A Florentine Death (33 page)

'He's someone who's got it in for homosexuals and for you, chief. Frankly, I don't understand the connection.'

But there had to be a connection, Ferrara thought, his nerves on edge again.

Anyway,' Rizzo said to distract him, almost as if he had read his mind, 'I don't think there's any reason to worry. It's obvious the man's in South America or Australia or somewhere by now. Just get used to it.'

'No. I can't drop this. I'll go to Switzerland, the United States, the Bahamas if necessary, but I have to find this Ricciardi. Him or his assets: if we can get our hands on them, we can stop him moving around. Poor Anna Giulietti! She'll scream if I ask for any more letters abroad!'

'Honestly, chief, if that's the path you're planning to go down, I think you should give up now'

'I can't
do
that. Don't forget I'm supposed to be the last victim. He could be waiting for me outside my building. He could shoot me any time he wanted.'

Not that he was worried about the possibility. In fact, he would have preferred a direct confrontation to this waiting game, this blind, meaningless activity, these endless questions without answers. But instinct told him it wouldn't happen like that. He'd only mentioned it to provoke Rizzo.

It worked. 'What do you want me to do, chief?' Rizzo asked.

'Keep going, don't let up. Concentrate on the banks. Try to find out if he has any other accounts here in Italy. I have the feeling

'Yes?'

Ferrara hesitated. 'Damn it, I still don't think he's gone abroad. I think he's hiding somewhere, not far from here. I know the most obvious thing to do would be to leave the country, but I don't believe it. And besides . . .' He hesitated again.

'Besides?' Rizzo insisted.

Ferrara said nothing for a while, chewing distractedly on a cigar he couldn't make up his mind to light.

'The two girls,' he said at last. 'I can't figure out where they fit in. They're the one false note. Everything else was done perfectly, apart from that stupid thing with the Porsche. Why kill four gay men, leaving himself enough time between the murders to carefully prepare the next one, and then suddenly kill two women, one after the other, and even let himself be seen by a woman living in the building where he was going to leave the bodies? Why did he mutilate one and not the other? Why, for that matter, did he have one of them living in his house? She wasn't his prisoner, she was his guest, the maid confirmed that. Don't you think something must have gone wrong?'

'But Cinzia Roberti had a letter carved on her face, you identified it yourself. Which proves she was part of the plan. Maybe Valentina Preti saw something connecting him to the murder and he had to get rid of her.'

'So why did he kill her first?'

'Maybe he knew that, as soon as he killed Cinzia, Valentina Preti would know it was him.'

'That may be true,' Ferrara admitted. 'But you know what? I don't buy it.'

After Rizzo had left, the switchboard put through a phonecall from the Curia.

'Hello, Chief Superintendent,' Monsignor Federici's polite voice greeted him. 'Am I disturbing you?'

'Not at all. How can I help you?'

Actually, I was supposed to be helping you, remember? Or don't you need my help any more? Don't ask me how I heard, but I gather you've found your culprit, is that right? So poor Don Sergio had nothing to do with it, as I supposed 'You're right. It was the wrong line of inquiry, but —' 'You don't have to apologise, Superintendent. You were only doing your duty: that's what you were going to say, isn't it? And you did it well, as usual. However, I think you wanted to see Father Sergio anyway, didn't you? Are you still interested?' There was a touch of irritation in the monsignor's voice.

'I don't know,' Ferrara replied, unwilling to be distracted from matters in hand. 'Not now, perhaps later.'

'That is a pity. To help you decide, I think you should know that His Eminence was very amenable to your request and has obtained a dispensation for you to see Don Sergio, who is a recluse in the abbey of San Benedetto in Bosco. Don Sergio has been informed. At the cardinal's insistence, he has consented to break his vow of silence and speak to you.'

'Thank His Eminence. I won't forget.'

'That's all right. As Eve already said, it's a great pleasure for us to be able to pay our debt to you.'

That was the end of the conversation and it left Ferrara feeling distinctly uneasy. Why had Monsignor Federici bothered to phone him, knowing there was no longer any point? In doing so, he had let him in on a secret over which the Church, by his own admission, would have preferred to draw a veil. Why? Just to let him know that the Curia had taken his request seriously? That seemed a trivial reason in comparison with the amount he had been prepared to reveal. But there was something else. He was sure the monsignor was holding something back, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

Grouchily, he dismissed these thoughts, and returned to the case that was causing him so much heartache.

