A Florentine Death (8 page)

'I agree with you, but . . .' he hesitated. 'Well, I wouldn't dismiss the idea that there's a connection with the antiques racket. We all know how big it is in Florence, especially in San Frediano. Don't forget, the shop used to belong to Ricciardi. There may still be some underworld involvement. Maybe Lupi knew too much. Maybe he'd somehow found out something he shouldn't and paid for it with his life.'

'Good. I think we have more than enough to be getting on with. Right, let's divide it up this way. Rizzo, you look into Lupi's private life. Violante, check the religious angle. Sergi and I will concentrate on the underworld aspect. Let's see if any of our informers know anything. We may even get a tip-off.'

Like all policemen, he knew that most cases are solved thanks to tip-offs from informers, and that whole careers have been built on such things.

Once the jobs had been assigned, Ferrara stayed in his office for a few more hours. He signed the final report on the case of the old couple in Coverciano, looked through some of the files on his desk, wrote a report on the Lupi case for the prosecutor, and got on with various bits of minor business.

By the time he got home, it was after nine. As so often in the past, the first of January had been just another working day.

Petra had his dinner ready for him: sardines in grated cheese baked in the oven, one of Ferrara's favourite dishes. Petra was in a good mood - surprisingly so, he thought, when she showed him the latest anonymous message, which she had found among the mail that had accumulated while they were away in Vienna.

Perhaps because of her down-to-earth nature, or because time had passed and nothing had happened, Petra had quickly got over the shock of the first message and now seemed to regard these things as the work of some crackpot, not be taken too seriously. Especially as this one was very different from the first, both in tone and form.

There were no red stains, and the message had been produced on a laser printer. It read:

Dear Superintendent Gatto

Did you know that in the Kingdom of the Dead the last are already the first, but where the letters are concerned the first will be the last? Or is smoking cigars the only thing you know, you poor man?

That was all. No direct threat.

It was still possible that the two messages were not linked, although it did not escape Ferrara that both had arrived in conjunction with a particularly violent and mysterious crime. On the other hand, the new one could have arrived at any time while they were away, so it might not necessarily be linked to the previous day's murder. Nor was there any proof that the previous letter had been connected to the Micali murder.

He made up his mind to stick to the line of action he had decided on with his men.

He decided he wouldn't ask his friend Fuschi in Forensics to examine this second communication. He remembered only too well the strange look he'd given him when he had brought him the results of his analysis of the first message.

'I thought it was best to come in person,' he had said, the Monday after the Micali murder. 'I haven't done a written report. It's best if this thing doesn't get into the records.'

'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it. But there's not much I can tell you. The paper is ordinary A4 paper, the bloodstains are red paint, very easy to find, and the glue is the kind you can get in any stationer's. There were no prints of any kind, not on the letters, not in the glue, not on the paper. None.'

'That's fine. Thanks a lot.'

That was when Fuschi had looked at him with that strange expression on his face. 'Did you understand what I just said?' 'Yes, of course.' 'There were no prints.'

'I heard, I'm not deaf,' Ferrara had said, tensing.

'All right, you're the policeman, and I'm just a layman. But I can't help wondering how come the dead man's prints weren't on the paper. He must have touched it . . .'

'Obviously the killer must have wiped them off afterwards,' Ferrara had said, defensively.

'Instead of taking the paper away with him? He starts wasting time, when someone could come in at any moment and catch him red-handed? And for what? To let everyone know that he'd threatened him?'

Ferrara cut him short. 'Let me sort that out.' He realised that he wasn't handling this very well.

Maybe he'd have done better to show it to Massimo, who was fond of puzzles, he'd thought at the time.

Promising himself he'd talk to Massimo as soon as they got back from Vienna, Ferrara had put on a CD of arias sung by Natalie Dessay, Petra's latest discovery, determined to finish the evening with music and his wife.

2

The Ferraras had not been the only ones to interrupt their holidays.

Valentina Preti had hurried back to Bologna from San Vigilio on 29 December, two days before New Year's Eve. Exactly a week after she had arrived.

She had been close to a nervous breakdown when she left Bologna, but by the time she got back she was more confused and uncertain than ever. But one thing she knew was that she had to end the relationship that was threatening to ruin her life for ever.

Valentina went back at least twice a year to the beautiful Art Nouveau hotel her family had owned for three generations: at Christmas and either at Carnival or at Easter. Not usually in summer.

