Death in Tuscany

by Michele Giuttari

  Fanti looked at him, bewildered.

  'Don't stand there gawking. Haven't I made myself clear?' 'You've made yourself very clear, chief . . . but. . .' 'But what?'

  'Where am I supposed to find these lists?' 'Try Special Operations first. They're interested in these things.'

  'And if they don't have them?'

  'Have you gone gaga today? Try the internet. Go to a bookshop and buy me all the books you can find on Masonry in Florence. Do what you always do! But be discreet, please. This has to be done in absolute secrecy'

  Fanti was already on his way out when he called him back.

  'On second thoughts, don't go to a bookshop. If I need books, I'll buy them myself.' He was afraid that his secretary, to avoid making any mistakes, would buy every book he could find in every bookshop in Florence.

  He was about to call Petra to suggest they have dinner at I Palmenti, a restaurant in Montelupo Fiorentino which they both liked, when Fanti came back looking dejected.

  'What's happened?' Ferrara asked.

  'Chief . . . Special Operations have the lists, but. . .'

  'But what?'

  'They need a request in writing, otherwise they won't let anything out of their office.'

  'That seems okay, Fanti. What's the problem?'

  'The request has to be signed by you personally and no one else . . . not even by a civil servant. That's what they told me.'

  No chance of being discreet now, obviously.

  'I see. All right, forget about it.'

  'I'll try the internet, then.'

  'No, don't worry' He had had another idea.

  Are you sure, chief?'

  'Yes, I'm sure. You can go.'

  Fanti went out, looking mortified, and Ferrara felt sorry for him. But he was already searching for the personal telephone number of the deputy prosecutor in Bologna, Raffaello Petrini, who a few years earlier had investigated some very 'unofficial' Masonic activities, directly implicating the heads of various lodges, and in the process accumulating an impressive mountain of papers.

  Ferrara had met him when they were both working in Reggio Calabria and they had developed a great deal of mutual respect.

  Raffaello Petrini was only too happy to help, and promised to fax him all the documents he had relating to the Florentine lodges, which he had kept constantly updated.

  After that call, he finally phoned Petra.

  They agreed to go to I Palmenti (Are you trying to be forgiven? she asked. No, he lied, I'm trying to save you having to cook tonight) and then Petra asked, 'Have you called Massimo to apologise?'

  'No, not yet

  A good thing I thought of it, then. He was most upset, especially as he'd gone to a lot of trouble to book a table at Romano's in Viareggio. Still, he said the reservation wouldn't go to waste, because he'd find someone else to console himself with.'

  'Knowing him, we can guess which gender that someone is likely to be, even if we don't know her name.'

  'Right,' Petra said, not at all enthusiastically. Anyway, call him yourself, please.'

  'Don't worry, I will.'

  'Good. I'll book a table at I Palmenti. Is nine o'clock all right?' 'Perfect.'

  Ferrara didn't get the chance to talk to his friend. First the line was engaged, then he heard the hum of the fax machine in Fanti's office and sat waiting, listening intently, as if his ears could read.

  After a length of time that seemed endless, his sergeant finally appeared with about a hundred pages. And they only covered Florence!

  'Here are the lists, chief!' Fanti said. He was rather more cheerful than he had been before, even though he knew he had done nothing he could take credit for.

  'Thanks, you're a star.'

  The document, entitled The Lodges of Florence, traced the history of the Freemasons in the Tuscan capital followed by a list of the various lodges and the names of all their members. Several of the names were preceded by the word 'Doctor', but it was clear that this did not always indicate a doctor of medicine, merely the person's academic qualification. Only in a few cases was the profession specified, and there were lawyers, architects, engineers . . . He was not surprised to find the name of Ludovico d'Incisa. At the same time he felt relieved not to see, at least on a first quick glance through the many pages, the name of Anna Giulietti. Nor those of Commissioner Lepri or Prosecutor Gallo.

  He closed the file and put it in his briefcase. He would study it at greater leisure when he got home.

  Montelupo Fiorentino, a town noted for its ceramics, is located a few miles from Florence. The Ferraras drove there in their old, indestructible Mercedes, which the Chief Superintendent had had for years and couldn't give up.

  A restaurant based in a converted mill with a charming period cellar well stocked by the current owners, I Palmenti had become almost a regular destination. Apart from the traditional, earthy Tuscan dishes much loved by Petra, the restaurant was noted for its excellent fresh fish which to Ferrara's palate tasted unmistakably of the Tyrrhenian Sea, especially where it lapped the shores of his native Sicily.

  That evening, the owner proudly recommended the pezzogna, a rare deep-water fish only found, in season, off the islands of Elba and Capri. Its soft but solid flesh was incomparable and the wine that came with it, an extraordinarily smooth, rich Fior d'Uva from the Amalfi coast, brought out all its flavour.

  'I've never eaten anything to touch this,' Ferrara exclaimed, after the last mouthful.

  'I bet Massimo doesn't get treated like this at Romano's,' Petra said, pleased to see her husband looking so relaxed. 'By the way, what did he say to you?'

  'I couldn't get hold of him,' he replied, clearly embarrassed. He had had all afternoon to try again.

