Death in Springtime (3 page)

MORI, Vittorio, born in Pontino, Province of Florence, 11.3.1913 and presently resident there.

Occupation: florist

A.Q.: Towards five-thirty this morning, having just got back from the flower market, I was working in the front quarters of my shop when I got the idea I'd heard a funny noise just outside the window . . .

'Got the idea you heard?' The Captain looked up, puzzled.

'Well, because, in the first place I had the radio on, and what with the paraffin stove going—that makes a bit of noise—and a towel round my head ... I was trying to get my hair and clothes dry. I'd got soaked going to the market.'

The Captain couldn't avoid a swift glance at the shiny dome flanked by two tufts of grey hair.

The florist twisted his hat round unhappily. 'At my age you have to take care of yourself . . . Anyway, that was the other thing, it was raining so hard, rattling at the windowpane in the dark . . . even so, I was convinced I'd heard something, and at that hour there's nobody else up except the baker, and he's over here on this side of the Piazza, so I got up to take a look and saw this girl lying there in the rain. It gave me a fright, I don't mind telling you. She's not from round here . . .?'

'No.' The Captain volunteered no information.

'I thought not. I went straight round to the Brigadier's house and rang. I didn't want to touch her, not knowing what. . . but I did put a blanket over her. The Brigadier got one of his men and we carried her over here between us. She came to for a bit when we brought her into the light, but I had difficulty following what she said. I gather she's foreign . . .'

'Goon.'

'Nothing much else, really, as you can see from what I told the Brigadier—except that, whatever's happened, I've got nothing to do with it—I expect she was attracted by the light in my window if she was lost.'

'I expect so.'

'The baker works in the back, you see, so he doesn't show a light until he opens at six. Anyway, it's nothing to do with me. I've told you all I know and I ought to be getting back—I've lost two hours of work as it is.'

'Have you read through your statement?'

'With the Brigadier, before.'

'And you don't want to add or change anything?'

'I've told you everything, it's nothing to do with . . .'

'Then sign here.'

The thick fingers were spattered with blobs of bright paint.

'And here . . . Right, you can go. If we need you again we'll send for you, but it's not likely.'

The florist's hat was back in place before the door had closed behind him. The Captain called back the guard who had shown him out; 'Ask the Brigadier to come in, will you?'

The Brigadier was red in the face: 'Things aren't as they should be . . .'he began again, and tailed off as the Captain indicated that he should sit down.

The Substitute suddenly pulled up a chair, lit a large pipe, and began watching with interest as the other two examined the girl's effects.

'Not a thing that helps us,' said the Captain at last. 'And we haven't even got her surname.'

'Just her first name. She wasn't very coherent . . . and she was in such a bad state I couldn't force her . . .'

'No, no, I realize that.'

'The main problem was that she was obsessed with the idea of telephoning—in fact, she's still got the token in her hand, we couldn't get her to part with it.'

'But she didn't mention this letter?'

'Not once.'

The Captain examined it again, frowning. 'Then she was told not to. Not yet, at any rate. Just to make the telephone call. Well, we'll have to wait until we can talk to her. We might give the hospital a call, I think, and get the latest report. If there's any likelihood of her regaining consciousness during the day, it will be worthwhile waiting here.'

The girl hadn't regained consciousness. There were screens around her bed, and beside it sat the young Sub-lieutenant, almost as motionless as the form under the sheets, staring earnestly at the bandaged head and the small white face.

CHAPTER 3

They drove back down to Florence, the Captain silent and thoughtful, the Substitute smoking, making the occasional rapid remark, watching the passing of the wet, ploughed soil between rows of vines and the tops of umbrella pines appearing out of the misty valley far below, smoking . . .

It had stopped raining by the time they drew into the courtyard at Headquarters. The Substitute jumped out, saying he had to be in court in ten minutes, hurried round to shake the Captain's hand through the car window, and said eagerly: 'Have lunch with me. I want to know all about kidnappings. I'd already heard that you're an expert.'

'Of necessity. In this area . . .'

'I'll pick you up at one.'

'But . . . you haven't a car . . .?'

'Never use it—unless my registrar drives. Driving interferes with my smoking. I'll get your sentry room to call me a taxi.' And he was gone, a trenchmac thrown round his shoulders, hurrying across the yard and along the old cloister that led to the exit, leaving behind him a trail of aromatic blue smoke.

Captain Maestrangelo went upstairs to his office and sat down, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. He knew from long experience that a kidnapping usually meant the involvement of the Sardinian shepherds who had, over the past twenty years or so, been steadily leaving their island and bringing their flocks to graze on the hills around Florence. They kept themselves to themselves, never mixing with the Florentines, who admired their cheesemaking and were outraged by their kidnapping. The Sardinians were great experts in both activities for which their remote dwellings surrounded by rich Tuscan pastures were the ideal environment. The Captain sent his Adjutant for the Sardinian file and then set about selecting a group of his most experienced men.

'Calaresu, Giovanni?'

'He's inside.'

'That wouldn't stop him—check up on whether any of his cell-mates have been released lately. Where's his wife?'

