The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (7 page)

An attractive young woman approached the table. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the restaurant’s logo. ‘What would you like?’ she asked, handing them a couple of menus with the dishes written in black marker on yellow paper.

‘Do you have porcini mushrooms?’ Venturi asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Are they local?’

‘No, they’re imported.’

‘Forget it, we’ll have two margherita pizzas.’

‘And to drink?’

‘Draught beer.’

A barely visible grimace of disappointment appeared on Inspector Carlo Rossi’s pockmarked face. Once the waitress had moved away, he said, ‘What a pity! They’re supposed to have really good starters and meat dishes here.’

Given that they had skipped lunch, he had hoped for a decent dinner at least.

‘We’ll come back another time, Carlo. Right now we’re here to work and we can’t waste time.’

Venturi looked down at the yellow sheet of paper in front of him. It was an imitation of the famous ‘straw paper’ that used to be made from wheat or corn, an excellent material much favoured by grocers and greengrocers for wrapping food.

He smiled a touch sadly, remembering when he was little and his grandmother would wet a small piece of the paper and put it on the sore spot after he fell off his bike, convinced that it would prevent swelling.

He shook his head to dismiss these thoughts and looked around at the other customers.

The restaurant was near the road to Enrico Costanza’s villa, no more than five hundred yards as the crow flies. It was small, some ten tables altogether, and had a handsome ceiling with beams, from which hung legs of Tuscan cured ham. There were few customers at this hour, but those few were busy talking away happily, with not a care in the world.

In the background, songs from the seventies were playing, livening up the atmosphere.

Venturi had been sent here by Rizzo, who was convinced that people were more likely to speak freely on their own territory than in an office at Police Headquarters.

When the beers arrived, Venturi asked the waitress if he could talk to the owner.

‘Who do you mean? The father or the son?’

‘Whichever. Just tell him we want to ask him a few questions.’

The girl looked at him, slightly bewildered, then said, ‘I’ll go and call the father.’ She walked away, wondering who these two customers could possibly be. She had never seen them before.

They had barely finished taking their first sips of beer and putting their tankards back on the table when they heard heavy steps on the wooden stairs. They turned and saw a tall, sturdy, giant of a man with barely a hair on his head, wiping his two huge hands on a cloth.

‘Good evening,’ he said, somewhat suspiciously, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite them.

‘Are you the owner, signore?’ Venturi asked.

‘Yes, I am, but my son Alessandro manages the place. He’s not here at the moment, though. Can I help you?’

Venturi took out his badge. ‘
Squadra Mobile
,’ he said.

‘Ask away,’ the man said, with a sigh of relief: these two were police officers who wanted to ask him a few questions, not crooks come to demand money which, according to them, would go to help prisoners’ families. That had happened before.

Venturi got straight to the point. ‘You’ve heard about the murder of Senator Costanza, I assume?’

The man grimaced. ‘Yes, but I don’t think I can help you. I don’t know anything. The Senator wasn’t a customer here. This isn’t a restaurant for VIPs. It’s very basic. As you see, we use paper tablecloths, the kind they used to use in wayside inns.’

‘So you don’t know anything, even though the Senator was killed just down the road?’

‘It’s terrible. It’s the first murder that’s taken place in the area since I opened this place around twenty years ago. I realised something serious had happened when I saw lots of police cars go by as I was opening up this afternoon.’

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ Venturi asked, aware that the man did not have a Tuscan accent.

‘I’m from Puglia. From Altamura, a town near Bari.’

At this point the waitress came back with two plates, which she put down on the table.

‘Here are your pizzas,’ the owner said. ‘Eat them before they get cold.’

He waved the waitress away, gesturing to the couple sitting by the entrance who were ready to order. The way she had been looking at the two police officers annoyed him. Was it just curiosity or was there something else? He meant to find out as soon as he could.

Neither of the police officers touched their knives and forks.

‘What time did you close the restaurant last night?’ Venturi asked.

‘Same time as usual.’

‘What time is that?’

