The Villa Triste

by Lucretia Grindle

  ‘Maybe not.’ Pallioti glanced at her. ‘That was in June. He got his cousin out of Fiesole, got him to a doctor somewhere. They must have lain low for at least a month or a few weeks for Achilleo to recover.’

  ‘And by August, in Florence, things were chaotic.’ She nodded. ‘If they just showed up at the end, in time for the glory, spun some story or other—’

  ‘Il Corvo and Beppe were long gone.’ Pallioti finished the thought for her. ‘There was no one from Juliet left alive to contradict anything Massimo said.’

  ‘And his cousin would have lied for him. Corroborated anything he said.’

  Pallioti nodded. He suspected that Achilleo Venta was luckier than he knew to be alive – lucky he’d been useful to his beloved Massimo.

  ‘And those two women.’ Eleanor glanced at him. ‘The sisters?’

  Pallioti nodded.

  ‘They were arrested, and transported. But they escaped. They ended up in Milan. And, well, you know.’

  ‘What was her name? Lilia? You said she was pregnant?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pallioti said. ‘She was pregnant.’ He pushed another car out of the fast lane. ‘The father was executed. He was part of Radio Juliet. She never really recovered. It broke her heart.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  Pallioti shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He was born in Milan. He probably died.’

  Eleanor lapsed into silence. She stared out of the window. Pallioti concentrated on the road. It should have been a relief, or at least some kind of vindication, to know that he was right, that his much-vaunted sixth sense, his ‘hearing’ as Signora Grandolo called it, had not deserted him. But it wasn’t. The moment he had seen those names on the Villa Triste ledger, understood that they had been made officially dead, and why, he’d felt like a fool. The worst kind of amateur.

  He’d been played, and what was worse, played by the dead – just as Isabella had been, all those years ago.

  He had wondered, briefly, about the escape, then put it down to luck, which he didn’t believe in. But the second part of the trick he had missed completely. It had been right in front of his face, but he hadn’t seen it. The fact that Issa had been chosen, taken to the clearing in the woods – not by chance, or because she had made a lot of noise in the cells, but because of who she was. A hero. Someone people owed their lives to. Someone whose word amongst her comrades was unimpeachable.

  Whoever arranged for her to be taken to that clearing knew that. And knew that if she survived and reported that all the members of her GAP unit had been executed – as she had, at the very first opportunity in Verona – she would be believed without question. Because she had seen the bodies with her own eyes.

  Except she hadn’t.

  Instead, what she had seen was exactly what she had been shown. Her father, her brother, her lover. And below them a tangle of arms and legs. Arms and legs that she expected to belong to Il Corvo and Beppe and Massimo. But that in fact had belonged to three boys. Three strangers who, for all Pallioti knew, had been arrested and shot for just that purpose.

  There was an efficiency to it – a wit, even – that made Pallioti wonder if it had been thought of by Carita himself. Or had Massimo come up with the idea – that she should look down on Carlo’s dead face, and provide the men who had betrayed him with an alibi? If she died in the camps, there would be no witnesses. If she lived to tell the story, her word would set him free forever. Guarantee that Massimo and Beppe and Il Corvo were dead. Because Issa said so. And no one comes looking for dead men.

  Pallioti blinked. The road was unwinding ahead of him, spooling out fast in a thin grey ribbon.

  But someone had. That was exactly what had happened.

  His foot hit the accelerator.

  Everyone’s luck runs out, Dottore.

  The sky was a sharp noontime blue. Once again, Piero Balestro’s electric gates stood open, their railings glinting silver against the packed white earth of the drive. There could be a thousand reasons for that, all of them innocent. Or not. Pallioti glanced at the security camera. Its tiny red eye blinked in a steady rhythm.

  They turned in and started down the drive. It had not been forty-eight hours since their first visit, and already the place felt strange. The dun mounds of the hills, their crowns of cypress, and the soft sage scrub that grew in the drainage ditches, were absolutely still. There was not a breath of wind. Earlier, mist would have pooled in the valleys. Pallioti could see the glisten of a small pond in a hollow. Dots of white spattered across the hillside beyond. Sheep. If he rolled his window down he was sure he would be able to hear the faint, monotonous tinkle of bells.