Having practically been born with skis on her feet, she loved hurling herself down the long pistes that surrounded the peak of the Plan de Corones. But in summer she preferred the beaches of southern Italy or the Greek islands, or going for weekend breaks in the Cinque Terre or on the Golfo dei Poeti.

She had been living in Bologna for four years, sharing an apartment with her friend Cinzia Roberti. After finishing school at the age of eighteen, she had enrolled on an Arts, Music and Drama course at the University of Bologna: at last an opportunity to move away from the narrow horizons of that corner of the Dolomites.

Her friendship with Cinzia had made it easier. Two years younger than her, the daughter of a Bolognese surgeon, Cinzia Roberti was almost her exact opposite. A wild animal', was how her father had described her indulgently, as if that were an excuse for her behaviour. Short and thin, with black hair, she was at least as impulsive, independent, stubborn and determined as Valentina was docile and indecisive. They had known each other since they were children. The Robertis had been coming to San Vigilio di Marebbe since 1990, the year that they had discovered the Hotel Passo Selva. They had been impressed by Valentina's parents, who always welcomed their guests as if they were part of some ideal extended family, with the great Art Nouveau building as its epicentre, and had returned regularly every year for a week's skiing.

Valentina was twelve that first year and Cinzia ten.

At first, relations between the two girls had not been easy. The differences in their characters and above all in their ages, so much more obvious when they were children, had immediately caused friction between them. Cinzia, who was used to getting her own way, couldn't stand being in someone else's house, where she was no longer in charge, and Valentina did not understand why she had to be nice to a snotty-nosed kid who was so bossy and unpredictable. But their parents had been patient with them, and over the course of time they had developed a mutual tolerance, which eventually turned into genuine friendship.

When Valentina had chosen her university course, Cinzia had managed to convince her family that, although she was only sixteen, she absolutely had to have her own space, preferably near the university, which she herself would be attending in a couple of years' time.

The Pretis and the Robertis had put their heads together and rented an apartment for the two girls.

At first Valentina returned home every weekend, but that had soon proved tiresome, and she'd started spacing out her visits. But she always came back at Christmas.

This Christmas in particular, she really needed time to think. The end of her studies was approaching and she still had no idea what she wanted to do. And her friendship with Cinzia had deteriorated badly.

In the last few months, they had done nothing but quarrel. Cinzia had not liked the idea of Valentina taking a course in Florence, even though in nearly three months Valentina had gone there no more than four times. Nor had Cinzia approved of her friendship with that American journalist. True, he was often away for work reasons and Valentina had only seen him once since their first meeting, but they kept in regular contact over the internet and occasionally by mobile phone.

On 21 December, Valentina and Cinzia had had yet another furious row, and Valentina had decided to leave early and stay with her parents at least until Twelfth Night. She needed time to recover, and to think. What she did not know was that, instead of bringing her peace, the Christmas week would be one of torment, intensifying the passions seething inside her.

'You're more beautiful than ever!' her father said as he picked her up from the station at Brunico.

He was the same as ever. Plump, well-dressed, cheerful. And the same thing happened that always did whenever she saw him: she felt her old sense of guilt returning.

During the ride, they talked about her studies and about the latest developments at the hotel: her mother was building a gym, with sauna and massage, to replace the lofts on the top floor.

'But we haven't touched your room,' her father assured her.

Snow was falling and it was already dark, but there was the unmistakable outline of the great hotel with its pointed turret. All the lights were on, and their warmth reached out to greet her.

Her mother was waiting for her, along with Carlo, the old groom, and the doorman. As they embraced her, she felt an acute sense of nostalgia.

She walked around the ground floor and said hello to some of the guests who were playing cards or chatting in the bar as they waited for the dining room to open. Then she went down to the kitchen, where the cook was making dinner - pure Ladin cuisine - and the waiters were busy with the wines. The big room was filled with the smell of
panicia,
the local barley soup with ham and pork.

The cook, who had known Valentina since she was born, cried, 'Here's my sweetheart!' wiped her hands on the dishcloth, flung her big arms around her and kissed her. 'Look what we've got!' she said, and lifted a napkin to reveal a large dish full of Valentina's favourite sweet:
cranfus mori,
cranberry pancakes. 'Go on, take some, there's plenty!'