'Gone back to her mother in Sardinia with the children— he's in for eight years.'

'Find out if he's had any visitors.'

'Demontis, Salvatore. He could be our man—he lives near Pontino.'

'Could be, but remember we don't know where these girls live. Take a look round there, in any case. Next.'

'The adjutant opened the next folder from the pile on the Captain's desk.

'Mundula, Mario.'

'I don't know him.'

'No convictions, sir. They've been here since the fifties, no children, his brother lives with them. They own their two farms and between four and five hundred sheep. Pretty well off.'

They put the file aside.

The Captain kept a file on the whole of the Sardinian community in Tuscany. So many of them were interrelated or came from the same Sardinian village that all of them, with or without a record, could usually tell him something if they would. Unless forced, they wouldn't. Unless forced, they were the most stubbornly silent people in the world. Silent out of pride and independence, not out of fear. The Captain, despite the amount of work and trouble they caused him, liked the Sardinians.

'Piladu, Paolo?'

'He's all right, but his eldest boy's been in trouble once or twice . . . pay them a visit and see what the boy's doing now, if he's got any work. He's never been much help to his father.'

They worked on through the files for the rest of the morning, a routine they had been through so often that they commented mostly in half-sentences or barely audi- ble grunts. By twenty to one they had finished. The Captain glanced at his watch. These men should have gone off duty at twelve but he was able to dismiss only two of them whom he could replace with experienced men from the afternoon shift. These two, when they arrived, he sent to the prison. The others went off to have a bite to eat before begining their checks on the Sardinian shepherds they had picked out. When they had all left, the Adjutant removed the unwanted files and the Captain sat back in his chair, musing. Outside the window it was raining again, harder than ever. Both helicopter pilots and dog-handlers would be cursing the weather. Each time there was a pause in his routine and he had time to think, the Captain was reminded that there were a good many things about this case that didn't ring true. Yet he felt more relaxed and confident than was usual at this stage and he couldn't help asking himself why. It was only on glancing again at his watch at three minutes to one and wondering what time the Substitute would turn up that he realized that the Substitute was the reason why. Instead of directing the inquiry he had admitted his inexperience and was following it. The Captain was freer than he could ever remember being in his whole career. What was more, the Substitute gave the impression that he could cope with any third party interference, at any level, with nothing more than the pursed lips and flicker of amusement with which he seemed to regard everything that went on around him. He had even introduced himself—'Fusarri, Virgilio Fusarri'—with an eager, boyish air that matched his thin face and figure but belied his hair which was grey. He must be forty. It's either money, thought the Captain, he doesn't need to work, or else it's a way of disarming people. He has the air of someone who always gets his own way. Well, it was convenient to be able to handle a case without interference from the magistracy, but it was also irregular. Captain Maestrangelo had no taste for the irregular. He picked up his telephone and got the radio room.

'I want to know about any girls reported missing since yesterday. Message to all stations.'

'In Tuscany?'

'Yes . . . No, throughout the country. Relay it to General Command.' As soon as he put the phone down it rang:

'Sentry room here, sir. Substitute Prosecutor asking for you.'

It was one o'clock precisely.

'Tell him I'll be down immediately.'

One o'clock precisely. 'A real northerner, then,' muttered the Captain as he switched off his desk lamp. 'But they overdo it.'

'Oh! Let's not overdo it!' Fusarri opened an accusing hand at the restaurant owner who was wheeling up a trolley laden with fifteen different hors d'oeuvres. 'You know I can't touch this stuff with the liver I've got—and I barely eat at lunchtime.'

'Then it's time you changed restaurants,' retorted the Florentine owner, evidently considering this an unlikely eventuality.

'Give me a bit of that stuff there.' The cigar waved in the general direction of half a dozen kinds of salami and some boletus mushrooms. 'Serve the Captain—what's this stuff you've given me? What is it?'

'Crostini. Florentine pate. Homemade.'

'No, no, no. Give it to the Captain, he's Florentine. I can't eat it.' He flicked open the attache case on the chair beside him. The left side contained neatly arranged papers, the right contained stacks and rows of pipes, tobacco tins, cigarettes and cigars and a large selection of tablets and capsules. He chose four different coloured capsules and tucked them discreetly beneath his plate. 'Liver,' he explained. 'It's these things that do it.' He looked accusingly at the cigar between his slim fingers, stubbed it out quickly and attacked the salami which, in the Captain's opinion, couldn't be the ideal food for a bad liver, but the expected complaint didn't come. The accusations seemed to be fairly random. The Captain got on with his crostini which were excellent. This wasn't a restaurant he could afford to eat in and he was enjoying himself.

'Well then.' Fusarri whipped his plate to one side, swallowed a red capsule and selected a fresh packet of cigarettes from his case. 'Tell me about kidnapping.'

'You've never had a case before?'

'Can you imagine?' He snapped his lighter, 'I've only been down here six months. Before that, five years in the Alto Adige practising my German. Every problem but. Tuscan speciality, it seems, like that stuff you're eating. I apologize; I tend to eat too fast—you can't imagine what it does to my liver.'