  He glanced at Eleanor. She was staring through the windscreen as if hypnotized.

  ‘When we get there,’ Pallioti said, ‘I want you to stay in the car. Lock the door. Don’t get out unless I tell you. If anything happens, leave. Drive out of the gates, and call the police.’

  She nodded.

  ‘What do you think we’re going to find?’ she asked a moment later.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘I have no idea.’

  The first sign that anything was wrong was the jeep. It wasn’t there. The silver Alfa sat exactly where it had before, its nose facing the line of cypresses. Pallioti could see a sharp mark in the gravel, a skid where the jeep had reversed, quickly. There was no sign of life around the house. Through the trees they could see the horses still grazing in front of the stables.

  He got out of the car and stood for a moment. Something about the stillness made him inclined to be quiet. The leaves of the bay trees were almost black against the soft stone of the house. The brass latches of the shutters sparkled in the sun. The lions, their paws crossed, looked implacably out over the steps. There was a faint hum in the camellias, possibly the buzz of an out-of-season bumblebee, still hunting for pollen, unaware that come nightfall it would not survive the frost.

  Pallioti was not aware that Eleanor had opened her door until she spoke.

  ‘What’s that?’

  She was half in, half out of the passenger seat, her head cocked like a dog’s. Before Pallioti could admonish her, tell her to do as she was told and not be so stupid, he heard it too.

  At first it was nothing but a distant echo of sound. Then it rose, hit a high note, and died. If the wind had been blowing it would not have been possible to hear it at all.

  Pallioti had turned towards it, was about to step around the front of the car, when the front door of the house burst open.

  ‘Oh! Papa, I—’ At the last moment, just as she put her foot on the top step, the maid looked up. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re – I thought you were—’

  She tried to stop on the second step, but lost her balance. Her arms flailed, the small doll-like hands reaching towards Pallioti, who managed to grab her and steady her down onto the gravel, stop her from falling flat on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.’ Embarrassed, the maid tried to step away, but Pallioti hung onto her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ She nodded, a blush rising from under the collar of her uniform and creeping upwards, deepening the coffee-coloured skin of her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. ‘I thought you were—’

  Her accent became thicker as she became more agitated, making her Italian almost incomprehensible.

  ‘You thought I was who?’

  The tiny woman’s eyes pooled with tears.

  ‘Thought I was who, Signorina?’ He asked more gently this time, and the maid began to cry. Her face crumpled. She shook her head.

  ‘Papa Balestro,’ she said. ‘I thought when I heard the car – Papa Balestro.’

  ‘Papa?’

  Pallioti could hear Eleanor behind him

  The maid’s hair had come loose, escaping from the plastic clip that held it. Dark silky strands swung across her face, catching on her damp cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she w
ept. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve been so worried. I didn’t know what to do. I thought, when I heard the car—’

  Pallioti was looking towards the house. Through the open door he could see the hallway. The brass chandelier of countrified design shone on the too-new terracotta tiles. Letting go of the woman’s arm, he mounted the steps and pushed the door open wider. A single pair of hunting boots rested upside down on the rack. Above them, the rifles hung where he had seen them the day before. The shotgun was missing.

  He turned around.

  ‘Where is Doctor Balestro?’

  The maid wiped her eyes. Tears stained the cuff of her pale-blue uniform.

  ‘I don’t know, Dottore. I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She shook her head, looking at Pallioti as if he might somehow have the answer.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ The question came out as a bark, making her jump.

  ‘Last night,’ she said. ‘Late. I always check on him, to see if he needs anything.’

  ‘And did he?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. He was on the telephone. He waved at me – to go away. So I went. Then, this morning, I heard the car.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Early.’ She began to cry in earnest. ‘Very early. He goes hunting, at this time of year. He takes Pepe, the dog. But—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He’s always back. For breakfast. By nine, before he goes down to the stables. I cook him—’

  Pallioti did not care what she cooked him.

