The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara)

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘A couple of minutes.’

  Guendalina stretched. ‘What time did you get back last night? I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I was trying not to wake you.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Maybe about one, quarter past one.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘At dinner with the friends I’m organising a charity art exhibition with.’

  The suspicion that Angelica was not telling the truth, as they had promised each other they would, suddenly crossed Guendalina’s mind. Friends? Charity? Why wouldn’t she say more than that? She knew little enough about her anyway: only that, apart from her job as a social worker, her main interest was painting, especially landscapes and still lifes.

  She looked at Angelica for a while, trying to conceal her disappointment, then asked, ‘So where are you going to hold this exhibition?’

  ‘We haven’t made up our minds yet whether to do it in an art gallery or in the main hall of a bank. But don’t worry, I’ll take you along.’

  Guendalina merely said, ‘Thanks,’ got up from the bed, turned and went into the bathroom.

  The only thing to break the strained silence that followed that ‘Thanks’ was the noise of running water.

  Outside, the sun shone down on the countryside, illuminating the chestnut, oak and ash trees and the green lawns.

  It was still hot and close. And there were irritating swarms of insects everywhere.

  Nice and snug in the corner of the house where he spent his best hours, he had just checked the main news on teletext.

  TERRIBLE DOUBLE MURDER IN FLORENCE. What a pleasure it was to read such headlines!

  He switched off the TV and fired up his laptop. He wanted to do some research. He typed Enrico Costanza into Google News and found lots of links to newspapers’ websites. He read everything carefully, realising that all the articles featured the same photograph, a portrait of a much younger Enrico Costanza, looking in good shape with a dazzling smile.

  After a while, a certain name caught his attention.

  Teresa Micalizi.

  First female superintendent in Florence involved in brutal murder case, a sub-heading read.

  Google came up with only two items relating to Teresa Micalizi. Both had a picture and referred to a narcotics operation which had taken place some months before she joined the Squadra Mobile, as a result of which a ring of drug dealers had been broken up.

  Interesting, he thought. This policewoman must play an important role.

  Then he clicked on Images and found two hits. It was the same photograph, a close-up featured in two local newspapers.

  He frowned. He would have liked to see all of her.

  He continued with his research but didn’t find anything else.

  ‘You’ll be getting a surprise very soon, beautiful,’ he murmured.

  He abruptly shut down the computer, picked up a bottle of whisky, filled a glass, took a long swig, and before long slid into a black hole.

  At the bottom of it was his whole damn life. Year by year. Each one carved into his memory and still intact.

  He saw that same dark, icy room, felt a fat man’s sweaty hand slip inside his trousers and fondle his genitalia.

  Again and again.

  He heard the threats: Don’t say anything, don’t tell anyone.

  He felt the pain on his back as the leather belt kept striking him.

  That feeling of inferiority that day by day had isolated him from his peers.

  He saw himself in the bathroom, masturbating in front of a pornographic magazine.

  His eyes had turned flame-red. There was so much anger in him, so much hatred, so much evil!

  He abruptly poured himself another half-glass of Scotch and downed it in one.

  This was a part of his secret past, his violated childhood, a knife-blade lodged permanently in his heart. This was his life blood.

  This was what had long ago turned him into a killer.

  The evil had penetrated his flesh, so deeply as to become part of his essence.

  When he came back to the present, he squeezed his temples between his hands, rubbed his eyes, switched off the lamp and went out into the daylight.

  It had once been a convent.

  Situated between Dicomano and San Godenzo, it stood in the midst of the Mugello countryside, a broad belt of hills and mountains sloping down to the plain across which the river Sieve flowed.

  It was a stone building with more than three thousand square feet of floor space on two levels. There was an artificial lake a short distance away, which was used to irrigate the spacious garden.

  He had spent his childhood and adolescence in this magical but cursed place. Then, at eighteen, he had moved to France.

  Letting his gaze wander about, he took a series of breaths, each deeper than the last.

  It was so peaceful! Whenever he came here, he would forget the pleasure of losing himself in the hustle and bustle of city streets. He would even forget the elegant apartment buildings of Paris, the majestic Eiffel Tower, which guided him as he walked along the streets of the City of Lights.

  Just hills and mountains.

  He took a path that led to a wooden stall with a broad lean-to roof. He had once kept a horse here, a faithful companion with which he had spent a lot of time.