'More of a Sardinian speciality, to be precise. In this area, at least.'

'Why Tuscany?'

'Two reasons: first, because they moved here, the Sardinians, to find pasture when the land they had grazed for centuries was taken from them for development—the Costa Smeralda, etcetera. They were forced into a system of apartheid, driven off the good grazing land up into the mountains. It happened just at the time when the Tuscan peasants were abandoning their land to go and work in the factories. Those Sardinians who had any money at all were able to buy up land for practically nothing and get rich pasture for their sheep. They do very nicely.'

'So what's the problem?'

'The ones who came later and are still arriving all the time. They're fairly poor—in any case, land here costs a fortune now. The easy days are long gone. These shepherds live wild, most of them on the same mountain just outside Florence, in abandoned houses which often have no light or running water. Their families, if they come over too, live down below on the edge of the city in a sort of ghetto. It's usually a case of one shepherd and his meagre flock having to support a wife, God knows how many children, plus brothers and sisters and aged relatives. Don't get me wrong—sheep are profitable, very profitable, but if it's cheeses you rear them for then one man can only deal with a few. The trouble is their sons don't want to know; they're not prepared to live that sort of life but they can't find other work. The result is that they hang around the city and most family incomes are supplemented by crime of one sort or another. The other result is a lot of prejudice against them in the city. People only see the good-for-nothing sons who hang around bars getting into fights and pushing drugs; they don't see the real shepherd, the man who spends almost all of his life alone, spends his days making the cheeses they take for granted and his nights sleeping sometimes only for a couple of hours because it's lambing time.'

'You like them?' There was no hint of irony in the Substitute's voice.

'Yes. And I respect them. They're a proud race. Disinherited.'

'What's the other reason for Tuscany being rife with kidnappings? You said there were two.'

'Our Sardinian colleagues. They know their job, they know their people and they know their territory. There isn't a spot left on the island of Sardinia where they can hide a victim, despite the difficult and practically inaccessible terrain. Five years ago there were over two hundred kidnappings there—the pickings were rich along the Costa Smeralda for those who were sticking it out on the hills above—but last year there were only three, and one of those a complete failure. So the big organizers have moved here. Tuscany's full of rich residents, Italian and foreign, and there's no shortage of recruits among the poorer shepherds and their families.'

'You discount any other suspects?'

'No. I just look for the obvious first.'

'Mm. Oh! Cesare!'

'I'll be right with you!'

'I suppose we'd better eat something.'

They ate pasta, the Substitute continuing to ask rapid questions while winding rapid forkfuls, his eyes always fixed on the Captain's.

'What happens next?'

'We're looking for the base-man, the person who suggested the victim. It has to be somebody who knows, is connected with or in a position to observe the victim and the family.'

'And what do we know about the family?'

'Nothing as yet, as I'm sure you've realized. We need the information the injured girl can give us when she comes round. The surname, and the message she was to telephone—it's very abnormal indeed for any personal message from the victim to be sent so soon. There's usually just a ransom demand and then a longish gap to put the parents in a panic.'

'And we don't seem to have any parents.'

'Exactly. What's really worrying me is that we may be dealing with amateurs.'

'Worries you? Surely that would make your job easier?'

'If you mean we'll catch them, yes it will, but it will also, almost certainly, mean the girl's death. Amateurs are incompetent, and then they panic. Professionals are well organized, never seen by their victims, and they don't kill. It's bad for business. If people weren't sure of getting the victim for their money they wouldn't be so willing to pay up. With amateurs there's no point in paying, they're likely to kill the victim off anyway, out of fear. I'd rather deal with professionals.'

'But how can you get panic-stricken parents to understand the difference and cooperate with you?'

'It's my job,' said the Captain quietly.

The Substitute looked at him closely. There was no doubt that the Captain radiated calm and confident seriousness. The parents would cooperate all right, so long as nobody else interfered. The Substitute made up his mind that nobody would be allowed to interfere.

'Do you think the family might be here on holiday?'

'It's possible. Especially if they have a villa and come every year. If it's a professional job they will have been observed over a long period and their habits and financial status will be known.'

'Ah . . .!' This exclamation was directed not at the Captain but at the aromatic roast loin of pork that was steaming towards them, propelled by Cesare.

'Serve the Captain first—and don't give me any, you know it's bad for me, not more than a taste, one slice— that's enough! How anyone can eat all this stuff at lunchtime I'll never know!'

When Captain Maestrangelo got back to his office he realized he had eaten far too much too quickly in an effort to keep up with the Substitute. The latter had vanished as punctually as he had appeared. 'Due in court at two-thirty— have to run—Cesare! call me a taxi! I'll give you a lift back. You will telephone me if there's any news? Here . . . between eight and eight-thirty at this number.'

Watching the traffic and the rain swallow up the departing taxi, the Captain wondered how the man stayed so thin if he ate that way every day. Must take a lot of exercise, was his conclusion, and he turned his mind to more important matters. On his desk there was a message from the Sub-lieutenant at the hospital. The girl had not regained consciousness and she had a very high fever. He would stay on through the night although the local doctor had said it was probably useless.