Vita Nuova (8 page)

‘I saw the press conference about the gypsy children on the news. Maestrangelo looking as black as thunder, I suppose because of the political involvement.’

‘Hmph.’

‘You don’t look too chirpy yourself. Teresa not back yet?’

‘No.’

‘I know how you feel. My wife’s staying on for the rest of the month in Castiglioncello. Better for the kiddie, of course. . . .’

‘Oh, yes. . . . ’

‘That’s why I’m here now, instead of coming in tomorrow morning as I should. I thought we might have a bite together this evening.’

‘Well, I was going to do my night round. . . .’

‘No problem. We’ll have a bite and I’ll come with you. Better than sitting at home watching those old films they put on in August—and I know just the place to go where we can cool off.’

Olmo is so high up above Florence that the temperature can be a good four degrees cooler. When they got out of the car, the marshal sighed with relief.

‘That really does make a difference.’

‘Stupendous view, as well.’

But, as they crossed the road from the carpark, a gigantic fork of lightning struck the hills on the far side of the Arno Valley, and the chains and clusters of tiny lights running across the night scene were temporarily effaced.

‘Somebody’s having a big storm,’ Lorenzini remarked. ‘Let’s hope we get it in the city too. Clear the air. It’s a long way off but better sit inside, just in case.’

They sat in front of a huge window where they watched the dramatic storm as they ate.

Remembering Teresa’s constant advice of ‘Just don’t overdo it,’ the marshal said, ‘I won’t have any pasta.’

‘Good idea,‘ agreed Lorenzini. ‘I’ll order a plate of mixed crostini, give us something to chew on while we’re waiting—I thought we’d share a Florentine beefsteak, what d’you think? With just a green salad and maybe a few chips. . . .’

Perhaps the marshal really had been missing his colleague. At any rate, he found nothing to disagree with there. Besides, eating was more of a pleasure in the cooler air. As the waiter poured him a glass of red, he almost sighed with satisfaction.

‘So, what’s this case the lads were telling me about? Anything interesting?’

‘You could say that, I suppose, but it looks like it might turn out to be something a lot bigger than we thought, so it’ll probably be taken off my hands. Can’t say I’ll be sorry, either. Did they tell you who the prosecutor was?’

‘That was the first thing they told me.’

‘Well, he’s been all right—though, to be honest, I find it a bit hard to forget the way he behaved the first case I had to work with him—before your time. . . .’

‘No, it wasn’t. That was my first year here, but you worked the case on your own.’

‘Mmph. Well, I didn’t want to get anybody in trouble. . . .’

They demolished more than one prosecutor along with their beefsteak and then consoled themselves about being left alone in the heat of the city with a bit of pudding.

Gigantic fork lightning continued to attack the hills all around them.

‘Spectacular! Did you see that?’

‘What ? No. . . .’ The marshal was feeling for his wallet. This was a pretty fancy place. . . .

‘Sorry,’ Lorenzini said. ‘Just back. You know how it is. Must get some cash tomorrow. Shall we start the rounds?’

Their first stop on descending into dark waves of heat was outside the villa where two bored carabinieri sat in darkness, their car parked just inside the gates, out of sight of the headlights of passing cars.

One of them got out and came to the gate to speak to the marshal.

‘All quiet?’

‘As the grave. Two young women left about nine. Nothing since.’

‘Two? That’s funny. I thought one was supposed to stay.’

The young carabiniere shrugged. ‘There were two of them, dressed to kill, tits on them like—’

‘In which car?’

‘The mini.’

‘Which way did they go?’

‘That way, heading down to Porta Romana, I suppose.’

The marshal got back in the car. Either there’d been a change of plan and the second girl’s services were required elsewhere, or she was driving the other one to the club and would come back.

They went down into the city. It was an uneventful round, the night air stale and close. The storm came no nearer. Around one fifteen, Lorenzini yawned.

‘Shall we call it a day? God, I’m weary of this heat. I feel like I never went on holiday at all, I don’t know about you.’

‘Mmph. I’m grateful to have got through the day without anybody being sick on me.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way.’

