Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (41 page)

He went out of the front door and ran behind the villa. Signorini lay motionless, in an unseemly and almost light-hearted pose. His eyes were open and he had a beatific expression on his face. Bordelli put two fingers on his jugular and felt no pulse. He sat down on the edge of a large flowerpot and lit a cigarette. It had all gone to the dogs. No transcript, no charge, no proof. He was back to square one, the only difference being that now he knew for certain who the killers were. He’d never found himself trapped inside such a paradox before. He could, of course, repeat Signorini’s confession under oath, but what would be the use? Without any evidence, even a court-appointed lawyer would send him home with his tail between his legs. And a good lawyer would make him look like a pathological liar …

What should he do? Become a vigilante and personally kill Panerai, Beccaroni and Monsignor Sercambi? He would have been delighted to do so, but that wasn’t why he’d joined the police force. In spite of everything, he believed in the state and couldn’t take justice into his own hands. Giacomo Pellissari deserved a proper public trial; he deserved to have the names of his tormentors plastered over all the newpapers; he deserved justice … not three anonymous gunshots.

It occurred to him that Piras must be already outside the gate. He cast a final glance at Signorini and went back into the villa. Climbing the stairs to the study, he removed his cigarette butts from the ashtray and with a handkerchief wiped down everything he’d touched. He put the Beretta back in its place and threw open the window to let the smoke out. He went to the second floor as well, to wipe away any trace of his having been there. Then he left, closing the front door behind him. He walked calmly down the pebbled driveway, in no hurry. By now he’d made up his mind. Except for Piras, no one would know that Signorini had killed himself before his very eyes.

He would let someone else find the corpse. It seemed the only real solution, if he was to avoid creating a firestorm of controversy. The other members of the clique would think their little friend had taken his life out of remorse, but they wouldn’t be alarmed. They had no way of knowing that a pig-headed cop had unmasked them.

He went out on to the pavement and found Piras there waiting for him in the 1100. There wasn’t a soul about. He opened the door and stuck his head inside.

‘I don’t need a lift any more, Piras. I’ll walk back.’

‘All the way to Via Zara?’ the Sardinian asked in surprise.

‘I need to think.’

‘Did you talk to Signorini?’

‘I’ll tell you later, Piras. Just wait for me at the station, please.’

‘All right, sir,’ said Piras, setting aside his curiosity for the moment. There was no point in insisting when the inspector had that look on his face. He started up the car and drove off.

Bordelli headed down the street, his thousandth cigarette of the day in his mouth. Just a few hours ago he had been in bed with Eleonora, and now it felt as if he hadn’t seen her for a century …

He passed by Villa Triste again, thinking that the flat in Via Luna was also a Villa Triste. Who knew how many other Ville Tristi there were in the world? Buildings that looked normal from the outside, but inside which …

Not far from there, in Via Trieste, lived the beautiful Sonia Zarcone, Piras’s girlfriend. Certainly the nights the Sardinian spent there were anything but sad.

Almost without realising, he found himself in Piazza della Libertà, but instead of crossing it and going to the station, he headed up the pavement on Viale Lavagnini. He suddenly felt an urgent need to eat something and drink a glass of wine. It was late, but maybe Totò had some leftovers.

The moment he returned to the station he shut himself up in his office with Piras to tell him about Signorini’s confession and suicide. The Sardinian listened in silence without batting an eyelid, his face as stony as a nuragh.
⁵⁰
Bordelli lit a cigarette and blew the smoke upwards.

‘Nobody must know. I mean it.’

‘Sardinians don’t talk, Inspector.’

‘Tomorrow morning the cleaning lady’s going to come and discover the body.’

‘At least we know who the killers are now.’

‘That’s not much help, if we can’t find any proof. Our only hope was the flat in Via Luna, but the river took care of that by washing all the evidence away.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘They can’t get away with this.’

‘They won’t get away with this, Piras. I just need some time to think,’ said Bordelli. The Sardinian realised the inspector wanted to be alone, and so he left without another word.

