Death in Springtime (5 page)

'That donkey,' insisted the Brigadier.

'I've told you—'

'It came here by mistake, yes. But there have been so many of these little mistakes, you see, that we've been obliged to have a warrant made out.'

'Here.' The woman didn't remove her arms from the curd, only nodded at her son and then at the bucket of peelings. He got up and went out to feed the rabbits. 'And you. Put the pasta on and get out.' All the time she was glowering at her husband, the look of fury in her narrow black eyes completely at odds with the gentle action of her arms as she gathered the curd towards herself slowly.

'We don't have to use this warrant, of course,' persisted the Brigadier quiedy, and after a moment's pause he added: 'We found a dose of heroin over at Scano's place yesterday.'

It was possible, even in the flickering half-light, to see the shepherd's shoulders relax a little and then stiffen again.

'What do you want?'

'To know where it came from.' It was the Captain now who spoke.

'How should I know that?'

'Scano's boy is a friend of your son's. They go down to Florence together.'

'They don't bother to tell me where they're going.'

'No. But you could find out.'

'My son's not a drug addict.'

'How do you know?'

'What d'you mean?'

'How do you know he's not? Do you know what the symptoms are? Have you ever looked at his arms? If your boy's on heroin he's not your son any longer. He belongs to the drug he's hooked on and he'll do anything to get it. Anything—'

'And I say he's not on any drugs. You didn't find that stuff here.'

'No. We found it over at Scano's. And Scano's son is a friend of your son's. Your son knows where it comes from even if he doesn't take the stuff himself. Even if he does, he's safe enough from us as long as he's not pushing. So you could help us.'

The shepherd stared down into his glass in silence, trying to spot the trap. His wife had finished gathering the curd and was wiping her hands on her apron. She went on preparing the supper, her body tense with listening as she tossed the artichokes, stirred the pasta and put half a dozen steaks to fry in another black iron pan. When she returned to the table and began scooping the first of the curd into a mould, they felt her eyes burning into them, all three of them. But still her hands moved in their own private world, turning and pressing the dripping white mound as though they were caressing a baby. Watching her face, the Brigadier said:

'We could ring you tomorrow. If you don't know now you could find out.'

But the shepherd was still trying to scent where the danger lay. Suddenly he said: 'What's all this got to do with a girl being missing?'

'Who said it had anything to do with that?'

'You mentioned it before.'

'We mentioned it, that's all. The only thing we want to know from you is where the stuff we found at Scano's came from.'

But the shepherd had smelt danger and was silent.

'We'll come back tomorrow,' said the Brigadier. 'If you can oblige us with that bit of information you can turn the donkey loose and we'll find it on the road for the man who reported it lost. If you can't help us we shall have to come back with that warrant.'

The Captain and the Brigadier got to their feet.

'Good night, Signora.' She didn't answer but went on turning and pressing, turning and pressing, her eyes bright with rage. Before they had crossed the yard her outburst began, and even the noisy engine of their jeep didn't drown her shrill fury.

'And I can't say I blame her,' remarked the Captain. It was after eight-thirty and in a few minutes the family would sit down to eat while she stood at the end of the table, still working. It would take her until at least eleven o'clock to deal with the pecorino, after which there was ricotta to be made from the boiled up second skimming. After that she would, no doubt, be too tired to eat anything. If her husband went to prison, leaving only the boy and herself to cope . . .'

'You said she goes cleaning, too?'

'Over at "II Cantuccio", eleven to one, five mornings a week after the morning cheesemaking.'

'Good God ...'

It was quite dark now as they bounced along the rough road. A red dot indicated the icon that marked the beginning of Pontino. A little further on dozens of similar dots appeared on the fronts of tightly-shuttered houses.

'You'd better drop me at the hospital.'

'Right you are, sir.'

'Have my car sent up in about fifteen minutes.'

From the hospital foyer he tried to telephone the Substitute who had been in court all afternoon and wanted to hear how things had gone. But there was no answer from the number he rang.

It took a little time to find the girl who had been moved and was not in the room that the Sub-lieutenant had told him how to find. With the help of a night nurse he found the right room and tiptoed in. There was an oxygen tent over the bed and in the dull light that was burning, the young officer's thin face looked deep pink.

'How is she?'

