Death in Tuscany (25 page)

'What do you want?'

'I need to talk to Signora Grazia Barberi.'

'My wife spent two whole days with the Carabinieri . . . What do you want now?'

'Perhaps you could open the door, and then I'll explain.'

Wait. . . I'll come down.'

Ferrara was afraid the man would take the time to phone the Carabinieri and find out who this visitor was, but he soon heard the click of the lock and the door opened.

'Signor Barberi?'

'Yes,' he said. He was an elderly man, short and slight, with white hair and a thin moustache, also completely white. Tm Chief Superintendent Ferrara.'

The man looked him up and down. 'I've read about you in the papers,' he said at last, almost disappointed. 'I imagined you differently'

'In what way?'

'Bigger . . . taller
..."

It wasn't the first time he had heard this. It was as if his media fame had made people think he was larger than he really was.

'Please come in,' the man said.

They climbed to the first floor.

Grazia Barberi was waiting at the door of the apartment. She was shorter, stockier and younger than her husband. Ferrara introduced himself.

'I was just making some coffee. Would you like a cup?'

'Yes, please.'

They sat down around the Formica table in the kitchen, which was modest but pleasant and very tidy. The wide-open French window looked out onto a small balcony full of flowers and aromatic herbs and let in just enough air to cool the room.

Grazia lit the stove beneath the Neapolitan coffee maker.

'It's an honour for us to have you in our home, Chief Superintendent,' the husband said. 'To what do we owe this visit?'

'As I'm sure you've guessed, it's because of what happened in Simonetta Palladiani's villa.'

A terrible thing . . . We've been living here for more than twenty years and nothing like this has ever happened before. This is a quiet place, a holiday destination . . . People come here to enjoy themselves.'

'That's why we'd like to clear this up.'

And you've come all the way from Florence,' the man commented, not knowing whether to feel flattered or surprised. 'But my wife already told the Carabinieri everything. Aren't they good at their jobs?'

'Oh, no, they're very good. It's just that—'

'Have your coffee,' Grazia Barberi interrupted, saving him from embarrassment. She handed him the sugar bowl and a steaming cup. She gave one to her husband, too, and sat down at the table with her own.

'Well, if you're taking an interest,' the man said, 'the case is sure to be solved soon. I know you're better than—'

His wife silenced him with a nasty look.

'Signora Barberi, I realise you've already been interviewed by the Carabinieri . . .'

'Two days running, endlessly going over the same things. I told them everything I could, didn't they say? Maybe not, or you wouldn't be here.'

'I prefer to hear it from you, signora. Perhaps now, talking to me, you . . .'

'Yes,' the woman said, looking closely at him.

'Are you willing to help? You'd be doing me a great favour.'

For a few seconds more, Grazia Barberi kept her eyes fixed on his. Then, as if satisfied with what she saw, she said, 'If I can.'

'Thank you. Would you mind if I took a few notes?'

'Not at all. It's your job.'

'Good

Grazia Barberi began her story with Ugo Palladiani's arrival at the villa halfway through Saturday morning. She had only seen him a few times before in the five years she'd been working for Simonetta.

'He arrived unexpectedly. She wasn't pleased.'

'Why? What did they say to each other?'

'They immediately started quarrelling. I didn't catch more than a few words, because at that moment I went into another room
...
I heard them shouting. Simonetta was having a go at him for arriving like that without telling her first.'

And what did he say?'

'He started shouting, too

'Did you hear what he was saying?'

'Not much . . . just a few words.'

'What were they?'

"I’m staying here tonight, I'm at the end of my tether . . . Go ahead and have a good time with your latest boyfriend, do whatever the hell you like, but I'm sleeping here, then tomorrow I'll piss off . . ." Something like that, I'm sorry but that's the way they speak. That was the gist of it.'

'Does the signora have many lovers?'

'No . . . well . . . not all at the same time. I mean, what can I say? She's had a few men in the past few years, yes . . . but

it's normal, I think. A beautiful woman like that. She was practically separated from her husband, you know. They hadn't lived together for years.'

'I understand. What happened then?'

'Nothing. She slammed the door and went out, and he put his bags in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs.'

'You say she went out? Did she leave the house?'

'In a way . . .' she said, somewhat reticently.

'Would you mind being a little clearer?'

'Well
...
I told the Carabinieri this, but not the journalists. You know
...
I didn't want them to think

'I don't understand, signora.'

'She went to the guest flat, behind the house, next to the garage, which was rented all summer to a man.' 'Her lover?' 'Do I have to say . . .?'

'Yes, signora, if you want to help them. You were right not to tell the journalists, but you have to tell me. The man's name is Massimo Verga, isn't it?'

'How do you know that?'

'Because he's a friend of mine,' he said, looking her straight in the eyes as she had looked into his. A very dear friend of mine.'

The revelation had a strange effect on Grazia Barberi. She seemed almost relieved, as if something she had previously only sensed had suddenly become clear. 'So that's why you're interested. The Carabinieri don't even know . . .'

'That's right. And I have to ask you a great favour.'

The husband looked puzzled. He didn't quite understand what was happening.

'Go on.'

'If possible, I'd prefer it if they didn't find out I was here.' Husband and wife looked at each other in silence.

'All right,' she said finally. 'If they don't ask us, we won't tell them.'

Ferrara heaved a sigh of relief. He liked this woman, who seemed to go straight to the heart of things. 'Thank you. Can we go on?'

'That's all I know about that day. On Saturdays, I finish at one, so I left.'

She had returned to the villa on Monday at about nine in the morning. She had found the door locked as normal. She had opened it and gone in. Everything was dark inside, and she had assumed that the signora was still asleep.

She had opened the windows in the hall and had gone into the kitchen, which she had found more or less as tidy as she had left it. As she usually did, she had made coffee and taken it up to the signora in her room, intending to wake her up. But the signora wasn't there; the bed was made and the room was tidy.

Not knowing what to do at first, she had finally made up her mind to go and see if Ugo Palladiani was still there - she had noticed his car when she arrived, and when someone was in the state he had been in, you never knew. If he was awake, she would give him the coffee she had made for Simonetta.

The bedroom was in the other wing of the house. The door was open and the light was on. She had gone in. The room was in a mess, more even than you'd see in a bachelor flat, but Simonetta's husband wasn't there.

That was when she had started to be afraid. The house was too big, too empty and silent: something strange was going on. She had thought of calling her husband, but had decided against it. He would only make fun of her.

Summoning up all her courage, she had gone as far as the main staircase which led to the living room on the ground floor, switching on the lights as she advanced. From the top of the stairs, she had turned on the big chandelier. That was when she had seen Ugo Palladiani, lying on the floor in an unnatural position, his face purple, his eyes wide open and glassy. She had fainted.

'When I came to, he was still there,' Grazia went on, 'and I realised it wasn't just a bad dream.'

'What did he look like? Were there any bloodstains? Anything that suggested that something violent had happened, that he'd been attacked?'

She closed her eyes as if she wanted to blot out the memory. 'I don't know . . . All I remember is the eyes
..."