'Thanks,' Valentina said, taking one. 'They're delicious, as always.' She licked her fingers as she walked away.

That evening, they had dinner in a room set aside specially for them and her father only got up a couple of times to talk to the guests at the tables, as he usually did, and make sure that everything was fine.

'If you like,' her mother said during dinner, 'you can have a room on the first floor, no 114. We've just refurbished it and it has everything. Cable TV, fax, a well-stocked minibar . . .'

'Thanks, Mummy, but I prefer mine.'

'It's up to you. It's just so small and uncomfortable. But it's ready if you want it.'

'I don't know how you can sleep up there,' her father said. 'There isn't even a toilet in the room, you have to go halfway along the corridor. And with all the work going on, it's a real mess up there.'

'My things are there - my memories
...
I like it. Don't worry'

'If you're sure.'

Valentina wanted to be back in that room she had known as a child, she wanted to take refuge in it and forget.

Even though, as she herself had said, her memories were in that room . . .

The sloping ceiling, the Spice Girls posters, the Barbies neatly lined up on a white shelf, the lilac wallpaper, the collection of cups and medals won in skiing competitions, the television with the built-in VCR, the stereo unit and the CD rack, the books, the comics. Valentina looked around, and did not find the welcome she had expected from these objects. They were no longer childhood companions: they had suddenly become silent but accusing witnesses of her betrayal.

She had betrayed her family, her future, her hopes. She had brought it on herself, with all the unawareness of youth, and now she didn't know what to do.

Everything had started right here, in this little room that had originally been intended for the staff, and which she had been determined to have when she was ten.

She slipped into bed and turned out the light, but found it hard to get to sleep. Even the bed was accusing her.

*

It had happened on Christmas Eve 1994.

Valentina was sixteen, Cinzia fourteen.

The Robertis had arrived late in the afternoon. Valentina had been impatient to see Cinzia, eager for news of the city, and her friend had not disappointed her. After dinner they had all gone into the village, the girls to have snowball fights and the adults to drink the hot punch being distributed in the main square by skiing instructors dressed in Santa Claus costumes. There was a big Christmas tree, and multicoloured lights were strung from house to house. Music was playing, and people greeted each other merrily and exchanged wishes. Many of them, including their parents, were waiting for midnight mass, but the two girls had managed to wriggle out of it by promising to go to bed immediately. They had run back to the hotel to try and guess from the sizes of the packages under the tree what to expect in the morning.

'Can I come to your room?' Cinzia had asked.

'Yes. But you'll have to leave before your parents get back, or they'll notice we're not asleep!'

'I have so many things to tell you,' Cinzia said. 'I'll just put my pyjamas on and I'll be right with you!'

Valentina ran to get changed and clean her teeth before her friend joined her, because the bathroom was some distance from her room.

When Cinzia came, she made Valentina's head spin with her tales of all the things she was discovering, all the exciting things that happened in a city like Bologna, the clubs she'd started going to even though she was underage, the new friends she'd made at school.

'Do you smoke?' she asked suddenly.

'No, do you?' Valentina asked.

'I smoke these,' Cinzia said, taking from her pocket some cigarette papers, a bag of tobacco, and a small light brown cube which looked like a piece of plasticine.

There was a sly look in her eyes, and her face was lit by a crafty smile.

But she was only a child. A child playing at being adult, Valentina thought. Not that she herself wanted to stay out of the game.

Cinzia crumbled part of the little cube, mixed the shreds with the tobacco, and rolled the cigarette. Valentina admired her skill.

At that moment, she heard the noise of the lift reaching their floor. 'Shhh.'

'What is it?' Cinzia asked.

'Be quiet. It must be my parents. Turn the light out.' They waited. They heard footsteps approaching the door, whispered words. Then silence. 'She's asleep,' her father said. The footsteps receded.

'What about your parents?' Valentina asked, as the lift started to descend.

'I locked my door. They'll think I'm asleep, too. Don't turn the light on, it's fine like this. Maybe open the window to let the smell of smoke out.'

Cinzia lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs. The moonlight lit her face, and Valentina thought she looked very beautiful.

'Here, try it,' Cinzia said, and explained what to do.

They kept on talking, passing the cigarette from one to the other.

Cinzia was becoming more and more relaxed, and laughing at the slightest thing. Valentina just felt a bit confused.