  'Ach du lieber Gott!' Petra exclaimed, as she often did to express surprise. 'Michele! That's not good enough!'

  ‘I’ll call him tomorrow,' he said, winking at her. 'Now isn't exactly the time, is it?'

  But she didn't appreciate that wink, which she found a little too dismissive. She felt guilty about her friend and mortified by her husband's thoughtlessness. She loved Italy, her adopted country, but she didn't always like the Italians' devil-may-care attitude, which was so different from German rigour. In important things, she found that rigour - and admired it - in her Michele, so she was all the more disconcerted now by how negligent he had been towards his closest friend. Of course, she realised that he was going through a hard time at the moment. He seemed to her more stressed than usual and she felt sorry about that. But for her, friendship was sacred.

  It was sacred for him, too, and now he sat there consumed by regret, in a silence heavy with his wife's disapproval.

  The silence was broken by the ringing of his mobile phone.

  'It's him!' Petra exclaimed, brightening up.

  But it wasn't his private phone, it was his work phone.

  'Gianni here.' 'At this hour?'

  'Why, am I disturbing you? I'm sorry, but I'm working. There's this annoying fucking superintendent I know who makes me do all these absurd things ..."

  'I'm working, too,' Ferrara lied, looking furtively at Petra, who, apart from anything else, couldn't stand lies.

  'Then listen to me. The news isn't good.'

  'I take it you didn't find anything,' Ferrara said, his heart sinking at the thought that this had been another wasted day.

  'No, you don't get it at all. There are bloodstains, and lots of them, and not just bloodstains. There are other stains, too. Transparent ones, which have hardened to a crust. . . almost certainly sperm.'

  'Excellent, Gianni!' Ferrara cried, unable to contain himself.

  'For you, yes . . . but I'll have to start with the cans again. I can't go any further with the jeans.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because to continue analysing them, I'd have to get authorisation from the deputy prosecutor. Further tests would destroy the fabric and may be unrepeatable. I have to follow the law. May I ask if there's anyone actually under investigation in this
case?'

  It was true. In cases where an unrepeatable test needs to be carried out on a person, thing or place which is subject to modification, the Prosecutor must, at the earliest opportunity, inform the person under investigation, that person's counsel and the victim of the crime, specifying the day, the hour and the place at which the test is to be carried out and giving them the chance to appoint their own technical experts, who then have the right to be present when the task is carried out and to make their own observations and reservations.

  'Not yet, Gianni,' Ferrara admitted, resigned to the idea that he would once again have to call Anna Giulietti, who had disconcerted him somewhat with her defence of the Freemasons. 'But you're right, we'll have to follow the accepted procedure.'

  'So talk to the deputy prosecutor and let me know. In the meantime the material will remain here at your disposal.'

  'Thanks, Gianni. I owe you dinner. Ever eaten pezzogna?'

  'What's that? Vegetable soup?'

  'Make a note of it. If I don't buy you pezzogna for dinner before the end of the summer, then you really are entitled never to talk to me again.'

  'No, the reason I won't talk to you is because you're making me sift through rubbish for no reason, remember that.'

  Later, on the way home, Petra felt her spirits lightening, hearing her husband whistle a tune from The Barber of Seville as he drove through the night. And so she repressed for the moment what he called - making fun of her - 'the unsuppressable Teutonic gene'. It was not until they reached home that, unable to hold back any longer, she again reminded him of his unforgivably thoughtless attitude towards his friend.

  7

  The first thing Michele Ferrara did on the morning of Sunday August the fifth was to call Massimo. He and Petra were on the terrace, where they were having breakfast: the usual German-style breakfast made entirely with Italian ingredients. Petra often joked that it expressed the alliance between their two countries better than any bilateral treaty. To which Ferrara always replied that it was expressed even better in their marriage.

  '"The number you have called is unobtainable at the moment",' Ferrara recited, mimicking the recorded voice he heard.

  'He's probably sleeping and took the phone off the hook. Nothing unusual about that. It's Sunday, he's on holiday. He must have gone to bed late.'

  'Of course . . . Lucky him. But that means I have to carry my remorse around with me.'

  'Good, you deserve it!' Petra said, wickedly. 'I hope he sleeps till midday!'

  'Too bad if he does,' Ferrara replied, the solemnity of his voice belied by the amused look in his eyes. 'He's going to miss the heartfelt apologies of the head of the Squadra Mobile.'

  'At least he's having a rest. You should try it some time.'

  'Well, right now, I'm going to have a shower,' he announced, finishing the last slice of ham and standing up.

  Later, washed and dressed in his Sunday best, he called Anna Giulietti.

  After a few fruitless attempts to reach her, he got her on her mobile.

  'Michele, why on earth are you phoning me at this hour? And on a Sunday? Is there news?'

  'Yes, there is. I know you're not on duty, but I need your help.'

  He updated her on what Gianni Fuschi had discovered.

  'That's good,' she commented. 'But if it's an unrepeatable act, we'll have to follow procedure.'

  'Isn't there any way we can get round it? After all, we don't have anyone under investigation yet, we don't even know who the victim's family are, and we really need a result as soon as possible. You do see that, don't you?'

