The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (27 page)

She opened her eyes slowly, feeling as if she had just woken from the strangest dream she had ever had, and looked around.

Nothing. Only darkness.

Was it night or day? Where was she?

For about half an hour, she drifted in and out of consciousness. She felt as if she was as light as a feather being blown hither and thither on the wind. Little by little, she recalled the figure of the attacker with the gun. He was tall and his face had been covered. She tried to remember more, but it was all very vague.

Then she tried to stand up. She wanted to go to the toilet, to take a pee, to drink lots of water. Her throat felt dry. But she could not summon the strength. Her body ached all over. Then she remembered her break for freedom, the slap that had almost knocked her senseless, the note she had written at his dictation, the shot to her chest… It couldn’t have been a bullet, as she had thought at the time, but an electric shock.

She was alive!

She wondered whether Angelica had already discovered that she was gone. She might be looking for her right now, might even have guessed where she was…

Then she closed her eyes and slipped back into sleep.

‘He spent the night there.’

They were at the Florence North service station, opposite Eurogomme, the best stocked repair shop in the city. He had had to replace two of the tyres on the four-by-four.

Angelica had just told him about the lights, including those along the drive, going out. She had waited for a while after that, but no one had come out of the villa.

‘Have you read the paper?’ he asked suddenly.

‘No, why?’ As she turned to look at him, Angelica noticed that he had a small cut on his hand.

‘Read it! And make sure you change that fucking car.’

Angelica’s face clouded over. ‘Why?’

He told her about the identikit and the A-Class Mercedes the police were looking for. ‘In the identikit, the woman has long hair, but the police believe she may actually have very short hair. Do you know what that means? They must have witnesses.’

Who could have alerted the police? she wondered, panicking. Guendalina? But Guendalina didn’t know anything…

‘What should I do?’

‘Hide it somewhere in the countryside, there must be lots of places near where you live. And get yourself another car, maybe a Fiat Panda that won’t attract attention. It has four wheel drive, which you might find useful on these roads. And make sure you use a different kind of wig.’

‘I’ll do it today.’

‘I’ll give you the money later, in cash. And buy it at Fiat Car, from that young guy we know. He’ll find you a good used one, no problem.’

‘OK. I’ll text you later.’

As she got in behind the wheel, she realised she had goose pimples all over her body. They might already be looking for her.

Had she underestimated Guendalina? Was love really blind?

Orders from above!
 

Ferrara was still reflecting on these words, which Rizzo had passed on to him.

They were further proof that the justice system was like a delicate net that was capable of catching the little fish but stretched or even broke when it came to the bigger fish.

He remembered what had happened on 1 July, when their informant and expert on the occult, Silvia De Luca, had been murdered at her apartment in Galluzzo, not long after he had spoken to her. Luca Fiore had summoned him immediately, in order to warn him in no uncertain terms against taking unauthorised initiatives. He had also questioned his search of Madalena’s club, carried out by his men on their own initiative.

Entering Fiore’s office that day, he had passed an extremely refined older man in the doorway. He had later discovered – what a surprise! – that the man was none other than Enrico Costanza.

A real bastard
, Ferrara repeated to himself, thinking back to that conversation with Fiore, and the words echoed in his head as he listened to Rizzo.

‘It’s obvious to me, Francesco, that it’s Luca Fiore who’s blocking the investigation into Cosimo Presti. He must have been put under pressure to do so, don’t you think?’

‘Pressure, or blackmail.’

‘In either case, he’s a piece of shit. I’ve never liked him.’

‘You don’t need to tell me. I can’t stand the sight of him either. The Prosecutor’s Department has lost all credibility since he arrived. He may just be trying to protect his old friends and schoolmates in the city’s elite. But I think he’s actually being blackmailed over some little vice or other.’

Ferrara nodded. He knew what Rizzo was referring to: the rumours that Fiore frequently used underage prostitutes.

‘Francesco, a man who has a certain position, an important role to perform, like the head of a Prosecutor’s Department, shouldn’t be doing such things in the same city where he was born or grew up and where he has relatives and friends. Do you get my drift? That’s really one of the biggest problems among the judicial authorities, but the politicians just turn a blind eye.’

‘You’re right, Michele. They ought to transfer every three or four years at the most, like we do, or the Carabinieri do.’

‘I think we should change the subject, Francesco, it’s not getting us anywhere. Right now, we have to think about what to do.’

Not even ten minutes had passed when Fanti burst into the room, holding a piece of paper. Ferrara and Rizzo could tell from his expression that it was not good news. It was a fax from Rome.

Ferrara picked up a pen and a piece of paper and began to write. Maybe he should just ignore it, maybe he should throw what he was about to write straight into the bin, but he couldn’t stop himself.

The truth was the truth.

Guendalina woke up.

She felt more clear-headed, even though she had lost all track of time. She had no idea what day it was, let alone what hour.

She saw a dim light in the distance, from which she gathered that she was in a very large room. She realised that she was lying on a mattress on a concrete floor. She touched her body. She was completely naked but her hands and feet were not bound.

Where were her clothes?

Slowly, she got up and tried to take a few steps, but her legs were so weak, they could barely support her. She told herself that she had to try and walk. She moved slowly forwards, looking all around her. There were no windows. It was a strange room, with that rough floor, as if the house was still under construction.

She approached the source of the light and saw an iron door with no handle. It was like being back in prison.

In her mind there was just one thought now: escape.

There had to be a way, and she would do everything she could to find it.

Ferrara was in front of the Commissioner. Standing. He had not even been invited to sit down.

Adinolfi picked up a page from the newspaper on his desk and waved it at him. He was beside himself.

