Vita Nuova (11 page)

‘Damn!’ He got up to go to the bathroom. That was it. He made a decision.

‘Nesti can do as he likes. I’m going.’ He washed, dabbed a lacey towel at his dark growth of beard, scowling into the mirror, and went back in the bedroom to dress. It was twenty to six.

The night sky was just fading to grey and the damp air smelled of grass and pines. He found the spare ground where they’d left their cars. There were two others there, big, hunched, and dark. A fine shroud of morning mist gave them a ghostly, even sinister, air. The custodian was holed up in a wooden kiosk, drinking something from a plastic cup. Coffee from a flask, maybe. The marshal felt an urgent need for a coffee himself, but his need to get away from this place was stronger. His car, too, had a mist of tiny droplets on it. He nodded at the custodian as he drove past, but the man only stared at him.

Once on the motorway heading for Florence, he felt a little better. It was getting light and his eyes were scratchy with tiredness. There was no traffic and the fields on either side were white. The ring roads around Florence were still empty and smelled of trees rather than exhaust fumes. He entered the city by the Porta Romana and he was home. Coffee first, then a shave and a shower and he would start writing a report. He had to be so careful. A wrong move and those children would vanish. Go slowly, pay attention, one detail at a time.

Standing in his towelling robe in front of the washing machine in the bathroom, he contemplated two pairs of stained trousers lying on top of it. It was a fairly new washing machine, and he looked at all its rows of dials and lights and switches, frowning. In the old days when he had done his own laundry, all you did, as far as he could remember, was to stuff the washing in and switch it on. This thing looked like the cockpit of an aeroplane. After struggling for a while with cycles and loads and temperatures, spin cycle, air fluff, easy ironing, and wash and wear, he considered taking the trousers to be dry-cleaned. But no, he’d never find the time and then they’d be left for Teresa to deal with. So he stuffed them in with what was there already and switched on. Teresa had probably left it set on something suitable. He waited until a light came on. It seemed to be filling up. Then he noticed a blue plastic bubble sitting where the trousers had been. Teresa had mentioned that, but what . . . detergent. You put the detergent in that, these days. He couldn’t, not now. The thing was half full of water. Well, it would all get a good rinsing, and if it didn’t come clean he’d put the soap in and run it again. It was starting to trundle round. Good. One detail at a time. Be careful. He placed the blue plastic bubble neatly on the shelf above the washer, next to the detergent. There was a sheet of paper hanging there, taped to the edge of the shelf. She’d said something about that. He examined it. It was a photocopy, presumably of a page of instructions about all the cycles and so on. And there were some handwritten notes done with a red felt-tip. ‘Blue uniform shirts/coloured T-shirts socks, etc.’ ‘White uniform shirts/underwear.’ Well. . . .

He got into uniform and went to his office.

It was still early to call the prosecutor, but he settled at his desk and made a few notes about what he needed to tell him. He needed two search warrants, for a start, one for Paoletti’s villa here in Florence—unless he produced the gun or guns voluntarily—and one for the ‘hotel.’ But would the prosecutor—despite all his smiles and his ‘your expertise’ and his ‘you and I know’—accept that there were grounds for either, considering he only had the word of a prostitute to go on? It needed backing up, and the only person who might be able to back it up. . . .

‘Don’t tell me that he doesn’t know everything that goes on
here and turns a blind eye.’

He had to admit that Nesti was probably right. He was the only person. He might not know about the children, but he had to know about the ‘hotel.’ He’d said it was all above-board, but what else had he said? Something had been wrong in that conversation, something that had made him inclined to believe Nesti, but what was it? They had to have this out. He got up, checked his keys, and left the office. Going down the stairs, something that had been buried deep in his mind surfaced. It had been too soon. That was what it was. The local marshal had called him no more than fifteen minutes after the prosecutor, saying he’d been round there and done some checking, had that long conversation with the manager. He couldn’t have done it in the time. He’d lied.