  ‘Where’s the dog?’ Eleanor asked. ‘The dog.’ She glanced at Pallioti.

  Before anyone could say anything, they heard it again. Echoing in the still November air was the faint wail of an animal in pain.

  ‘Stay here.’ Pallioti waved towards the house. ‘Go inside and lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.’

  The maid nodded, scuttling up the steps like a small animal seeking sanctuary. The door swung closed. There was a clicking as the battery of locks began to turn. Pallioti ducked through the line of trees and stepped out onto the lawn. Below, in the paddock, the horses raised their heads.

  ‘There,’ Eleanor said.

  The sound came again. From where they stood, it seemed a little louder.

  He glared at her.

  ‘You should stay here.’

  Ignoring him, Eleanor started down the steps that led to the stables. As he followed, Pallioti glanced back. Under the noon sun, the house was a pale block of stone. Between the deep-red shutters of the sitting-room window, he saw a small face. As he watched, the maid raised a hand and pressed it to the glass.

  The track that skirted behind the stable led past several paddocks, all of them empty. After the last one, the gravel gave way to compacted chalky earth. Pallioti took it at a trot, Eleanor fell in behind him. The wailing had become regular now, rising and falling like a siren. The track wound around the small lump of a hill. Ahead, Pallioti saw a pond and a strip of wood. Naked branches of chestnut and beech filled a small valley, winding through it like a river. They had almost reached the treeline when he saw the flash of red. Pallioti raised a hand. Eleanor stopped. The dog’s cries had lessened, wound down into whimpering, as if it sensed them coming. Slowly, they walked forward together.

  The jeep had been parked in a stand of trees, nose in. Pallioti had not looked, but he realized when he thought about it that, of course, there would be a service drive for the stables opening off the road – an access for feed deliveries and horse vans. Piero Balestro would have taken it this morning, as he probably took it every morning during the hunting season. He would drive this far, then park and unload the guns and the dog. The wood would provide attractive cover. The pond was probably a winter home for ducks. Looking to the far side of it, Pallioti spotted what looked like a hide, several segments of wattle behind a stand of bulrushes.

  The old spaniel had fallen silent. Its leash was tied around a sapling some twenty feet away, in a stand of thin, newly planted alder. Seeing them, it sat, and started to whine.

  Wary of the jeep, Pallioti circled away from it, meaning to approach the dog from the side. Then he saw Piero Balestro.

  The old man was lying some two or three yards from the passenger door, which was open. He was wearing the same tweed jacket, this time with a green down vest of the kind hunters favoured over it. His brown boots were still shiny. No dust had settled on them. The soles were clean. It looked as if he had got out of the car, crossed to the passenger side, opened the door, then turned and walked no more than ten or a dozen steps.

  One arm was pinned underneath him, the other flung out, gloved hand palm up.

  ‘Alessandro?’

  Eleanor pointed at the ground. Just beyond Piero Balestro’s outstretched hand, lying in the short dead grass, was a small gun.

  Pallioti nodded. He squatted down on his haunches. Piero Balestro’s head was twisted, his eyes open. They stared, colourless, almost white, against his livid cheeks. Some people believed that the last thing you saw was imprinted on your eye, locked into your soul. Looking into Massimo’s soul, Pallioti saw nothing.

  He had been shot, once, in the forehead. The hole was not big. Surprisingly little blood dribbled out of it. His mouth was open, as if in protest, or surprise. There were white crystals on his lips. Beside his chin was a pile of salt.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Tape was strung through the trees like garlands. It looped round trunks and hung from bare branches. The entire distance of the track, from the stables to the scene, had been closed off. The medical examiner and scene of crime officers had walked like strange white-suited aliens over the yellowing brow of the hill.

  Now Carla Nanno, the same ME who had handled Giovanni Trantemento, knelt over Piero Balestro. Her gloved fingers poked and probed. She glanced up.

