Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (34 page)

He dropped by Via dei Neri to say hello to Rosa, but she was neither at home nor in the street. He left a note on her door:
If you need anything, find a working phone, call the station, have them send for me. My best to Gideon and the one-eyed kitten
.

He continued his rounds, and by late morning was back in San Niccolò. Still no sign of her. He went to check the basement of her building and found it still full of mud.

He ordered a panino at the Osteria Fuori Porta and ate it standing in front of the window, keeping a close eye on the street. Nothing. She was nowhere to be found. Vanished.

He got back in the car with his tail between his legs. He could hardly spend all evening waiting for her, not even knowing whether she would appear or not. It was better to come back tomorrow.

To avoid thinking about her, he went and ate in Totò’s kitchen, determined to stuff himself to bursting. The cook was in excellent form, dancing amid clouds of steam and having no trouble talking. Bordelli just nodded and chewed.
Spaghetti alla carbonara
, grilled sausages, red wine. This time he didn’t refuse the grappa. Not the first glass, nor the second, nor the third …

He left the trattoria at half past ten, with two tree trunks in place of his legs. It was starting to rain. He got in the car, lit a cigarette, and sat there watching the street. The night spent with Eleonora seemed a distant memory. Maybe it hadn’t even happened. He rolled down the window to let out the smoke. To escape his torment he turned on the radio and contacted headquarters.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Inspector. Piras called a short while ago and wants to talk to you,’ said the officer on duty.

‘Get him for me now, would you?’

‘Straight away, sir.’

He heard some crackling and, a few seconds later, the Sardinian’s voice.

‘Can you hear me, Inspector? This is Piras.’

‘I hear you loud and clear.’

‘Beccaroni went out around half nine in his Jaguar. He drove straight to the Parco delle Cascine and picked up a youth who popped out from behind the trees. We followed them as far as Via Bolognese, where the Jaguar disappeared behind a gate that immediately closed again. The villa is set back from the road, you can barely see it through the trees …’

‘Is that all?’

‘No, now comes the good part … You know what car went through the same gate shortly afterwards?’

‘I don’t feel like playing guessing games, Piras.’

‘Panerai’s Lancia.’

‘Where on Via Bolognese?’ Bordelli asked, starting up the car. Piras gave him the number, and they signed off. It was raining harder and harder, but compared to the night of the flood it was just a little sprinkle. Turning uphill on to Via Bolognese, he chewed his lips. He felt like a wolf that had scented its prey. If Colonel Arcieri hadn’t asked that favour of him … Here at last was some interesting news: the butcher and the lawyer were meeting at a villa along Via Bolognese, bringing along a boy picked up at the Cascine. With the owner of the villa, that made three, the same number as Giacomo’s rapists … But he was getting ahead of himself. They might just be a group of perverts who liked to hold orgies.

He spotted the first surveillance car parked at the side of the road about thirty yards from the villa’s entrance gate. Rolling on a little farther, he saw the Fiat Multipla with Piras and Tapinassi in it. After making a U-turn, he pulled up behind them, made a dash through the rain to avoid getting wet, and got in the back of the Multipla. The two policemen turned round and sketched a military salute.

‘Did you read the name on the doorbell?’ Bordelli asked.

‘It says
Signorini
,’ said Tapinassi.

‘You’ve already reported this to headquarters?’

‘Yes, sir. They should be calling back soon.’

‘Who knows what time their little banquet will end,’ Bordelli mumbled, stifling a sausage-flavoured burp.

‘We’re going to have to be very patient.’

‘May I smoke?’ Bordelli asked, a cigarette already between his lips.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Piras, polite but blunt.

‘Shit, Piras. Let’s open the windows, but you can’t ask me not to smoke … Not tonight, anyway,’ said Bordelli, rolling down his window.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Piras, and he rolled down his window as well. Beside him Tapinassi was chuckling. It was freezing cold with the two windows open, and Bordelli tossed out his cigarette.

‘You’re a menace, Piras.’

‘If you ask me, smoking is a senseless vice,’ said the Sardinian, without taking his eyes off the villa’s gate. Every so often he turned on the windscreen wipers to clear his view.

‘All this fuss over a cigarette …’ Bordelli said.

‘You’re the one who makes such a big deal of it.’

‘No, I just like it, that’s all.’

