A Murder in Tuscany (21 page)
‘Fancy a coffee?’ asked Giuli.
They sat drinking warm milk, Carlotta fiddling with a damp tissue and blurting out her misery. Giuli set her mission aside to start with, patting the girl gingerly on the shoulder, telling her she was better off out of it, which was true. Carlotta was happy enough to tell her what she knew about Alberto’s father, although she did give Giuli a faintly puzzled glance when she got out a notebook.
‘You investigating him, or something?’ She sniffed, blew her nose, looked better. Looked curious.
‘Something,’ said Giuli. And they both smiled.
By the time they got back to Galluzzo and Giuli saw the girl safely inside, a few flakes of snow were beginning to fall, almost invisibly. Giuli sat a while outside the house texting Sandro, rubbing her fingers
inside her leather gauntlets as they stiffened and turned numb. She saw a light go on inside the house and another, then the sound of voices. You’ll survive, she thought.
inside her leather gauntlets as they stiffened and turned numb. She saw a light go on inside the house and another, then the sound of voices. You’ll survive, she thought.
If he’d known how little time he’d have to size up his suspects at their first meeting, Sandro might have taken notes. But things didn’t always go to plan, notes could be misleading, and sometimes that initial glimpse was all you needed. That, at least, was what he told himself.
Sandro’s phone had chirruped at him as he stepped off the broad stone staircase and into the great cavernous hall. There had been a murmur of voices through the archway where the piano had been played, congratulations being offered; Sandro thought he could distinguish Luca Gallo’s voice among them, strained and hearty.
He stopped, thinking how cold it was in this great monster of a building. Opposite the wide-arched entrance to the music room, the vast studded door was closed tight; at the far end of the hall was another, smaller door, and it annoyed him that he didn’t know where it led, yet.
Already Sandro hated this place; it was a labyrinth, uncomfortably huge, with its secret doors and mysterious, icy currents of air, and lightless as a dungeon, full of ghosts. But it wasn’t just the building – it was everything. He was uncomfortable, out of place; too far from home. From the wide green river, the basin of the city filled with red roofs and narrow streets full of people and suspended above it all the big marble and terracotta ship of the Duomo. Dome-sickness, the Florentines called it, or someone had called it anyway. Ghirlandaio? He’d been right, whoever he was; nowhere else was civilized, least of all the barren hills and once-malarial swamps and brutish castles of the Maremma.
Loni Meadows had tried to fit out her boudoir up there, with silk and cushions, but it was a great stone prison still, and it had got her in the end.
Staring down at his phone Sandro had felt as grumpy as a teenager.
New message
,
read now?
But as he clicked to open it he heard the sounds of group movement and looked up. Hastily he put the phone away.
New message
,
read now?
But as he clicked to open it he heard the sounds of group movement and looked up. Hastily he put the phone away.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ Luca Gallo was saying, his hands held up. His back was to Sandro, standing in the wide doorway to the music room as if attempting to block it. Over his shoulder Sandro could see faces. A stocky woman had her mouth open ready to talk back; her blonde hair was loose and greying, and her big, ravaged features might once have been handsome. Michelle Connor: he ticked her off mentally. Standing some way off on the far side of the room, one hand on the piano, with a haughty look of discomfort on his face, was Niccolò Orfeo. Distancing himself from the mob.
They did indeed seem a bit like a mob; the only question was, who was to be strung up?
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Michelle Connor sarcastically, and even though she was talking to Luca, she was looking straight at Sandro; ‘but we don’t buy this, no way.’
Gallo moved his head a fraction in Sandro’s direction, pleading out of a corner of his eye, and Sandro took his cue, stepping forward.
‘Hello,’ he said, shoulder to shoulder with Luca Gallo in the doorway; he heard Luca breathe out quietly. ‘I’m Sandro Cellini.’ He held out a hand to the woman, who ignored it.
‘We know what you are,’ she said disdainfully.
‘You do?’ He spoke mildly, head on one side, and felt an uneasy shifting among the others. He reminded himself that these northerners had a different attitude to courtesy; they didn’t understand it. Their rudeness didn’t always mean hostility – although in this woman’s case, he thought probably it did. All the same, nothing was going to provoke him. ‘And?’ He lowered his hand with an air of disappointment.
‘Come on,’ said an English voice – very English, apologetic and uncomfortable – and as the owner of the voice made to move past him, Sandro took in a thin face, deep-set eyes, close-cropped hair: this was the one, the one he had been looking for. You, he thought, you were in London with Loni Meadows twenty-five years ago. How beautiful she would have been then, those cold bright blue eyes. Had Alec Fairhead been handsome too?
