Death in Tuscany (49 page)

He filled them in on the latest developments in Operation Stella, and then, binding them all to secrecy, he got on to the question of Salvatore Laprua.

'There are only two Salvatore Lapruas in Tuscany' Fanti stated, having diligently completed the task his chief had assigned him. A twenty-seven-year-old technician who works for a company in Pistoia making household appliances, and a seventy-five-year-old man who's been living in Viareggio since 1993.'

'That's him!' Ferrara cried without hesitation. 'Ascalchi, Sergi, get cracking! Go to Viareggio and keep an eye on him! Find out how he spends his time, what links he has with Mining Extractions, everything . . .'

'Erm . . .'

'Yes, Fanti?'

'His business isn't marble, but fishing. He owns a small fishing fleet, La Prua Fisheries, which operates out of the port of Viareggio. He's not as involved with it as he used to be, he seems to have retired, but the fleet is still active.'

'Strange . . . Well, find out all you can about the fishing business, too. But without him noticing, please!'

'No problem, chief,' Ascalchi replied, and Serpico smiled at him sideways as if to say,
Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him.

Petra brought cold drinks out to the terrace, where they were sitting under the arbour. The sun was still beating down, and they were all grateful.

Later, when Ferrara's men had gone, Petra asked him if he was really making progress, as the few snatches of conversation she had caught seemed to suggest.

'I think we are,' he replied, and for the first time she saw him looking confident.

'Do you think you'll manage to find Massimo?'

'Yes,' he said ruefully, thinking about his conversation with Anna Giulietti, about all the time that had passed, and about the strong likelihood, given the ferocity of the organisation he was dealing with and the chain of murders which had bloodied the soil of Tuscany in these past few weeks, that what they found would be the bodies of Simonetta and Massimo. Alive or dead, as they used to say on those Wild West posters,' he could not help adding.

'No, Michele,
bitte,
don't even think it!' Petra almost shouted. Then she said, in a firm voice, 'Massimo's alive, I can feel it.'

'Thank you, my love,' was all he said.

Marisa d'Incisa was so horrified by Anna Giulietti's account of the circumstances of her husband's death that she tried to cover her eyes and ears with her slender, tremulous fingers.

They were not enough to protect her from the horrors of a world which until the previous day had been untroubled and comfortable and was now suddenly revealed to be absurd, distasteful, intolerable.

Not even the presence of one of her sons, Piero, could help. He was a lawyer who worked in Paris in the European office of an American law practice with offshoots all over the world. Her other two children, a son and a daughter, were on holiday with their families, the son in Bali and the daughter in Argentina, and they had not yet had time to join their mother.

Tm sorry to have to ask you this, signora, but did you know that your husband used drugs?'

Distressed as she was at the woman's pain, Anna Giulietti was still a public official who had to do her duty.

The woman shook her head repeatedly. 'Of course not,' she said at last, in a low but firm voice.

And you, Signor d'Incisa?'

He was a man of about forty, tall and well built, with an aristocratic nose and clear, calm eyes. He must have been living abroad for a long time, because he had lost all trace of a Florentine inflection. He spoke with a slight French accent and even used the odd French word when he spoke.

No. But are you sure about that? I realise the way things must appear, but before making such a
...
eh bien,
such a serious allegation, you'd need proof, wouldn't you?'

'We found the drugs. They were hidden, not even particularly well hidden, in a bathroom cabinet.'

'It was his bathroom,' the wife explained. She was tiny and thin, her face was ravaged by exhaustion, and yet she was still full of dignity. Dignified was the word both Giulietti and Rizzo would have used to describe her: not arrogant, but dignified. 'I almost never went in there . . . only the maid did, and even she never cleaned it very much,' she added, in a disapproving tone. 'I can't believe it. . .'

'In fact, it's quite incredible,' the son said. 'My father was a good man, a highly respected man, as you know. Perhaps someone put the drugs there to make it look like suicide when in fact it was murder.'

'Do either of you know anyone who hated him enough to do that?' Rizzo asked.

'No, quite the contrary . . . Am I right,
maman?'