In the years that followed, Chief Superintendent Ferrara's thoughts often went back to the second extraordinary coincidence in this complex case. It convinced him that chance, which had already come to his rescue once in the shape of Massimo Verga and Rita Senesi, was sometimes one of a policeman's best allies.

He had just put down the phone when it rang again.

'Signor Mazzorelli for you,' the officer at the switchboard announced.

'I've no idea who that is,' he replied, irritably. All he needed was another call from some pest wasting his time. 'Can't you put him through to one of the inspectors?'

'He asked for you, chief. He's the new director of the prison.'

'Okay, put him on.' He resigned himself to hearing about some request or complaint from a prisoner.

'Hello, Chief Superintendent. This is a great honour for me to speak to you. I've only recently been transferred here, but I hope we'll have many opportunities to work together.'

'Go on,' Ferrara said, in no mood for polite conversation.

If Mazzorelli was taken aback by this not very cordial welcome, he didn't let on. 'One of the prisoners has asked to see you. I thought I'd let you know personally, as it gives me an opportunity to get to know you. Naturally the interview will have to be authorised by the Prosecutor's Department, but as far as I'm concerned you can come when you like.'

'What's the prisoner's name?'

Antonio Salustri. He says he has some information about a man called Ricciardi.'

The irritation, the boredom, even the accumulated tiredness of the last few days vanished as if by magic. Ferrara felt a rush of adrenaline which made him spring to his feet. He looked at his watch, calculating how long it would take to get authorisation from the Prosecutor's Department, which must already be in the know: the director wouldn't have phoned him without putting the request through first. He picked up his cigar case and lighter from the desk, and opened the top drawer, where he kept his pistol and holster.

'I can be there in an hour. Is that okay with you?'

He could almost see the satisfied smile on the warden's face.

2

It may have been modern once, but it wasn't any more. Built in open country near Scandicci, the new prison of Florence was a mass of grey reinforced concrete broken up by long horizontal bands of Tuscan clay. The main buildings, two semi-circular blocks a short distance from each other, were longer the higher they went, like football terraces. They resembled two parentheses within which the lives of those who had shirked the responsibilities of respectable existence were enclosed. The prison had been built at the beginning of the eighties to replace the old Murature prison in the centre of the city. There was a tall iron fence on the outside, then a perimeter wall with classic sentry boxes manned by armed guards. On seeing them, anyone travelling along the Livorno-Pisa-Florence autostrada would immediately guess the purpose of the buildings.

His driver stopped the car at the main gate, and Ferrara showed his identity card. The officer at the gate authorised the car to enter the inner courtyard. Here, the driver opened the boot to allow the officer to inspect it. Then Ferrara and the driver both had to hand over their papers and their pistols, and Ferrara had to show the document from the Prosecutor's Department authorising him to enter the prison for an interview with the prisoner named Antonio Salustri.

Impatient as he was, Ferrara was not unduly bothered by this long drawn-out ritual. He knew there were strict rules about these things, and the prison staff had to keep to them, even when the visitor was the head of the
Squadra Mobile.
He hoped this was how they usually did things and they weren't just putting on a show of efficiency for his benefit.

'One moment, Superintendent,' the guard said. 'I'll just tell the boss.'

'That's fine, thanks.'

After a few minutes, another officer appeared in the guardhouse. 'Chief Superintendent Ferrara?' 'Yes.'

'If you'd like to follow me. The warden is waiting for you in his office.'

Ferrara told the driver to stay where he was until he came back, and followed the officer into the two-storey building straight ahead. The warden's office was on the first floor. The warden was a middle-aged man with a crooked nose, half hidden by a huge semi-circular desk taking up almost the whole of one wall. Ferrara wondered what effect that symbolic barrier had on the prisoners summoned to the office.

'Pleased to meet you in person, Chief Superintendent.'

'The pleasure is all mine. I don't come here often, unlike some of my colleagues. Only on occasions like this, or when the Prosecutor asks me to interrogate a prisoner.'

'Well, I'm very glad to welcome you anyway. May I offer you a coffee? In the meantime I'll have the prisoner brought to the interview room. It'll take about ten minutes.'

'Yes, I'd love a coffee.'

The warden ordered the coffee over the phone. Within a very short time, a silver tray was brought in, with the coffee in china cups: a far cry from the paper cups he was used to at Headquarters. He wondered if this luxury was a tribute to his rank or something to do with the fact that the warden was new. Whatever, the coffee was excellent and he drank it with relish.

Fortunately, he did not have to spend too long exchanging small talk with Mazzorelli, because he was soon collected by the officer who was to take him to see the prisoner.

