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

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘What a pleasure to hear from you, Markus,’ Ferrara said as soon as he recognised his voice.

  After the pleasantries, Glock asked him, in his hesitant Italian, about the latest events in Florence. ‘Are all these murders still linked to Berghoff? I read about them in the Münchner Merkur and the Süddeutsche Zeitung.’

  ‘We still don’t know. They could be.’

  ‘If I can help by checking out anything here in Germany, just let me know, Michele.’

  ‘Vielen dank, Markus.’ Then he had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Actually, there is something you can do for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Email or fax me a report, if you have one, of the investigation so far into whoever killed Berghoff. I’m right in thinking you haven’t caught them yet, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes. And there is a report, which we wrote for the Prosecutor’s Department.’

  ‘Could you send me a copy?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Thanks, Markus.’

  ‘Say hello to Francesco for me, Michele.’

  ‘I will.’

  Ferrara sat there with the receiver in his hand for a while. What a pity, he thought, that there wasn’t another Markus in London. He still had vivid memories of how helpful his colleague had been, the way they had worked together to track down Leonardo Berghoff, the night the shootout had taken place, the daily visits as he was recovering in the hospital at Füssen…

  They had developed a good relationship, which was fundamental when circumstances required cooperation between police forces, especially across borders. And now this telephone call was like an act of divine providence.

  While speaking to Markus Glock, he had suddenly realised how to solve the problem of the letter. He added it now to his list of things to be checked out.

  Luck was finally on his side.

  52

  He came out of the bedroom.

  Angelica was sitting on the living room sofa with several newspapers resting on her lap.

  He went over and stroked her hair. She stood up, put her arms round him, and kissed him on the lips. She loved kissing him. As cold as ever, he did not respond but slipped out of her embrace as soon as he could. He was too focused on what he had to say to her, and he wanted to say it as soon as possible. He did not care how she reacted. His mind was made up.

  ‘You could have slept a bit longer,’ she said. ‘I brought you the papers. You would have found them here.’

  ‘I’d have been late. You know I have to go and see someone. Tell me…’ He broke off, turned and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water: his throat felt terribly dry. He had slept on and off for four hours, three of which had been hellish. More nightmares. They had even made his bones ache, as if someone had taken him and given him a beating. No, it wasn’t possible, he told himself. Those things were a long way in the past.

  He walked slowly back to her.

  ‘What did you want me to tell you?’ she asked.

  ‘Who’s that friend who lives in your house?’

  She wondered how he could have known. She waited a moment, then said, ‘She’s the same one you saw me with in the Piazza San Marco on Sunday. I’m helping her out.’

  ‘Just a friend?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’

  ‘Who’s jealous?’ he retorted, raising his voice. ‘You don’t understand a fucking thing. You should stay well away from that girl. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’

  He was really starting to lose his temper. He could feel his rage building inside him, and he had to make a considerable effort to control it.

  ‘She’s only staying with me for a while, just a few days, a week or so at the most. She’s looking for somewhere to live in Florence, and you know how hard that can be. The rents are ridiculous.’

  ‘Our business is ours alone. I’m not going to tell you again.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘No buts. I don’t give a fuck about your friend’s problems. You should be more careful. Especially now.’

  He started back towards the kitchen. It was whisky he needed now.

  She cut in ahead of him and barred the doorway. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing more to say, Angelica, so just fuck off.’

  She went out, slamming the door behind her. She was furious.

  She wasn’t going to let anyone control her life like that! Not now that she had found someone she really liked. No, there had to be a solution, she needed to make him see that they weren’t kids any more, that behaving the way he did jeopardised their relationship. If he didn’t change, their ways would part forever.

  She got in her car and set off with a screech of tyres. Guendalina was waiting for her at home.

  Gradually, the further she got from him, and the more she thought about Guendalina, the more she realised that the situation was becoming untenable. This double life couldn’t continue. She had to stop pretending. Sooner or later, the woman she loved would realise she was hiding something from her. And she did not want to lose her.

  ‘He can fuck off,’ she murmured as she turned on the radio. She immediately recognised Amy Winehouse’s voice singing ‘Stronger Than Me’. She turned up the volume and started to sing along. She knew every word by heart.

  In the meantime, he was thinking it was time to put another piece of the jigsaw in place. A new one, not part of his initial plan.

  He didn’t need her. He could get everything he wanted through his own efforts. He had no limits. He could find a solution to every problem, like the mathematical genius he was.