The marshal had been expecting to see Nesti’s story in the next morning’s
Nazione
but, going through it in his office as church bells rang all over the city, he found nothing. The crime pages were dedicated to the deaths of the two gypsy children, and there was a front-page article and an editorial too. Nesti would be disappointed, but he himself wasn’t altogether sorry. His great friend the prosecutor would be very annoyed if the first he heard about Paoletti’s goings-on was from the newspaper. Keep me informed of anything, he’d said, but what if there was nothing to it? Should he have used the mobile number late on a Saturday night? Paoletti had no record, there was nothing concrete, juridically speaking, and it was all so long ago. Still, just as well the paper hadn’t run it. The other papers would be bound to start calling the Procura when it did come out. It would be no use looking for Nesti at this hour. He might be at his desk in the afternoon. He called the prosecutor and told him.

‘I’ll get on to Nesti later today and have him send you the articles that came out at the time. As I say, he wasn’t convicted of anything, but he’ll have spent a bit of time inside before being bailed and it seems he employed an ex-con as a gardener at one time, then sacked him. There could be a grudge. . . .’

‘Right. Good. Well done. We’ll follow that up. I’ll speak to Paoletti myself and get his name.’

‘Yes. If you think I should go out to take a look round this club. . . .’

‘I should think a call to your people on the spot would be more useful. If there’s anything going on, they’ll know about it. I’ll get on to them myself and have them call you.’

And he was as good as his word. Not a quarter of an hour had gone by and the church bells were still ringing when the marshal of the spa was on the phone. His name was Piazza and he was a jovial sort. Chatty.

‘No, no, no! Journalists’ gossip. The prosecutor called me and I popped in to take a look round, just in case, but there was nothing I didn’t already know about. The place is above-board. Stag nights, business entertainment, private dinners and so on, you know the sort of thing. Very upmarket and very profitable. We’re in the wrong job, if you ask me.’

‘You’re probably right.’ He didn’t bring up the question of the Russian mafia. You could never tell for sure whether Nesti was serious or not and, besides, he was a journalist, when all was said and done, and despite this being August, the paper hadn’t run his story. ‘Thanks for getting back to me quickly, anyway.’

‘No trouble at all. Bad business about his daughter, though. Involved with some nasty character, I suppose. And him in the hospital, too. It happened here, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t know.’

‘Oh, yes. He’s not often here, but now and again when they’re taking on new acts he comes to vet them. The manager was just saying to me, “He was right as rain, sitting at one of the tables with a coffee in front of him and we were listening to a singer for our stag nights.” He said, “She was a redhead—decent-looking but useless, cracked up halfway through her song—when one of the lads shouted ‘Get your kit off and let’s hope your tits are better than your voice!’ I turned to him when she’d gone and said something. He just didn’t answer. His eyes were open, he was sitting there normal as anything but he just didn’t answer.” He said, “I tried shaking him in the end but nothing. He couldn’t hear me, wasn’t compos mentis at all, so I called an ambulance.” The manager said, “It makes you think,” and I agreed with him. Still, they say Paoletti’s going to be all right.’

‘Yes, they’re expecting him home soon.’

‘Poor chap. Some homecoming that’s going to be, with his daughter dead. Anyway, listen, you never know. After what you’ve told me, I’ll be keeping a close eye on The Emperor. He may be above-board—and you can take my word on that—but he might have business competitors. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes. That’s what I was afraid of. . . .’

‘You’re right to be. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve gone for an innocent family member. Anyway, don’t you worry. You get on with following up your end of things and I’ll have a chat with a few people here. If I hear anything at all, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Thanks. You know your people best.’

So why, then, did the marshal agree to go out to the club with Nesti that night? It was that decision, his and his alone, that was the cause of the trouble and he couldn’t explain, at the time or afterwards, why he made it. Surely he couldn’t have agreed to go out just to avoid being at home alone? No, no . . . although if Teresa had been here, she’d have advised him against it. But she wasn’t here. She should have been here. With hindsight, of course, it was easy enough to put your finger on what didn’t add up, but he didn’t remember having registered anything then. And the only reason he’d called Nesti was to have those articles sent round to the Procura.

‘No problem. I’ll bring them myself. Have to go round there anyway. There’s yet another press conference at six.’