‘Around midnight, half past, something like that.’

‘Were there any customers?’

‘The regulars. They come from the city, or some of the nearby hamlets.’

At that moment the waitress came back to their table. ‘Your son is on the phone and wants to speak to you,’ she said to the owner. ‘He says it’s urgent.’

He frowned and looked at the waitress as if he wished he could strike her down with the force of his gaze. ‘Tell him I’ll call him in a bit.’

‘But he said it was urgent.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ll call him in a bit.’

The young woman moved away and they resumed their conversation.

‘Did you notice anything unusual?’ Venturi asked. ‘Any new customers you’d never seen before?’

The man hesitated, and Venturi thought he saw a twitch in the corner of his eye.

‘No. Nothing to arouse my suspicions. I normally work in the kitchen, anyway.’

‘And did your staff mention anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘What about your son?’

‘No, he didn’t either.’

‘Did you hear any strange noises?’

‘What kind of noises?’

‘Gunshots, for instance.’

‘No. If that had happened I’d have been worried and would have called you or the Carabinieri.’

‘Now I’d like to talk to the waitresses. Were they both working yesterday?’

‘Yes,’ the man said. He got up and went to call them.

Both girls assured Venturi that they hadn’t noticed anything either.

Venturi thanked the owner and took a business card from his wallet. ‘Please get your son to call me.’

‘OK,’ the man said and walked away.

In the kitchen, he reprimanded the waitress.

‘Listen, when I’m busy you mustn’t disturb me. You could have told me my son was on the phone afterwards. And what were all those looks for? Do you happen to know those two? Or do you know something about what happened? I don’t want any trouble from you, or you can walk right out that door.’

Stammering, she told him she wanted to keep her job and he had nothing to worry about.

The two police officers were at last able to enjoy their pizzas, cooked in a wood oven and delicious.

‘A shame it’s not hot any more,’ Officer Rossi said.

Venturi signalled to the waitress for the bill. They went halves.

They had found out nothing useful. Apparently, it had all been a waste of time. But the twitch in the corner of the owner’s eye, the phone call from his son, and the way he had glared at the waitress had roused Venturi’s suspicions. As they walked to the car, he said to Rossi, ‘I think we ought to question the big man at Headquarters, and perhaps the son too.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s possible that one or both of them know something.’

The wizard has spoken!
Rossi said to himself with a small smile on his lips as he started the engine and put it into first gear.

What a smell! Ferrara could feel his stomach rumbling. He hadn’t eaten a thing all day and had drunk nothing but a couple of cups of coffee.

As soon as he got home, he noticed the linen tablecloth, a gift from his mother-in-law, and the plates and cutlery that only came out on special occasions. Petra was just adding the finishing touches. He went to her and kissed her on the lips.

‘You’ve had a lot going on today, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘You didn’t even phone me.’

‘You’re right, darling. That’s exactly how it was.’

These were the only references to his work they allowed themselves. End of subject. The details were his business only. And Petra was used to not asking questions. She didn’t want to know. She had heard about the double murder on the radio and could imagine how busy he must be. She looked him in the eyes as if trying to understand his problems.

He took a small sealed package with a silvery bow from his jacket pocket and handed it to her with a little smile. ‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘I didn’t forget.’

It was the anniversary of their first meeting. They had met on Lampedusa, a dream island where they had set the seal on their love under a canvas tent. Their matchmaker had been Massimo Verga, Ferrara’s oldest and most trusted friend, now the owner of a bookshop in the Via Tornabuoni.

‘I was sure you hadn’t,’ Petra said, unwrapping the package.

She held the small shell-shaped leather box in her hands for a moment, then lifted the lid. Her eyes lit up at the sight of a red ruby necklace with matching earrings. They took her breath away.

They came from a jeweller’s on the Ponte Vecchio, the true heart of Florence.

Petra took out the earrings and immediately put them in her ears, then asked her husband to help her with the necklace. He moved her hair out of the way and closed the clasp at the end of the fine chain.