He looked like a monk now; he held out a hand, and when Sandro took it it felt to be all bones, and cold to the touch. ‘I’m Alexander
Fairhead,’ he said. I know who you are, thought Sandro, but now he had the man in front of him, he wasn’t so sure. Behind Fairhead the little crowd fell back a fraction, loosening as it did so.
Fairhead,’ he said. I know who you are, thought Sandro, but now he had the man in front of him, he wasn’t so sure. Behind Fairhead the little crowd fell back a fraction, loosening as it did so.
Sandro nodded, matching the face to the name he’d glanced at on the screen, on Giuli’s chart plotting this handful of people’s lives.
‘I think I saw you earlier,’ he said. ‘Out for a walk.’ And he thought the man flushed.
Whose idea had it been, that walk? Had they been looking for something too? And now the snow had come, covering the scene.
‘Will you all come
on
,’ said the fierce, stocky woman, pushing past Sandro; he felt the warm, powerful bulk of her displace him, and involuntarily ceded ground to her. ‘I’m going to get the place ready.’ She peered aggressively back inside. ‘Tina?’
on
,’ said the fierce, stocky woman, pushing past Sandro; he felt the warm, powerful bulk of her displace him, and involuntarily ceded ground to her. ‘I’m going to get the place ready.’ She peered aggressively back inside. ‘Tina?’
‘This is Michelle Connor,’ said Luca valiantly, as she ignored him. ‘A wonderful poet. And Tina Kreutz, our sculptor.’
Tina Kreutz was a thin woman, girl he’d have said from a distance, who now threaded her way out from the music room, bobbing her head.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said kindly and Tina pulled her head back.
‘Are you really here about the accident?’ she said, her voice not much more than a frightened whisper. ‘About Loni?’
‘Please don’t worry,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘I plan to talk to everyone. Just a chat.’
As if that would reassure her. She was scared of something all right, but then she looked like it wouldn’t take much. An abused child? A battered wife? That was what Tina Kreutz looked like to him, one of those girls in a shelter, afraid of their own shadow, who would put a chair against the door every night and hide kitchen knives to defend themselves, only to end up cutting their own throats with them. Connor put out a protective arm and the girl leaned into her, and Sandro wondered which of them needed the other more.
‘Well, I’ll hope to catch up with you tomorrow then,’ said Sandro, conceding defeat; the pair of them made him feel like an abuser. Michelle Connor made a sound of derision, and the women disappeared
out through the heavy door, letting in that unmistakable new smell, a gust of cold, wet air and a brief glimpse of flakes whirling under a light.
out through the heavy door, letting in that unmistakable new smell, a gust of cold, wet air and a brief glimpse of flakes whirling under a light.
Their disappearance seemed to signal a kind of surge, and others pushed out through the arched doorway, Luca stepping back wearily to let them past. ‘There’s food in the dining room, as usual,’ he threw out as a last-ditch attempt to maintain control, or a semblance of normality at least. Sandro saw that the man was close to despair, and put a hand on his arm.
‘I’m sure we can all talk tomorrow,’ he said, addressing the little group but keeping his hand on Luca Gallo. He felt the man’s arm stiffen in rejection.
They looked back at him. The Englishman, seeming on the edge of a kind of hysteria; a strongly built Scandinavian type who had to be Per Hansen, swaying slightly with drink, bushy fair eyebrows and a pretty, dark woman sticking like glue to his side. His wife? And from waist-height the clearly intelligent, penetrating gaze of the man in his wheelchair, demanded that he look down: Tiziano Scarpa, the producer of the extraordinary sound that had ushered Sandro across the threshold of the Castello Orfeo.
It came to Sandro that a man who could make that music would have no need of any other outlet. All anger, all fear, all love could be rolled up in that sound; could such a man commit murder?
‘That was you, playing?’ he said humbly. Scarpa gave a faint smile, and inclined his head in a parody of modest acknowledgement.
‘Me,’ he said lightly.
‘I’m sure you’re just doing your job,’ said Fairhead awkwardly. ‘We don’t mean – ’
But Tiziano Scarpa interrupted him. ‘Come on,’ he said, spinning the chair with ease. ‘Let’s make our apologies to La Giottone. Michelle will have our balls if we keep her waiting.’