Bordelli began pacing back and forth in front of the window, hands in his pockets. Smoking cigarette after cigarette, he evaluated the situation from every angle. What did he have in hand? A bill from the telephone company, a male prostitute’s story about the parties at the villa in Via Bolognese, and a dead man’s confession. A handful of flies would probably have been more useful in a courtroom. His word against that of a high-ranking prelate of the Curia, an influential lawyer, and an honest citizen who sold meat. He would never overcome such odds. Now it really made no more sense to tail the other three, waiting for them to commit more crimes. The little boy’s death had been a ‘damned accident’, and they would never put themselves in the same situation again. It had always been Signorini, moreover, who took care of finding unusual young boys, and now he was no longer around. And so? What could the right move possibly be? To set a trap for them. How? Those sorts of things were long and complicated, and often didn’t work.

In the end he realised there was only one thing he could do. To hound those three sons of bitches until they gave themselves up, even if it meant spending the rest of his life doing so. They mustn’t have a minute of peace. He couldn’t see any other solution. And he might as well start right away. He looked at his watch: ten to seven. He drove off in the 1100 and took Via Cavour to the centre of town. A long queue had formed in front of the pharmacy. The city looked as if it had just emerged from the war. In Piazza del Duomo there was a great coming and going of people and military vehicles. Two tankers, surrounded by crowds, were distributing water.

He passed behind the baptistry and parked just outside the front door of the Episcopal Curia. He rang the bell. A couple of minutes later a spyhole opened.

‘What can I do for you?’ asked the eye in the hole.

‘I would like to speak to Monsignor Sercambi.’

‘Your name?’

‘Inspector Bordelli, police.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘It’s about a rather urgent and delicate matter.’

‘I’m sorry, but I doubt the monsignor can see you.’

‘Tell the monsignor I’m a dear friend of Piglet’s.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The eye scowled.

‘Tell him exactly that: a friend of Piglet’s.’

‘Please wait.’

The spyhole closed abruptly. A good five minutes went by before the door opened.

‘Come,’ said the man. He was short with rather dramatic eyes and a soft step, even though he walked a bit askew. They went up a stone staircase and then down a long, silent corridor with a coffered ceiling until they came to a large inlaid door which the little man opened with a solemn motion.

‘You can wait here. Monsignor will see you as soon as he can.’

‘Thank you,’ said the inspector.

He went into the room and the door closed delicately behind him. It was a luxurious little waiting room, with a wooden Madonna in a niche and a large crucifix hanging on the wall. Poor Jesus, he thought. Too often men have used him as a sword, a purifying fire, a hammer for nailing coffins. Now he was even being waved about to gain votes for a political party. If he ever came back to earth to speak his mind, they would lock him in a loony bin. Poor Jesus.

He sat down in one of the small armchairs, waiting patiently for the monsignor to deign to receive him. Meanwhile he thought of Eleonora … when would he see her again? He needed her kisses, he needed to fall asleep in her warm embrace. Sooner or later he had to pluck up the courage to ask her to come and live with him, perhaps in an old country house. But he had to find the right moment …

The door opened and the same little man as before appeared. He invited Bordelli to follow him and took him to the floor above. He knocked on a dark door and then opened it to let the inspector in. Bordelli entered and found himself in a large room with just a few pieces of antique furniture that made the space at once sumptuous and sober. A scent of incense and dead flowers floated in the air. Monsignor Sercambi was seated behind an antique desk and did not move. His long neck rose up from the collar of an impeccably tailored cassock, and on his straight, slender nose rested a pair of round spectacles in a very fine gold frame. His utterly bald head sparkled as if it had been polished with floor wax.

The inspector approached with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and remained standing in a wilfully boorish pose. The prelate eyed the stranger in silence, his gaze as cold as steel. On the wall behind him hung another poor Christ on the cross, looming over his head like a dagger. Bordelli decided to let the monsignor have the first word and returned his stare. They kept glaring at each other for a very long time, without either of them showing any sign of embarrassment whatsoever. In the end it was the prelate who broke the ice.

‘With whom do I have the honour of speaking?’ he asked, in a deep, steady voice.

Bordelli put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, blowing the smoke through his nostrils.

‘Chief Inspector Bordelli, murder squad.’

