Death in Tuscany (24 page)

They arrived early in the afternoon. They had spent the whole journey in silence, not even playing music, as neither of them felt in the mood for it.

Once they had unpacked, they went out for a stroll along the seafront.

It was very hot, but for Petra it was an attempt to take her mind off things and for Ferrara a chance to have a look around. They went as far as the Twiga, which was on the border between Marina di Pietrasanta and Forte dei Marmi, and could be recognised by its logo, a giraffe's head, on a banner. Just before they got there, Ferrara saw Simonetta Palladiani's villa again. It was no longer being guarded, but it had been sealed.

The sun was high. Cars, mopeds and lots of bicycles sped along the street. The entrances to the bathing establishments, some of them quite elaborate and imaginative, blocked the view of the sea, which was glimpsed only through the odd gap. The beach was packed.

On the way back they stopped in front of the villa and peered, like any two curious passers-by, through the cracks in one of the two solid wooden gates, one giving access to the drive leading to the garage behind the house, the other to the small, well-tended front garden. The house itself was a handsome pale ochre building. There were two side wings, each two storeys high, set slightly back, flanking a central one-storey section topped by a broad terrace beyond which a corridor joining the side wings was visible. The dark green shutters were closed.

'A pity about that thing,' Petra said, pointing to the canvas-covered scaffolding which towered over the perimeter wall. 'It blocks out the view. What's the point of having a house facing the sea and then not being able to see it?'

'Yes,' Ferrara agreed, at a loss for an explanation. It seemed unlikely that it was an attempt to shield the villa and its occupants from prying eyes, and he noticed that this wasn't the only villa protected like this.

The mystery was solved by the porter at the Principe when they got back to the hotel. The canvas was a special material which let those inside see out but prevented sand and salt, blown in on the wind from the sea, from corroding the door and window frames, or at least slowed down the effects.

It was nearly time for his appointment. Ferrara suggested to Petra that she take advantage of the hotel's swimming pool, said goodbye to her, and set off for the Twiga.

The cars parked in the palm-shaded car park of the Twiga Beach Club made it very clear that this was an exclusive venue.

Young waiters and waitresses, all in yellow ‘I-shirts bearing the club's logo, were serving aperitifs to members sitting around low tables in surroundings decorated in African style. A beautiful girl came up to him and asked him if she could help him, in such a way as to make it clear to him that if he wasn't a member, and didn't intend becoming one, he wasn't welcome. He told her he had an appointment with someone and she asked who. The name Claudia Pizzi meant nothing to her, but a man who was just passing, and who also seemed to be part of the staff, heard him and butted in.

'She's a journalist on
Il Tirreno.
She told me last night she'd be coming in for an aperitif with a friend. Show him to the Chiringuito.'

'Follow me,' the beautiful girl said, and led him past the swimming pool. The pastel shades of the huts, each one a different colour, were reflected on the surface of the water. They reached a bar covered over by a straw roof, at the very edge of the beach. Two barmen in identical T-shirts were serving.

He ordered a soft drink and watched the members sunbathing or relaxing in the shade of wide, elegant white tents, each supported at the sides by four wooden poles. Each tent contained two deckchairs, two sunbeds, a director's chair and a small table. He didn't even want to think how much it cost to spend a day here, let alone the whole season.

What he thought instead was that for the first time he was truly alone: alone to confront what was probably the most difficult mission of his life. The journalist he was waiting for might be the only ally he could count on. She certainly seemed to have the same respect as he did for the value of friendship.

But she was late. He looked at his watch. It was 6.14.

At 6.30 he started to get worried, and at 6.40 he tried to call her on her mobile but either there was no network or the phone had been turned off. At 6.55 he phoned the newspaper but they told him they hadn't seen her all day. He tried her home number and got the answering machine as usual. Once again, he left a message asking her to call him, adding this time that he was staying at the Principe and giving the number of the hotel.

At 7.15 his mobile rang.

'Ferrara!' he said, hoping that his tone made it clear that even if she was a woman she didn't have the right to make him wait so long.

Am I disturbing you, chief?'

It was Rizzo.

Were they already starting to bother him from the office?

'No, not at all. What is it?'

