'Michele, Michele. Wake up, Michele!' Petra was calling him, shaking him gently, but it was hard to emerge from the nightmare.
He was in their hotel room, and sunlight was flooding in.
He couldn't remember anything about last night, just that he had flung himself onto a deckchair by the seashore. He hadn't been aware of anything when Petra, with the aid of the porter, had lifted him from the chair, helped him up to their room, and put him to bed.
He could clearly smell coffee. He put out his hand and took his wristwatch from the bedside table. It was 8.20. 'My God!' he exclaimed.
'I know, but I couldn't wake you earlier. You didn't sleep much, and when you did you slept badly. You were tossing and turning and moaning in your sleep all night. You didn't settle until about six in the morning. How could I have dared to . . .?'
He jumped out of bed and made as if to go to the bathroom to have a wash, but Petra held him back.
'Let's have breakfast first, before it gets cold.'
The tray on the low table was laid the way they liked it. A tea pot, a coffee pot, a jug of milk, fresh orange juice, fruit, a basket of rolls and brioches, five little glass jars containing five different kinds of jam, and one jar of honey.
Ferrara realised that in spite of everything he was hungry.
As he devoured the food, he told her his nightmare.
'Brrr!' she said, smiling. It was the first time she had smiled since hearing about Massimo. 'That's good!'
'What do you mean?'
'Bad dreams help us to get rid of our feelings. You'll feel better today, you'll see.'
He found that hard to believe, remembering the way Massimo had called to him in the dream, begging for help. But if he was calling him, he thought, somewhat illogically, that meant he was still alive. And strangely this thought did make him feel better.
Any news?' he asked, seeing that Petra had already read the newspapers while he was asleep. She must have had them brought up with the breakfast.
'Unfortunately not. There's the news of Claudia Pizzi, but nothing we don't already know. Lojelo kept his word, your name isn't mentioned.'
'No news is good news,' he caught himself answering.
'You see? You're better already.'
As he washed, Ferrara made plans for the day.
He felt reenergised, and when he was ready the first thing he did was to call Lojelo.
'Thank you for Claudia Pizzi's article, Chief Superintendent. It's a bit worrying. She seemed to be suggesting some kind of Mafia involvement in the area, which I think is unlikely. There was a rumour going round to that effect a few years ago, about some businessman who was said to be money laundering, but then it all died down. But it's a line of inquiry we can't rule out. After all, she was killed -shot with a revolver, in fact.'
A revolver? Not an automatic?'
'The bullet wounds came from a .38 calibre special, and we haven't found any cases . . . not that it's easy in the middle of a wood, of course.'
'It could well be a Mafia weapon. We'll have to check up on Sicilian businesses in the area. I know they don't have to be connected with the Mafia just because they're Sicilian, of course, I'd be the first to admit that. But Claudia Pizzi was on to something, and we owe her that much, I think, don't you? In the meantime, have you managed to find out anything about the quarries?'
'Not yet. Today's Saturday, and the land registry officer is away for the weekend with his family. But he'll be back on Monday and I'm sure I'll get what I need from him then.'
'Good. Anything else new?'
'We're proceeding with the interviews. Her boyfriend, her relatives, friends, whoever can tell us anything about her. This afternoon we're expecting the local news editor of Il Tirreno and two colleagues who worked quite closely with her. Maybe they know something more about this Mafia story'
'Let's hope so. Can I help you with anything?'
'Not for the moment, unless you want to sit in on the interviews,' Lojelo said, then paused almost imperceptibly before adding, 'We'd really like it if you could.'
'I don't know,' Ferrara temporised, not wanting to make Lojelo uncomfortable. 'I may drop by later, but I can't guarantee anything. Please keep me informed, though, if you find out anything. Even the smallest thing.'
'That goes without saying, Chief Superintendent!' Lojelo replied, with what seemed like a touch of relief. Or was it only Ferrara's imagination?
'There are at least three places we need to visit today' he said to Petra as soon as he had put the phone down. 'Simonetta Palladiani's art gallery, which is in Forte dei Marmi. Romano's restaurant, where she had dinner with Massimo on the night of the murder, which is in Viareggio. And the beach establishment he went to, wherever that is. Where should we start?' 'I'd start with the nearest place.'
'The bathing establishment, then . . . But there's a problem . . .' 'Which is?'
'If the Carabinieri find out I'm sticking my nose in, there'll be serious trouble this time. This really is their area.'
'So are Forte and Viareggio, if it comes to that. They're practically one town. We walked from one to the other yesterday, remember? Come on, let's be tourists and look for Massimo to start with. If they were such good friends' -Ferrara noticed that she had avoided using the word 'lovers' -'it's likely he rented a hut in whichever bathing establishment she was a member of, don't you think?'
'Good point. And in Forte and Viareggio?'
'We'll think of something,' Petra replied. She seemed to be taking the initiative, which made him smile. He wondered where she got the energy from. She was going through the same torments as him, like him she had hardly slept in the last few nights, and she'd been up all last night watching over him. She hadn't even had the chance to get rid of her tension and frustration in a nightmare, as far as he knew.
