'Yes, of course. Who is it?'
'His name is Pietro Franceschini and he lives in San Michele a Torri, not far from where the girl was found, but more towards Montelupo, in the Via Canto delle Gracchie. We've called him in. Do you want to talk to him?'
'Sure, let's go.'
He followed the inspector to his office, where Sergi was just offering coffee to a man and a woman. They were both middle-aged and rather nondescript. They both looked disoriented and intimidated by their surroundings.
After the usual introductions, Rizzo asked the man if he had been the person who had called the emergency services on the morning of 29 July.
Pietro Franceschini bowed his head in embarrassment and did not reply.
'The call was made from a public place with a phone card,' Violante said, in a gentle but firm tone. 'The same card that was used to call your home three times, your mother twice and your sister three times.'
The woman - the man's wife, whose name was Rita, shook him lightly by the arm. Answer them, Pietro.'
'Tell us the whole story,' 'Serpico' said, in a conciliatory tone. 'If you haven't done anything wrong, you have nothing to be afraid of. We're not accusing you, we just want to know'
'I didn't do anything,' the man said in a low voice, his head still bowed. 'I ... I don't know anything.'
'Violante, Sergi, would you mind leaving the room?' Rizzo said. It had occurred to him that the presence of so many officers was making the couple even more scared and uncomfortable. 'I'd like to talk to these two people alone.'
'Listen, Signor Franceschini,' he resumed as soon as the others had gone, 'we don't have anything against you. On the contrary! As far as we know, you simply did your duty as a citizen. You called the emergency services because someone needed help. If anything, you should be rewarded, not scared. That morning, a girl lay dying on the Scandicci road and someone used his phone card to make an emergency call. You didn't lose that card, because the calls my colleague mentioned were made before and after July twenty-ninth, do you understand? So if you don't want to talk, I can only assume that you were the one who put the girl there ..."
'No, officer, I swear!' the woman screamed. 'It wasn't him ... It was nothing to do with us. Pietro, Pietro, tell the superintendent! Oh, holy Mother of God.' She started to cry. 'Why don't you speak? Why don't you say anything? Seeing as they already know
'I made the call,' the man admitted in a low voice.
'I know. Why didn't you want to tell me?'
The man looked up at Rizzo, a lost expression in his eyes. 'We're simple people, we don't interfere in other people's business. We've never had any dealings with the police, we're clean ... I did what I had to do, and that's it. . .'
'I understand, don't think I don't. I was scared, too, the first time I set foot in this place,' Rizzo lied. 'We're the ones who hand out fines, who punish people . . . But do you know why we do it? To protect you, not to persecute you. I know, that's not the impression we give, and sometimes we make mistakes, too, and make things worse. But in general we don't, and what you don't see is all the things we do to make life better for you . . . Listen to me, Signor Franceschini.
Trust me, tell me the whole story, and everything will be all right, you'll see.'
'I didn't do anything. What do you want me to say?'
'What happened that morning?'
'I went with my wife to church, the parish church of Santa Maria in the Piazza Cioppi in Scandicci . . . Isn't that right, Rita? You tell him, then he'll believe me.'
'It's true, officer.'
'What time was that?'
'Before seven. My wife likes to go to mass early because we have a lot of things to do: feed the animals, clean the vegetable garden
'Of course, go on. You went to church and then what?'
'No, it was before we got to church, on the Via di Mosciano, the scenic bend, you know? The one on the road, after Domenico's restaurant ... I mean, after the bend, after the fork for San Martino alia Palma . . . just past it ... I had to stop because . . .'
'Because . . .?'
The man looked shamefaced. 'I had to relieve myself . . .' he admitted at last, turning red.
'It often happens to him in the morning,' his wife explained. 'He's a little incontinent, you know . . . He's being treated for it.'
He gave her a scathing look.
'Nothing wrong with that,' Rizzo said. 'It's not a crime. And then?'