'She's had something of a relapse.' They were whispering. 'She was out of the oxygen tent earlier and her temperature was coming down with the antibiotics but then when she came to . . . she opened her eyes and suddenly seemed to go into a panic. She tried to get out of bed and had to be restrained.'

'She was delirious?'

'No, she was just terrified—perhaps, finding herself in bed in a strange place, she thought she was still captive.'

'A bit odd, even so. There was nothing in the room that might have frightened her? No one else was here?'

'Nothing. Nobody. The florist came up earlier but she was asleep, and he didn't even come into the room, just put his head round the door and left her some flowers; the night nurse has put them out in the corridor, I think . . .'

'And she hasn't said anything?'

'She sometimes calls for her friend and she's still worrying about the phone call she should have made. You can see ...'

They leaned over the sleeping figure and saw through the polythene tent the hand on the counterpane closed in a tight fist.

'She still has the token. I've tried a few ways of getting it off her . . . offering to telephone for her and so on, thinking she might improve if that was off her mind . . .'

'I understand.'

'They say she'll sleep through the night. They gave her something . . .'

'Do you want to come back to Florence with me and get some sleep?'

'No, I'd rather stick it out. I can sleep a little here, if necessary, but I want to be sure I'm here when she wakes up.'

'I'd like to know just what frightened her.' The Captain looked round the bare room, frowning. 'It couldn't have been you, I suppose?'

'No, sir. It couldn't have been me. She was looking the other way and didn't see me.'

CHAPTER 5

When she did see him it was without his knowing it. She hadn't moved or made a sound, just opened her eyes in the red-tinged darkness and seen him there without surprise as if she had been aware of his presence ever since he arrived. His head had fallen forward a little and his face was in shadow. She could see a sliver of white shirt, the braided collar of his black jacket, a star on his epaulette, the hand that rested along his crossed knee. Her eyes left him and examined the rest of the room. A loaded trolley had a white cloth that looked pink draped over it and an oxygen cylinder was just visible in a dark corner. The girl's eyes swivelled to the left and stared at the locker-top where the officer had left his hat, then to the right, watching him. He was trying to keep awake, forcing his eyelids open slightly every few minutes. Even so, he was asleep. Her eyes ran down the black jacket to where the man's watch was half hidden by a white cuff. Then her eyes closed again. For more than two hours their quiet breathing was the only sound in the small room.

The next time the girl opened her eyes the young officer was staring straight into them, his face strained and anxious. She asked him: 'What time is it?' as if they had been in the middle of a conversation.

'Three-thirty.'

'In the morning?'

'Yes.'

It was still dark and the red nightlight was still burning. A blustery wind was sending light flurries of rain against the window.

'I ought to call the nurse.'

'Not yet . . .' Her eyes moved to the left again to look at the locker. 'I don't want anybody to come. I'm so tired '

'The doctor wanted you to sleep through the night.'

They were whispering for no reason except that the dim light and the sense of being awake when everyone else was asleep suggested it.

'I can go back to sleep.'

She spoke good English with only a trace of accent. The officer resisted the urge to take out a notebook, to ask questions. She seemed calm enough but the fit she had thrown on first wakening was fresh in his mind. The hospital staff wouldn't thank him for provoking another. Besides, any interrogation had to be left to the Captain, who had enough experience to separate the half-truths from the lies. The truth never came out until the fear wore off. So he sat still and let her talk, murmuring answers to the few questions she asked him, trying to memorize details that might be important. The hand lying on the white counterpane still clutched the telephone token but neither of them mentioned it. She talked in brief spurts in between which her eyes became glazed, probably as a result of whatever drug they had given her. Oddly enough, it was not during one of these silences but while she was talking that her eyes closed and her shallow breathing became deeper. He watched her closely for a long time but there was no further flicker of consciousness. Nevertheless, when he shifted noiselessly and settled back in his chair she spoke, apparently in her sleep, murmuring: 'You won't go away?'

'No.'

'Good

'Captain? I hope I haven't rung too early . . .'

'That's all right. Go on.'

'There isn't all that much because she soon fell asleep again but at least I've got their names. She's called Nilsen and she's Norwegian.'

'And the other girl?'

'Maxwell. Deborah Maxwell. They'll probably both have a police permit since they study Italian at the University.'

'They're registered as full-time students?'

'Not on a degree course but at the Cultural Centre for Foreigners where they've been going since last September. '

'And they live . . .'

