The Monster of Florence (23 page)

“Well, I wouldn’t have been satisfied with that,” growled the Marshal, letting the chapter fall on to the floor beside the bed.

By a quarter to three in the morning, the Marshal really was hungry and thirsty, and he went back to the fridge to conduct a more serious investigation of the contents.

“And if anybody had done the same in sixty-eight …”

But nobody had. When they did it was 1982 after the Montespertoli murder when an anonymous letter had told the judge to check the documents of the ’68 trial of Sergio Muscas. It must have seemed like an incredible piece of luck that, taped inside the file, was a transparent package of cartridges and bullets recovered at the scene of the crime. There was no question about it, it was the Monster’s gun. This lifeline had come just in time when they’d had to release Elio Sassetti who’d been arrested after talking about the Scandicci murder when nobody had found the bodies yet. His car had been there, too, somebody had seen it.

“And that,” said the Marshal aloud, extracting a pan from the cupboard under the sink, since the fridge had still produced nothing, “is another thing I wouldn’t have been satisfied with. All right, so there was another murder while he was inside, so it wasn’t him—but that doesn’t alter the fact that his car was there that night in Scandicci and that he knew. He could have seen the whole thing. Oh well …” If he wouldn’t talk he wouldn’t. Hindsight again. Even so, there must have been some way of finding out
why
he wouldn’t talk, damn it …

The Marshal ran some hot water into the pan, a thing his wife disapproved of but he could never see why. He lit the gas, quite oblivious
by now of the fact that it wasn’t supper time but three in the morning. He set himself a place at the kitchen table and then rummaged in a cupboard for a jar of his wife’s tomato preserve …

“And
he was a Peeping Tom. I’d have kept on to him …”

But nobody had. Too fired up by this new development of the ’68 gun. Everybody running after Sergio Muscas again, but you can’t do that. You can’t just abandon solid facts like Sassetti’s car and his knowing about the murder just because some new, more interesting theory presents itself. You have to connect them. That’s what was wrong in ’68, the true facts didn’t connect so they were abandoned. And then in 1982 the same thing. Everybody insisted that Sergio had been telling the truth, that he’d had an accomplice. Well, of course he had. He’d no car, no gun. But then you had to connect that accomplice with Elio Sassetti, you couldn’t just forget him.

“Damn!” He managed to splash himself as the tomatoes hit the oil and garlic in the little pan. The chapter he’d just read hadn’t even pointed out that Elio Sassetti and Flavio Vargius, the one Sergio continued to accuse as his accomplice, lived in the same village and were both Peeping Toms, maybe in the same gang. There was something there, there had to be. Sergio was out of prison by then and living in an ex-prisoner’s home in the far north. Nobody suspected him of the Florentine murders, they’d even given him that in writing. But still he wouldn’t talk, still he wouldn’t produce that one key that would open up the ’68 murder.

Sergio, thought the Marshal, stirring the glistening sauce slowly about, hadn’t changed a bit, even though he’d served his sentence and for him it was all over.

“It was Flavio Vargius. I was ill in bed.”

“If you were ill in bed how could you know it was Flavio?”

“It was him, he’d have killed the boy if I’d accused him.”

“But you did accuse him. You’re accusing him now. Who’s to prevent him killing your son now? Why accuse him now?”

“I’m accusing him because he did it.”

“Do you realize the implications? Do you understand that the same gun has killed another eight people?”

“You can’t accuse me. You said.”

“Nobody is accusing you! Eight people have been murdered. We want to know who’s got that gun.”

“I threw it in the ditch.”

And how they’d refrained from throttling the man was a mystery. The Marshal sat down to his pasta and gave it a liberal showering of cheese. They had not told the papers at that stage, which was sensible, but something else had leaked to the journalists, a story that Piero Merlini was still alive when they found him after the Montespertoli murder and had given a description of the killer. It wasn’t true. The poor boy had been alive all right but had died in hospital without regaining consciousness. Still, the story was published and the day after, before the judge could get back from his talks with Sergio, Flavio Vargius had upped and disappeared, drawing the full force of the investigation after him.