  He would make her pay dearly.

  But he had to hurry.

  By Sunday, or Monday at the latest, he would have to leave Florence.

  Maybe forever.

  53

  ‘Any news, Francesco?’

  As soon as Ferrara, who was trying to get to grips with Sergi’s papers, saw his deputy come in, he set them aside and motioned him to sit down. He looked at his watch. It was five past two in the afternoon.

  Rizzo told him about his conversation with the director of Sollicciano Prison. An external examination of Beatrice Filangeri’s body had not revealed any signs of violence. And there had been no traces of poisonous substances or barbiturates in her blood.

  ‘Did he tell you whether she happened to leave a note?’

  ‘No, Michele.’

  ‘What about the post-mortem?’

  ‘They’re doing it later.’

  ‘How did it go at the Hotel Villa Medici?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Were they able to tell you whether the person with Costanza that evening was Cosimo Presti?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  Piero, the barman, had been in no doubt. The man with Costanza had indeed been Cosimo Presti. The maître d’ had confirmed it. Costanza and Presti had dined in one of the hotel’s two restaurants, the Lorenzo de’ Medici.

  That left them with several options. Should they question Presti straight away? Or would it be better to wait and keep him under surveillance for a few days? Should they acquire his telephone records? Tap his phone? Get a warrant to search his home?

  It was a difficult choice to make, and they had to trust their intuition. But whatever they decided, they needed to keep one important thing in mind: Presti was a journalist, and they all knew that, when it came to the media, the Prosecutor’s Department acted with extreme caution.

  ‘Michele, do you think they’ll authorise us to get hold of his telephone records and tap his phones?’

  ‘We’d have to really justify our request, and even then I have my doubts. Unless…’ He broke off for a moment and when he resumed he told Rizzo about the telephone call from Glock.

  In the end, they decided to send Deputy Prosecutor Vinci a detailed report, attaching to it Leonardo Berghoff’s letter along with the other documents sent by their German colleague.

  They could well be coming to a decisive moment. One
that might also clarify the position of the Prosecutor’s Department.

  ‘Where were you? You have to tell me where you were!’

  Angelica had got home to find Guendalina sitting on the sofa, grim-faced, her hair tangled. In her hand she was clutching a half-empty glass of cognac.

  ‘And you have to tell me why you haven’t replied to my text messages!’

  As Guendalina spoke, she continued to stare at Angelica, her big black eyes now swollen and brimming with tears. She had been lying on the sofa for a long time, brooding over some imagined betrayal.

  ‘Calm down, darling,’ Angelica said, dismissing her anger. ‘Have a glass of water, instead of this stuff.’ She picked up the almost empty bottle from the coffee table and took it into the kitchen. Then she tossed her handbag onto an armchair and headed straight for the bathroom. She did not feel like answering, at least not straight away. There would be time. In the meantime she would try to think of what she was going to say.

  She could tell her she’d gone for a drink with colleagues after work. Or been to a meeting about the planned exhibition. Both were plausible excuses, but she knew that Guendalina would not believe either of them. She was too sensitive. Angelica realised that she could not continue lying to her. For now, she would hold her tight in her arms, caress her and kiss her. Just as she had done the previous evening when she had come home and found Guendalina sulking and ready to accuse her of being unfaithful. She had sworn to her over and over again that she didn’t have anyone else. Later, in bed, they had kissed and caressed and made up. And Guendalina had pretended to believe that her friend had really been somewhere near Siena, working on a painting project.

  Meanwhile, Guendalina had stood up, grabbed Angelica’s handbag, and taken her mobile out of the outside pocket. Her fingers moved quickly. She pressed the button for recent calls, and the one for text messages. She saw the usual numbers, which were familiar to her. Among the texts she saw the ones she herself had sent which had gone unanswered. There were also a couple that struck her, though. Short, almost telegraphic messages. They had come from a number that hadn’t been saved in the contact list, a number that was completely unknown to her.

  Another thing she found in the handbag, wrapped in a paper tissue, was a small quantity of marijuana.

  These two discoveries hurt her: she had believed that Angelica had no secrets from her and that she had been sincere when they had promised not to lie to each other.

  She would have liked to ask her immediately, about both the texts and the grass, to confront her, to make a scene. But she reined in the impulse. A little voice inside her, a voice of caution, told her to pretend that nothing had happened, to feign indifference.

  She put the mobile back in place and stretched out again on the sofa.

  She told herself to relax when she saw Angelica come back into the room.