  'Yes, Michele, I do, but you're talking to a representative of the Prosecutor's Department and procedure has to be respected . . . But let me think about it. I'll call you back later.'

  ‘I’ll wait until I hear from you, then.'

  'I promise I'll call.'

  They hung up.

  'How about trying Massimo again?' Petra suggested. Ferrara did so.

  The same unfailingly polite recorded message. 'Too bad for him.' He kissed his wife in the doorway. 'See you later.'

  'You'll be back for lunch, won't you?'

  'Of course, if the Commissioner doesn't kill me.'

  Commissioner Lepri and Chief Superintendent Ferrara often met on Sundays. Sometimes it was a planned meeting - they would take advantage of the fact that it was a quiet day to sum up the week that had just passed and to map out the one ahead - but more often it was by chance: there were so few people in the building, they couldn't help bumping into one another.

  That Sunday, they could hardly avoid meeting, and it was up to him to see Lepri first before the Commissioner sent for him or, worse still, pounced on him in his office. Lepri wouldn't be in a good mood if that happened: it would have meant that he had had to come all the way downstairs, and his already ruddy complexion would be quite purple with the exertion.

  So Ferrara went upstairs, after a last vain attempt to speak to Massimo. He was calm, and ready for the confrontation. He had decided to try and stay as correct and civil as possible.

  Riccardo Lepri was not an irascible person and was more inclined towards mediation than conflict. In face to face discussions, he preferred to win over the other side by appearing flexible and understanding. On rare occasions when he lost his temper, however, he exploded with a vehemence which went beyond all bounds of reasonable behaviour, with consequences that were impossible to predict. Michele Ferrara entered his office ready to be the target of one of these rages.

  The Commissioner's welcome caught him completely off guard.

  He was sitting at his shiny desk, reading the newspapers. He looked up from them and smiled. 'Ah, good morning, Chief Superintendent. Come in, take a seat. Would you like a coffee? Or would you prefer a nice glass of cold water on a hot day like today?'

  'Water would be fine, thanks,' he replied warily. This opening could well be deceptive, he thought, and the explosion was still to come. But he had not noticed any malice or irony in the Commissioner's words.

  Lepri poured the water and handed him the glass. Ferrara sat down in the small armchair on the left reserved for visitors.

  'Take your jacket off, if you like,' Lepri went on. He himself was in his shirtsleeves, although he had not loosened his collar and his tie was impeccably knotted. 'Florence in August is worse than an oven. No surprise our Dante's best work was the Inferno, don't you think?'

  Ferrara said nothing, not sure what to reply.

  'What are we doing here in August - and on a Sunday, too? Our duty, of course! As ever . . . Always too much to do, eh, Chief Superintendent?'

  Here comes the first thrust, Ferrara thought. 'That's why I came to apologise—' he began.

  'For what?' Lepri seemed genuinely surprised.

  'For not calling you back.'

  'Oh, please, that's water under the bridge. I knew you were busy. How could I not? I'm always so busy myself. No, don't worry. All I wanted to know was whether you're making any progress. I hope this thing can be resolved quickly and without fuss. We wouldn't want the world to think Florence is a city full of prostitutes and junkies. Heaven forbid!'

  'Thank you for being so understanding. I'm doing my best, but it's rather a complicated case.'

  'Go on.'

  We're dealing with a minor, probably an immigrant, most likely not an addict, but in all probability, given what we know so far - and we're still in the very early stages - drugged and raped by one or more people. These same people then took her and dumped her in the place where she was found - either because they thought she was dead, or because she was in a very serious condition. As subsequent events unfortunately demonstrated.'

  As he spoke, Ferrara realised that he had lost his reserve and was addressing the Commissioner as if thinking aloud to a colleague.

  A real murder, then,' Riccardo Lepri commented, sympathetically. 'Homicide. A nasty story. Any suspects?'

  'Not at the moment. But what we've found out so far would tend to point in the di
rection of either drug pushers or paedophiles, because although we're not sure of the girl's age we think she could be quite young. We can't rule out the possibility that she was gang-raped or that she was forced to have sex at one of those infamous parties involving adults and children . . .'

  Lepri made an irritated gesture. But it wasn't aimed at Ferrara. The existence of these paedophile parties was one of the most persistent urban legends of Florence. It resurfaced from time to time, and in some cases the police had come quite close to getting somewhere, but somehow or other, the whole thing always fizzled out. The reason, Ferrara tended to think, was that the people who organised the parties belonged to the upper echelons of society and could count on protection at high levels.

  Lepri was probably thinking the same thing, and shuddering at the thought of the scandal that would be caused by a wide-ranging investigation that led in that direction.

  'Let's hope not, Ferrara, let's hope not! Once again, I must impress upon you how important it is to be discreet. You know I trust you. Don't complicate my August, eh?' He wagged his index finger in a jokily threatening manner, then added, 'You said she might be an immigrant?'

  Almost certainly'

  'Poor girl,' he said, and the implication was, 'Weigh it up: an insignificant illegal immigrant on one side, the reputations of the finest names in the city on the other.' But he didn't say this. It was up to Ferrara to draw his own conclusions.