  For a while, he pictured it as it ate its fodder and he stroked its long black mane and whispered in its ear, ‘We’ll go for a nice gallop later, you wait and see.’

  Then he took out his phone and wrote a text message.

  Just two words:

  I’m waiting.

  22

  What was that?

  Teresa thought she had seen a slight flicker among the black and white dots on the screen.

  She was in the room reserved for hearing and viewing audio and visual recordings. In the centre was a rectangular table with a couple of workstations, personal computers, monitors, video and DVD players and other apparatus whose function she was not yet sure of. On one wall was a large screen.

  She wanted to watch the video again, several times if necessary, with the utmost concentration and in complete silence.

  And now, even before the images had appeared, something had caught her attention, a detail that had escaped her before, perhaps because she had only been concentrating on the figures. For a few moments, she stopped to think. Then she turned the video player off, took out the cassette, and got to her feet. She had to go and see Ferrara again.

  He was with Rizzo, who had just got back from the Prosecutor’s Department, where he had received the warrant to search and empty Costanza’s safe-deposit box at the Florentine Savings Bank.

  Ferrara and Rizzo had just decided to give priority to Costanza’s bank details, and were debating the best way to get hold of them quickly, that same day if possible.

  ‘Francesco,’ Ferrara was telling Rizzo, ‘make sure you check the deposits and withdrawals for the last few months, and make a note of any irregularities. It’s best you go now. The sooner, the better.’

  When he saw Teresa with the video in her hand and obvious excitement on her face, he gave her a questioning look, as if he had guessed that there was something new.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, chief,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to watch this again.’

  And, without waiting for a reply, she switched on the television, picked up the remote and pressed the PLAY button.

  Ferrara folded his arms and concentrated on the screen.

  ‘What does that look like to you?’ Teresa asked, after playing the video forwards and backwards a few times.

  ‘We need to talk to Gianni Fuschi,’ Ferrara said. ‘He might be able to give us an explanation.’ He picked up the phone and dialled Fuschi’s number at the Tuscan Regional Forensics Centre.

  He briefly explained to him the strange effect on the video, imagining Fuschi in his white coat, hard at work on the samples they had taken from Costanza’s villa.

  ‘You’re splittin
g hairs as usual, Michele.’

  Ferrara wanted to tell him that this time it was Teresa who was splitting hairs, but he restrained himself. Instead, he said in a grave voice, ‘Forget about that now, Gianni, I need you to give me a hand. Can you ring your Rome office? It’s urgent.’

  ‘If you want a quick answer, there’s another way to get it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Rome can be pretty slow, as you know, with all the work they have, all the requests they get from different parts of Italy, and you’re telling me this is really urgent.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Consult one of the external experts the Prosecutor’s Department uses. They’re serious and they’re discreet.’

  ‘Can you give me a name?’

  ‘You need to talk to your colleague in Special Ops. He’ll be sure to know a reliable person. Actually, I know for a fact that he does, but don’t tell him it was me who suggested it.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Gianni – I’ll talk to you later.’

  Having hung up, Ferrara told Teresa to go straight to Special Ops. In his heart of hearts, he had little hope of a positive outcome. He knew that Special Ops were tight-lipped at the best of times, reluctant to share their information with others. And when they had to collaborate, they were more than a little suspicious. In other words, they had their own way of working, rather like the Secret Service.

  Teresa was just leaving the room when she remembered Officer Alessandra Belli’s request. She told Ferrara about it.

  His reaction was one of puzzlement. ‘You want to involve an officer who’s still wet behind the ears in a double murder case? Are you sure she can be of any help? I think she still needs to put in some time on the beat.’

  ‘She has the enthusiasm of the young,’ Teresa replied. ‘She can help me out in the office and do research in records. I asked the head of the Auto Unit about her and they say she’s very meticulous and always willing to help.’

  Just like you, Ferrara thought.

  ‘Teresa,’ he said, ‘enthusiasm isn’t enough in our job, but I’ll ask the Commissioner to second her to us for a month. Is that long enough to try her out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll let you know. For now, good luck.’

  Teresa smiled. She was going to need it.

  23

  The Special Ops team occupied a separate wing on the third floor. They mainly dealt with terrorism and cases of a politically sensitive nature.

  Teresa was sceptical. But she was wrong.

  She was received by Giuseppe Barba, the director, a massive man, his physique even more impressive when you heard his delicate, almost girlish voice. He did not even ask her why she needed a reliable expert, but he could tell from her anxious look that it was urgent. He took a pen and a piece of paper and wrote down the name and address of the person he normally used.

