The Marshal at the Villa Torrini (18 page)
'Nothing. I'm needed in the office.'
'At this time?'
'It's all right. Go back to sleep. Somebody's been arrested.'
'Well, why aren't they at Borgo Ognissanti? Why here? Salva?'
Which was also the Marshal's first question, whispered.
'Why is he here? You should have taken him to Headquarters!'
'We did, but both cells are full. He had to be on his own, didn't he? What else could we do?'
The Captain's two men were there in the waiting-room with Fara, one still swinging his handcuffs.
'Do you need us?'
'No, no . . . you can go.' The fewer people knew about this, the better. But when they opened the door to leave, Galli was standing there, about to press the bell.
Before the Marshal could protest, Fara said, 'He helped, it was at I Caffé, so I said . . .'
'All right—no, the photographer, no.'
'And I've just got him out of bed.' The photographer retreated down the stairs behind the Captain's men and Galli came in. Fara locked the door behind him and Galli shrugged the loden overcoat from his shoulders.
'I feel half dead . . . ' Nevertheless, he was as sleek as ever, not a hair out of place.
'Is he out cold?' Galli wandered to the cell door and peeked in. 'God, what a stink. Did he talk?'
Fara looked unhappily at the Marshal who took Galli aside, one heavy hand on his shoulder.
'Do me a favour, will you? Go home and stay there until I call you. Then you can come back with your photographer.'
'But—'
'You said to me yourself the other day, there's no such thing as a scoop. It'll be on tonight's news whatever you do.'
'I have my own reasons—'
'I know. And I'm telling you, as I wouldn't tell anybody else, that I can't do what I have to do if you're here.'
'You're up to something. Understood. I'll go.' On the stairs he looked back up at the Marshal. 'Get him. Promise me you'll get that bastard.'
'I will.' The Marshal closed and locked the door. He and young Fara stood looking at each other. 'How long has he been out cold?'
'About three hours. He started a fight in Il Caffé. Galli helped, letting him hang around and seeing he got enough drink down him, though it didn't take much before he got aggressive, and then Galli really got him going. He'd seen us outside.'
'But he knows nothing?'
'Oh no. He probably just thought we wanted an excuse to pick him up. Either that or he had some private grudge of his own. Anyway, it was a good help—oh, and I'd better tell you, when we arrested him he snatched a flask of wine from a table. I did take it off him when we put him in the car, but between one thing and another he managed to get to drink most of it.'
'All right.'
'The other two don't know. It's just that he hadn't had enough, not to knock him out enough so he'll remember nothing. I threw the flask—'
'What flask? Go and make some coffee—where are the notes?
'On your desk, ready.'
'Then let's start waking him up . . . ' He opened the flap to look at Forbes who lay on his back with his beard pointing at the ceiling of the tiny cell. A large blue bucket, thoughtfully placed beside him by Fara, was the source of the reek of vomit. Forbes was snoring loudly. 'If we can't waken him properly you can call a doctor. I want him in a fit state to be able to get a lawyer.'
Fara was reading aloud. He began tentatively, the presence of the Captain, the Prosecutor and Forbes's lawyer intimidating him. Forbes himself was so ill it was all he could do to remain upright in his chair, and you could see that he was afraid to make the slightest movement with his head in case he vomited again. His hands clutched the sides of the chair seat, the knuckles white. Fara continued, glancing every now and then at the Marshal, seeking a supportive nod or even a sympathetic expression. But the Marshal showed no expression at all. He might not have been listening.
He was listening, in his own way. He heard every word, took in every detail of the story. It was just that he wasn't hearing Fara's voice telling it. It was Jenny's voice we heard. A voice weary and hoarse with crying, emptied of emotion because even the most violent emotion succumbs to tiredness in the end.