‘They’re stunning, Michele. What a wonderful present! Thank you.’

‘They look perfect on you.’

‘Thank you again, darling. But you’re mad to get me a present like this – God knows how much they must have cost you!’

He shrugged.

‘The best present, though,’ she went on, with that smile he loved so much, ‘is that you remembered in spite of all you had to do on a busy day.’

‘Actually I bought them a few days ago. The jeweller was very helpful. He ordered exactly what I asked for. But if you don’t like them, you can always change them.’

‘No. They’re just what I wanted.’

He went to the bathroom to wash his hands then came back and sat at the table. Petra had been admiring herself in the mirror while she waited for him.

They enjoyed a meal of roast lamb with potato and aubergine gratin, accompanied by a truly delicious classic Chianti, Rocca di Montegrossi 1997 reserve from the San Marcellino vineyard. They had first drunk it while having dinner at their favourite restaurant, Giovanni’s in the Via del Moro.

As they ate, she told him about her day: how she had started writing a fashion article for the magazine she had been working for since the previous year when Michele had been in Rome.

He actually had seconds. His exhaustion had done nothing to diminish his appetite. And the lamb really was delicious.

He had seen the item on a local channel.

Stock footage of the city had been followed by shots of the villa where the crime had taken place, filmed from a distance. Then Police Headquarters, with a few officers outside. Their exhaustion was clearly visible on their pale faces, along with suspicion and confusion.

The camera had lingered on the face of Teresa Micalizi.

The reporter for the item was the one who usually handled crime stories, and he embroidered his presentation with a few unconfirmed rumours. ‘The police are looking for a professional killer who may have come from another city. They are keeping a watch on airports and railway stations and at tollbooths along the main roads. Roadblocks are in place at strategic points.’

In the end he had pressed the button on the remote to switch the TV off.

What idiots they were, looking for a professional killer! They were only capable of seeing what was in front of their eyes and jumping to the most obvious conclusions.

The first twenty-four hours had passed. That was good, very good. They’d be hearing from him soon. He’d give anything to see the face of that ‘legendary’ Chief Superintendent when he…

In just a few hours, he was going to make him look a complete fool, and the rest of the Florentine police force with him!

He knew a lot about that legendary Chief Superintendent. He had read about him in the newspapers, had seen him on television, speaking at press conferences or making brief public statements at crime scenes.

He was very familiar with the case of the Monster of Florence, on which the legendary Chief Superintendent had led the investigation. In his opinion, the fame he had gained thanks to that case was undeserved. What was there to be proud of? He had pinned it all on an unskilled labourer, but had let the people behind the murders go, the people who ruled the city behind the scenes.

He, on the other hand, knew who they were. He could go straight to the target. He understood certain areas of human behaviour, and was able to go beyond appearances.

He would soon show that Chief Superintendent which of them was the clever one. He knew so much about him, while the Chief Superintendent knew nothing about
him
and would never find him. He’d merely be fumbling about in the dark.

Soon he would concentrate on the next piece of the jigsaw.

There was no way that he could ever be tracked down.

He burst out laughing.

He took off his shoes and curled up on the sofa, which was a bit short for him. From the small side table he took one of his favourite CDs:
Deep Purple in Rock
. For a while he stared at the faces of the five band members on the cover, carved like Mount Rushmore, then put the CD in the player, pressed the play button on the remote and turned up the volume. He closed his eyes, feeling he could fall asleep like that. Ian Gillan’s voice flooded the room, singing ‘Child in Time’.

Hard rock was his favourite kind of music. Hard music, as hard as he was. Before long, though, he became aware of the usual pain and lifted his hands to his head. Ritchie Blackmore’s guitar seemed to be trying to burst his eardrums.

‘Damn!’ he whispered, opening his eyes. The beast he could not tame, no matter how he tried, was attacking him. He took some Rohypnol, a powerful drug he had recently discovered, from the side table and swallowed it with a little water. It would take effect within fifteen minutes, and then he would be fine for at least six hours. He would relax and fall into a deep sleep.