They’d gone to see his wife first, of course. The Marshal, munching hard, suddenly stopped. There was something about that visit to Vargius’s wife that he’d made a mental note about. What was it? He ate on, trying to remember but not remembering. He could swear it was something to do with the Suspect, but how could that possibly be? The Suspect, as such, hadn’t even existed in 1982. What the devil could it have been? They’d gone to Flavio’s house to question his wife … it was there somewhere … she must have been a right character, set into the husband right away, saying he’d beaten her up so badly that she was deaf in one ear, which when it all came out wasn’t true. Was that it? The Suspect was said to beat his wife. Try as he would he couldn’t remember the connection. Anyway, Vargius’s wife had made an official complaint and with that warrant and not too much effort they’d managed to find him and arrest him and suspect number two was in prison. But they weren’t out of the woods yet by a long chalk. To prove he was the Monster they needed to prove that he had that gun and so did the ’68 job. For that they needed the testimony of Sergio Muscas, the world’s most unreliable witness. And Sergio had now decided to exonerate himself completely. If he wasn’t admitting to being at the scene, his accusation
of Flavio was useless. The investigators decided to do a bit of listening in.

Perhaps he’d been mistaken. The Marshal got up and rinsed his dish. Perhaps it hadn’t been Flavio and his wife he’d made a mental note about, but Sergio’s brother Fabio and his wife. Muddling the names up like that poor child after the murder. He went back to the bedroom and found the page with the transcript of their intercepted calls. They called each other every evening because Tina was in hospital, dying of cancer. Any hopes the investigators might have started out with that on her death bed the woman would have told the truth were soon dashed. How could it be otherwise? She was about to leave her daughter Dina orphaned of her mother. If her husband were to be arrested for involvement in the ’68 murder the girl would be fatherless, too. The Marshal took the relevant sheets into the sitting room and sat down in his usual armchair in front of the television.

A screw loose … well, there was no doubt about that. Even so, why protect his brother who’d left him to take the rap and now left him to live out his life in a hospice? There was Nicolino, of course, Sergio must have known he needed his brother and sister-in-law to look after the child. But now? He was no longer a child. And what about whoever else Sergio was protecting?

“He’ll keep accusing Flavio Vargius.”

What was he hiding?

“We don’t want that coming out on top of everything else.”

But what? You could follow the scenario up to a point. This wretched Belinda was the moral and economic ruin of the family so little wonder Fabio helped Sergio to get rid of her.

“Uncle Flavio looked in my mum’s bag and then he felt round in the glove compartment …”

The insurance money. Just before the murder, Sergio and Belinda had cashed an insurance claim for injuries Sergio had received in an accident on his moped. It was a considerable sum and evidently Belinda had got her hands on it. That’s what Fabio was after. But Fabio had no gun and no car, like Sergio. Somebody provided those things.
“We don’t want that coming out. We don’t want …”

“Salva? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me. What’s happened? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

“It’s not the middle of the night, it’s your usual time for getting up.”

The Marshal, having stumbled into the hall in the dark, dropped a sheet of paper he was holding and felt around for the light switch. What was the matter was that he wasn’t in bed and he couldn’t work out why. For some reason his fuddled brain was convinced this call was from the hospital. What hospital? Why?

“I thought I’d better tell you, Nunziata’s not too good.”

So it was a premonition. “She’s in the hospital.”

“Good heavens, no. She’s off colour, so I thought …”

Slowly, as she talked, he gathered his wits and remembered the document he’d been reading. He must have fallen asleep over it in the sitting room. He remembered papers scattering to the floor as he’d shot out of his armchair at the first ring.

He couldn’t be sure that he’d read all the things he was beginning to remember because he’d probably dreamt some of it, must have, because Ferrini had featured among the characters he’d been reading about and that couldn’t be right. There’d been something else, as well, near the end. Something that he remembered as being dramatic and that he’d tried and tried to understand, but the words had slid sideways in front of his tired eyes and no matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate, it had been impossible to force them to stay still long enough to read.

“I just thought, to be on the safe side, she should do some tests and since I’m here …”

“But I thought you were coming home tomorrow.”

“She is your sister, Salva. It’ll only mean a couple of days more. The doctor said …”

And yet he was almost convinced that it had been real, that he had read it, or tried to read it … now it would take hours to get all this stuff back in order. He leaned down and, with the receiver blocked under his chin, gathered up such pages as he could reach.

“Of course, it’s her liver,” he said. “You know how fond she is of her food and you can imagine at Christmas …”

“I know. She’ll have to go on a diet, for what good it does, like somebody else I won’t name. Are you all right?”