'It's cold,' Cinzia said when she had finished the cigarette. 'Let's get under the blankets.'

Valentina obeyed. She lay down flat on her back, and her friend snuggled up to her, as if in need of protection.
She's just a child,
she thought, and was moved. She almost didn't notice that Cinzia had put her hand on her breast. It may have been a natural, innocent gesture, but she felt her own nipple react to the contact.

She held her breath, embarrassed.

'Do you ever touch yourself?' Cinzia asked, in a hoarse, tremulous voice, warming her neck and ear with her breath.

Valentina realised with astonishment that her friend's hand wasn't still. With slow, gentle, circular movements, it was caressing the material of her pyjamas just over her nipple, which was becoming hard.

She turned hesitantly to her friend in search of an explanation.

Cinzia's feverish black eyes were fixed on her, her ferret-like face jutted forward, her lips curled in an inviting smile. Lips coming close, ever closer. Warm breath mingling with hers. Sickly-sweet marijuana breath fusing with her mint-fresh breath.

They exchanged a timid kiss, then another, and another. She felt Cinzia's hand insinuating itself between the buttons of her pyjamas, exploring her soft, firm breasts. She lost control.

That night they had become lovers, and they had remained lovers ever since. From that point on, neither of them had ever felt any curiosity about the other sex. They considered themselves uniquely happy, and their only experience of the male sexual organ - the 'hideous penis', they called it, laughing - came from magazines and pornographic videos, of which Cinzia in particular was an avid consumer.

In the years that followed, they hated to be apart and they were constantly looking for excuses to visit one another. The Arts, Music and Drama course in Bologna was an almost obligatory choice for Valentina.

Then they'd started living together. And the quarrels had begun.

Now, for Valentina, the final reckoning had come.

She had thought that, alone in that little room, she would find the peace and quiet she needed to help her think clearly, but the first night left her confused and anxious.

It wasn't going to be easy, she realised.

'I miss you, you know.'

That was how the voice at the other end greeted her when she answered her mobile phone on the morning of 25 December. But it wasn't Cinzia's voice.

'Is that you, Mike?'

'Yes, it's me.'

‘I’m glad you phoned. Happy Christmas.'

'When are you coming back to Florence?'

'I don't know yet. For the moment I'm staying here at least until Twelfth Night.' But she was already having her doubts. Perhaps she missed Cinzia, perhaps she needed to see her again in order to have the courage to say goodbye for ever. 'Why don't you come here? It's packed, but I can find you somewhere, if you like. The ski slopes are fantastic'

'I'd like to but I can't. I have things to do.'

All right, I'll call you when I get back to Bologna, okay?'

'I'll be waiting. Happy Christmas!'

As she ended the call, Valentina wondered if the American didn't have more to do with her quarrels with Cinzia - and the crisis she was going through - than she cared to admit. He was actually the first man she'd shown any interest in.

Until now, she had attributed this sudden attraction to the fact that he was so different from the other people she knew. Although he was not much older than her, he had already had his byline in the
New York Times,
and went around the world looking for subjects to suggest to the paper.

When she had met him again in Florence in November he had shown her a long piece he had written about San Gimignano and an exhibition of torture instruments, and had promised to take her there one day; the exhibition was fascinating, he said, and the town was beautiful.

Her English was too poor for her to understand much of the article, but she had certainly seen his name at the end.

And she couldn't ignore the fact that he was a very good-looking young man.

'Who was that?' her mother asked: she had come in and seen Valentina talking on the mobile.

'Happy Christmas, Mummy. A friend.'

'Happy Christmas, darling. Is he handsome?'

'Er . . . yes.'

'Why didn't you bring him?' 'He's working.' At Christmas?'

'He's a famous American journalist.'

'How old?' she asked anxiously. If he was famous, he had to be of a certain age.

'Very young, Mummy. You'd like him.'

'The important thing is that
you
like him. That's all I ask. Tell him he can come whenever he wants. Are you going skiing?'

'Of course.' She headed down to the basement, where the skiing equipment was kept.

*

But not even meeting old friends and skiing down the Plan de Corones, across the Furcia as far as the foot of the Miara, managed to settle her nerves.

'You know something?' her father said that evening. 'You seem worried.'

'It must be the exams, Daddy.'

'Really? I thought everything was fine.'

'I still have my thesis to finish. It's very demanding work . . .'