'I hope he has something useful to tell you,' the warden said, by way of farewell.

Ferrara and the guard left the building where the offices were, went through a large iron door which had to be unlocked twice, then locked twice behind them, and crossed a courtyard about a hundred yards wide. As they walked, Ferrara sensed that he was being watched by hundreds of eyes through the barred windows of the cells.

They came to a building on the right, where another door was unlocked twice. On the first floor, he was at last admitted to the interview room, a small room not much more than ten feet by ten feet, with impersonal white walls, a table and two chairs, and a small barred window looking out onto an inner garden.

'May I send the prisoner in, Chief Superintendent?' the officer asked. 'I'll be outside - if you need me just call.' 'Thank you, send him in.'

Antonio Salustri seemed to have aged ten years. He was thinner, even paler if possible, and without a trace of his old arrogance. Ferrara almost felt sorry for him. He often felt sorry for prisoners who hadn't committed the worst crimes, like murder, rape or kidnapping. But it was a purely emotional reaction. Even the less serious crimes hurt other people, and needed to be punished.

They sat down opposite one another, with the little table in the middle.

'You asked to see me,' Ferrara began.

'Yes, Superintendent.' Salustri's tone was humble, deferential, and his tired eyes had heavy purple rings under them. 'I heard you're looking for Lorenzo Ricciardi and I decided to . . . Well, I have something to tell you.'

'How did you hear?'

'Come on, Superintendent, you know about these things. The prison grapevine is better than public radio.'

'Okay, what have you got to tell me?' Ferrara was curt and offhand. Salustri clearly wanted to get him on his side, but Ferrara preferred to keep a distance between them.

'First, I'd like your assurance that you'll help me out,' Salustri said.

'Do you think your information is that important?'

'I don't know, that's for you to say. What I do know is that I'm running a great risk by telling you. My life could be in danger when I get out of here.'

'Are you saying you were more involved with the underworld than you admitted in your original statement?'

'But you haven't yet promised —'

'Listen, Salustri, I can't promise anything, but if what you tell me is genuinely helpful to my investigation, I assure you I'll talk to the judge. There are no rules about these things, but if a prisoner cooperates it's normal for his sentence to be reduced.'

Salustri weighed up Ferrara's words. 'Thank you for that. But it's what happens afterwards that I'm afraid of.'

'If you're thinking of some kind of witness protection programme, I'm afraid we'll have to stop this interview here and now.' Ferrara was reluctant to say this: it might mean that the hopes he had placed in Salustri's testimony would come to nothing.

'I understand. I'm not asking for anything like that. All the same
...
I was wondering . . . well, if it might be possible to help me leave the country. I have relatives in Argentina, I could join them, try and start a new life . . .'

Ferrara knew that Salustri's criminal record might make such a thing unlikely, but he didn't feel compelled to go into details.

'I can't say anything for certain, but I imagine a favourable magistrate might even be able to help you with that if you really deserve it. The only thing I can promise you, if you trust me, is that I'll do what I can.'

Again, Salustri thought it over.

Ferrara counted the seconds mentally, like a poker player slowly riffling through the cards to see if the last one will give him a straight flush or a completely useless hand.

At last Salustri sighed. 'I trust you.'

‘I’m not sure where to begin. It isn't true that I found the Velazquez by chance. I knew perfectly well it was in the shop, that's why I bought the damned place. I'd known Gualtiero Ricciardi for many years, I'd done lots of little jobs for him. He was heavily connected with the Calabrian Mafia, that's where all his money came from. He belonged to Nitto Santini's clan, the same Nitto Santini you arrested in '78. Gualtiero's father was a distant cousin of Pippo Galabresi's father - Pippo Calabresi who died in the shootout. The clan didn't disappear. According to Ricciardi, it gradually reformed. I can even give you the names . . .' Sweat had broken out on his forehead.

'Later,' Ferrara said. ‘I’m sure the judges will be really interested. And I'm starting to think we might be able to help you after all. Go on with your story.' He was trying to encourage him, while at the same time wanting him to proceed at his own pace. In his experience it was always better to wait and see what emerged spontaneously in situations like this.

'After Ricciardi died, I managed to get my hands on the business. His son, Lorenzo, was very young and didn't know anything about antiques. His parents had already sent him to America to study, and he didn't often come back to Italy, even though
..."

'Even though what?'

'Well, he was here when the fire happened. He was a strange guy, you know? Shy, not very talkative. He had cold eyes. In my opinion he hated his father. Actually, Gualtiero wasn't his real father. I always thought he'd started the fire himself, to kill him . . . But that's just my theory, I couldn't swear to it.'