The motorway was still quiet, and by the time the sun was warming his car he was back in the spa town and following the signs to the carabinieri station.

The local man, Piazza, was standing in his quarters, in uniform, with a cup of coffee in his hand and a little girl with waist-length brown hair clinging to his legs.

‘Please, Dad!
Pleeease!’

‘Your mum will do it for you. I have to get to work— and look, there’s the marshal here waiting to see me.’

‘He
can
see you—and, Dad, Mum never blows them up properly like you. They’re always all soggy!’

‘All right, but I’ll do it this afternoon when we get to the pool. You don’t need them now.’

‘I do! I do need them now. I want to put them on now! I want to!’

‘I’m sorry, Guarnaccia. . . .’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Run and get them, then—and be quick! Her water wings. She’s so thrilled with them, she wants to wear them all day. She’ll not be satisfied until she’s punctured them.’

The little girl scampered back with her pink and green water wings, and when they were inflated and put on she hugged her dad, smiled at the marshal, and galloped, shrieking, out of the room.

‘An only child?’

‘Yes. And you?’

‘Two boys.’

‘Let’s go to my office—d’you want a drop of coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

Face to face across a desk, they sized each other up. Piazza, the marshal judged, was quite a bit younger than himself and this was probably his first command. His expression was open and lively, and he seemed ready to laugh at the first excuse offered. Even so, you could see he was a bit puzzled by this visit and, whether or not he had lied about checking out The Emperor, any idea that Paoletti was paying him off had evaporated before even before they sat down.

‘Is it about this murder? Paoletti’s daughter?’

‘Yes. I went to the club last night—I should have told you, but it was unofficial and I thought I’d better not involve you in it, since your face is known here. . . .’

The other man waited, still puzzled. Not being paid off, so what, then? To be so serene and cheerful. Perhaps he was mistaken and the lie had no sinister implications. He could just have been busy, thought he ought to say he’d checked the place out—after all, the prosecutor himself had called him. He could simply be lazy, though it seemed unlikely . . . so lively and energetic, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the sort of colleague Teresa would think attractive. Hmph—well, there was no getting away from the fact that he’d lied. Could have misunderstood what he actually said or meant. Best just to ask him, maybe. Lorenzini would have done it. Looked him in the eyes, jabbed four fingers an inch from his nose and shouted ‘Aow! What sort of story was that?’ Tuscans . . . they were a race apart, that was a fact.

‘Involve me in what? Are you all right? You look exhausted—you’re sure you don’t want that coffee?’

‘No, no. . . .’

‘Suit yourself. So? What did you not want to involve me in?’

‘It’s just . . . I took a look round The Emperor—not official, as I said—not in uniform.’

‘You went as a client, you mean? Undercover? Good heavens—I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you don’t look a likely customer. What did you think of the place? Pretty much as I described it to you, eh?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Making a fortune, I reckon.’

‘Behind the scenes, perhaps. Not by charging fifteen euros entrance, including a drink.’

‘No, well, it’ll be more the private parties, stag nights and so on. Then there’s a bit of privée stuff upstairs, lap dancing, nothing more than that.’

‘Sixty euros for ten minutes.’

‘Did you . . . well! Hope you enjoyed it. Must give it a try myself sometime.’

Up to now he was only amused. The thing was to uncover it all bit by bit, and watch for a change in his face. Of course, in these situations there was more than one way of paying people off. Someone who wouldn’t want to dirty their hands with money might not be above a regular freebie.

‘Then there’s the hotel . . . the one that’s not a hotel, if you follow me. Now that’s more like serious money.’

‘You went there, too? You
did
have a night out. No wonder you’re looking tired.’

But he was still amused, not alarmed at all. Even so. . . .

‘Yes. What I’m thinking is that while what goes on at The Emperor can pass for being above-board, that hotel can’t.’

‘I agree with you, but—I don’t know if you’ve understood how it works—if we went in there, we’d find nothing but a private house, belonging to Paoletti’s wife, and maybe the odd house guest.’

