Vita Nuova (7 page)

The marshal was stunned, so much so that, at first, he connected the young prostitute found bleeding in the park with the murdered young woman found in the tower. But, of course, it was the mother, the frightened, silent, glassy-eyed mother. And what made Nesti’s story inescapably credible was the bit about the priest.

‘They all go off to church together on Sunday mornings.’

Four

B
y the time they left Paszkowski’s, they’d done themselves pretty well, between them, and the walk back across the river was much needed. They took the Ponte Vecchio which, though it was dark with all the shops battened down under their wooden shutters, was at least a little bit busier than the other bridges with perfumed after-dinner holidaymakers and couples kissing on the balustrade in the middle. Once they were on the other side, silence fell and they could hear nothing but their own footsteps in the sweltering night.

‘Just as well I went to take the waters today,’ said Nesti, giving his paunch a friendly pat. ‘Should stand me in good stead digesting all that.’

‘You weren’t serious?’

‘Well, no. I didn’t actually drink any of the foul stuff, if that’s what you mean. But I went there.’

The marshal looked sideways at him, but there wasn’t enough light to make out his expression. As always, a cigarette dangled from his mouth, its end glowing, his eyes screwed almost shut against the smoke.

‘God, those watering places are dire. Of course, they don’t do as much business as they did in the days when it was so easy to book in for your wining and dining, gambling and nightclubbing on the National Health— though you lot can still get away with it on your insurance, can’t you? You ever try it?’

‘No.’

‘No liver problems?’

‘Now and again, but my wife would never leave the children and you won’t catch me in a hotel alone.’

‘You wouldn’t be alone long, if my little visit was anything to go by. I told you Paoletti had gone up in the world. Got a very fancy nightclub now, catering to the rich and particular who don’t mind leaving their wives at home so as to indulge their specialized tastes while taking the waters.’

The big stones of the Palazzo Pitti glowed yellow in the lamplight, and they paused at the bottom of the forecourt to finish their conversation, their voices lowered in the silence of the night.

‘The Emperor, it’s called. I told you I could help you.’

‘Well, it tells me where his money’s coming from. I can’t say the daughter’s story about a staffing agency explained it.’

‘It does, though, officially. It’s his cover. Perfectly legal operation—only there’s more staff coming into the country than you’ll find on the files in that office, if you follow me, and we’re not talking cooks and cleaners.’

‘Prostitutes?’

‘From Eastern Europe. Leopard never changes his spots. The staffing agency’s useful because he can give a few girls real jobs and word gets around that it’s legit.

And I think there’s more to it than that. I’ll be going back there. I reckon there’s a story in it, and a big one.’

‘And will it produce a murderer?’

‘More than one. If somebody’s out to punish Paoletti— and attacking the family is just their style—it’s because he’s overstepping the mark. Importing prostitutes from ex-commie countries for his own place is one thing, but supplying other clubs, if that’s what he’s doing, that’s Russian mafia territory.’

‘Well, if that’s the case, I can sleep easy. Nobody will expect me to deal with that.’

‘True. Might get me the front page, though.’

They were about to part company when they heard running footsteps in the dark and a woman’s voice screaming.

‘Bit of business for you, Guarnaccia. . . .’

The woman came into view, still running, as she passed under a lantern on the other side of the road. It was impossible to make out what she was screaming: Her voice was too high-pitched and hysterical. She was escaping from a big man who was running after her in silence.

The marshal was about to cross the road. Behind him, Nesti remarked, laconic as ever, ‘I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes if she turns on him.’

The marshal stopped. ‘You know them?’

‘Seen them around. They’re rubbish. Drugs, smalltime theft, pathetic.’

‘Even so. . . .’ The marshal was inclined to agree that the overweight silent man pursuing her might well be in danger from the woman’s fury. Her rage seemed to make the air vibrate.

‘Get away from me! Fucking bastard! Get away from me!’

He had caught her and blocked her in the doorway of a bank.

‘Leave them to it,’ advised Nesti.

‘Come across with me. If he sees us watching, he’ll not hit her.’

They went and stood close.

‘Come on, now,’ the marshal said quietly, ‘let her be. Let her calm down.’

The big man ignored him. He clutched her arms.

‘Let me go! Get away from me!’ Her face looked a yellowish white. She wasn’t breathing properly. She tried to protest, but her eyes turned up and she was collapsing.