It did not occur to him that it might be his own renewed strength which had given her a new lease of life. Besides, before the blow of Massimo's disappearance, she had always been a practical, energetic and determined woman.
As they were about to leave, the phone rang. It was Rizzo, reporting the finding of the cufflink and announcing that he had emailed him a photo of it.
'Congratulations, Rizzo! Excellent. I'll look at it and call you back later, I'm just on my way out.'
Any news?'
'No. Nothing good, anyway. Take a look at today's papers. A journalist on Il Tirreno, who may have known something about Simonetta Palladiani, has been murdered. I'll talk to you about it later.'
All right, chief.'
'You're the chief now. Get cracking, you may be on to something.'
On Saturday morning the beaches, already full during the week, overflowed. A gaily-coloured, half-naked crowd kept flooding into the bathing establishments from the small streets that descended at right angles to the seafront, and in more than one the Ferraras had to queue at the cash desk or the bar before anyone would listen to them.
Starting with the bathing establishment directly opposite Simonetta's villa, they fortunately did not have to go too far to trace the one that had the name Massimo Verga on its list. It was the Blue Seagull, a bit further along the seafront and somewhat smarter than some of the others. Massimo was registered there as a permanent guest of Simonetta Palladiani, who had been a member for several years.
The manager, a bright and breezy woman of about fifty, friendly and talkative, said she was upset by what had happened at the villa and worried by the absence of Simonetta and her friend: he was 'a real gentleman, polite, well read,' she said, and she hoped she would see him again soon.
Had she been following the articles in Il Tirreno?
No, she was far too busy to read the newspapers. But they kept them for their members, and some of them had spoken to her about it. Besides, the villa was nearby, so obviously she knew absolutely everything there was to know.
And had she heard about the journalist that morning?
No, what journalist?
The one from Il Tirreno.
The conversation was getting nowhere. Ferrara wanted to go, but Petra insisted, 'You know, we were supposed to be meeting Massimo here last Saturday, but we couldn't make it. He was so keen on having us meet Simonetta, I think he was in love with her ..."
'I think you may be right! Her poor husband, the man who died ... or did they kill him . . . well, he died anyway, may he rest in peace . . . anyway it was none of his business, he wasn't her real husband any more, everyone knows that. But if you'd come here last Saturday, you wouldn't have seen her. She wasn't here. He came on his own. I remember it well because at lunchtime he sat down at that table over there, the third one in the second row, you see? He only had an orange juice and sat there smoking his pipe, looking a bit absent. He must have been feeling lost without her!'
'And how was he when they were together?'
Always cheerful, chatty, very attentive ... He talked a lot, you know? A walking encyclopaedia. Like I said, he was well read.'
'Did they have friends here?'
'No. She was always quite reserved. She knew a few people through her work, but she was always a bit . . . formal with them. They spoke sometimes to people, the way you do, but you know how it is. A chat sometimes with their neighbours or with someone on the beach, but in general they kept themselves to themselves. They seemed to have a lot to say to each other, as if they were plotting something!'
Ferrara did not appreciate her choice of words.
'Thank you, signora. I hope I get a chance to see her when she gets back. We're sure to come and visit him some time.'
They left and walked to their car. Forte dei Marmi was next on their list.
'You're very good!' Ferrara complimented Petra.
'But we didn't find out anything.'
'That's not quite true. If he was here on his own, that means Simonetta stayed at home, either quarrelling with her husband or making up with him. It would be nice to know which. If they did make up, she's less likely to have killed him, don't you think?'
'Right. . :
A pity there's no one they were friendly with in that place who could tell us more . . . Never mind! At least we can cross the beach off our list. It's just a question of being methodical.'
'If you say so.'
They would have done better to walk, even in that heat, because finding somewhere to park in Forte dei Marmi on a Saturday, the day of the famous market which attracts crowds of tourists and locals from all along the Versilia coast, is practically impossible. After driving around in vain for more than half an hour, Ferrara left the Mercedes in the car park of a police station, displaying the red and white Ministry of the Interior signal paddle, which he usually kept in his car. God help them!
The Archivolto gallery was in the Via Roma, a small street that came out onto the Piazza Garibaldi near the small fortress built by Grand Duke Leopold I of Tuscany in the years 1782-1788 as a garrison and customs house, around which the town had developed.
The gallery consisted of two not very large white rooms. To get from one to the other, you went through a brick arch supported by white marble columns. There were paintings by contemporary artists on the walls, some incomprehensible, others interesting, and futuristic sculptures on various kinds of pedestal scattered through the two rooms.
A young woman in a white linen tailored suit and purple blouse was sitting at a tinted glass desk that did nothing to hide her long tanned legs - which may have been the intention. She was busy studying, or pretending to study, a catalogue, and did not look up.
Ferrara looked at one of the paintings, a large canvas, mostly light brown in colour, with a black stripe on the right. Against this brown background, various objects stood out, painted in black and grey with a technique that seemed quite unusual. They included a chair in the bottom left-hand corner and half a Pinocchio in the top right-hand corner. Against the black stripe was a white bird without wings. He decided he liked the painting, noted the name of the painter, and went up to the young woman with the catalogue.
