The last phone call came from the inspector on duty in the operations room at Headquarters.
'Chief, a woman named Elisa Rocca has just been brought in drunk. She claims she knows you.'
This was true.
Elisa Rocca was thirty-five years old, but looked more than fifty. She was short and plump, with a light complexion, dark eyes, and black shoulder-length hair. She had been a prostitute since she was young and some years earlier had told him a few things in confidence which had helped him to track down a ring of pimps who were running high-class call girls from various apartments in the historical centre.
'That's right. Treat her nicely, she's down on her luck.'
'She's drunk, chief, and she wants to talk to you.'
'Oh, no, for Heaven's sake!' he said, but there was no malice in his words: it was just another way of making himself feel at home again.
'She's going on and on about the girl from the Ospedale Nuovo.'
'Don't let her go!' he ordered. 'I'll send someone straightaway' Obviously there was no point in going himself. The Stella case was practically solved now, and whatever that poor, prematurely-aged prostitute could tell them was unlikely to add much they didn't already know. He had other things to think about, and above all to do.
He called Fanti and told him to ask Ascalchi to deal with it. Then, as Fanti was walking away, he had second thoughts and added, And tell him to take Inspector Venturi with him. He knows her well.'
'He lives in the Via Sant'Andrea, near the harbour. Nothing especially luxurious - an apartment on the second floor of an ordinary-looking building, early twentieth century'
Rizzo, back from Viareggio, was delivering his report on Salvatore Laprua.
'He didn't come out during the time I was there. In the neighbourhood he's known as a polite, softly spoken person. He's been living there for several years with his wife, they don't have any particular friends, they're old and don't get out much. Just to do the shopping, or sometimes they take a stroll down to the sea.'
'Do they ever go to the harbour?'
'He does sometimes, but not often. And he always goes alone, never with his wife. He has a manager who runs the fishing fleet for him. He doesn't deal with it himself.'
'Not surprising, if it's just a cover. Let's keep him under surveillance, shall we?'
'Sergi and two constables are at the harbour, another two are keeping watch on the house.'
'Good. Deputy Prosecutor Giulietti has given us authorisation to tap his phones. I'll leave you to see to that. Thanks.'
Serpico was sitting under the awning of the Piccolo Tito on the Lungomolo Corrado del Greco, savouring a granita.
With his long hair, unkempt beard, ripped jeans and Iron Maiden ‘I-shirt, he looked like a tourist mingling with the regulars in the bar, enjoying the merry, colourful spectacle of the small fish market, where the fishermen who had returned from fishing all night were displaying their wares, as they did every morning.
They moored alongside the canal, set up low metal stalls in front of their boats, and arranged the crates of fish on them. Many of the fish were still alive.
The quayside was packed with people looking around in fascination and buying contentedly.
'Haven't you ordered anything for me?' Officer Scugni asked, sitting down next to Sergi. He was also wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and had a Nikon digital camera slung across his shoulder.
'Yes, a coffee, but it was getting cold so I drank it myself. What do you want?' 'I'll have a granita, too.'
'It's better if you go inside and order it, they take forever here.'
When he came back, Sergi gave him a questioning look.
'They're not back yet,' Scugni said. 'I checked with the others and they told me that sometimes they're late back because they go a long way out to sea, and when they do come back they're heavily loaded. They're easy to recognise, because they have three large boats, the biggest ones around, and they always travel together. They're called Alfio, Vito and Tonio.'
'That's them,' Sergi said, seeing two of the three trawlers approaching the mouth of the canal. The third soon appeared. 'Let's go.'
They watched as the three forty-foot fibreglass Merlin Craft with their two 350-horsepower engines docked. The boats attracted a clientele of connoisseurs, who had been waiting patiently for them. They did not put out stalls, but sold straight from the boats to the most insistent customers, a few crates going directly to restaurant owners. But most of the fish were quickly loaded onto a white van bearing the words La Prua Fisheries on the side.
Sergi made a note of the licence number. He and Scugni walked to the anonymous silver Fiat Punto, got in, and drove to the harbour exit. When they saw the van come out, they started following it, making sure there were a few cars between them.
The van took the autostrada leading north.
It exited at the Carrara tollbooth and set off in the direction of Carrara itself, but bypassed the town and instead took the mountain road. Afraid he would lose sight of it, Sergi put on speed, and managed to keep it in view without being spotted.
Before Colonnata, the van turned left towards Torano and Fantiscritti. There were only the two vehicles on the road now, and Sergi slowed down, as if undecided on the road to follow, then also turned left.
The van was gone.
He put on speed.
He drove round in a long curve, but the van was nowhere to be seen.
After driving another four hundred yards or so, Sergi and Scugni spotted it parked inside a quarry. They made a note of the quarry number: 206.
Elisa Rocca was sitting on a chair in one of the waiting rooms on the ground floor, shivering despite the heat, and nursing a plastic cup of coffee which a constable had offered her.