‘Nesti, call an ambulance.’

She was down on the pavement, her whole body rattling in a fit. Her legs began to jackknife. The marshal knelt and tried to keep her mouth open.

‘Is she epileptic?’

The big man was kneeling, too, but all he did was to keep hold of her arm in a vise-like grip. He didn’t answer.

‘Is she epileptic? Answer me!’

‘She takes some pills . . . or else injections. Injections . . . maybe she’s asthmatic. . . .’

‘Lift her feet up! Oh, for God’s sake . . . Nesti, lift her feet up. Is the ambulance coming?’

‘On its way. I think she’s coming round a bit.’

‘Let go of me.’ But the man kept his grip on her arm. ‘Let me go! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!’

‘You can breathe,’ the marshal said. ‘You are breathing. You’re talking, so you’re breathing, aren’t you? Just lie still. There’s an ambulance coming.’

‘No! No! I’m not going to hospital! I don’t want to go to hospital! Let me go!’

But her voice was feebler now and she didn’t move.

When the ambulance turned up, it took some time to calm her protests sufficiently to get her onto the stretcher, but the ambulance men were very patient and they at last managed to loosen the man’s grasp on her as they lifted her inside. He tried to get in with her, but they blocked him. After some argument, the ambulance left and the piazza was silent again.

‘Well, I’m off. Got an article to write. We’ll be in touch.’ Nesti lit a cigarette and disappeared into the night, his footsteps echoing down a nearby alley.

The big man was still standing there, his arms dangling.

‘You’d better be going home,’ the marshal said. ‘She’s in good hands.’

He didn’t answer or even look at the marshal. His lower lip dangled. He only had one bottom tooth. He seemed to be in a complete daze. The marshal wondered if it was drugs, or alcohol.

As if in answer, a stream of wine-dark vomit spouted from the dangling mouth, splattering on the pavement and spraying up the marshal’s beige trousers.

The man remained immobile, as if he hadn’t noticed. The marshal crossed the road and climbed the wide emptiness of the forecourt to the Palazzo Pitti. At the top, he paused before going under the archway to the left and turned to look back. Below, in the gloom, he could just make out the man’s form, still standing in the bank doorway.

How do you get red wine stains off beige cloth? The marshal had no idea. He had something else on his mind anyway. He didn’t go and change right away, but unlocked his station and looked in at the empty waiting room. Facing him were the two cells, their cream-painted doors bolted. A long time since they’d had to use one.

‘Yes . . . that’s it. . . .’

Years ago, that man, Forbes. Nasty bit of work he was, and he’d vomited litres of red in his cell the night they picked him up. And that was it: the unpleasant memory brought up by the faintest trace of a smell. Alcohol and vomit, cleaned up but still in the air. In that big fancy kitchen in the cellar, it was almost imperceptible but it was there. That’s why the mother was too dazed to react to her daughter’s death. The sweating, the glazed eyes . . . an almighty hangover. And, given what Nesti had told him, it was hardly surprising.

The afternoon heat was oppressive. Without the builders, not even the cement mixer broke the silence. The marshal reached the shelter of the cool stone portico and rang the bell. A young woman opened up. Blond, almost colourless hair tied back, jeans, a cheap-looking T-shirt. He followed her down to the kitchen. To understand this family, you had to fit into its timetable. At this hour, both the girls who did the household chores should be there—and the marshal was willing to bet that it was only their day job—and the lady of the house would be out of bed, cleaned up, and in a fit state to talk to him should she want to.

He was more or less right. She was sitting at the big glass table with a cup of something in front of her and a plate with the remains of some dry toast, but she wasn’t dressed. She was in her nightdress with a wrap of some sort over it.

‘I’m sorry to have to disturb you again. . . .’

When he sat down, he got the yeasty warm smell of sleep and sweat coming off her, with a cloying hint of alcohol.

‘Maybe . . . some coffee. . . .’ She looked from the marshal to the girl, uncertain.

‘If you mean for me, no, Signora. I’ve only just had one on my way here.’

That was a lie, but he wouldn’t have wanted to drink anything in here, not even a glass of water. He couldn’t help it, he was keeping his breathing shallow again.