‘And the girls in the attic?’

‘Staff. Servants. And all with regular papers.’

‘Yes . . . you know it belongs to his wife, then.’

‘Of course. I told you, I’ve checked the place out— though not as . . . intimately, let’s say, as you did. I’m impressed. Incidentally, I can’t find out that he’s treading on anybody else’s toes in any way that might have caused the daughter’s murder. He keeps himself to himself. Word of that would get around. He’s not importing girls for any of the other clubs, I can assure you of that.’

‘And can you assure me that his own girls are not slave sex labour? And that their passports are not locked in Paoletti’s safe?’

There. That was where the smile faded.

‘
Can
you? Isn’t that what explains his profits?’

‘I have no evidence for it . . . I just checked their papers. They had regular work permits for domestic labour, so . . . I’m not saying it’s impossible.’

‘But it’s all above-board.’

‘Listen, Guarnaccia—’

‘No. No, no . . . I’ve heard what happens to those girls when they arrive.’

‘Guarnaccia, you have to listen to me. Don’t insist. You’re investigating a murder. What’s going on here has nothing to do with that murder, nothing at all to do with it—’

‘You can’t know that for sure. You can know he’s not annoying his business rivals, whether Italian or Russian. I’m not disbelieving you about that. But there could be something else, something personal. This was a very personal murder. The prosecutor on this case is not a man I’ve ever had a lot of time for, but even he recognizes that.’

‘So investigate the girl’s private life!’

‘And leave Paoletti’s business alone?’

The other man stood up, but the marshal wasn’t standing up. He sat where he was, heavy, silent, immobile. The other looked down at him.

‘I’m asking you once more. Don’t insist. We’ll be in big trouble, very big trouble, both of us. If you start a witch hunt, our lives will be ruined and everything here will go on as before. We’ll achieve nothing. You know that’s true. And people’s sexual tastes, however weird they might be, are surely their own business.’

‘Yes. . . .’ But the children? Did he know about the children? The marshal hoped not, and he wasn’t going to risk telling him, because then Piazza’s career could be ruined for not reporting it. There was another child in this story, after all. A little girl skipping around in her water wings. . . .

‘There are reasons why I have to insist—where are you going? We have to talk.’

‘No. The less we talk about this, the better. And I’m not going anywhere. There’s something you need to see.’ Piazza took a key from his belt and opened a filing cabinet. He withdrew a large yellow envelope with ‘Urgent’ written in large capitals with a thick black felt-tip and sat down at the desk with it in his hands. His face wasn’t bright and cheery now. He drew a sheet of paper from the envelope, hesitated, then pushed it across to the marshal with the impatient gesture of someone who’d done his best and now washed his hands of the matter.

The paper had on it a list of names. Nothing else, no addresses, just names. But each of the names was preceded by a title, whether noble or professional. It was to be expected. The marshal recognized two famous family names and an even more famous lawyer. There were two judges, a consultant physician, and a chief of police, local politicians, minor television personalities, a bishop. He stopped reading halfway down and passed the list back. Piazza blocked it with his hand.

‘You need to read it all. I can see from your face that you haven’t.’

‘No, no . . . what’s the point? It was only to be expected and, even so, I’m going to have to—’

‘Guarnaccia, read the third name from the last. Or do I have to read it to you? It’s the prosecutor on your case.

‘So. Are you listening to me now?’

Seven

T
he marshal listened. If nothing else, he listened, or was silent anyway, because he didn’t know what to say, where to start, and because everything that had happened up to now meant something different to what it had meant before. He needed to look at all of it again in peace but, for now, scenes were flashing at random in his head. His eyes were fixed on his colleague’s face and he took in the sense of urgency and alarm in his voice, but in his head he was somewhere else. He was standing in the glaring heat of a garden, waiting two hours for the prosecutor to arrive, though the August roads were empty of traffic. Where had he gone first? He was standing outside the door up in the tower with the prosecutor’s hand clapping him on the shoulder as they loaded the body, fat legs and blond hair dangling, into the metal coffin. Of course he hadn’t wanted to take the marshal off this high-profile case to put some clever investigator on it.

