Property of Blood

by Magdalen Nabb

  The winter sun was every bit as bright and strong as the Marshal had imagined and he came out under the great iron lantern of the archway fishing hurriedly for the dark glasses which would prevent his sensitive eyes from streaming. Safe in a darkened world, he could enjoy the feel of the sun on his face and the morning smells brought to him by the fierce mountain wind. Sunshine or no sunshine, once he came out of the shelter of the Pitti Palace onto the open slope in front of it, that icy wind bit at his ears and made him thankful for the solid weight of his black greatcoat.

  The traffic passing through the piazza at the bottom of the slope was noisy and ebullient, as the Florentines, inspired by the brilliance of the day, wanted to drive allegro con brio. The result was decidedly staccato since the junction with Via Romana and Via Maggio snarled up every few minutes to a chorus of horns. It was to avoid this confusion to his left that the Marshal crossed the piazza and continued straight ahead, cutting through the high buildings by a narrow alley lined with parked mopeds but empty of cars. He went into Piazza Santo Spirito at the corner by the church. There was no need for it. He could have crossed the river and gone straight to Headquarters. He knew what this business was going to entail and he knew his commanding officer. A case like this meant specialists, the emergency intervention group arriving in helicopters from Livorno, probably cooperation with the civil police force. All this would already be under way. It would not involve the Marshal. Captain Maestrangelo, on the other hand, by hook or by crook, would involve the Marshal. Somebody had to hold the family’s hand, and that was just the sort of task Maestrangelo would earmark him for. So Guarnaccia walked quietly into Piazza Santo Spirito, sniffing the air.

  He plodded slowly between the shops and the market stalls, between the sawing and tapping of artisans and the vulgar shouts of the man who sold cheap underwear, between sawdust and coffee on his left and old clothes and fresh fennel on his right.

  ‘Morning, Marshal.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Your lad’s already been.’ A question disguised as a statement. One carabinieri took responsibility each day for the shopping and cooking in their little barracks at Pitti. The Marshal ate in his own quarters with his wife and family. So he must be here on business, no …? The Marshal offered no explanation, so tiny Torquato, apron down to his ankles, woolly hat down over his ears against the wind, turned his attention to the next customer.

  ‘Oh, really, Torquato! This salad doesn’t look at all nice.’

  ‘What do you expect in this freezing wind? Were you wanting it for a wedding bouquet or are you going to eat it? It’s dark in your stomach, you know. Here, a bunch of parsley and a bit of carrot and celery for your sauce …’

  The darkness in your stomach was Torquato’s standard defence for the few bunches of greens he had been bringing in from the country each day for as long as anybody could remember. The Marshal waited until Torquato was free and then peered down, pretending to examine the limp, wind-blasted lettuces himself, not wanting to draw attention.

  Torquato peered up, examining the Marshal. ‘It’s the Contessa, am I right?’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  Torquato shrugged. ‘I used to see her most days, and her staff in the workroom on the ground floor buy their greens here. Only they haven’t, not for over a week. Young Leonardo likes a joke, not been seen. And her car’s gone from the courtyard, you can see that from here.’

  ‘And what are they saying in the piazza?’

  ‘Kidnapped. Keeping it quiet, are they?’

  The Marshal stepped behind the little stall and past the thin hedgerows between tall trees into the centre of the square. Keeping the blank ochre silhouette of the church to his left, he stared across at the Palazzo Brunamonti. The gigantic studded carriage doors of the main entrance stood open, and at the end of the dark tunnel inside you got a glimpse of brightness and colour like a spotlit painting. It was usual for these Renaissance palaces to turn their backs to the outside world and keep their gardens, fountains, statuary, and decorated facades for their owners’ exclusive delight. It had always seemed to the Marshal to be a funny way of going on but, then, the Florentines … the Marshal had no words for the Florentines though he had lived among them for twenty years.

