Death in Tuscany (2 page)

'All right, Michele, but whatever you do, don't go into the office tomorrow and make us miss our weekend at Massimo's, as usual. You promised him this time!'

'Don't worry, even if the sky falls, we'll be on that autostrada tomorrow morning before the tailbacks start.'

'I'll take your word for it, and I won't forgive you if—'

'So your dear Massimo takes precedence over everything, does he?'

'Dein lieber
Massimo, you mean,' Petra replied. In spite of the many years she'd lived in Italy, she sometimes broke into a few words of her native language. It happened when she was tired, emotional or excited, but also when she wanted, however unconsciously, to underline the superiority of German precision over Italian vagueness.

'Our
Massimo, shall we agree on that?' Ferrara said. 'See you later!' He had just seen Fanti coming in with the file on the girl.

Everything was in the file, starting with the record of the girl's admission to hospital, and the report by the paramedics who, alerted by an anonymous caller, had driven up the hill road leading from Scandicci to Montespertoli until they had found the girl, unconscious and barely able to breathe. They had tried to revive her, without success, and had then taken her to the nearest hospital.

The subsequent reports by Inspector Violante were detailed and irreproachable. He had examined all the missing persons reports from that period, but none of the descriptions matched. He had also checked the latest bulletin from the Ministry, but again without success. He had even gone on the internet and checked the website of a well-researched TV programme called
Has Anyone Seen Them?
which was often consulted by the police in relation to missing persons cases.

There followed copies of the telegrams, marked
Priority,
which Violante had sent to other police forces, with a summary of the case and a description of the girl, appealing for help in identifying her.

Attached to the report was a photo he had sent other forces by email. It had been taken in hospital using a digital camera, with the permission of the doctors. Given the conditions in which it was taken, the quality left something to be desired, but behind that pale, pained expression, it wasn't difficult to imagine the girl in all her radiant beauty. The features were regular, framed by soft ash-blonde hair, and the lips, even though bloodless in the photo, were full. The eyes were closed, but Ferrara - who for some reason thought they must be green - could imagine them full of life.

As was to be expected, Violante had followed the correct

procedure to the letter. But the girl, who had clung on to life while they followed up various inconclusive leads, had died without either the comfort of relatives at her sickbed or the dignity of a record that at least restored her name to her.

Cardiac and circulatory failure following acute heroin poisoning
was how the consultant in charge of the intensive care unit, Professor Ludovico d'Incisa, concluded his report.

RIP and amen.

'Come in!'

Nothing happened.

'COME IN!' Ferrara screamed a second time in response to the discreet knocks on his door. In the meantime, Fanti had run to open it, and Chief Inspector Violante, a grey man - grey hair, grey clothes, grey demeanour - who was deaf in one ear, came in and took up his position in front of Ferrara's desk.

Ferrara waved away the cloud of pale blue smoke from his second cigar, which he had just lit, and indicated the two armchairs for visitors.

'Choose whichever you want, but for God's sake sit down.'

Violante did as he was told, but perched on the edge of the seat, in an uncomfortable position. He was visibly nervous, as if expecting to be reprimanded.

'About this child . . . The one who died of a drug overdose . . . Where are we with that?'

'Nowhere really. Apart from the victim - did you say child, chief?'

'Why? Would you call her a woman?'

Violante's only response was to shrug his shoulders.

‘I’m talking about the victim in the report I found on my desk. What has your investigation come up with?'

'Nothing in particular, chief. Time to close the file, I think . . .'

'I'll decide that, if you don't mind,' Ferrara replied. He didn't like to hear that tone of fatalistic resignation from one of his men.

Violante seemed not to understand. 'Of course, chief. But did you read the whole file?' He could see that Ferrara had it in front of him.

'Obviously. I didn't send for it just to give it an airing.'

Why was Ferrara so irritable? Violante wondered. Why was he treating him like this? He'd done his job, and he'd done it well.

'You'll have seen that we did everything we possibly could. I dealt with it personally and didn't neglect anything. But in the meantime, the girl died . . .' He shrugged his shoulders by way of conclusion.