‘What can I do for you? I haven’t got much time.’

‘Mind if I smoke?’ Bordelli asked, trying to be as unpleasant as possible. Sercambi didn’t answer, limiting himself to a slight, haughty movement of the eyebrows. The inspector smiled.

‘Actually, we both deal in death, don’t we? Though for different ends, I’ll admit …’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I look for killers to lock them up in jail, and you absolve them in the name of the Father, the Son and so on …’ said Bordelli, miming a sign of the cross in the air.

‘Please get to the point.’

‘Tell me, Monsignor … Can someone who rapes and kills a little boy actually go to heaven?’

‘God’s mercy is infinite, if the sinner is moved by genuine repentance,’ Sercambi said icily.

‘That’s fantastic news. I can’t wait to tell Sheepie, Piglet and the Penguin …’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ said Sercambi, unruffled.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot Giraffe …’

‘I don’t follow, Inspector.’

‘The masked parties, the drugs, the unpleasant incident in Via Luna … Now do you follow?’

‘Even less than before, I must say.’ He was harder than stone.

‘In fact, I’ve come to give you a chance to confess. For a man of the cloth it must be a good healthy habit.’

‘Please stop making insinuations and speak clearly,’ said the monsignor, but in his eyes one could read the question:
who is the traitor?

‘Kidnapping, rape, murder, concealment of a corpse, drug abuse … I think that’s everything.’

‘And so?’

‘On the night of the twelfth of October, you and your playmates raped and killed thirteen-year-old Giacomo Pellissari in a cellar in Via Luna … Is that a little clearer?’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It happens to me sometimes …’

‘This has nothing to do with me.’

‘I’m going to prove it and drag the lot of you into court.’

‘I advise you to get your facts straight,’ said the prelate with the vaguest hint of a smile.

‘And I advise
you
to have a little chat with that poor Christ hanging over your head. He might have some very important advice for you.’

‘I’m afraid I have to end our discussion now,’ said Sercambi, pressing a button screwed to the edge of his desk.

‘Deep down I understand you. It must be very exciting to rape a little boy while he’s screaming for help.’

‘I have nothing more to say to you.’

The door opened and the little lame man reappeared.

‘Please show the gentleman out, Vito,’ said Sercambi, showing no sign of agitation. The inspector smiled, even though he really didn’t want to, then he leaned forward and lowered his voice so that only the prelate would hear him.

‘Remember me in your prayers, Monsignor. I am God’s instrument for saving your corrupt soul.’

‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ said the prelate.

Bordelli tapped his ash on to the magnificent desk and left the room. The little man led him down the same corridors and stairs as before, not saying a word. He had the sort of frowning and vaguely arrogant demeanour that the servants of the powerful often have. He showed him to the exit and, after a vague gesture of goodbye, locked the door behind him. Amen.

It was nine o’clock when he turned on the telly.

As soon as he’d got home he’d lit the gas heater in the bedroom, to warm the air for sleeping. He took off his shoes and collapsed on the sofa with a reheated dish of lasagna that Totò had given him. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone except her. He was hoping to wash away the disgust of his day, but it wouldn’t be easy. He couldn’t stop thinking about Signorini’s confession, his suicide, the lifeless body with its head cracked open still lying on the pavement outside the villa, the repulsive conversation with Sercambi and everything else …

He ate the lasagna while watching the evening news on Channel 2. They said things were getting back to normal in Florence. The Florentines, however, knew that this was a lie. There were still tons of mud and debris in the streets and thousands of wrecked cars to be removed. Some areas still had no electricity, telephone, gas or even water. Many shopkeepers and craftsmen had lost everything, with no hope of going back to work. Hundreds of families still couldn’t get back into their homes and were being put up in hotels at public expense. Fire engines were working day and night, pumping the mud out of the basements of public buildings, and thousands of men, women, soldiers and students were still splashing about in the stuff. There were queues for food at the stadium, queues outside the few open shops and stores, queues around the tankers. Careggi hospital was bursting at the seams. Not to mention the works of art and thousands of ancient books covered in mud and heating oil. And in the provinces things were even worse … Back to normal, indeed.