She looked up when Ascalchi and Venturi came in.
'Look who's here!' Venturi said, sitting down on the chair next to her. 'They say you drank a few glasses too many'
Elisa tried to smile, then, turning to Ascalchi, said, 'I don't know you . . . We've never met, have we?'
'This is Superintendent Ascalchi,' Venturi said.
'But I wanted to talk to Ferrara.'
'He's not here, but we spoke to him on the phone and he told us to come and hear what you have to say. Then we'll report back to him.' Being near her, Venturi could smell her: the unpleasant odour of someone who hasn't washed for several days.
Elisa said nothing.
'I haven't seen you for a while,' Venturi went on.
She looked down at the floor and smiled slightly, but did not reply.
'Elisa,' Venturi said, 'the chief said you can talk to us ... Is something the matter? Is someone giving you trouble?'
Still she said nothing.
She seemed lost in thought.
Ascalchi was starting to get impatient.
It was Venturi who spoke again, almost as if to forestall him. 'If you won't talk, Elisa, we can't help you.'
She looked up. Her eyes were watery and quite wary, as if she had suddenly returned to the real world. 'Inspector,' she started to murmur in a thin voice and a calm tone, 'I'd stopped drinking ... I was on medication . . . but then
She broke off.
A pause.
'Then what? Tell us, Elisa, the chief wants to know what you have to say'
She glanced at Ascalchi, then looked Venturi right in the eyes and said, 'I don't want to talk to you
She broke off again.
'What is it?' Venturi insisted. 'What's worrying you?'
'I don't know if I can tell you,' she said.
'If there's something you need to say, Elisa, you can tell us.'
'I know something about the girl.'
Silence.
'The one who was found drugged . . . the one they wrote about in La Nazione.'
Ascalchi remained impassive, but Venturi nodded. 'What do you know about her?' he asked.
'You won't believe me,' she replied, 'because I'm a drunk and a schizophrenic'
'I know you, E
lisa,' Venturi said softly, 'and I know the chief thinks a lot of you.'
'I know that, and that's why I want to talk to him.' 'He's not here. I told you.'
'Then tell him I knew the girl. I know who she is and where she comes from, and I even know who killed her . . .' Another pause.
Ascalchi intervened for the first time. 'Who? You have to tell us, signora. You can't keep quiet now!'
'But you have to protect me ... I'm scared. Let me talk to Ferrara
'Don't worry,' Venturi said. 'You mustn't be scared, the chief will take care of you, you'll see.'
'Come on, now, who was she?' Ascalchi insisted. But Elisa did not reply.
Ascalchi exchanged glances with Venturi, who immediately left the room. They had understood each other. Ferrara had to be involved.
At that moment, Ferrara was filling Luigi Ciuffi in on what Serpico had told him over the phone on his way back from Carrara.
'I'd say it all fits,' Ciuffi said when Ferrara had finished. And I'm ready to bet on two things. That if we stopped the van, we'd find something interesting in the stomachs of those fish.'
Ferrara nodded. And the other thing?'
'That if we asked the Port Authority in Viareggio to monitor the three trawlers when they go out, we'd find they sometimes go well beyond territorial waters, to meet up with a ship from somewhere in Asia which supplies them with these fish that have something interesting in their stomachs.'
'You've got me,' Ferrara said. 'I'd lose both bets. I think the itinerary is pretty clear now. They get the drugs out at sea, take it to the quarries where they cut it, and then send it to
America in blocks of marble and around Italy mixed with powder . . . And Laprua's in charge of everything.'
'No doubt about it. In my opinion we should simply nab them the next time they come back with a consignment. I assume they don't get supplies every time they go out, but with the cooperation of the Port Authority we can easily discover when they go out of territorial waters and we'll be able to stop them when they come back.'
'I agree. Will you see about contacting them? In the meantime I'll inform the deputy prosecutor and get the authorisations.'
'Perfect.'
Ciuffi left the room and Ferrara phoned Anna Giulietti. After the call, he sat back in his armchair and lit a cigar.
'Chief,' Fanti said, putting his head round the door, 'Venturi says the drunk woman has some important information, but she'll only speak to you. She says she knows who killed Stella.'
We know that, too, Ferrara thought with a smile, but it was worth hearing her version, and anyway he had a bit of time on his hands. 'Tell him to bring her here.'
33
Elisa was opposite Ferrara.
He had watched her curiously as she entered the room. She had seemed quite unsteady on her feet, was a good few pounds heavier than when he had first met her, and her eyes, which had always been sad, now also seemed scared.
'I wanted to talk to you,' she said as soon as she had sat down on the visitor's chair.
'I just arrived and they told me . . . But why have you started drinking again?'
'I haven't started again, I mean, it isn't that ... I mean, I was taking the medication . . . but I've been so worried lately. I had to have it . . .' She burst into tears.
'Cheer up, Elisa, don't do that.'