It was quite common, Ferrara reflected, for serial killers to commit acts of arson before graduating to murder. Salustri's confession was turning out to be more and more interesting. A plausible, if complex, psychological portrait of Ricciardi was starting to emerge: a true serial killer who
pretends
to be a serial killer in order to carry out his plan. But why was Ferrara the end point of that plan? Because he was an expert on serial killers? No, that wasn't the reason, he was sure of it now.

'Anyway' Salustri went on, 'he went back to America straight after the funeral, but not before I'd got him to promise he'd sell me the business, seeing as I was an old friend of his father. Not long after, I was contacted by a Swiss holding company. They sent me all the papers and the transaction went ahead.

'I thought I'd done the best deal of my life. I didn't plan to sell the picture straight away, I wanted to wait for the dust to settle. It was my insurance for the future. Then one morning at the end of September last year I get to the shop and see Lorenzo Ricciardi, who's just got back from the States, chatting to Alfredo Lupi. I didn't recognise him because he'd dyed his hair and he went out without even saying hello to me. But Alfredo told me who he was, and I got scared. My first thought was that he'd found out I had the painting and wanted it back. I tried to question Alfredo, obviously without letting on what it was about, because he didn't know anything about the Velazquez, but he was vague and evasive. I was convinced that Lorenzo was on to me and that's why I decided to get rid of the painting. The rest you know.'

Salustri fell silent. Ferrara said nothing. He was thinking fast, trying to put together the pieces of the mosaic. It was starting to take shape, but was still full of holes and contradictions. Ricciardi had killed Alfredo Lupi, there was no doubt about that. But why not Salustri, who should have been the real victim, if his confession was to be believed? And where did the other victims fit in?

'But why do you think Lorenzo Ricciardi killed Alfredo Lupi, which we're absolutely certain he did, and not you?'

'I've wondered that myself. A thousand times. Maybe he tried to get him to say where the painting was hidden, and the poor boy didn't know! That's the only explanation I can think of. I can't imagine what else it could have been, especially as they were friends.'

'Friends?'

'Yes. Alfredo had been hired by Gualtiero Ricciardi just before he died, on Lorenzo's insistence.'

'What else do you know about Lorenzo?' At last, Ferrara was getting to the main object of his visit.

A strange character, like I said. The Ricciardis couldn't have children, so they adopted him. Apparently, his real parents were the Calabresis: Pippo, who you killed, and his wife, who was arrested and later died in prison.'

Ferrara's head started to spin. Everything he had feared but hadn't dared admit, even to himself, was being confirmed. Now there was no escaping the real reason for Ricciardi's hatred, the reason he'd had that video cassette. He saw Lorenzo running it once, twice, a thousand times, obsessed with the image of his father being killed by the police, his mother being taken away in handcuffs, and above all the young police officer shooting from the car. Ferrara himself, the man responsible for making Lorenzo Ricciardi an orphan . . .

'Do you think Lorenzo knew he was adopted, or who his real parents were?' he asked, wondering for the umpteenth time if that shootout could have been avoided.

'He knew he'd been adopted. Gualtiero told me that. But he probably didn't know who his real parents were. Gualtiero would have had to tell him about his connections with the Calabrian underworld.'

'But he might have discovered it from his father's papers, after his death.'

'That's quite possible.'

Another piece had fallen into place. But where did Stefano Micali, Alfredo Lupi, Francesco Bianchi, Giovanni Biagini, Cinzia Roberti and Valentina Preti fit in?

The officer knocked discreetly at the door. Forty minutes had gone by and he wanted to make sure that everything was all right.

'Everything's fine,' Ferrara replied, although he certainly wasn't feeling fine. He looked across at Salustri, who seemed exhausted and was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. 'Would it be possible to have two coffees, a bottle of water and some cigarettes?'

'I'll see,' the officer said, and closed the door.

'Thanks,' Salustri said.

'How long have you known Lorenzo?'

'Since '84, I think. He was just over ten. But I never saw much of him. His parents had always wanted him to go to boarding school, hoping to give him an education that would keep him out of their world. He didn't often come to Florence.'

'I see. Do you think that's why he hated them?'

'Frankly, yes. Gualtiero told me once the boy had had a bad time at boarding school, but didn't want to give up.'

The officer returned with a tray containing the coffee, the cigarettes and the water. Ferrara smiled: he was back in the world of paper cups.