'It's sensational, chief! Ciuffi caught those Albanians red-handed. And what a haul!' 'How much?'

'Ten kilos of heroin, chief! Ten kilos!'

Ferarra let out a prolonged whistle. It really was sensational, the kind of coup that rarely happens in the life of a policeman, and only if he's very lucky. 'Have you told Lepri?'

'I thought you'd want to do it.'

'I'm on holiday, Francesco.'

'But. . .' his deputy tried to insist, knowing full well that if he did so, he would end up getting the credit for the operation.

'No "but"s. You tell Lepri, but first put me through to Ciuffi, if you can.'

'Sure, he's right here. Hold on a second.'

'Good evening, chief.' Ciuffi sounded rather emotional.

'Congratulations, Ciuffi. Excellent work. I hope you still have wall space left to cover with newspaper articles!'

'We haven't informed the media yet.'

'I'm sure Lepri will see to that, don't worry. It's only right that your work is publicly acknowledged.'

'Thank you, chief.'

He was about to say goodbye, when he remembered Stella. 'One more thing, Ciuffi.' 'Yes, chief?'

As soon as possible, put in a request to the deputy prosecutor - it's Cosenza, isn't it? - for authorisation to bug the Albanians' cell, unless you've already thought of it.'

Listening to the prisoners' conversations might give them useful information, especially on the source of the drugs and the names of any accomplices. But Ferrara also hoped they might be able to kill two birds with one stone and learn something that would help them in the Stella case: although he was no longer dealing with it directly, it was still on his mind.
That'll be the day,
Ciuffi had said, but maybe the day was coming.

'Not just the Albanians, chief. There's also the guy from Florence, Emilio Zancarotti. The three of them are in the same cell.'

'Better still. Maybe they'll talk in Italian, not just in Albanian!'

It was already after seven thirty. He paid and left.

14

The newspapers on 9 August did not mention any significant new developments in the Ugo Palladiani case, although all of them, including
Il
Tirreno,
took it as an established fact that it had been murder.
Il Tirreno
tried to recapture the ground lost the day before, with a long article by someone other than Claudia Pizzi. He called the editorial offices, but it was early and they told him she wasn't there yet, so he tried her home number, without success.

He tried again a little later, while he was having breakfast with Petra in the still half-empty dining room, but just got the answering machine as he had the previous evening. He did not bother leaving a message. He immediately dialled Claudia's mobile number, which rang for a long time without being answered. He assumed she was in her car, on her way to the newspaper. She must have had the phone in her handbag along with a thousand other things, like all women, and in all probability did not even hear it. But she would see that he had called and would phone him back, so it was best not to insist and to concentrate on his next move.

What should it be? He decided he did not have much choice. Too bad if the Carabinieri found out.

He left his car in a car park near the Piazza Carducci, one of the gateways to the 'Athens of Italy' beloved by the poet Carducci. A marble plaque on the wall quoted a sentence from one of his letters: 'What I like about Pietrasanta: a beautiful town, with a unique square, a big city cathedral and the Apuan Alps in the background.'

The square and the cathedral were right there, but to find the Via Martiri di Sant'Anna he had to ask his way several times, walk the whole length of the Via Mazzini to the other side of town and then through part of what until a short time before must have been the outskirts, with fields all around.

Once he was there he had no difficulty in spotting the apartment building Claudia had described. The other buildings were all villas.

There were two entrances with two entry-phones, and next to one he saw a handwritten card that said
Barberi.
He rang the bell.

Once, twice, three times. At the third long ring a man's voice answered.

'If you're the press, you can shove off,' the man almost yelled, clearly exasperated by the harassment he must have received from journalists. Ferrara knew how persistent and annoying they could be, especially in a small town like this where nothing usually happened.

'I'm not the press,' he replied, gently but determinedly.

'Who are you then?'

He did not reply immediately. Was it better to identify himself, or pretend to be someone else? He could say he was an estate agent interested in Simonetta Palladiani's villa, or a holidaymaker looking for a housekeeper, or else . . .

The man did not leave him time to decide. 'Who are you? Are you still there?'

'Yes, I'm still here.'

'What do you want? Leave us alone.'

‘I’m a police officer,' he said quickly before the man could continue.