All that stuff about ‘your expertise,’ and all that considerate help. . . . ‘
You have your station to run. I’ll go to the
hospital. I’ll talk to the mother. . . .’

‘Guarnaccia?’

‘I’m sorry. . . .’ He realized that his gaze had drifted, that he was staring at the row of calendars behind his colleague’s head.

‘You do realize—’

‘Yes . . . yes, I realize . . . I don’t want to cause you trouble. I appreciate your situation.’

‘What could I have done? I have a family.’

‘Yes.’

‘So? How are you going to proceed?’

‘I have to report what I found. This . . .’ he touched the sheet of paper. ‘It’s just a list of names. Anybody can write a list of names—where did it come from?’

‘Paoletti, I presume. One of his employees must have left it here for me to find.’

‘Ah. Well . . . he’s very clever, very plausible. It’s still just a list of names. When was this? How did you come in contact with him?’

‘About two years ago, when I first took command here, he came to see me. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, except that it was a bit unusual, but he was the one who initiated the contact with a really plausible story about how he always liked to be on good terms with the law because in the nightclub world nasty things could happen, even when, like him, you were trying to run a clean business, and so on and so forth.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘I’m ashamed to say, I did.’

‘I don’t think you need feel ashamed. He once convinced a priest to be a character witness for him after he’d almost beaten a woman to death, and he’s had a lot of practice since then.’

‘But I’m not a priest, I’m a carabiniere. Not that I didn’t think it odd, as I said—but he actually came round here, all smiles and
so
respectable! And he managed to get into the conversation his donations to various charities, all of them run by the church.’

‘And he brought this list?’

‘No. That was later. I’d been hearing things. I mean, thousands of visitors pass through here every year to take the waters, but the actual resident population’s quite small. Sooner or later, I was bound to hear stuff. I suppose that’s why he got his story in first.’

‘So, how did you hear? From one of his clients, I suppose.’

‘Yes—not a hotel client. Those people are invisible, as you can imagine. They’re either there with some young girlfriend or somebody else’s wife or else they’re indulging peculiar tastes. They’d hardly be likely to turn up here. No, this was a local man, a widower. A friend took him to the club to shake him out of his depression— nothing more than a bit of lap dancing. Anyway, he got interested in the girl and went back a few times. He seemed to believe she was fond of him.’

Thinking of poor Cristina, the marshal said, ‘Well, perhaps she was, if he was kind to her, showed a bit of interest in her life.’

‘Oh, he showed more than a bit of interest. He didn’t say, but I got the impression he was thinking seriously about whether he could maybe—oh, he had no illusions about himself, didn’t really expect her to stay with him. Anyway, she told him she couldn’t leave, that Paoletti had her passport. She told him about the hotel, and he came to me.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘What could I say? That I’d look into it.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes. I went to the hotel with two of my men and we took a look round. No warrant or anything, just a routine visit.’

‘And you found nothing?’

‘What you’d expect. A villa owned by Paoletti’s wife, a housekeeper by the name of Maria Grazia, some immigrant girls who were cleaning staff and so on, all with papers in order.’

‘I suppose she didn’t show you the rooms on the second floor.’

‘Oh yes, she did. It was obvious she’d been instructed to. We only looked at two of them. What was the point? One was done up like a church, candles and flowers and a confessional, the other was black sheets and handcuffs, that sort of stuff. The woman opened the doors for us to look in and then shrugged. “Eh . . . Signor Paoletti. . . .” As if it were a question of his own personal tastes. She was perfectly composed and, of course, we saw nothing there that was illegal. The next morning one of my carabinieri found this envelope on the doorstep.’

‘And the widower? Did he come back?’

