A Florentine Death (15 page)

Massimo thought this over. 'Was that all?' 'Does it mean anything to you?'

'Quite a bit. To begin with, it's the title of a very good novel, written by someone who's almost a fellow citizen of ours. Actually, she's Scottish but she's been living near Arezzo for ages. Her name's Muriel Spark. She used to come in here occasionally. A delightful woman! If you paid more attention to me, you'd know about her. You really must read the book. I'll give you a copy on your way out. On the house, because I'm sure you'd never buy it. Petra would, but I'll give it to her anyway. Make her read it, she'll like it.'

'Drop it, Massimo. I don't have time, you know.'

'Bullshit! The excuse of the lazy and the ignorant. If you really want to, you make the time. Winston Churchill was a big reader, even in the middle of the Second World War. With all due respect, I find it hard to believe that a police superintendent has more on his plate than Churchill.'

'Okay, you're right, as usual. But seeing as you've read this book, does it hold the solution to my problem?'

'Maybe you should ask the author,' Massimo said. 'But after you've read it, please!' Then, turning serious again, 'But there's something else, which may link the two messages. Both of them have a religious element.
The last will be the first
is a quotation from the Gospels, and
Memento mori
is the motto of a religious order, the Trappists. Maybe this man is simply trying to convert you
..."

Obviously it was a joke, but if it was meant to cheer Ferrara up a little, it didn't succeed.
Is
this something to do with Don Sergio?
he thought.

'And from a literary point of view?' he asked.

'Well, that's my speciality. And that's what bothers me: I can't find any explanation.
The first will be the last.
What does it mean? That this one's the first and you won't receive any others, which would rule out the hypothesis of a connection? But what would be the point of that? If on the other hand both are from the same person, then our man is playing with paradoxes. Because how can you have a 'first' if there isn't a 'second'? And that would mean we're dealing with an intelligent person, someone with a bit of education. If that's the case, it won't be so easy to decipher the message. It probably refers to things we're not even aware of yet. In other words: expect more messages.'

And more murders?
Ferrara wondered.

The answer to his question was not long in coming.

On the afternoon of Sunday 6 February, Lapo Vanni, who lived in an apartment in the Via de' Cerchi, a side street that ran parallel to the busy Via dei Calzaiuoli, noticed a bad smell coming from his neighbour's apartment as he was returning home after a ten-day holiday. Having knocked repeatedly on the door without getting a response, he had decided to phone the police.

The
Squadra Mobile
had responded immediately, but the officers sent had had to get the fire brigade in to help them. After ascertaining that the window looking out onto the street was closed and even protected by an iron grille, the firemen had forced open the door. At that point, nobody would have been surprised if they had found a dead body inside the apartment, perhaps someone who'd suddenly been taken ill and hadn't had time to call for help. But they were not prepared for what they did in fact find.

Kneeling on the ground with his torso face down on the bed, completely naked and in an advanced state of decomposition, was the body of a man, who was identified as the owner of the apartment. It was only a studio flat, but tastefully and expensively furnished.

By the time Ferrara arrived, his men were already there, along with a team from Homicide. Soon after, the pathologist - Dr Leone as usual - arrived with the forensics team. Prosecutor Gallo had also decided to be present. After what had happened in Como, Ferrara was not too keen on the idea.

Everyone wore overshoes provided by forensics in order not to contaminate the scene.

The dead man was thirty-two, and his name was Francesco Bianchi. He was not on the police database, not even for reporting lost documents. There was nothing on him at all. The way the murder had been carried out, on the other hand, was significant, especially to Ferrara. A few differences aside, it was a carbon copy of the Micali murder.

The first difference was a broken rose stem next to the body, the second the remnants of a crumbled cigar on the bloodstained sheets, the third a length of wire around the victim's neck, knotted into a noose, which had left a deep, narrow groove in the skin. Apart from that, there were two deep wounds in the man's back, others in the left upper part of the parietal region, clearly visible when Leone turned the body over, and many others on the face, curiously concentrated as in the Micali case. There were even wounds on the arms. All caused by a sharp instrument.

'Is it possible to establish the time of death?' Ferrara asked, not expecting a positive answer.

'From the state of decomposition,' Leone said, 'I'd certainly say days, maybe several. For the moment, it's difficult to establish how many days exactly. I'll be able to make a better estimate after the autopsy'

The air in that small space was still unbreathable. The firemen had had to open the street window wide to let in some fresh air immediately after entering, but the smell of death clung to everything.

'Never seen anything like this,' Leone said, addressing both Ferrara and the Prosecutor, who were following his examination of the wounds closely.

'It looks as if it might have been some kind of erotic game,' Ferrara said, looking around. There were several elements that suggested this: the position of the body, the red scarf over the lampshade, the traces of burned incense, the red roses in the crystal vase on the eighteenth-century overmantel, the almost empty bottle of champagne on the bedside table.

'A game he was playing with the killer,' the Prosecutor said.

'Yes,' Ferrara said, although he seemed to be thinking of something else.

'If that's right, it could make your work easier, couldn't it?' Prosecutor Gallo asked. He was ultimately responsible for the success of the investigation and he was already starting to look impatient.