'It was a game we had. He called it bathing the baby. He used to soap me all over, even wash inside my ears and between my toes. Then, to rinse me, he'd take me by the ankles and swim me up and down making waves that swilled the soapsuds away. Mostly we did it in London, but sometimes we did it here as well when she was out. I don't think he's kinky, I mean about little girls. He just liked looking after me, being the strong one. I didn't mind. I'm not strong like my mother. I didn't feel guilty. Why should I? She had everything, she didn't need him as well. If I'd studied for the rest of my life I'd never have achieved anything compared to her. And she was always making a thing about being so careful not to make me feel it. When I started learning the piano, when we were still living in London, she stopped playing. Did she think I didn't know why? She might just as well have said I would never be as good as her and have done with it. Sometimes I hated her enough to kill her but that wasn't the reason. I was in love with him, whatever you think. He didn't make me feel stupid.
'One day there was this accident. We were in London. I was on half-term and he'd come over for an interview for some journalistic job. He didn't make that up, there really was an interview. He promised me if he got the job he'd leave her, that she could stay in Italy and we could get a flat in London. Only he didn't get the job. She ruined it for him. All his references were references she'd organized for him. The articles he'd sent in had been commissions of hers she'd dumped on him and then half written for him. He had no confidence at the interview because of all that. It made him feel guilty. He'd have got the job if it hadn't been for her. When I met him outside afterwards he was in a cold sweat. We went and had a drink and then a meal with some good wine to cheer him up. Julian said it served her right if we were spending her money, since it was her fault that it had gone wrong. Afterwards, we went back to the house. We were a bit drunk. Julian ran the bath and filled it very full with lots of perfumes and foam in it. That's when the accident happened. He was pulling me back and forth with my ankles and I was squealing, just in fun. Then he pulled too hard and the water came up over my face. There was so much foam and he didn't notice. He just kept pushing and pulling and there was water in my lungs and I couldn't get upright because he had my ankles. My head wasn't in the water but I couldn't breathe. It was only so that he could turn the cold shower on me for a joke that he let go. I tried to pull myself over the side of the bath but I lost consciousness. When I came round I was on the floor and he was trying to give me artificial respiration, pressing on my back, but he didn't really know how to do it. He was crying, he was so scared. I only thought after he'd gone back that what he was scared of was that if I'd died he'd have been in trouble, that he'd have been stuck there with my body and
she'd
have found out.
'When he got back here he rang me and said it all had to stop. He told me not to come out at Christmas. He confessed to her so that
she'd
stop me coming out at Christmas, and when she didn't he sold my bed.
'When I heard she was dead I knew what he'd done. I thought he'd done it for me. I thought he'd decided at last . . . but she had him on a string till the last, had him running round after her, taking her her drink in the bath! She had him begging her! Begging her not to leave him but she wouldn't give in. She didn't give a damn for him. He was just trying to make her listen to him. He didn't do it for me, he just wanted her to stay with him, and so he pulled and pulled and he didn't let go! He could see from her eyes she was terrified but she didn't give in, so he held on. She dropped her glass and tried to get hold of the side of the bath, like I did, but he just held her heels higher. It was so easy. When he let go she slid into the water on the broken glass and the water went pink. He's frightened of blood. He went to the bedroom to have a drink because of the blood. He wasn't upset about her. Whatever you say, you don't know him, he didn't love her. She'll still try to hold on to him, won't she? Even now she's dead. But now I've got money. I can get him a good lawyer. You can arrest him, now I've told you, and then I'll pay for the lawyer. He'll owe me that.'
Because of the blood. After that I can't remember.
Fara's account had lost synchronization with the Marshal's mental processes. But then, it was shorter. There were things they hadn't written. Forbes looked no more nor less ill than he had when they'd started. He was beyond caring. The lawyer, on the other hand, was looking as though he'd rather not have been called to such a hopeless case.
'Has my client signed this so-called confession?'
'No, no . . . ' the Marshal said with equanimity. 'We're not even considering it as such, given the state he was in when we brought him here . . . particularly—' he looked hard at the lawyer—'particularly because of the involvement of a young girl who, having already lost her mother . . .'
He gave it three days. Within that time, the Marshal felt, a suitable confession to the murder of Celia Carter, excluding all damning references to her daughter, would have been signed.