‘More than once, but what could I tell him? I told him I’d keep an eye on the place, but that it would be difficult to prove a case or even get a warrant with only a prostitute’s word for it. . . .’

‘And he accepted that?’

‘No. No, he didn’t. He started asking questions at the club. I warned him not to do that! I told him he was putting this girl at risk.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She disappeared.’

Thinking she was going for a television audition, probably, and the body never found.

‘What was her name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you know his name. He’s not a prostitute; he’s a witness. Another thing: this list. It’s just a list. I take it people like this don’t put their signature to anything. How do you know—or prove—that it means anything? That it’s not one of Paoletti’s tricks?’

Piazza looked down at the big yellow envelope.

‘What else is in there?’

‘Photographs. Not of all of them, but a lot of them. Very crude and very compromising.’

‘Recognizable?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, there are peepholes in the bedrooms, is that it?’

‘Something of the sort, I suppose.’

‘And all this to keep the law off his back? Or do you think he’s blackmailing them?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Hmph. Knowing Paoletti, there’ll be a few chosen victims. He’s a good judge of character.’

‘Guarnaccia, just drop it. Don’t insist. You’ll ruin your family and mine and probably some of his victims’ families, too. For God’s sake—where are you going?’

The marshal had stood up.

‘I have to go home. . . .’

At the door, they shook hands.

‘I’ll do my best. . . .’ There was no need to say what about. They both knew he didn’t mean his best to solve the case, just his best to save Piazza’s skin.

And his own?

Back at the station, Lorenzini said, ‘Your wife phoned—twice. Are you all right? What’s going on?’

‘You don’t want to know. Damn . . . did she say something about going to see a flat?’

‘The one you told me about, that you’re thinking of buying? No. She just wanted to know where you were.’

‘Hmph. Who’s the woman in the waiting room?’

‘Signora Nuti.’

‘Ah, yes. I thought I recognized her. Don’t tell me they still haven’t unblocked that street drain?’

‘Not a sign of them, despite the lawyer’s letter—and there are storms forecast. You know how her cellar flooded last time, and she lives alone, poor soul. I can deal with her as soon as I’ve—’

‘No. No, send her in to me.’

That was what he needed, to be back for a moment in his own world with his own people, with their small problems. He could hear his heart beating, feel every nerve end tingling at the thought of what he had to do.

‘Oh, Marshal, I’m really sorry to be bothering you, but. . . .’

‘No, no, Signora. Sit down.’

‘I don’t know what else to do—I mean, it’s been six months. . . .’

‘They’re a disgrace. You’ve been too patient.’ Easy to criticise. Teresa had called twice, and what had he done about that flat? Nothing. He’d been too busy with this case which, likely enough, would ruin their lives. Instead of worrying about getting onto the housing ladder, they could soon be worrying about his being transferred to the back of beyond. And Teresa? And the children’s schools? Giovanni was enrolled at the technical school. . . .

‘My nephew came and helped me last time—I can’t be carrying buckets of water, what with my age and my arthritis—but I can’t keep asking. . . .’

‘No. And why should you have to?’

Whose advice could he ask without dragging them into it? Anybody he told would immediately be in the same boat. Damned if they didn’t act, damned if they did.

‘We’ll both be ruined and things will go on here just as
before.’
Piazza was right.

And those children? The little girl crying on the bed?

No, no. . . .

‘My nephew says I should go ahead and sue, that there are so many complaints like this coming in, they don’t even look at yours unless you sue. But the expense. . . .’

‘They’ll have to meet the costs, that’s not the problem. It’s the time it will take, and you still in this mess.’

He had to sort the mess out before Teresa came home. She was so settled here. The children had their friends, their plans. . . . The paper! The second edition of
The Nazione
would be out!

‘Excuse me. I’m sorry, I won’t keep you waiting more than a minute, Signora.’

‘If you want me to come back another time. . . .’

‘No. I won’t be a minute.’