  ‘Approximately eight hours,’ she said. ‘As a best guess. Right after sunrise. It’s not an uncommon time for people to kill themselves.’

  ‘You think that’s what this is?’

  She shrugged, looked from Piero Balestro’s hand to the gun that had already been photographed and measured ad nauseam.

  ‘Well, it certainly could be self-inflicted,’ she said. ‘No question. Maybe I’ll find something that says different, when I get him on the table. But I doubt it. Of course,’ she added, ‘that doesn’t mean it was. Self-inflicted. I’m just telling you that, as of now, it could have been. That’s my best guess.’ She nodded towards his outstretched hand. ‘I’ll test, obviously. But it looks like there’s a powder burn on the glove.’

  Pallioti nodded.

  ‘What about the salt?’

  She looked down. Took a finger and ran it under the old man’s lip. There was something obscene about it. Pallioti tried not to flinch. Carla Nanno frowned.

  ‘Well, it’s in his mouth. But not nearly as much as the other one. That would make sense. I mean, you wouldn’t eat it if someone didn’t make you. Like I said, we’ll have to see when we open him up.’ She looked up at Pallioti. ‘It’s in his pockets, too,’ she said. ‘Did you know?’

  He didn’t. Having found that he could not get a signal, and having given Eleanor his phone, and instructions to go back to the car and drive as far as she had to to call Enzo Saenz, Pallioti had not touched Piero Balestro’s body. He had not even touched the dog. He wanted the leash photographed and checked for prints. He had explained this, speaking in a low murmuring tone to the spaniel, who had eventually stopped whining and lay down, its head resting on its paws as it regarded him solemnly. After that, he had walked carefully in widening circles until he had found what he was looking for. It was nothing, really. A couple of broken twigs. Ten more minutes’ walking, winding through the trees in the strip of wood, had brought him to a small paved road. He had stood in the middle of it, then walked fifty yards up and down either side. Where, exactly as he’d expected, he’d found nothing.

  Now he watched as Carla Nanno bent over the prone fig
ure, pro-prietorial and protective as a nurse with a critical patient. She lifted the slit of one of Piero Balestro’s vest pockets. Sure enough, a thin white dribble escaped.

  ‘Where is the bag?’ Pallioti asked.

  She looked up at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bag. For the salt. How did the salt get here?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. Is it in the car?’

  Pallioti glanced towards the jeep. The forensics team had finished with the outside. Now two officers were crawling around inside it, Photographing and swabbing and measuring. When they had finished that, it would be towed away to be analysed for fibres and hairs and bits of skin and anything else that might have come from whoever it was who had met Piero Balestro here just after dawn this morning and shot him in the head.

  The forensics labs could strip and eat it, if they wanted, Pallioti thought. It was a pointless exercise. This killer didn’t leave prints, and wouldn’t leave tracks. He just came and went, like Eleanor’s Ghost, sowing his bodies with salt.

  Eleanor herself had been put in a police car and driven back to Florence. Pallioti had asked if he could borrow her car for the rest of the day, and for once she hadn’t argued. Had just reached out and squeezed his hand.

  ‘What about his wallet?’

  Carla Nanno looked up. ‘Inner left jacket pocket,’ she said. ‘Over two hundred euros in notes. And four credit cards. All present and accounted for.’

  Pallioti nodded.

  The medical examiner was saying something.

  ‘His jacket pockets. Maybe he just filled them, up at the house.’ She shrugged. ‘You know, why bother with anything else? Bringing a bag or anything. If all he was going to do was put a handful in his mouth and put the gun to his head. Like I said,’ she added, standing up, ‘I’m not saying that’s it, for definite. It just looks like it probably was. I mean, it would be my bet. If that is a powder burn on the glove, I don’t know how else to explain it.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ll see how much he swallowed. Maybe you’ll pull prints off the gun.’

  Pallioti glanced at it and nodded. He didn’t tell her that he also thought pigs might fly. And possibly sooner. From where he was standing, he could see the Bakelite handle. The bottom of the grip was crumbling. It had been left for them, like a gift, precisely because it would tell them nothing.