'I went to the side of the clearing and did what I had to do, then as I was zipping up I saw something a little further along, to the left. It looked like a hand sticking out. I couldn't see it clearly, because it was just after the bend, when the wood starts to slope away'
And what did you do?'
'Well, I went to see what it was.' 'Did you go too, signora?'
'No, no. I stayed in the car. I was wearing my Sunday best. I didn't want to ruin my shoes ..."
'Did you find the girl?' Rizzo asked, addressing the man again.
'Yes, she was on the ground. I thought she was dead . . .' 'Did you go up to her?'
'I went a bit closer. She didn't have any shoes on. I saw she was breathing ... so I ran back to the car and called the emergency services from the first phone booth I could find.'
'Which was the right thing to do, as I said. Did you notice anything while you were still in the clearing?'
The man hesitated, and bowed his head again. 'No . . . nothing . . .'
It looked as if the woman was on the point of urging him to say more, but in the end she kept silent.
'Did you see anyone in the vicinity? Were there any cars parked nearby?'
No.'
'Did you see her shoes anywhere? Was there anything around that might indicate how she'd got there? A moped, for example?'
The man shook his head.
'So you really can't tell me anything else?'
'No, officer,' Pietro Franceschini replied.
All right. You can go for now. But first I'll have to take a written statement, Signor Franceschini. Please be patient. . . you've been a great help to us. Please, if you'd like to go into the waiting room.'
Glancing at his wife, the man nodded.
*
After the couple had gone out, Sergi and Violante came back in. Rizzo was just bringing them up to date when there was a knock at the door.
'Come in!' Violante said.
'It's Signor and Signora Franceschini again,' the officer who opened the door said. 'They want to speak to you.' Again?'
'They were halfway down the corridor, talking non-stop, then they asked me if they could see you again straightaway. They said it was urgent.'
'Send them in.'
Hesitantly, with a guilty air, the husband and wife came back in.
'Would you rather we were alone?' Rizzo asked.
The man shook his head. In his hand, he was holding a white handkerchief rolled up in a ball.
'I forgot to tell you ... to tell you ... I found this in the clearing . . . near that girl.' He held out the handkerchief.
Rizzo opened the improvised wrapping.
There was a small object inside.
Still holding it with the handkerchief, he lifted it to see it better.
It was a gold cufflink with a broken clip. Engraved on it was an elaborate design with an unusual symbol:
18
Michele Ferrara got to Lucca just before five o'clock on Friday afternoon.
Deputy Prosecutor Armando Lupo had sounded more formal and more reticent than Ferrara had expected when he had telephoned him to say hello and suggest they meet. That was why he had not told him the real reason for his visit - he simply said that, being on holiday in Marina di Pietrasanta and hearing that Lupo was now working in Lucca, he'd just like to drop in and say hello. Lupo's reaction suggested that he had been forewarned by the Carabinieri, and Ferrara felt slightly nervous as he got closer to his destination.
The Prosecutor's Department of Lucca was housed in a handsome one-storey red-
brick building in the Via Carducci, next to a pay car park, which was where he left his car. It was temporary accommodation, but looked as if it might end up being permanent, given how long it was taking to convert the former Galli Tassi complex in the centre of the city into prestigious new offices.
Ferrara walked in beneath the plexiglas roof and gave his name. He was led to Lupo's office. Lupo greeted him in the official manner their respective roles dictated, but there was nevertheless a certain warmth in the greeting.
The room was quite small and dark, so much so that even in the middle of the day it was necessary to keep the white neon light on. The furnishings were modest: a desk with a computer and printer, a few chairs, a bookcase, a sofa and two small armchairs all crammed against each other without enough space between them to move around in. Files were piled up in every corner and even strewn over the floor. Ferrara and Lupo took their seats as best they could.
'So you left Sicily too,' Ferrara began.
'A few months ago. Actually, I had to . . . I'll leave you to imagine the reasons, Chief Superintendent.'