'Um . . . Excuse me . . .'
'Yes?' she replied in a melodious voice, and at last looked up. Her eyes were violet, like her blouse.
'I was looking for Signora Palladiani.' For a moment, she seemed uncertain what to say, then made up her mind. 'She's not here.'
'That's strange. This is Saturday the eleventh, isn't it?' 'Yes.'
'The thing is ... we had an appointment. Didn't she say anything?'
'We've come all the way from Milan specially to see her,' Petra said.
The young woman sighed. 'I understand, but Signora Palladiani . . . Haven't you heard?'
'Heard what?' Petra asked, feigning surprise.
'She . . . she had to leave suddenly a week ago. Perhaps I could help you?'
'I don't know,' Ferrara said. 'We had an arrangement with her . . . she said she was going to show us some Baricchis, and a few other artists, too. When is she coming back?'
Tm afraid I can't tell you. It was very sudden, as I said.'
'But she has phoned you, hasn't she? Signora Palladiani must phone you to find out how things are going!'
'No, so far she hasn't called me.'
'And what about you? Don't you need to contact her?'
She was starting to become suspicious. ‘I’m sorry, but why are you asking me all these questions?'
'Because I have to see her!' Ferrara said, raising his voice, pretending to be annoyed. 'I've come here specially from Milan to do a big deal. I have a gallery in Brera, one of the biggest, and I'm offering Signora Palladiani an incredible opportunity! And now she's nowhere to be found . . . Who does she think she's dealing with? Look, I'm not wasting any more time. I want you to tell me, right now, where and how I can find her. I haven't come a hundred and eighty miles just for the pleasure of seeing your pretty little face! I'm a businessman! Give me her mobile number, her home number, anything, and please be quick about it!'
'I can't,' the young woman murmured, a little scared.
'Why not?'
'Let's go, Fausto,' Petra said, acting her part to perfection. 'If she can't she can't.'
'Please don't interfere. I'm not going to be made a fool of by some provincial gallery assistant!'
'Please, signore, I assure you I can't. I would if I could, but—'
Ferrara looked her full in the face. 'I don't like this at all. You're sure she hasn't phoned? You'd better not be lying because in my line of business my name means something, and I can make life very difficult for you! Why hasn't Signora Palladiani called me in all this time to cancel our appointment? Can you tell me that?'
'I don't know,' the young woman said, lowering her eyes. 'And I haven't lied to you.'
'I hope not! But if she gets in touch tell her Signor Benelli called, Fausto Benelli from Milan. Is that clear? Write it down!'
'Yes, Signor Benelli
On the autostrada to Viareggio they drew their conclusions. In the end, they had found out practically nothing. If Simonetta had run away, Ferrara thought, she would surely still have kept in contact with her business. But either the young woman with the violet eyes was very loyal to her - and a great actress, to boot - or Simonetta Palladiani really had disappeared, which was the likeliest hypothesis. It was the most reassuring too, because it meant she was innocent of the murder, but at the same time the least pleasant, because it meant that Massimo had disappeared along with her.
The journey took quite a while, because of the heavy traffic which slowed them down along the few miles separating the Versilia exit from the Viareggio exit, and then again at the entrance to the town.
Their visit to Romano's, one of the best restaurants in Viareggio, turned out to be more productive. The owner and the waiters were very kind, and understood how worried Signor Benelli - from Florence this time - must be by the absence of his associate who should have been back at work last Monday. But they couldn't tell him anything other than that the couple - who they remembered very well be
cause he was a handsome man and she was a gorgeous woman - had spent a wonderful evening. They had seemed calm and happy, like two people who seemed to have just-realised that they were madly in love. And the waiter who said this, who was gay, raised his eyes to heaven ecstatically.
If the Carabinieri had questioned them, too, they surely couldn't have gained the impression that the two 'accomplices' were hatching some deadly scheme that night!
But he knew that didn't matter. They were probably working on a different theory: that the two lovers had been surprised by the woman's husband, who had put up with a lot but couldn't get over the sight of them in bed together under his own roof - even though the roof wasn't really his, except in a figurative sense.
If that was the case, though, why was Ugo Palladiani found in the villa, at the foot of the stairs? Wouldn't he have been in the annex? Or had the Carabinieri found evidence that he had been dragged into the house? After all, the housekeeper had said that the house was absolutely tidy except for one bedroom. Was this the consistent evidence they were gathering?
No, it couldn't be. And the reason it couldn't be was that he knew perfectly well that Massimo had nothing to do with it, and if he hadn't, then neither had Simonetta ... Or had she killed both of them?
He was distracted from these reflections by another waiter, the one who had made the reservation, explaining to Petra that Simonetta Palladiani was not known there, whereas her husband was a regular who came there to eat every time he went out in the boat.
'What boat?' Ferrara asked.
Death in Tuscany Page 19