'And yet we don't even know who she is! After nearly a week!'

Violante still did not understand.

Considering everything they had on their plates at the moment, especially with a reduced workforce, the death of a junkie wasn't exactly a priority. His many years' experience had made him cynical, and he was convinced that a girl who wasn't even missed by her family didn't really matter that much to anyone, so he was surprised by Ferrara's sudden insistence. But he also had to admit that he respected it. It was as if there was still room for a glimmer of humanity in their work: something he'd stopped believing in since he'd started counting the days until his retirement.

'A week isn't so long, chief. In fact, it's quite normal. If no one comes forward and the subject has no papers or anything else that makes identification possible, you know as well as I do that it can take months, and sometimes we get nowhere.'

It was true, and Ferrara wondered again why it was that he had reacted so impulsively. He was usually cautious, usually thought long and hard before blowing up. This death might have its curious aspects, but it was hardly unusual in a modern city. And Florence was no different from any other modern city in this respect.

Something about the case, though, didn't feel right. What was it? Everything, he thought, fishing out the victim's photo and taking another look at it: the pale face, the closed eyes, the tense, tormented features, heartbreaking in their still-childlike beauty.

Everything and nothing, as often happens. But he was pigheaded. If his instinct told him something was wrong, then he had to see it through to the end. Without thinking too much, at least for the moment.

'You saw her,' he said. 'How old do you think she was?'

'I'm hoping the autopsy will tell us for certain. Not very old, I'd say.'

'Old enough to be a junkie?'

Are you asking me, chief? What do I know about kids today? I didn't understand my own children twenty years ago . . . All I know is that she died from acute heroin poisoning. That's what's written on the medical certificate. A classic overdose - all too common, unfortunately'

'Yes,' Ferrara admitted. 'You may be right. Maybe that's the way it was. Just one more statistic for the new millennium. But I don't like it. Do you remember how we used to feel when we went to school and we hadn't done our homework? That's how I feel now. I'm not criticising your work in any way. But you've been following the case from the start. What are your impressions?'

'For what it's worth, I think the girl was almost certainly an illegal immigrant, that's why no one has come forward.'

Ferrara nodded. Although it had taken Violante to say it openly, the thought had been lurking at the back of his mind.

An illegal immigrant without a family: he refused to believe that her parents hadn't come forward simply because they were afraid of being deported. Besides, a young immigrant doesn't have the time or the inclination or the money to buy drugs. It was much more likely that she was a victim of the international traffic in human beings, which was reaching staggering proportions: the number of children who disappeared each year throughout the world and ended up in the clutches of unscrupulous traffickers was horrifying.

'From Eastern Europe
..."
he said, looking at the photo again.

'That's what I thought.' 'Anything else?' Violante hesitated. 'Well?'

'Nothing I can put my finger on. Just an impression . . . But, all things considered, it doesn't matter, believe me.'

'What do you mean, "all things considered"?'

'You know what I mean. An illegal immigrant. . .' Violante replied with the air of resigned indifference people use to talk about subjects they'd prefer to sweep under the carpet.

Yes, he knew what Violante meant.

An unidentified illegal immigrant who'd died of a drug overdose was like a rubbish bag ready to be collected and placed in the appropriate pile: on one side those who matter and are talked about in the press and on TV, and on the other all the rest, whose records no one will ever consult. In other words, this was a case to be concluded without any fuss and without causing the Commissioner any needless worry — because, as everyone knew, he had plenty of other things on his plate.

That was the explanation for Violante's resigned attitude.

'No,' Ferrara replied, calmly, without jumping down his throat again. 'This time I don't know. Tell me your impressions and let me draw my own conclusions, okay?'

'Okay, chief, but the thing is . . . well
...
I don't really know. It's the hospital. There's something strange going on there.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's as if . . . as if once they found out no one was coming forward, they just dropped her. I mean, as if they didn't really take care of her. And now that she's dead, she's become a nuisance, and they're in a hurry to have done with her . . . like they wanted to get rid of her as quickly as possible, you know what I mean?'