‘Gypsies?’

‘What else? You going to be there?’

‘No, no . . . Captain Maestrangelo will be dealing with that. I’m going back up to the Paoletti villa to see if I can get any sense out of his wife.’

‘That should be interesting. Meet me afterwards at the newsagent’s kiosk at Porta Romana. We’ll go out and have a discreet sniff round at The Emperor. I’ve been hearing things.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Tell you when we get there. We’ll do everything on my credit card so your name doesn’t need to come into it. . . .’

Well, it was something, these days, if somebody else was going to pay. . . .

‘You can give me your half in cash,’ he went on. ‘Let’s say half past eightish.’

When the girl opened the door to him, she looked terrified.

‘It’s Danuta, isn’t it?’

She nodded, her eyes swivelling away from him to the kitchen staircase behind her and back to his uniform, balancing two kinds of fear. He smiled at her and stepped inside.

‘What is it? Is Signor Paoletti home? It’s all right. He’ll talk to me—and I want to talk to you, too, afterwards.’

He wanted to reassure her, make her understand that he had other things on his mind than illegal immigrants, but that might be a bad idea, lose him the only advantage he had over Paoletti in the fear stakes.

‘No. Let me go down first. You follow me.’ He felt sorry for her and all he could offer was to place his solid bulk between her and her employer. As he walked down the stairs, he judged that he had interrupted a huge row. The air was still vibrating from angry shouts. Yet the only words he heard now were spoken very quietly.

‘Get out.’

A chair scraped. The marshal went down the last steps.

‘Good evening.’

His appearance was met with silence. The tension was palpable. Paoletti sat at the big glass table, which was laid for three. By his plate was a scattered pile of boxes of pills. Two of them had been ripped open. Paoletti’s left hand lay on the table, his right covering it, holding it. His daughter stood with her back to a long marble worktop. Her hair was tied back with a white ribbon; her face was almost as white. A tap was running and the marshal could smell fennel.

‘I see I’ve interrupted your preparations for supper.

I’m sorry.’

‘Not at all, not at all!’ Paoletti recovered his wits at once. ‘You must be . . . Marshal Guarnaccia, is that right? I’ve heard about you from the prosecutor. I’m very glad to see you. I know you’re doing your best to find out what happened to Daniela. Sit down, Marshal. Silvana, get on with what you’re doing.’

She turned away and busied herself chopping the vegetables.

A chair had been pushed away from the table in front of one of the plates. Had he been shouting at his wife? The marshal, choosing a different chair, was certain that he had. He could smell, or at least sense in some way, her recent presence and her sick fear. Had she retreated to hide in the servants’ quarters? There was nowhere else she could have gone when he told her to get out.

‘Really, I came to talk to your wife. I didn’t expect to find you. . . .’

How could he finish that remark?

‘You must be relieved to be home, in spite of everything.’

‘Not in spite of but
because
of, as you put it, “everything.” My daughter can’t be left to cope alone. I discharged myself this afternoon. They want me back for some tests later, but I’m perfectly all right. Well? Is there any news?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid. We’re still at the very beginning of our investigation—’

‘I was told that the first forty-eight hours were crucial, that afterwards there’s not much hope.’

‘That’s true sometimes. It’s one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to your wife today.’

‘She’s not well enough. Besides, Silvana says she was asleep and knows nothing.’

‘Yes. Still, as a matter of correct procedure.’

‘Yes, yes. Well, another day. She’s not in good health, and the shock of losing her daughter. . . . If I can be of any help, even though I wasn’t here. . . .’

‘There are one or two things I’d like to ask you, things of a personal nature about your daughter. . . .’ He could sense the girl, Danuta, still hesitating at the foot of the staircase behind him.

‘Get upstairs.’ Paoletti’s face was heavy, but the skin of his cheeks was pasty and too loose, as though he’d lost some weight very quickly during his illness. His hair was white, and he had the same clear grey eyes as his daughter.

‘Upstairs . . . ?’

‘That’s what I said!’

The marshal heard her scuttle back up the stone steps, confirming that the servants’ quarters were occupied by his wife. He didn’t order his daughter out of the room, so he wasn’t going to say much.