Absolutely. My husband was respected as a professional and loved as a person.' There was pride in her voice as she said this.

'Naturally, in his position, it's always possible that some madman, perhaps in revenge for the death of a relative . . . Don't you think?'

'That's possible, Signor d'Incisa. But there were no signs of a struggle when we arrived, no indication that a third party had been here. The front door was locked and there was no sign of a forced entry. The pattern was typical of a death by overdose, and since the professor knew what he was doing, we have to assume it was suicide. The autopsy will be able to confirm if he was a habitual drug user

The woman collapsed in tears.

'Is an autopsy really necessary?' her son asked.

'Yes. I'm sorry'

'There, there,
maman . .
.'

'It's not possible, it's not possible . . .' the woman said, making a visible effort to get a grip on herself. She made the sign of the cross. 'Not suicide . . . it's a mortal sin . . .'

Anna Giulietti felt uncomfortable. If they managed to establish that the man was not only a drug addict but also a paedophile and a murderer, the poor woman could very well die of grief.

'Erm . . .' Piero d'Incisa said. 'Go on.'

He assumed a more professional tone. 'Look, this is all very unpleasant.
Je comprends
...
I understand that you have to do your duty, but I'd like to ask you if there's any way to make sure none of this gets out, I mean if it could just remain between ourselves . . . You see, the d'Incisas are an old family, a highly respected family. I'm thinking of my brother and sister, my nieces and nephews . . . My sister's children are still small, it would be terrible if they ever found out. A scandal would be a disaster for all of us, believe me. Whatever mistakes my father may have made, if indeed he made them, his heirs don't deserve

Here we go,
Anna Giulietti thought.

'Don't worry,' she said. 'I shan't speak to the press until we know something for certain, and when I do I'll try to tone things down as far as possible. I'm sure Superintendent Rizzo agrees with me. We'll have to mention suicide, otherwise there'll only be lots of harmful speculation, but we won't reveal the details.'

She did not feel up to asking Piero d'Incisa in return for permission to examine his father's documents. She doubted that he would give his consent, given the circumstances. He was a lawyer after all, and he was sure to find some kind of objection. Besides, even if he did agree, she was afraid that among the papers might well be a contract to lease the factory, and she preferred not to find something like that, at least for the moment.

Signora d'Incisa, who had been struggling to understand, said, 'The suicide could have been due to the stress of work. He was impossible that way. He could never keep away from that blasted - from that hospital. It was his whole life. He was there day and night, even when we could have been enjoying our old age together in Viareggio.'

Or perhaps he preferred to enjoy youth - young girls, in fact:

the thought occurred almost simultaneously to both Giulietti and Rizzo.

'It's very possible,' Anna admitted. 'Can you think of any reasons? Money worries, for example, or health problems . . . did he seem unusually anxious recently?'

'Oh, no. We've never had money worries, thank heavens!
He was as well as you can be at our age, and with the children
all settled, we didn't really have anything to be anxious about.
As I said, we should have been enjoying his retirement,
instead of which . . .'
                                              

'Yes, of course. Apart from his medical colleagues, did your husband see a lot of people?'

'Oh, yes, a lot. He loved company. He often visited friends in the evenings. Sometimes he was invited out for dinner, sometimes he dropped in on them after dinner. But I almost never went with him. I'm bored by social occasions.'

'Could you possibly make a list of his closest friends?'

'What's the point of that?' the son asked, suspiciously.

'Don't worry, Signor d'Incisa. I've given you my word that I'll be discreet. But in cases of suicide I like to have a complete picture of the . . . victim's personality, to try and understand the psychological reasons for his act.' She was lying but Piero d'Incisa seemed reassured.

'I don't know all their names,' his mother said, 'but I can try.'

Rizzo gave her a pen and paper.

Marisa d'Incisa started to write, with a shaking hand, but the effort was too much for her and she fainted.

A Filipino butler, who probably doubled as the signora's nurse and driver, came running, and he and her son carried her into the bedroom.

Piero d'Incisa soon came back in. 'Sorry about that, but at her age . . .'

'I can imagine. She's been really remarkable. We're the ones who should be apologising. Unfortunately our duty
..."