'She talked about "Debbie's flat" not "our flat" so I assumed that they don't live together. I haven't got their addresses because I just listened to what she told me. I thought I shouldn't ask any questions until you . . .'

'You did right. Go on.'

'As far as I can make out from the little she said about what actually happened, the man who kidnapped them, there was only one at that point, was hidden in the back of their car when they got in. She doesn't know how he got through the main doors and an electronically operated gate to get in to the courtyard where the car is always left unlocked. I got the impression that the car actually belongs to the American girl but I'm not certain. The man must obviously have been armed to have kidnapped two adults single-handed but she didn't say so. I thought it best not to press her.'

'Good. It was one of the girls then that drove the car out of Florence?'

'Yes, the Maxwell girl. Somewhere past Pontino, the last village she remembers seeing, they were told to turn into a narrow lane where they were met by a small truck. They were made to lie down on the floor in the back. The truck later delivered this girl to the place where she was dumped on the outskirts of Pontino. The injury to her knee she did herself by falling against a tree in the dark.'

'How is it?'

'They say it's deep and will leave quite a scar. Even so, it's only a flesh wound and will heal in ten days or so. I imagine it must have been a cypress tree since they prune the lower branches leaving a swordlike edge sticking up. As for her head injury, the immediate danger's past but her sight and balance have to be checked once she's able to get up, which will be today, I think.'

'They'll bring her down to Florence in that case?'

'Yes, later this morning. There's only the local GP here and twice a week a doctor from Poggibonsi does a round. Any seriously ill patients are usually sent to a state hospital.'

'I'll see her later today then. It would help if they put her in San Giovanni.'

The hospital of San Giovanni di Dio was practically next door to Headquarters, which was convenient in the case of patients who required a permanent guard or who had to be questioned at intervals.

'I'll mention it. I suppose it depends where there's a bed. Do you think it was a mistake, sir? Their taking this girl as well?'

'I don't know. But these people don't usually make mistakes.'

'They're professionals, then?'

The Substitute, too, had said, 'In that case we surely are talking about professionals . . .' And it was true that the Captain was proceeding as though they were. Even so, he only said again:

'I don't know.' Then he added, 'You ought to get some sleep. I'll phone the Brigadier up there and tell him to send a man to relieve you.'

'I think I should stay, sir, if you agree. I promised I would and she's still very nervous, I think. Perhaps I could at least stay until she wakes up and I can explain what's happening.'

She was woken at seven by the night nurses who had to tidy her up before they went off duty. The officer waited out in the corridor and so it happened that, on leaving, one of the nurses in a hurry to get home said: 'You could take her flowers if you're going back in.'

She was propped up now against a heap of pillows. Her loose yellow hair and the white hospital nightgown made her look like a sick child. The bandage round her head had been replaced by a small dressing above one eyebrow.

'Bring them here.' She was staring at the flowers. 'Let me look at them . . .' She fingered the brightly coloured daisies as if testing whether they were real. Here and there the leaves, too, were streaked with turquoise and purple paint. 'He really was painting them.'

'That's what upset you before?' The officer was bewildered.

'Yesterday . . . Yes, I remember, I saw them when I woke up and I thought ... It seems stupid now but you can't imagine what it was like stumbling about in the dark and then seeing him daubing away . . . whoever heard of painted flowers . . .'

'But otherwise they'd all be white,' explained the officer reasonably. 'There aren't many flowers about so early in the year. These daisies are quite plentiful.'

'But all white.'

'Yes.'

'So they paint them.'

'Yes. The florist brought them. He found you but I suppose you don't remember.'

'That was nice of him, to bring the flowers. And I thought he was a nightmare or that I was going out of my mind. You'll have to move your hat.'

He picked it up and set the flowers down on the locker.

'Aren't you going to sit down?'

'No, I have to leave now. They'll soon be taking you down to Florence.'

'But won't you be coming with me . . .?' She stopped and blushed at the stupidity of the question, adding quickly, 'You work here in the village, of course.'

'No.' It was he who blushed now at being taken for a country bumpkin. 'I work in Florence. There's a guard from the local station here outside your door. A car will follow you down in the ambulance and they'll send a guard from Headquarters to stay with you once you get there.'

'Am I in danger?'

'Probably not but we don't take any risks.'

'But . . . If you work in Florence can't they send you?'