'It could. But don't forget the rose stem. Red roses are frequently used in black magic rituals. There are six in the vase. Seven if we count the stem by the body. A magic number. Then there's the crumbled cigar—'

'That's a reference to you,' the Prosecutor interrupted, clearly annoyed. He did not share Ferrara's interest in black magic and Satanism, and was afraid that Ferrara might even want to include this murder in his inquiries on the Monster of Florence: if that nightmare was revived, it would throw the whole city into a panic.

'You can take the body away now,' Leone said. 'My work is done. At least for today. Tomorrow we'll see what comes out of the autopsy'

Before leaving with the doctor, Gallo gave Ferrara his instructions. It was up to Ferrara and his men to search the apartment: a bedroom, a kitchen and bathroom. But first he had to wait for the forensics team to finish their work.

The forensics people were already moving about in their white overalls, examining every space and every object. They had found a number of prints, notably on the crystal glasses next to the champagne bottle on the bedside table, and on the rim of the toilet bowl. They had also found bloodstains on the inside of the wash basin in the bathroom, which seemed to indicate that the killer had washed the knife after the murder. The knife itself had not been found.

Once the forensics team had finished, it was the turn of Ferrara's men to carry out a thorough search.

The whole operation did not take long, because there was not a great deal in the apartment. It seemed more like a pied-a-terre than a fixed abode. They did not find anything useful.

Ferrara decided to go back to Headquarters and get on with the interviews. Lapo Vanni was asked to follow them, along with the other residents who were at home that day.

'How did you come to discover the body?' was the first question Ferrara asked Vanni when they were in his office.

'Well, I didn't exactly discover him. I smelt him. I'd been away for ten days on holiday and I was struck by the stench coming from his apartment.'

'Wasn't there anyone in your apartment while you were away?'

'No. I'm a widower and live on my own. I have a son who works in France. That's where I've been.' 'When did you leave?' 'Ten days ago, I already said.'

'Did you see or hear your neighbour as you were leaving?'

'No. I didn't even notice if the apartment was occupied, but I don't suppose it was. This Francesco Bianchi wasn't around, he usually only came at weekends.'

'How well did you know him?'

'Hardly at all. Because, like I said, he wasn't there all the time. We'd occasionally meet on the stairs or the landing and say hello.'

'What do you know about him?'

Almost nothing. I know he lived in Siena, and taught art history in senior high school. I also know he bought the apartment about four years ago because he loved Florence and liked to come here whenever his work permitted. At least that's what he told me on one of the few occasions we spoke.'

'How long have you lived in the Via de' Cerchi?'

'I've always lived there. It was my parents' apartment.'

'So you've known Bianchi since he arrived four years ago. Four years is quite a long time. It's a small building, I find it hard to believe you never exchanged anything more than polite chit-chat.'

'But that's how it was, Superintendent. I realise it may seem strange, but you have to remember that Bianchi wasn't there all the time, like I said. It was his second home.'

'Did you ever see him with anyone? A member of his family, a friend, another neighbour?'

'He was always alone when I saw him, and I'm pretty sure none of my neighbours spent any time with him. I'd have known if they had, we all get on pretty well.'

'I'd like you to think very carefully. Are you absolutely sure you never saw him with anyone? Male or female? After all, a studio apartment is most often used as a bachelor pad, isn't it?'

'I suppose so. But I swear I never saw him with anyone. I got the impression he wasn't married. I don't think he even had a girlfriend. It seemed to me he was a real scholar.'

'Signor Vanni, I think we'll have to talk again. In the meantime, see if you can remember anything else. You do realise you haven't really told us anything, don't you?' There was a touch of irritation in Ferrara's voice. 'I think you know what we're after.'

'Yes, I think so. But frankly, I don't think I can help you. I've heard it said that he sometimes came home with other men, men who were younger than him and - well, let's say of a lower class. I didn't mention it because it was just gossip, and I don't like gossip. I don't even remember who told me.'

'Please try to remember.'

The interview was over.

In the meantime, the few other residents, interviewed by Ferrara's men, had not come up with anything useful either. It was as if the man had never lived in their building. They knew nothing about him. He might as well have been a complete stranger.

It was very late by now and Ferrara decided to go home, getting through the crowd of journalists with a laconic 'No comment for the moment.'

The next day, Headquarters was like a madhouse. It seemed to Ferrara as if history was taking an ironic revenge, because the building
had
actually been a madhouse originally: the once famous Hospital of Bonifazio, the first psychiatric hospital in the modern sense, instituted between the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth. Ferrara had not been surprised to learn that such an institution should have been built in a place like Florence, with its long history of dark deeds and strange urges. He had already become familiar with the ambiguous nature of the city.

The reason for the upheaval was the newspapers, who were lumping the latest murders together, blaming the police for their inefficiency, and lambasting a city government that was giving free rein to criminals, racketeers and murderers and failing to protect honest citizens.

They were particularly angry with Ferrara. They had believed him when he had told them that the antique dealer arrested for receiving stolen goods was probably also the killer, and had considered the case of the murder in the Via Santo Spirito closed, something about which the public could rest easy.