She was his only link to reality, the familiar reality he could cope with, beyond which was a menacing, silent darkness. And it wouldn’t be silent for long. He looked in at the duty-room door.

‘I need a copy of the second edition of
The Nazione.

’ A young carabiniere was already on his feet. ‘I’m going for the post, Marshal. I can get it on my way back—’

‘No. Get it now and bring it to me right away.’

He went back to Signora Nuti. He wanted to keep her talking so as not to hear the silence in his head. In the end, she was the one to say she had to go and do her shopping.

‘I’ll do what you suggested—what was the number again?’

‘Seven hundred. Don’t worry, your lawyer will know the emergency order I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter if you forget the number. Wait, I’ll write it down for you . . . here you are. And tell your lawyer he can call me if I can help. We’ve been round there and seen exactly what the situation is. Something in writing from us might help.’

He walked through the waiting room with her and saw her out, delaying the moment when he was left alone with his fears, his too-loud heartbeat. What was terrible was that, no matter how hard he tried, he knew he could never be like Piazza. Whether it was the children or the other girls or what. . . . The thing was out of his control and rolling forward under its own momentum. He couldn’t stop it. How could anybody be expected to do this job properly? Why had he ever joined up? Why, oh, why had he gone with Nesti? Why wasn’t Teresa here—

He interrupted himself to look in at the duty room.

‘Don’t put any calls through until I tell you otherwise.’

‘Not even your wife?’

‘Nobody.’ She would notice something was wrong, and what would he tell her?

‘Marshal? Your paper.’ The carabiniere was back.

‘You’re sure it’s the second edition?’

‘Yes. I asked. Is there anything else, or can I go for the post?’

‘You can go.’

He shut himself in his office and sat down with the paper.

There was a brief introductory piece on the front page with a photograph of The Emperor. When had Nesti got hold of that? Of course, he’d have taken a photographer when he went there before ‘to take the waters’—when? The day they’d eaten at Paszkowski’s, but what day was that? He was losing track of time. Without his usual routine, the rhythm of his daily life with Teresa and the boys, one day merged into another, a formless muddle. . . .

Continued on page 5.

An enlargement of that same photograph at the top and, in a box, one of the articles about Paoletti’s arrest all those years ago, with a mug shot. All that mattered was the list, and Cristina surely wouldn’t have known about that. She’d warned them about photographs, though. . . .

He must keep calm, concentrate, read the page carefully and see how much Nesti knew—or at least guessed. But the print shifted under his gaze, and he found himself reading the same paragraph time and time again without taking in a word.

Blackmail
. . . that word leapt from the page. It was only supposition. It couldn’t be more than that, but supposed blackmail meant a supposed list of client/victims. What he must find was any mention of himself that would alert the prosecutor and Paoletti. He must read the blackmail part first, and he still wasn’t concentrating. Suddenly, he pushed the paper aside and reached for the phone. To call Nesti and just ask . . . ? To call the prosecutor and find out where things stood, get it over with? Whatever he had in mind, the number he was dialling was his sister’s. He had to hear Teresa’s voice, no matter what. It was the only thing that would calm him. He couldn’t tell her. She would hear that something was wrong, but he’d say he was overtired, that he didn’t sleep well without her. He just needed her to talk to him so he wouldn’t hear his heart beating all the time. It rang and rang. He’d apologise for not going to see the flat, promise to go, and he would go, too, and pretend to himself that things might turn out all right. But could he really cope with that? It meant ringing the bank, making an appointment with the manager, talking to the captain, fixing with the estate agent, being taken round. He couldn’t make even the first move. It rang and rang. It was easy enough to deal with the people in his waiting room as though everything were normal. They presented themselves, told him what they wanted. Mostly, they just wanted him to listen. And besides, he had Lorenzini and his carabinieri to keep everything running, and he only had to be there some of the time. The station didn’t stop running if he wasn’t. The world didn’t stop turning, but at home. . . .