‘It’s an addiction.’

‘Oh, come on, an addiction! I can quit whenever I want.’

‘You’ll have to forgive me, sir, but I don’t believe it.’

‘All right, then, from this moment on, I won’t smoke. Here, take the cigarettes,’ said Bordelli, dropping the packet on to Piras’s lap. Without a word the Sardinian shut it inside the glove compartment. The rain drummed monotonously on the roof, as the headlights of the rare passing car shone brightly on the wet asphalt.

After a few very long minutes of silence, Bordelli held out his hand.

‘Okay, you win, Piras. Give me back the cigarettes. I’ll go and smoke out in the rain,’ he said dramatically.

‘It’s not raining that hard,’ said Piras, passing him the packet. At that moment there was a call from headquarters with the information on the villa’s owner:
Italo Signorini, born 10th November 1939, son of Beatrice Ciacci and the textile manufacturer Emanuele Signorini, both deceased. No record
.

‘Today’s his birthday,’ Bordelli observed.

‘Twenty-seven years old,’ said Piras. ‘He’s a lot younger than the other two.’

‘Bloody rain,’ the inspector grumbled, a cigarette between his lips. He really wanted to smoke, but not to get wet.

At about one o’clock it finally stopped raining. Bordelli had barely managed to smoke half a cigarette outside the Multipla before the butcher’s Flavia came out of the gate, followed closely by two other cars, the lawyer’s Jaguar and a white saloon. All three descended down Via Bolognese, towards Florence.

‘I’ll follow the sedan,’ said Bordelli, and he ran towards his car and drove off, cigarette between his teeth. When he drove past the gate, it was already closed. The three cars proceeded slowly as far as the Ponte Rosso, followed at a distance by the police cars. The lawyer’s Jaguar stopped at the corner of Viale Milton. The passenger’s side door opened, and a slender figure slid out of the car and set off along the banks of the Mugnone, swaying like a ballerina. The Jaguar continued on towards Piazza della Libertà.

‘Piras, can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, Inspector.’

‘Is that the kid from the Cascine?’

‘I’m pretty sure it is.’

‘Stay on his tail and find some excuse to pick him up. Take him to the station and have him waiting in my office.’

‘All right, Inspector.’

‘I’m going to see where the white saloon goes, then I’ll return to headquarters. Over and out.’

The Jaguar turned on to Viale Lavagnini, the butcher’s Lancia headed towards Le Cure, while the white saloon took Viale Matteotti. The coming and going of cars and military vehicles actually made it easier to tail them. Bordelli accelerated and drew closer to the saloon. It was a Peugeot 404. Just to be sure, he read the numberplate: FI 451025. He couldn’t find a pen so tried to memorise it: 45, the end of the war; 10, the year of his birth; 25, the day in July when Mussolini was arrested … End of the war, year of birth, Mussolini’s arrest … End of the war, year of birth, Mussolini’s arrest …

The Peugeot came to the end of the Viali, crossed the Ponte San Niccolò, and turned on to Viale Michelangelo. After the intersection with Via dei Bastioni, it indicated right, braked and slipped in between two plane trees, pulling up with the nose of the car in front of the entrance gate to an immense villa shrouded in darkness. Bordelli slowed down and turned to look at the guy who had just got out of the car. He caught a glimpse of a tall, well-dressed man sticking a key in the lock of the gate. Prompted by the horn blasts behind him, he drove on, continuously turning round to look, but by now a hedgerow blocked his view. He stopped his car at the start of Via Tacca and went back on foot, along the pavement on the other side of the street. By the time he was opposite the villa, the gate was already closed. A moment later, two windows lit up on the first floor.

He crossed the Viale to see if he could read the name on the gate. On a brass plaque was just the surname
Sercambi
. He returned to the car, repeating the formula … End of the war, year of birth, Mussolini’s arrest … End of the war, year of birth, Mussolini’s arrest …

The moment he arrived at the station he found Tapinassi waiting for him in the courtyard. They’d picked up the youth who had got out of the Jaguar.

‘Where is he now?’

‘In your office with Piras, sir.’

They both headed up the stairs.

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s a hysterical little fairy who wears sunglasses even at night. You oughta smell the perfume the guy’s got on,’ Tapinassi said, chuckling.

‘Has he made a fuss?’

