup with ham and pork.
The cook, who had known Valentina since she was born, cried, 'Here's my sweetheart!' wiped her hands on the dishcloth, flung her big arms around her and kissed her. 'Look what we've got!' she said, and lifted a napkin to reveal a large dish full of Valentina's favourite sweet: cranfus mori, cranberry pancakes. 'Go on, take some, there's plenty!'
'Thanks,' Valentina said, taking one. 'They're delicious, as always.' She licked her fingers as she walked away.
That evening, they had dinner in a room set aside specially for them and her father only got up a couple of times to talk to the guests at the tables, as he usually did, and make sure that everything was fine.
A Florentine Death Page 6