That wasn't hard to do. He knew Sicily well, and he knew the difficulties that servants of the State, judges and policemen especially, had to confront every day, often jeopardising their own safety and that of their families. And he knew how hard a young deputy prosecutor had to fight against the Mafia in an area - the province of Palermo — which had always been particularly dangerous.
'I hope you like it here.'
'I'm getting used to it. How about you, how do you find Florence?'
'Florence isn't Palermo. Life's good, though I have to confess I often feel homesick for Sicily'
'Oh, yes! There are wonderful places in Sicily. A pity about the crime, though
Lupo broke off and was silent for a few moments. It was pointless to dwell on a subject that was painful to both of them.
'Can I offer you a coffee?' he asked. 'Yes, I'd like that.'
While they were waiting for the coffee to be brought in, Ferrara asked, 'Do you remember the case of the massacre in the Via Rosselli?' He was alluding to an event they had both lived through, in an attempt to re-establish the relationship they once had, which he needed desperately now.
'How could I forget?' Lupo replied. 'It's one of those things that really mark you when you're a prosecutor. And even after all this time, I have to tell you, I admired you a lot. You really did a good job.'
'My colleagues, too.'
'Oh yes, of course, that goes without saying.'
One April morning ten years earlier, a group of ruthless hitmen had opened fire on a car in the Via Rosselli, in Palermo, killing an entire family: a husband, wife and two children, both minors. Ferrara, in collaboration with his Sicilian and Calabrian colleagues, had managed to identify and arrest not only the hitmen - one of them a Calabrian, on loan from the Calabrian Mafia - but also the people who had sent them. At the time, Lupo had only recently entered the magistracy and was serving his apprenticeship in the Prosecutor's Department of Palermo. His superior was in charge of the investigation, and he had assisted him with all the enthusiasm of youth.
After the coffee, and the silence that followed this brief evocation of the past, Ferrara judged that the moment had come. 'I didn't come here just for the pleasure of seeing you again,' he said.
'I thought as much . . .' Lupo replied, his face darkening: it was a handsome, open face, still young but already deeply furrowed. And with all due respect, Chief Superintendent, I wouldn't like this meeting to be a source of embarrassment. You're on holiday, but I'm not and I have my job to do. Perhaps we could meet another time. I could come over to Marina and we could go for a swim
Stung but not surprised, Ferrara looked him straight in the eyes. 'It's not my intention to cause you any embarrassment.
And in fact I need you to do your job, not to have a swim. Not that I wouldn't like that, even though I don't think you'd appreciate the sea around here after Sicily'
'There's no need to beat around the bush, is there, Chief Superintendent? Not you and me. As I'm sure you must realise, I already know that you've involved yourself in an investigation by the Carabinieri, a murder investigation in which a friend of yours is a prime suspect. I also know that your behaviour hasn't exactly been exemplary, and that a request has gone through for disciplinary proceedings against you. Believe me, I felt sick when I heard about all this: sick at the thought that a friend of yours was so deeply involved, and even sicker when I was informed that Captain Fulvi had put in an official complaint about you. I tried to dissuade him, but it was too late. I'd have preferred not to be the person given the task of coordinating this investigation. It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me. But it's happened, so what can I do?'
‘I’m glad it's you,' Ferrara said. 'Don't worry about me, you carry on. I trust you. Do your duty, see it through to the end, don't let anyone else influence you - and that includes me - and I'm sure everything will work out fine.'
Lupo looked at Ferrara as if he was putting on an act, or didn't really understand the gravity of the situation.
'Whatever happened in that villa,' Ferrara went on, 'Massimo Verga had nothing to do with it. He can't have been the one who killed Ugo Palladiani.'
Lupo was sympathetic. 'I'd have said the same, if it had been my friend. In fact, I'd go further: as far as I'm concerned your friend is innocent until we have evidence to the contrary. The problem is that while we're sitting here talking, the evidence is piling up . . . Unfortunately, sometimes reality is a lot tougher than our illusions. I understand, but I beg you, don't make my task any more difficult than it already is . . .'