‘Not really, but he’s not exactly thrilled.’

They were just outside the office door and could hear talking inside.

‘Write down this registration number and find out who owns the car: FI … 45 … 10 … 25 …’ said the inspector, helping himself with his mnemonics. Tapinassi didn’t have a pen, and he walked away muttering the number. Bordelli heaved a big sigh and went into his office, interrupting the lad’s litany of complaints. The whole room smelled of perfume. Piras, who was standing leaning back against the wall, pulled himself up and gave a military salute.

The youth was sitting in front of the desk, back straight, and turned round to see who had come in. Behind his dark glasses he had a nervous little head and feminine features. He looked barely seventeen.

‘Maybe now you’ll tell me what horrible crime I’ve committed?’ he said, in a high-pitched little-girl’s voice and a heavy Milanese accent, writhing in his chair. He was wearing a pastel-green velvet jacket and a purple silk scarf pulled too tightly around his neck.

‘Please take off your glasses,’ said Bordelli, sitting down.

‘Yes, sir!’ said the boy, tearing off his glasses with rage and sticking them in his pocket. He had two big, round dark eyes full of resentment. An angry child blinking as if he had a bright light shining in his face.

‘Name?’ Bordelli asked. He had nothing against the boy, but he was ready to do anything to find out what had happened in the villa on Via Bolognese.

‘Mind telling me what I’ve done wrong?’

‘This is just a routine check.’

‘Are we not allowed to walk on the street any more?’

‘Calm down and answer my questions. Name?’

‘Nando Rovario,’ the boy said in a defiant tone.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twelve … I ran away from home.’

‘I’m warning you, Rovario, I’m not a patient man.’

‘What do you want to do? Beat me up? Okay, go right ahead,’ said the boy, offering himself like a martyr. Piras observed the scene in silence.

‘Don’t be silly. Have you got your papers on you?’ Bordelli asked.

The boy pulled out an ID card and threw it on to the desk. Bordelli picked it up with a sigh of forbearance and read:
Ferdinando Rovario, born 17 August 1945 at Binasco (MI), height 5 feet 5 inches, brown eyes, dark brown hair, distinguishing features
… this part was scratched out.

‘Became a legal adult only a few months ago,’ he said, glancing at Piras.

‘Exactly. I can do whatever I please,’ the boy mewled.

‘Do you live in Florence?’

‘I come and go.’

‘Do your parents know what kind of life you lead?’

‘They can die for all I care …’ said Rovario, snapping his head back.

Bordelli had noticed that the boy kept rubbing his fingers nervously under his nose. He leaned forward to look at his pupils. They were almost as wide as the irises.

‘Did you finish the cocaine?’ he asked, smiling.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Empty your pockets on to the desk.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t make me repeat myself.’

‘I want a lawyer,’ the boy said, stubbornly. Bordelli sighed in annoyance. Lighting a cigarette, he stood up calmly and came towards the youth with his hands in his pockets.

‘Piras, leave us alone for a minute, would you?’ he said, without taking his eyes off the boy. Piras went out, and Bordelli sat down on the edge of the desk.

‘I can have you searched, and if I find any cocaine on you, you could be in a lot of trouble. But I can also let it slide, if you tell me what I want to know.’

‘What do you want to know?’ the boy asked, alarmed.

‘Tell me how you spent the evening.’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘I’ll help you, then. Around ten o’clock, a Jaguar came to the Cascine to pick you up—’

‘You were following me?’ said Rovario, round eyed.

‘Calm down. The two of you then went to a villa along the Via Bolognese—’

‘What do you want from me? You seem to know everything already.’

‘Aside from you, there were four men there, am I right?’

‘So what if you are?’

‘Did you have fun?’

‘I certainly hope that’s not against the law.’

‘Having fun, no, but cocaine, yes,’ said the inspector, expelling smoke through his nose. The boy bit his lip.

‘You’re a monster …’ he whispered. Bordelli calmly stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, staring at the boy all the while.

‘Listen to me, Rovario. I have nothing against you, and I don’t give a shit how you live and what you do with your backside. I just need some information and I haven’t got time to waste fucking around with you. If you’re a good boy I’ll let you go. Otherwise I’ll have you searched, and if I don’t find anything on you I’ll have you take a nice urine analysis and then lock you up for using narcotics. Is that clear?’