He stood up from his chair, went around the desk, sat down next to her, and handed her a paper handkerchief. Then he called Fanti and told him to bring in a bottle of water and two coffees.
Elisa wiped her eyes. She seemed even sadder.
He tried to comfort her, and made her promise she wouldn't drink again. 'So tell me what happened,' he said gently.
'I don't even know . . . Poor Anila . . . She wasn't a junkie, you know.'
'The girl who died in the Ospedale Nuovo?'
'That's her . . . but she didn't just die, they killed her, it was her brother, I know it was, it was bound to end like that sooner or later.'
'Tell it from the beginning,' Ferrara said. He was intrigued: what she had just said introduced a whole new element into the story. Alcohol-induced hallucinations, maybe, but best to get to the bottom of it.
'I don't know where to start.'
'Did you know her?'
A bit. I felt sorry for her.'
'How did you meet her?'
Elisa did not reply. She looked around warily.
'Well?'
'It wasn't that I saw a lot of her, like I said . . .'
'I understand, but where did you meet her?'
'In my apartment,' she replied, clearly uncomfortable.
'How come?'
'I don't want this to get out. It's just that sometimes I . . . how else am I supposed to live?' 'Sometimes what, Elisa?'
'Lend my apartment to an old client, who brings a friend there, you know what I mean?'
'Yes, and don't worry . . . But you mustn't do it again, okay?'
'Okay,' she lied.
'So one of your clients brought Anila?'
Elisa nodded.
'When?'
'The first time was more than a year ago.' 'Wasn't she just a child?'
'Yes, that's why I felt sorry for her.' 'And who was the client?' 'I can't tell you that.'
Ferrara let it go for the moment. He would come back to it later.
'But he wasn't the one who brought her,' Elisa continued. 'She came with her brother, an Albanian named Viktor, who came back later to pick her up.'
The name made Ferrara prick up his ears. Guzzi had said in his report to Ciuffi that the Albanians' boss was named Viktor.
'What kind of man was he?'
'He's a violent man. He's the one who killed her, I'm sure of it. But if he finds out I told you, he'll kill me, too.' 'Can you describe him?'
'Not really . . . tall, fair hair, ugly face, a squashed nose . . .'
All right. How many times did they come?'
She thought it over. 'Three in all, I think.'
'So you didn't exactly meet her. You just saw her. I assume you didn't stay there?'
'Oh, no,' she replied, almost indignantly. 'I had to leave, but twice the brother came back late to pick her up and I got back just as the client was leaving and he asked me to keep her company ... I was waiting downstairs, you know?'
And what did she say to you?'
'That she was scared . . . She didn't speak much Italian, and she cried all the time, poor girl . . . She'd come from Albania with her brother, who'd been fucking her - pardon my language - since she was six. He also beat her, and sold her . . . He always told her he loved her, but then he made her do things . . . She told me this the last time, then I never saw her again — until I saw her picture in the paper.'
'When was this last time?'
A month ago, more or less . . .'
And what about Viktor? Did you see him again?'
'No, thank God,' she said with a shudder.
'What makes you think he killed her?'
'Because I know she wasn't a junkie . . . She was just a poor kid with a bastard for a brother, but she was clean. If only you'd seen her. He was the one who drugged her, the animal! And it killed her.'
'I see . . . But couldn't it have been your client who killed her?'
'No, no - he's a respectable guy, in public relations, a rich man, he wouldn't give her that shit.'
P for public relations, P for Palladiani, Ferrara thought, remembering the cufflink and feeling almost dazed by this tangle of new connections.
'What did you say his name was?' he asked.
'Ugo, Ugo Palladiani, you know, the guy . . .' Elisa replied, before realising she had fallen into the trap. 'Oh, no! I don't want him to find out
'Don't worry, I already knew. And anyway, you don't need to protect his name any more. He's also dead.'
She looked puzzled. 'What do you mean?'
'It happens, unfortunately,' was all he said.
She shook her head and her eyes again filled with tears.
'Stella's real name is Anila,' Ferrara went on. 'She's the sister of an Albanian named Viktor, who treats her like a slave. On the morning of July twenty-ninth, she's found not far from a factory we know used to belong to Ugo Palladiani. Palladiani, who has already had contact with Anila, is killed on the night of the fourth to the fifth of August, a few days after the girl's death. Ugo is married to Simonetta Tonelli, the leaseholder of three quarries in the Carrara area. The quarries are run by a company which uses them as part of a drug trafficking racket. Among those involved in the racket are a Florentine and two Albanians whose boss, as it happens, is named Viktor. Simonetta Palladiani disappears on the day of her husband's murder together with my friend Massimo Verga . . . What does it all mean?'
Rizzo would have given half his salary to have the answer, and the other half to be able to light a cigarette, but he knew his chief wouldn't let him because, according to him, it ruined the smell of his cigar.
He had to be content with breathing in that foul stench.
Death in Tuscany Page 28
