Death in Tuscany (31 page)

'I made the call,' the man admitted in a low voice.

'I know. Why didn't you want to tell me?'

The man looked up at Rizzo, a lost expression in his eyes. 'We're simple people, we don't interfere in other people's business. We've never had any dealings with the police, we're clean
...
I did what I had to do, and that's it. . .'

'I understand, don't think I don't. I was scared, too, the first time I set foot in this place,' Rizzo lied. 'We're the ones who hand out fines, who punish people . . . But do you know why we do it? To protect you, not to persecute you. I know, that's not the impression we give, and sometimes we make mistakes, too, and make things worse. But in general we don't, and what you don't see is all the things we do to make life better for you . . . Listen to me, Signor Franceschini.

Trust me, tell me the whole story, and everything will be all right, you'll see.'

'I didn't do anything. What do you want me to say?'

'What happened that morning?'

'I went with my wife to church, the parish church of Santa Maria in the Piazza Cioppi in Scandicci . . . Isn't that right, Rita? You tell him, then he'll believe me.'

'It's true, officer.'

'What time was that?'

'Before seven. My wife likes to go to mass early because we have a lot of things to do: feed the animals, clean the vegetable garden

'Of course, go on. You went to church and then what?'

'No, it was before we got to church, on the Via di Mosciano, the scenic bend, you know? The one on the road, after Domenico's restaurant
...
I mean, after the bend, after the fork for San Martino alia Palma . . . just past it
...
I had to stop because . . .'

'Because . . .?'

The man looked shamefaced. 'I had to relieve myself . . .' he admitted at last, turning red.

'It often happens to him in the morning,' his wife explained. 'He's a little incontinent, you know . . . He's being treated for it.'

He gave her a scathing look.

'Nothing wrong with that,' Rizzo said. 'It's not a crime. And then?'

'I went to the side of the clearing and did what I had to do, then as I was zipping up I saw something a little further along, to the left. It looked like a hand sticking out. I couldn't see it clearly, because it was just after the bend, when the wood starts to slope away'

And what did you do?'

'Well,
I
went to see what it was.' 'Did you go too, signora?'

'No, no. I stayed in the car. I was wearing my Sunday best. I didn't want to ruin my shoes
..."

'Did you find the girl?' Rizzo asked, addressing the man again.

'Yes, she was on the ground. I thought she was dead . . .' 'Did you go up to her?'

'I went a bit closer. She didn't have any shoes on. I saw she was breathing
...
so
I
ran back to the car and called the emergency services from the first phone booth I could find.'

'Which was the right thing to do, as I said. Did you notice anything while you were still in the clearing?'

The man hesitated, and bowed his head again. 'No . . . nothing . . .'

It looked as if the woman was on the point of urging him to say more, but in the end she kept silent.

'Did you see anyone in the vicinity? Were there any cars parked nearby?'

No.'

'Did you see her shoes anywhere? Was there anything around that might indicate how she'd got there? A moped, for example?'

The man shook his head.

'So you really can't tell me anything else?'

'No, officer,' Pietro Franceschini replied.

All right. You can go for now. But first I'll have to take a written statement, Signor Franceschini. Please be patient. . . you've been a great help to us. Please, if you'd like to go into the waiting room.'

Glancing at his wife, the man nodded.

*

After the couple had gone out, Sergi and Violante came back in. Rizzo was just bringing them up to date when there was a knock at the door.

'Come in!' Violante said.

'It's Signor and Signora Franceschini again,' the officer who opened the door said. 'They want to speak to you.' Again?'

'They were halfway down the corridor, talking non-stop, then they asked me if they could see you again straightaway. They said it was urgent.'

'Send them in.'

Hesitantly, with a guilty air, the husband and wife came back in.

'Would you rather we were alone?' Rizzo asked.

The man shook his head. In his hand, he was holding a white handkerchief rolled up in a ball.

'I forgot to tell you
...
to tell you
...
I found this in the clearing . . . near that girl.' He held out the handkerchief.

Rizzo opened the improvised wrapping.

There was a small object inside.

Still holding it with the handkerchief, he lifted it to see it better.

It was a gold cufflink with a broken clip. Engraved on it was an elaborate design with an unusual symbol:

18

Michele Ferrara got to Lucca just before five o'clock on Friday afternoon.

Deputy Prosecutor Armando Lupo had sounded more formal and more reticent than Ferrara had expected when he had telephoned him to say hello and suggest they meet. That was why he had not told him the real reason for his visit - he simply said that, being on holiday in Marina di Pietrasanta and hearing that Lupo was now working in Lucca, he'd just like to drop in and say hello. Lupo's reaction suggested that he had been forewarned by the Carabinieri, and Ferrara felt slightly nervous as he got closer to his destination.

The Prosecutor's Department of Lucca was housed in a handsome one-storey red-brick building in the Via Carducci, next to a pay car park, which was where he left his car. It was temporary accommodation, but looked as if it might end up being permanent, given how long it was taking to convert the former Galli Tassi complex in the centre of the city into prestigious new offices.

Ferrara walked in beneath the plexiglas roof and gave his name. He was led to Lupo's office. Lupo greeted him in the official manner their respective roles dictated, but there was nevertheless a certain warmth in the greeting.

The room was quite small and dark, so much so that even in the middle of the day it was necessary to keep the white neon light on. The furnishings were modest: a desk with a computer and printer, a few chairs, a bookcase, a sofa and two small armchairs all crammed against each other without enough space between them to move around in. Files were piled up in every corner and even strewn over the floor. Ferrara and Lupo took their seats as best they could.

'So you left Sicily too,' Ferrara began.

'A few months ago. Actually, I had to . . . I'll leave you to imagine the reasons, Chief Superintendent.'

That wasn't hard to do. He knew Sicily well, and he knew the difficulties that servants of the State, judges and policemen especially, had to confront every day, often jeopardising their own safety and that of their families. And he knew how hard a young deputy prosecutor had to fight against the Mafia in an area - the province of Palermo — which had always been particularly dangerous.

'I hope you like it here.'

'I'm getting used to it. How about you, how do you find Florence?'

'Florence isn't Palermo. Life's good, though I have to confess I often feel homesick for Sicily'

'Oh, yes! There are wonderful places in Sicily. A pity about the crime, though

Lupo broke off and was silent for a few moments. It was pointless to dwell on a subject that was painful to both of them.

'Can I offer you a coffee?' he asked. 'Yes, I'd like that.'

While they were waiting for the coffee to be brought in, Ferrara asked, 'Do you remember the case of the massacre in the Via Rosselli?' He was alluding to an event they had both lived through, in an attempt to re-establish the relationship they once had, which he needed desperately now.

'How could I forget?' Lupo replied. 'It's one of those things that really mark you when you're a prosecutor. And even after all this time, I have to tell you, I admired you a lot. You really did a good job.'

'My colleagues, too.'