  Olivia Birkett… the sort of beauty that stopped traffic. The Marshal remembered her striking green eyes and legs two metres long. He recalled a little boy around her in those days, though not a girl… perhaps not born yet. He hoped he’d written the girl’s name down because he couldn’t for the life of him remember it. Well, Olivia Birkett wasn’t a Florentine, so what did she think of it all? A mongrel. A sandy little mongrel. A sandy little mongrel up there behind those brown slatted shutters, looking out on that very private garden. Dead now probably, since they wouldn’t have wanted it barking to give the alarm …

  The Marshal was vaguely aware of a tot in a pink ski suit pedalling her tricycle round and round his motionless black figure as she might pedal round the white marble statue of Ridolfi at the other end of the square or the fountain in the middle.

  The Palazzo Brunamonti had a loggia on the top floor. Must have a good view of the piazza, looking down on the treetops, the globular lamps at night, the church. And from those rooms on the top floor left, where all the shutters were closed, you could probably see the river Arno. Three dogs raced, skidding and tumbling, across the piazza, ignoring their owners, who recalled them furiously. The smallest one jumped the largest and a mock fight broke out. A little sandy mongrel…

  ‘These days they can have AIDS.’

  These days… if you make money, you can get kidnapped …

  The Marshal sighed and moved off.

  ‘Hey! Watch out!’

  He looked down, frowning, as the solid front wheel of the little tricycle bumped up against his shiny black shoe. The child, encountering the expressionless stare of his black glasses, turned and pedalled furiously away towards a huddle of red-nosed shoppers.

  ‘Gran! Gran!’

  ‘Come here and let me tie that scarf. We’ve to get to the baker’s yet.’

  He crossed the Santa Trinita Bridge. The river was full and the fierce wind burned his face, took his breath from him. The hills upriver beyond the Ponte Vecchio were capped with snow and the horizon reflected it, pearly pink and violet below the deep blue of a winter sky swept clean of its leaden pollution.

  Captain Maestrangelo’s hand was warm and dry. ‘Guarnaccia. Let me introduce you to Substitute Prosecutor Fusarri, who’s in charge of this case.’

  A thin, elegant man rose out of a deep leather armchair amid a cloud of blue smoke, a wicked half-smile flickering over his handsome face, like a theatrical demon.

  The Marshal held out his hand, hardly registering the man in his surprise at finding him there at all. Prosecutors summoned people to their offices on these occasions. Then he absorbed, the face first, then the name. Virgilio Fusarri, an alarming man indeed. Last time they’d met on a case he had alarmed the Marshal by being ‘Dear Virgilio’, friend of the family, the last thing you wanted with a dead body in the bath next door. It had been all right, though. And years before that…

  ‘I know you.’ Fusarri looked at him keenly. ‘Don’t tell me, I’ll remember when it suits me. Right, Captain, let’s sit down and get on.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a call out to all stations for the car. We can assume they’ll have changed cars once out of town but it’s the first point at which we can pick up the trail, always allowing for attempts to mislead us. Of course, ten days is a long time and far too late for roadblocks and for a useful examination of the point where she was taken. The family …’ He looked at the Marshal.

  ‘The son found the dog’s lead in their own courtyard … It looks like they slipped in while she was out with the dog. She didn’t lock the main doors, as a rule, for these ten-minute turns round the block. The daughter, a young woman of about twenty, could have been the intended victim since she often walked the dog. She is collaborating
—at least for the moment. The son I haven’t seen yet. Then there’s’—he had to check his notebook for the foreign name—‘Patrick Hines, a lawyer.’

  Fusarri pulled a face.

  ‘There’s worse,’ warned the Captain. ‘The Marshal tells me he’s bringing in a private detective.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Fusarri leaned forward to stub out his pungent little Tuscan cigar in the big glass ashtray on Maestrangelo’s desk. ‘Dog been found?’

  They both looked at the Marshal, who examined the hat lying on his knees. ‘They wouldn’t want it running home to give the alarm. They wouldn’t want it making a noise wherever they’re hidden, either.’

  ‘So?’ Fusarri was lighting up again. They could barely see each other.

  ‘I’d say they’ll have thrown it out on the motorway, or on some fast road, or beaten it to death out in the country.’