Ferrara weighed his words before answering. Then, slowly and emphatically, he said, 'I'm not harbouring any illusions. I've always had my feet planted firmly on the ground, and I know what I'm saying. Massimo Verga is a profoundly honest man. The fact is, the case is much more complicated than it seems. There was a journalist who realised that, who's now been murdered. Do you know anything about that?'
Armando Lupo frowned. He didn't want to get drawn into this. It might well be a trick to gain time, which was something he had feared from the start, knowing Ferrara's catlike shrewdness. But the news was difficult to ignore.
'What do you mean? No, I didn't know.'
'We recovered the body this morning - you'll read about it in the papers tomorrow.'
'But didn't you say you were on holiday?' Lupo asked, and it was hard to tell if he was surprised, being ironic, or frankly annoyed.
'Forget about that,' Ferrara replied, and he told him everything, from his first phone call to Claudia Pizzi to the sad outcome.
'Have you brought the article with you?' Lupo asked, after what seemed to Ferrara like a very long pause.
Ferrara handed him a disk. 'I'm sorry, but I don't have a printer at the hotel ..."
Lupo stood up, went to the computer, put the disk in, and opened the file. As he was reading, Ferrara stood up in turn and without being invited went and sat down in one of the small armchairs facing the desk.
'Well?' he asked anxiously, as soon as Lupo took his eyes off the screen.
'Where did you say this poor woman's body was found?' Lupo asked, turning to him with an inscrutable look on his face.
'On the road to the quarries, above Carrara.'
'That means it's within the jurisdiction of another Prosecutor's Department - Massa-Carrara.'
Ferrara felt himself being plunged back into the same old nightmare. Was it possible Lupo intended to wash his hands of this, like Pontius Pilate?
'I know that, but doesn't it seem obvious to you that there might be a connection between the two murders?'
'According to you. It was a theory, and notice I say "theory", dreamed up by a reporter on a provincial newspaper, someone desperate for a scoop. Where's the evidence?'
'It's up to us to find it,' Ferrara said, and immediately corrected himself, 'us and the Carabinieri. I know perfectly well it's just a theory, but it's a t
heory that got Claudia Pizzi murdered!'
Lupo seemed to hesitate for a moment. 'Yes . . . and as usual it's the Mafia's fault! Is that what this journalist was trying to prove? What do you want me to say?' He shrugged. My advice is to contact the Prosecutor's Department of Massa-Carrara. Don't you think this Pizzi woman could have been ... a bit out of control?'
'What do you mean?'
Lupo leaned back in his armchair, and sighed deeply. 'Surely you of all people should understand that . . . You maintain that Massimo Verga is an honourable man, and I want to believe you even though it has still to be proved, and then you bring me an article in which he's virtually accused of murder. On the basis of a prejudice, a cliche we're both familiar with. Massimo Verga is a Sicilian, ergo he's a Mafioso, ergo Ugo Palladiani was killed by the Mafia, not by his wife . . . Apart from the fact that according to this theory your friend is still a suspect, in my opinion it's also an insult to a whole region. We both know how much Sicily suffers from the presence of the Mafia, but fortunately the vast majority of the population are not Mafiosi. No, Chief Superintendent, I can't help you ... all I can do is give you some advice. Trust me when I say it's sincere. I feel I owe it to you because of the esteem and respect I have for you. My advice is to drop the Pietrasanta case; the Carabinieri are dealing with it and they're making progress, I can assure you of that. If your friend is innocent, he has nothing to fear, I promise you. And if he gets in touch with you, advise him to give himself up, please.'
There didn't seem to be any point in continuing to argue his case. It was obvious that Lupo had made his mind up and didn't intend to change it, not even for a policeman he said he respected.
Death in Tuscany Page 17