  She pressed the button of the CD player on the sideboard next to the TV and the room was filled with Ricky Martin singing ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’.

  Angelica sat down next to her on the sofa, took her hand, and held it tight. Sobbing, Guendalina threw herself into her arms. She needed to be held. She dismissed her fears and suspicions and started to take her clothes off.

  54

  Fabio Biondi pressed the button to open the door as soon as he heard the bell.

  He was expecting Teresa. He had called her an hour earlier to let her know the news.

  Now she was here, curious to hear what he had to say.

  Fabio looked away from the monitor and announced with a smile of satisfaction, ‘I’ve managed to extract two more images. Come over here, Superintendent!’

  Teresa went closer. On the screen, charred remains lay on a floor, recognisable as Madalena’s body. There could be no doubt now about the nature of these images.

  ‘Something awful must have happened in that place, Superintendent,’ Fabio said. ‘The crucifix… those burns…’

  ‘Madalena,’ Teresa said, and immediately regretted letting the word slip out. Fabio was an external technician, and had no official role, which meant that he was not bound by rules of professional secrecy.

  She tried to correct herself, telling him that she was just speculating at the moment.

  In reply, Fabio merely said that he would continue working on the video.

  ‘Thanks Fabio, we’re counting on you.’

  There were few names in the small phone book with its soft leather cover, and the contents were written in a way that only he could interpret, thanks to his amazing mathematical memory. It was the only thing he had been able to show off about in front of his classmates. He had cultivated his talent over time, and had reached a professional standard at the game Salto del Cavallo. With the appropriate modifications, he exploited these skills to demonstrate his own genius.

  The game consisted of moving the knight in the typical L-shaped move as defined by the rules of chess, in such a way as to touch each square once and once only. It was a real brainteaser, which had been attempted by a number of mathematicians.

  He leafed through the phone book until he found what he was looking for. He had changed her first name to a man’s name. He had changed the area code too, so that, if some nosy parker had tried to call that number, a complete stranger would have replied.

  He had just got out of the shower, a towel around his waist. He could see her in front of him as he dialled the number. A few inches short of six feet, long black hair, dark eyes, small breasts with pointed nipples. He remembered every detail perfectly. He saw her kneeling in front of him, submissive and ready to give him pleasure, so aroused that she did not feel his nails digging into her back.

  He became aware of his erection beneath the towel. The woman answered on the fourth ring. ‘Hello?’

  It was the warm, sensual voice he remembered.

  ‘Florinda?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He imagined her naked: her firm thighs, her long legs, her black pubic hair.

  ‘It’s Stefano, do you remember me?’ It was a name he had only ever used with her. ‘I’ve just arrived in Florence…’

  ‘Oh, yes, Stefano. Of course I remember you.’

  She waited in silence.

  ‘Would it be OK if I came over? I told you I’d see what I could do, and I’ve got some really good news for you…’

  ‘Not right now,’ she replied. ‘I’m expecting my sister. Come in an hour. But can’t you tell me the news now?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you, and I’ll bring a bottle of champagne, because this demands a celebration.’

  ‘OK, then. I’ll see you later.’

  When the call was over, he switched off the phone, took out the sim card and put another one in immediately. It was a precaution worth taking. They would never be able to identify him, never track him down. He always used mobiles without GPS.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost eight in the evening. In just sixty minutes, he would be at her apartment, right on time. Punctuality was one of his obsessions. As he put on his black tracksuit, he let his fantasies run wild.

  When he was ready, he looked at himself in the mirror. He liked the devilish gleam in his eyes. He went to the drinks cabinet, took out the bottle of whisky and half-filled a glass. He felt the alcohol moving down into his stomach, the burning sensation there, the warmth spreading through his whole body.

  Tonight he would add another piece to his jigsaw.

  From the big underground room, he got a five-inch double-bladed knife with a mother-of-pearl handle. He had bought it some time ago for a special occasion, just like the one that was taking shape in his mind.

  He went out.

  On the way, he thought with growing excitement about their meeting a week earlier.

  He had approached her in the Giubbe Rosse, the historic café in the Piazza della Repubblica, founded at the beginning of the nineteenth century by the Reininghaus brothers. The café, which owed its name to the Viennese-style red jackets worn by the waite
rs, had started out as a focal point for the German community and had become the heart of intellectual and artistic Florence during the twentieth century.

  He was familiar with the history of the café, and loved to spend time there, looking up at the drawings and paintings covering its walls.