'Send me?'

'To the hospital where they take me—instead of people I don't know?'

The young man's face darkened even more.

'I don't do guard duty,' he said, 'I'm an officer. I was sent out here because we thought you probably spoke English. Your Italian . . .'

'I know it's not very good . . . But you will come sometime ... I mean . . .'

'I shall probably be there to translate when the Captain in charge of the case questions you.' To his distress he saw that she was trembling slightly. He saluted briefly and opened the door, afraid that she might be about to cry. He was somewhat mollified by the fact that the Brigadier's boy, Sartini, snapped to attention as he passed, well within her view.

'What time did they find the car?'

'First thing this morning, more or less.'

The Brigadier was bouncing the jeep once again along the road out of Pontino, sending up sprays of wet grit and grumbling continually under his breath, this time because he had to keep switching the wipers on and off. A keen wind was puffing small clouds across the pale blue sky, blotting out the sun and sending miniature showers against his windscreen. A draught whistled through the jeep and all three men had the collars of their mackintoshes turned up. The Substitute also had a large English umbrella which lay in the back beside his briefcase and a brand new pair of green galoshes. By this time he and the Captain were accustomed to conversing against a background of the Brigadier's
sotto uoce
lamentations.

'The lads searched that whole area yesterday—'the Captain indicated the vineyards and cornfields to their left—'And started on the other side this morning. They found the car almost immediately since it wasn't particularly well hidden.'

'How much will it help?'

'Probably not a great deal but it's a loose end tied up. It would help, of course, if someone had seen it being dumped, but I'm afraid that even if someone did—'

'Here we are,' announced the Brigadier, emerging suddenly from his world of private woes and turning right on to a grassy track running between two olive groves. Where the trees finished the track dipped sharply down through neglected fields to a narrow valley watered by a stream.

'Have to leave the jeep and walk from here on.'

They had to wait while the Substitute put on his new galoshes, murmuring with a cigar between his teeth: apos;Don't want to miss anything this time . . .'

The wooden bridge over the stream had to be crossed in single file. On the other side the ground began to slope up again.

'And how did they get the car across here?' asked the Substitute, slowing to put a flame to a freshly filled pipe. The tobacco smelt sweet on the sharp air.

'They'll have come by the villa,' said the Brigadier enigmatically.

'Ah . . .'

'We'll go back that way. I like to keep my eye on Pratesi at the sausage factory.'

The villa came into view on the brow of the hill above them. A balustrade ran round its flat roof with terra cotta urns at each corner, outlined sharply against the blue sky.

'Not that that's much of a road to speak of,' the Brigadier went on, 'But the family hasn't lived there since before the war—there were German and then English soldiers billeted here during the second war . . .'

The Substitute would have been willing to bet every cigar he had on him that the Brigadier had been about to add 'before you were born'. He had been bemused at first by the scraps of peripheral information the Brigadier periodically tossed them with the air of someone indulging an already overfed dog, but now he was beginning to understand. Out of habit the Brigadier treated everybody as though they were local National Service boys who had grown up in the village and so knew every blade of grass as well as he did but who might be a bit hazy about certain family backgrounds and about things that had happened before their time. Once he had even got as far as adding 'before you . . .' and then tailed off into his private grumbles.

'He lives in Torino,' the Brigadier offered them now.

'Who does?'

'The old Count.' He nodded at the villa. 'There's talk of him coming back.'

'And how does he get away with this?' The Captain looked about him with disgust. The vineyards on each side of their path were tangled and choked with weeds. The rioting, spent vines had grown black tentacles in all directions, sprouting now with fresh green shoots and hung with ghostly old man's beard. The undergrowth must have been a haven for vipers and the three men kept strictly to the path. According to the law, neglected land could be confiscated by the state.

'That's how.' The Brigadier stabbed the air in front of him.

At the top of the hill near the last curve of the weedy driveway that led round from the back of the villa a young man stood watching their approach.

''Morning, Rudolfo.' The Brigadier was panting a little as they reached the top of the slope.

The young man had deep-set black eyes and very high cheekbones. He smiled uncertainly, showing white teeth.

'You're down early,' remarked the Brigadier in a friendly tone.

'I'm not down, I'm still grazing the mountain but I wanted to get some planting done.'

'At this time?'

'Potatoes.'

'Good lad. Did they find the car on your patch?'