  ‘Could we find it, Captain?’

  ‘It’s not impossible. The hunting fraternity might help.’

  ‘Good. The first thing we want is the car.’

  ‘We’ll soon find the car.’ Maestrangelo looked at the Marshal. ‘Tell me anything you know about the family.’

  The Marshal told. Sometimes he addressed himself to the hat on his knee, sometimes to a huge dark oil painting to the right of the Captain’s head. He wasn’t happy about telling anybody anything at this stage because all he had in his head was a series of unconnected pictures, some real, like the stiff-fingered girl, some imaginary, like the sandy little bitch behind the shutters of the Palazzo Brunamonti. What could he say?

  He said, ‘They’ll need careful handling. They’re not agreed among themselves.’

  ‘They never are. So handle them carefully,’ the Captain said.

  ‘And this private investigator.’

  ‘I,’ Fusarri said, ‘will handle him.’ He leaned back, waving a space in his personal cloud, and flashed an amused look at the two of them. T remember you now,’ he said to the Marshal. ‘We met at my dear friend Eugenia’s house, did we not?’

  The Captain stared at the other two in amazement at this evidence of the Marshal’s high-flying social life. Then he remembered there had been a body in the bath in the story and everything settled into place again.

  Fusarri drew on his cigar, frowning. Then he pointed the thing at the Marshal. ‘There was something else. Years ago. Maestrangelo?’

  ‘The Maxwell kidnapping. Your first, I think. We worked on it together.’

  ‘Yes. And the Marshal here came into it somewhere along the line. The girl was American, wasn’t she? Were you brought in because you speak English? Something of that sort?’

  But the Marshal only avoided his piercing eyes and murmured, ‘No, no …’

  ‘There was something. I’ll remember. Right!’ He got to his feet. ‘Helicopters?’

  ‘Special Operations Group on standby in Livorno.’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Also on standby. Until I know where I’m looking.’

  ‘Which will be?’

  ‘When I know whose job it is. That will determine the territory.’

  ‘True. You’ll need some of her clothing. I imagine that’s something we can leave to the Marshal here. I shall get their telephone under control and their assets frozen—I’d like such information as is available on what those assets are, if your investigators would be so good—you haven’t mentioned a planner, no ideas on who might have set the victim up?’

  ‘None. Somebody, of course, with access to information about the family’s finances and habits. My men are already working on that.’

  ‘I should have thought the Marshal here’d be our man for that if he’s going to babysit the family.’ For a second his sharp eyes caught the Marshal’s and he said, ‘I’m beginning to remember now,’ and turned back to the Captain. ‘And we await a contact. I assume you’ll tell me you haven’t the men available for this and that it’s going to have to be Criminalpol but I’m not calling the civil police in on this yet. Until you do know where you’re looking, I’m of the opinion that you’re best left in peace with the help you know and trust in your Investigations Group here.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

  ‘And here’s something else you’ll appreciate: I rather think I’m not going to be able to find room for you at the Procura. I have this feeling that all three listening posts are about to be occupied so that you’ll have to use your own room here. I apologise, of course.’ He didn’t look at either of them but stared brightly at the wall.

  ‘I…’ Unable to find suitably camouflaged words of gratitude, the Captain changed the subject. ‘The press …’

  ‘We use them. Not vice versa. Be nice to them. Make an effort to toss them some little printable nonsense each time you talk to them. Try and get the family to be nice to them. There’ll come a point when we’ll need them. Who is it, Maestrangelo? We’re on Sardinian-controlled territory here in Tuscany as far as kidnappings are concerned, I know, but who is it? You’re so damn cautious but you must have an idea.’

  ‘I have two. Giuseppe Puddu and Salis. Francesco Salis.’

  ‘Both wanted men?’

  ‘Yes. Puddu escaped as soon as he was out on parole last year. Salis has been in hiding for over three years.’

  ‘I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow then.’ Fusarri stubbed out his fifth cigar and left.

  The Captain opened the window.