He was wrong. It took only two days. But then, as the Marshal confessed to Galli in the bar across from Borgo Ognissanti, 'I'm a bit on the slow side myself, so . . .'
'You got him. That's all that matters—and Mary Mancini will probably be Celia's literary executor, had you heard?'
'No. I didn't know.'
'Can I offer you another?'
'No, no . . . There's something I have to see to.'
'Is that all?' Signora Giorgetti wiped her soapy hands on her apron and looked at the black plastic sack the Marshal was bringing into the kitchen.
'It's just the little girl's clothes and toys, or what I could find of them. The magistrate made an exception. He'll have to sign an order releasing the rest—'
The old woman sank down on a kitchen chair and wept.
'I spent every penny I had—
and
got myself into debt— trying to keep her flat for her. What did they want putting her in prison? They had that brute Saverino and poor Antonio, what did they have to take my daughter for?'
'Now, now.' A neighbour, who had probably been camping there all morning, stood up and got hold of the old woman's shoulders. 'Don't take on. You've the child to think of.'
'She should never have left Antonio! None of this would have happened if she hadn't left Antonio!'
'Don't take on, now! D'you hear what I say?' The neighbour gave the Marshal a despairing glance and lit a cigarette. The ashtray in the middle of the plastic-covered table was already overflowing.
The old woman blew her nose loudly and then yelled, 'Fiammetta!'
The child came in. She was wearing her pink tracksuit and dirty white trainers.
'I've brought your toys,' the Marshal offered, holding the open mouth of the plastic sack towards her. She didn't move.
'Have you brought Gobbly Bear?'
'I—I brought everything I could find . . .'
The child shot forward and grabbed at the sack, emptying its contents out on to the floor.
'Fiammetta!' Her grandmother aimed a whack at her but missed. The little girl ignored her, shaking, kicking and stamping at the jumble of clothing, shoes and toys at her feet. Then, breathing heavily but not crying, she retreated until her back was against the wall and began sucking fiercely on her thumb.
'Can't you see your gran's upset?' admonished the neighbour. 'What sort of behaviour's that? You say thank-you to the Marshal for bringing your toys!' She got up and stubbed out her cigarette. 'I'm off. You can leave her with me after if you need to.'
When the two women were at the door, murmuring, the Marshal looked at Fiammetta and said, 'I'm sorry. Are you sure you left him there? I didn't see a bear.'
Fiammetta stared, sucking her thumb and banging her thin little back rhythmically against the wall.
Her grandmother came back and started picking up the stuff from the floor and putting it back in the sack.
'Take no notice. It's nothing. Just a drawing her dad did for her. It was stuck on the wall over the bed. She's toys enough here.'
'I'm sorry.'
Fiammetta sucked and rocked, staring out at him from her withered young face. The kitchen was small and oppressive. The Marshal felt the need to get out in the street and breathe some air.
It didn't bring him much relief. The city had been a week, now, without wind. Via Mazzetta was blocked solid by a queue of cars. They and the people coming towards the Marshal were colourless silhouettes against a foggy glare.
'Ouff!' He fished out his sunglasses. Now there'd be a pollution warning and tomorrow there'd be a traffic ban, and tomorrow . . . a ritual battle with no victory even hoped for.
The Marshal trudged along slowly, trying not to inhale the fumes too deeply.
From behind closed windows came the muffled signature tune of the lunch-time news. Metal shutters started rattling down over shop windows and a brief waft of meat sauce, heavy with garlic and rosemary, reached his nostrils.
A dusty workman with a brown paper bag protecting his head hurried past the Marshal, whistling, with a kilo of bread under one arm and a flask of red under the other.
The Marshal, too, quickened his pace.
Magdalen Nabb, was born and raised in England, but came to Florence as a young woman to study pottery-making. She remained a resident of that city for the rest of her life. She wrote thirteen books in the acclaimed series featuring Marshal Salvatore Guarnaccia.
Vita Nuova
is the last. Magdalen Nabb died on August 18, 2007, in Florence.