As he spun away Sandro saw the muscles in his back move under his shirt, saw the powerful forearms flex and extend, saw the callouses on the balls of his thumbs, the worn patches on the strap arrangement over his wrists. Even without the use of his legs, there wouldn’t be
much Tiziano Scarpa would allow to defeat him. And they moved off, not out through the main door but through the smaller exit Sandro had wondered about earlier and which, to judge from the cooking smells that issued distantly through it, led to the dining room.
much Tiziano Scarpa would allow to defeat him. And they moved off, not out through the main door but through the smaller exit Sandro had wondered about earlier and which, to judge from the cooking smells that issued distantly through it, led to the dining room.
Luca Gallo made a distracted movement to follow but Sandro shook his head. ‘Let them go,’ he said, speaking with relief in his own language. ‘It’s late.’
‘You wouldn’t think it was my house, would you?’ The bullying, aristocratic voice of Niccolò Orfeo broke in on them and Sandro felt his jaw clench; bullying, but also rather too insistent. ‘Might I be introduced, do you think?’
His eyes dull with tiredness, Gallo straightened. ‘Sandro Cellini, this is Count Orfeo. Count – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the man rudely, raising a large, ringed hand to wave him away. No wonder the son was a spoilt little pig.
‘Un piacere
,’ said Sandro, his hand out.
,’ said Sandro, his hand out.
Orfeo ignored it. ‘Shall we go into the library? I need a drink, after that display.’ And the man was already walking away from them into the next room. It was colder in here, and an elaborate heavy chandelier shed a gloomier light; a small fire had been laid in the vast stone fireplace but it wasn’t doing much more than smouldering.
Without offering Sandro or Luca Gallo anything, Orfeo poured himself a drink from a selection of bottles on a tray. Campari, sweet vermouth, whisky. As he watched him, the only thing that prevented Sandro from being openly rude was that the Count might in fact be quite close to getting the arrogant smile wiped off his face. Did he need to wait for his suspicions to be confirmed by Giuli? Eventually Orfeo turned to face him.
‘I imagine that you understand why I am here?’ Sandro kept his voice respectful.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Orfeo with an airiness that wasn’t entirely convincing, and Sandro felt a stir of satisfaction. ‘That ghastly husband of hers, Luca tells me. I suppose he wants to have the last word. Perhaps he would like to sue me, because his wife drove dangerously. A very unpleasant little man, you know. ’ He tipped the glass back and half-emptied it.
Sandro regarded him levelly. ‘Avvocato Mascarello, you mean? Well, I suppose one doesn’t get to be so powerful without making some enemies.’
‘Powerful?’ Niccolò Orfeo wrinkled his nose in theatrical dismissal. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. He has some rather unsavoury connections, I know that.’
Sandro, who felt a sudden surge of admiration for Giuliano Mascarello, just smiled.
‘And where is the damned food?’ said Orfeo disagreeably. ‘Everything seems to have gone to ruin.’ He drained his glass and Luca Gallo quickly refilled it.
‘Will you be – returning to Florence tonight?’ asked Sandro mildly, eyeing the dark oily liquid.
‘You mean, am I intending to drive? Well, it would be none of your business if I were.’ He looked at Gallo. ‘I’ll be sleeping on the
piano nobile.
’
piano nobile.
’
Loni Meadows’s room. Luca Gallo looked from Orfeo to Sandro and back, panic in his eyes. ‘Well – I – I’m not sure – ’
‘I don’t mind a little untidiness,’ said Orfeo dismissively. ‘Just have the bed made up.’
Luca Gallo closed his mouth. ‘Yes,’ he said.
I know your game, thought Sandro. Orfeo was looking at him as if defying him to argue, to say something about evidence or investigations, and Sandro was looking straight back, as if to say, you might have Commissario Grasso bowing and scraping and not dreaming of trespassing on your privacy by taking a step into Loni Meadows’s bedroom, but I’m not Grasso. But before a word was spoken Sandro’s phone chirruped again and Orfeo’s look of contempt hardened.
‘Do you mind?’ said Sandro, taking the phone out. Knowing how rude Orfeo would consider it. He looked down.
Two new messages. The first from Mascarello, short and to the point.
Call me before 8.30
. The phone said 8.38. He looked up, calculating, to see Orfeo watching him. A quick smile to acknowledge that he knew how disrespectful he was being and did not care, then Sandro looked back down again. The second message was from Giuli, and equally typical of its sender. All over the place, gabby, eager.
Call me before 8.30
. The phone said 8.38. He looked up, calculating, to see Orfeo watching him. A quick smile to acknowledge that he knew how disrespectful he was being and did not care, then Sandro looked back down again. The second message was from Giuli, and equally typical of its sender. All over the place, gabby, eager.
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