  ‘Well, Guarnaccia? What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know how I’m to manage, not if this royal guard duty business keeps up—and I’ve two men out looking for a couple of witnesses who didn’t turn up in court this morning. Call from the Procura… jack-of-all-trades we’re expected to be. Lorenzini’s alone now and what I’m saying is, if something happens…’ He stopped, remembering that something had.

  So damn cautious …

  And Fusarri was so damn quick. He talked too fast, for one thing, coming as he did from the North. He was unorthodox, too. Maestrangelo didn’t like that, the Marshal knew. Unorthodoxy was one of the seven deadly sins, and not the least of them, as far as he was concerned. That business about tapping the phone! The rule was that they should listen at the Procura, which meant sharing the room with other forces, all of them ready to muscle in on your case and take the credit where credit was available. A much-hated arrangement but that was the rule. No officer could ask for what Fusarri had offered, and Maestrangelo was a stickler for the rules. He’d take it because it was too good to refuse. It left him speechless, though. Fusarri’s speciality was leaving people speechless. And the idea of the Captain tossing—what was it?—‘printable nonsense’ to the press. The man known among the journalists of Florence as ‘The Tomb’. Printable nonsense indeed. The Marshal himself wouldn’t be up to providing it either. How the devil should he know which nonsense was printable? No, no, they could make up their own, the same as they always did—unless the young Brunamontis could help with personal titbits, photos and so on, though, from what little he’d seen of the sister he couldn’t imagine her gossiping with journalists. Perhaps the brother, if he came round to collaborating…

  ‘Two ideas,’ the Captain had said. Even before kidnappers showed their hand, one thing was obvious. There had to be a known professional kidnapper in hiding from the law running the show. The new law had made kidnapping a lengthy and difficult business, effectively eliminating all but the best professionals. And professional kidnappers didn’t drop from the sky, their careers were known and documented so that, unless they were in hiding, they could be checked on. Two ideas. Two wanted men, each with his own band of associates and, most important of all, his own territory where he could operate without risk.

  Back on his own side of the river with all the church bells ringing out midday, the Marshal gravitated to Santo Spirito as the market was packing up. He would have been happy to take up the same position as before, staring at the brown shutters whilst working out how best to approach the son of the house, but th
e sharp eyes of Torquato made him change his mind and sent him instead into the ice cream bar next to the Brunamonti entrance.

  ‘Morning, Marshal.’

  ‘Giorgio …’ Sheltered from the wind and sunshine, he removed his hat and black glasses. ‘A coffee.’ Giorgio and he were old acquaintances. The bar had moved up market in recent years and, in addition to its famous ice cream, served fashionably light lunches to students and professional people of the area. Giorgio kept the place clean of drugs and himself on good terms with the law.

  ‘It’s true, then, that something’s happened to the Contessa?’ Giorgio was a Florentine with ‘no hairs on his tongue’, as the local saying went. In Sicily, where the Marshal came from, you didn’t see or hear things, let alone remark on them, and this sort of opening still nonplussed him.

  ‘The Contessa …’

  ‘Brunamonti. My landlady, apart from anything else. They own this whole block, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘The whole block. We all know something’s up. She hasn’t been seen in ten days. Dog neither. And they’re preparing for a big show—New York—which would normally mean Leonardo working until all hours and coming in here for an after-midnight snack. No sign of any of the family. Staff from the workrooms haven’t been in for their lunches in a week and now you’re here for the second time this morning. Your coffee. A drop of something in it?’

  ‘No, no …’

  ‘Suit yourself. Freezing weather.’

  ‘Yes. It’s nice and warm in here, I must say. I wonder if we could have a quiet word as you don’t seem to be too busy.’

  ‘No problem at all. Good half hour before we start lunches. Come in the back. Marco! Bring the Marshal’s coffee. I don’t think you’ve been in here, have you?’

  ‘No. It’s very comfortable.’

  ‘Have a seat.’ The small round tables with white cloths were set for lunch. The Marshal sat on one of the grey plush seats which ran round all the walls. It was warm and comfortable indeed.

  ‘You must know a fair bit about the family …’