  ‘He’s young and extremely discreet. He wanted to be a police officer, but failed the medical. He was about an inch short of the required height.’

  ‘Only an inch?’ Teresa said, amazed.

  ‘That’s all. Obviously the examining board was very strict that year.’

  ‘Or perhaps he just didn’t know the right people.’

  Barba nodded. ‘That’s a possibility.’

  ‘Can you phone him to let him know I’m coming?’

  ‘I’ll do that right away.’ He found the number in his diary, picked up the phone and rang the young expert. When he hung up, he smiled at Teresa. ‘You can go right now, he’s expecting you. You owe me a coffee.’

  ‘I owe you more than that,’ she said, returning the smile. She was just about to leave the room when Barba called her back.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d advise you not to turn up empty-handed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Take him something police-related. A gadget, a crest, something he might be interested in for his collection. He’ll become your friend for life. He might even be more helpful.’

  ‘I’ll find something. Thanks for the tip.’

  Teresa said goodbye and left, the piece of paper with the address clutched in her hand.

  In her office, she memorised the address, rolled it into a ball and threw it at the waste paper basket. It hit its target perfectly.

  Was it a good omen?

  Ferrara picked up the piece of paper and re-read it, slowly, word by word.

  The more he re-read it, the more convinced he became that the message did not just announce further crimes, but also contained a secret. They just had to find the key. Only by doing that would they be able to move the investigation forward.

  Genius.

  It wasn’t just a challenge. What secret was he hiding behind that cryptic language? Was there or wasn’t there a link with the Black Rose?

  The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. It was the Operations Room, telling him that a bank had been robbed in Coverciano. Two criminals armed with large knives had threatened the staff and customers and emptied the safe.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No. Just an old lady who fainted, but I’ve already sent an ambulance to the scene.’

  ‘What did they take?’

  ‘The bank’s carrying out an inventory, but it may only be a few thousand euros or so.’

  ‘Were they in disguise?’

  ‘Just cloth caps pulled low over their foreheads and dark glasses.’

  After he had hung up, Ferrara turned up the volume on the radio that he kept next to the telephone, and followed the communications between the patrol cars pursuing the two robbers, who had apparently left the scene on a motorbike with false number plates. The cold-voiced officer in the Operations Room acted as go-between and continued to issue orders.

  He could also hear the police helicopter preparing to go up.

  ‘Poli 46 is ready for take-off,’ the pilot informed the Operations Room.

  Ferrara took his cigar case out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He put an antico toscano in his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, then let the smoke spiral up towards the ceiling. He took a second drag before setting it down on the ash tray.

  He took a piece of paper from the printer. The time had come to put his thoughts down in black and white. Just a few notes, but they might be useful to him subsequently. When he had finished, he turned his attention back to Costanza’s diary.

  11.15 p.m. I met him today and he told me everything was under control. But he doesn’t want to expose himself any further. Idiot!!!

  Unfortunately, he thought, time was a hard master. And he might not have much left.

  Perhaps they had underestimated the importance of what Berghoff had said in his letter about Sergi’s involvement.

  But now the moment to take action had arrived.

  First of all, he would have to check whether the inspector had been on duty on 20 August and, if so, what he had been doing.

  Then he would instruct Rizzo how to proceed.

  24

  The main branch of the Florentine Savings Bank was in the city centre, right next to the Santa Maria Nuova Hospital.

  At five minutes past eleven in the morning, after taking a moment to admire its beautiful sixteenth-century façade, Rizzo went in through the main door. There were two customers at the counters. At the first window, a young woman rocking a pushchair to send her child to sleep was waiting for the cashier to finish counting out her money. At the next one along, an old man leaning on a stick was complaining to an official about the ridiculous interest rates, which were barely enough to cover the annual fees he paid for the handling of his account. When this customer had moved away, muttering incomprehensibly to himself, Rizzo approached the official.

  He was tall and thin as a rake, with white hair and glasses perched at the end of his pointed nose.

  Rizzo introduced himself, showed his police badge, and explained the reason for his visit.

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’


  ‘Of course,’ Rizzo replied, taking it from his pocket and handing it over. Deputy Prosecutor Luigi Vinci had not made any fuss about issuing it, but had advised him to tread carefully and let him know what happened immediately.