‘I’ll get on, then. . . .’ The girl hesitated and, when there was no answer, went through the door that was standing ajar, perhaps to her room. Would she be the one who had been watching him from the barred windows at his feet the other morning, or was it the other one?

‘I understand from your daughter that you have someone staying here now, and I’m glad to hear it— would that be the young woman who’s just left us? What’s her name?’

‘Danuta.’

‘And she sleeps here now? Helps with the little boy?’

‘I don’t . . . perhaps, sometimes. . . .’

It was obvious that she didn’t know.

‘Or perhaps the other young woman? The one I haven’t seen?’

She didn’t answer right away but lifted the cup to her lips very carefully, as though it were brimming over, but it wasn’t. The problem was that her hands were trembling. Her forehead was beaded with sweat and her head must have been throbbing. Frowning with the effort, she said, ‘It might be Frida. I’m sorry, I should be dressed at this hour.’

She looked frightened, and her glance shifted to the staircase. She wasn’t apologising to the marshal. It must be Paoletti she was afraid of, even in his absence.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not well.’

‘I understand. Your daughter, Silvana, explained— and of course, now, after such a shock. Two shocks. Your husband and then your daughter.’

Again she lifted the cup and sipped.

‘It’s milk,’ she said, as though he’d asked, ‘with just a drop of coffee. Coffee on its own upsets me.’

‘Well, yes, it’s heavy on the stomach if it’s strong.’

Should he even have come here? Yes. He couldn’t imagine the prosecutor getting anything out of her. Hadn’t he already tried? She’d surely have taken something for her hangover, and the milk and toast might settle her stomach sufficiently to enable her to talk. Even though he was thinking this, he was taken aback when she put down the cup and said without expression, ‘Is my daughter dead?’

‘Yes, Signora, she’s dead. In fact, I came here today to tell you that, now that the autopsy is done, the prosecutor will soon give his permission for you to bury her. You’ll want to be making arrangements.’

‘I can’t do that. It will have to be when my husband comes home.’

‘Yes, of course. I understand.’

‘Where is Piero?’

‘I’m not sure . . . I expect his aunt is looking after him.’

‘By herself? Silvana musn’t be left to look after him by herself.’

‘No, you’re right. She’s still very upset—but now she has someone staying here who can help.’

‘You have to excuse me. I’m ill.’

The marshal got to his feet and out of range. He knocked on the door, closed now, through which the girl had gone. ‘I think the signora needs your help.’

The girl came out. She said nothing to him but went over to the woman. ‘Do you want to get dressed now?’

‘Bathroom. I feel sick. . . .’

The marshal judged that she had forgotten his presence. The girl was helping her to her feet. In the doorway she had come through, he saw buckets and mops, and from there came that faint, now recognizable smell, masked by disinfectant.

‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Is there a time of day when the signora might feel up to talking, do you think?’

She shrugged her shoulders with a slight grimace that said more than her words. ‘You could try just before supper, about sevenish. Signora! Don’t hold on to the table. Lean on me—no, on me! That’s better.’

The marshal climbed up to the fresh air out of doors and heard water splashing. He walked to the rear of the carriage drive and turned left towards the tower. In the blue pool, water running off her brown limbs and long hair, Silvana held a plump, blond cherub of a boy above her head. The cherub, with his curls all wet, was crying, but she laughed up at him until he stopped and laughed with her. The marshal stood a moment, watching, remembering Giovanni at that age, plump and brown, soft dark hair and huge brown eyes, amazed by the sea, not knowing whether to laugh or cry when the waves splashed over him. So little time they’d had before he’d had to leave. Even less with Totò. Nobody could give him back those years. A thin, fair girl was carrying a tray of sandwiches and drinks to the table under the umbrella. Must he barge in on this scene, a uniformed stranger come to talk about a funeral? It wasn’t that urgent if nothing was to be done until Paoletti came home and he was going to have to come back, anyway, to try again with the mother. He retreated.

‘Lorenzini! Thank God for that!’

Lorenzini was a bit taken aback.

‘Well, it’s nice to know I’ve been missed. . . .’

Lorenzini, the marshal’s second in command, was a dyed-in-the-wool Tuscan and had little patience with the marshal’s Sicilian ways which, in his opinion, were convoluted, time-wasting, and, above all, irritating. They rarely agreed on anything, but they were used to disagreeing with each other and didn’t take much notice of it.