‘A short while ago,’ he thundered, ‘I left the mayor outside the Prefecture. There’s going to be an extraordinary meeting of the city council tonight, at which they will vote on whether or not to pass your name on to the judicial authorities. If the decision goes against you, we can expect a claim for damages because of the way the image of the city has been tarnished.’

Ferrara tried to reply but Adinolfi would not let him.

‘I think it’s best if you keep quiet, Chief Superintendent. Now is not the time, and in any case I haven’t finished yet.’

In the meantime, the secretary had come in with a bottle of water and a glass. She filled it and handed it to the Commissioner, then dashed off as if the air in the room was full of poison.

After gulping the water down in one go, Adinolfi continued: ‘You will write a public letter of apology to the citizens of Florence immediately and provide a copy to
La Nazione
so that it can be published in tomorrow’s edition.’

Ferrara’s head was starting to spin.

‘Now go,’ Adinolfi said, thumping on the desk with his fist. ‘I have to call the office of the Head of the State Police.’

Ferrara turned without saying a word. He walked quickly downstairs, grim-faced. He already knew what he had to do.

It was absurd to even think he had to justify himself. Why should he? Over something he hadn’t even said? No, he would never write that letter, never. Not even if they took him to court. In fact, let them take him to court: then he’d be able to stand up and defend himself.

For now, though, he would have to hope that one of the journalists would be willing to give him an unedited copy of their recording of the whole press conference. And if he couldn’t get one, he would ask the Prosecutor’s Department for a warrant.

Providing Luca Fiore authorised the warrant. Because his instincts told him that Fiore was the person behind this new obstacle, as well as all the others. Who else could have made an official complaint to the upper echelons of the police in Rome? As luck would have it, Fiore had been sent a copy of the written reprimand. This time, the Head of the State Police hadn’t been able to wash his dirty laundry in private.

But if he fought back, would he be merely tilting at windmills?

At last, the long-awaited responses had arrived.

It was afternoon when all the paperwork demanded in the official warrants arrived on Rizzo’s desk in rapid succession. Under the circumstances, there was something quite improbable about it, as if everyone had agreed at the same time.

He wasted no time in beginning his examination of the documents.

The staff at the company that operated the CCTV cameras had identified Enrico Costanza’s black Mercedes. On the evening of Saturday 28 August it had been filmed at the traffic lights in the Viale Don Minzoni. Then, a few minutes later, in the Viale Volta, heading towards Fiesole. The times coincided perfectly with what Rolando Russo, the Senator’s driver, had told them. There was no suspicious car following it, certainly not a dark A-Class Mercedes.

The speed cameras had recorded a great many speeding violations. The local police had sent a printout, hundreds of pages long, with details of place, day, time, make of car and licence number.

Rizzo leafed through it and saw that the word Mercedes appeared several times, but without details of the model. They would have to develop the data. Maybe he would pass the printout on to Venturi to cross-check it against the civil motor authority’s database, to which they had access.

On to the telephone records.

Unsurprisingly, there were lots of them, all relating to calls made to or from mobile phones in the Fiesole area during the time frame when the two murders took place. It had been a Saturday night, when young people stayed out later. It would take ages to check the records thoroughly. And it was highly unlikely that anything would come of it.

He thought about asking Ferrara to delegate this task to Fanti, who would be only too happy to do it and would do a meticulous job.

Ferrara listened attentively to Rizzo’s updates, but his main concern at the moment was Cosimo Presti. If they could neither question him nor tap his phones, they would have to tail him. It might not have been the best solution, but they didn’t have many options, and at least it wasn’t expressly forbidden by law.

‘I’ll get that set up from tomorrow morning, as soon as he leaves his house,’ Rizzo assured him.

‘Let’s keep it going twenty-four-seven. Change the men over every six hours.’

She had heard something. Or was it just her imagination?

There it was again. This time the sound had been more distinct.

Then the iron door opened, the room lit up, and he came in.

He was wearing a balaclava. She took that as a good sign: if he didn’t want her to recognise his face, it probably meant he wouldn’t kill her.

But then why had he taken her? And why her in particular?

She got up from the mattress and watched him as he slowly approached her. He was as tall as she remembered. When he got closer, she looked at his hands. The fingers were long, the nails well-tended. They weren’t a labourer’s hands. She tried to memorise the details. She noticed a small bandage, then saw that he was holding something that looked like a remote control.

‘Why have you brought me here?’ she asked him.

‘Now’s not the time for questions,’ he replied in a calm, courteous voice.

‘Why not? I want to know why I’ve been kidnapped, because that’s what this is, isn’t it, a kidnapping? But I don’t have —’

‘I told you this isn’t the time,’ he cut in.

Suddenly he put his free hand, his right hand, into his tracksuit pocket and pulled out the taser.

‘What are you —’ She did not have time to finish before she received another electric shock. She fell to the floor, banging her head on the wall as she did so. He threw himself on her, crushing her beneath his weight.

He undid his trousers and let them slide down to his ankles, then grabbed her breasts. His grip was so strong, Guendalina was left breathless with the pain. Her eyelids felt heavier and heavier. She moaned as she lay there. She was trembling. Then her gaze moved to his penis. It seemed quite small, but it was erect, the veins swollen. Immediately afterwards she felt it against her own body.

‘Open your eyes!’ he said. ‘I want to see them, they’re very black and very beautiful.’ His body moved snakelike above her. Then he penetrated her violently.

She passed out.

Darkness.

She did not even hear him say as he left, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t kill you!’

Feeling satisfied, he closed the iron door behind him.

The bitch should not have come between them. But with her firm, well-toned figure and scared expression, she was even prettier without clothes: sexier, more of a turn-on. It was very exciting to have a woman available for every eventuality, every urge, every fantasy…