Death in Tuscany (50 page)

'Of course, of course. And I'm grateful to you for the consideration you've been showing our family'

'Don't mention it. In return, though, I'd like to ask you a favour. If you find any diaries, engagement books, personal objects belonging to your father that you think may help us to understand his frame of mind in his last hours, could you make sure they get to Superintendent Rizzo at Police Headquarters?'

It was a way of putting the ball in his court. She was showing him that she trusted him, practically inviting him to check his father's things before handing them over. But he seemed honest and sincere, and Anna was sure she could count on him to do the right thing.

'I'll do that.'

'One last thing, Signor d'Incisa. Did you know that your father was a Freemason?'

The man smiled indulgently, as if she had mentioned an innocent pastime or an old man's whim. 'Yes, of course. He told me as soon as I turned eighteen. He wanted me to become one, too . . .'

And did you?'

'Good Lord, no! I mean, not that there's anything wrong with it. Lots of famous people have been Masons. George Washington, Winston Churchill . . . But they're all in the past. I think Freemasonry is now just a rather nostalgic relic of a bygone age. These days, with globalisation as unstoppable as a speeding train, there are far more effective support networks.'

Coming from him, with his international connections, it sounded like a convincing view of the subject. But Anna Giulietti was no longer so sure.

*

Late that evening, Ferrara received the telephone call he had been expecting.

'You can come in to the office tomorrow. They called me from Rome to tell me the request has been granted. If anyone says anything about it, they can talk to me. I'll say I asked you personally to come back without waiting for confirmation in writing because Lupo and I need you back on the case urgently.'

'Thanks, Anna.'

'Don't thank me. Just break up that drug ring.'

32

It was nearly midday, and for the past couple of hours Elisa Rocca had been slumped on the old sofa in her apartment in the Santa Croce area.

It was a small apartment, in which dirt and disorder took up more space than the few cheap pieces of furniture. Clothes were strewn everywhere, dirty glasses and cups. On the floor near the sofa lay a four-day-old newspaper showing a photo of the girl, almost a child, who had died in the Ospedale Nuovo.

Elisa was holding a bottle of Chianti with some difficulty in one hand, a glass in the other. She had lost count of how many glasses she'd had.

This was her way of getting through the moments of pain and suffering. Not that there'd been very much else in her life.

When there was not even a single drop left in the bottle, she left the apartment.

She crossed the Piazza Santa Croce and set off in the direction of the Arno. Before reaching the river, she went into a wine shop and ordered a glass of red wine, then another. She went out and walked slowly, with just enough self-control not to collapse on the ground. It was very hot, but she didn't feel the heat.

With small steps, she crossed the bridge.

When she got to the other bank, she headed for the Ponte Vecchio, which seemed to sway in front of her like a big barge on the waters of the river.

She went into another wine shop.

She ordered another glass and drank it, then left because they told her they wouldn't serve her another. The owner knew her and felt sorry for her.

She carried on towards the Pitti Palace. As she crossed the road, a young motorcyclist swerved to avoid her, a manoeuvre which sent him hurtling to the ground. He lay on the asphalt for a few minutes, dazed. Then he grabbed his mobile.

Elisa Rocca was taken to Police Headquarters.

Ferrara was waiting impatiently for Rizzo to get back from Viareggio. He had sent him there first thing in the morning, as soon as he arrived, to check on the progress of the operation. No one had raised any objections.

He hadn't run into Commissioner Lepri, but given that Lepri always kept his ears open, he must know by now that Ferrara was back at his post. But he hadn't sent for him.

He had spent the rest of the morning putting his papers in order and making and receiving phone calls, which kept him out of trouble. He had called Anna Giulietti and asked for authorisation to bug all telephones registered to Salvatore Laprua, and she, in her turn, had filled him in on the encounter with d'Incisa's wife and son. She had reminded him again that time was pressing, as if time were not already Ferrara's prime anxiety. Then he had called Lojelo, who had nothing new to report on the Claudia Pizzi case. Armando Lupo had called from Lucca to congratulate him on his reinstatement and tell him that Captain Fulvi seemed to have reached a dead end, which was why he was really hoping Ferrara would be able to lend a hand.

The last phone call came from the inspector on duty in the operations room at Headquarters.

'Chief, a woman named Elisa Rocca has just been brought in drunk. She claims she knows you.'

This was true.

Elisa Rocca was thirty-five years old, but looked more than fifty. She was short and plump, with a light complexion, dark eyes, and black shoulder-length hair. She had been a prostitute since she was young and some years earlier had told him a few things in confidence which had helped him to track down a ring of pimps who were running high-class call girls from various apartments in the historical centre.

'That's right. Treat her nicely, she's down on her luck.'

'She's drunk, chief, and she wants to talk to you.'

'Oh, no, for Heaven's sake!' he said, but there was no malice in his words: it was just another way of making himself feel at home again.

'She's going on and on about the girl from the Ospedale Nuovo.'

'Don't let her go!' he ordered. 'I'll send someone straightaway' Obviously there was no point in going himself. The Stella case was practically solved now, and whatever that poor, prematurely-aged prostitute could tell them was unlikely to add much they didn't already know. He had other things to think about, and above all to do.

He called Fanti and told him to ask Ascalchi to deal with it. Then, as Fanti was walking away, he had second thoughts and added, And tell him to take Inspector Venturi with him. He knows her well.'

'He lives in the Via Sant'Andrea, near the harbour. Nothing especially luxurious - an apartment on the second floor of an ordinary-looking building, early twentieth century'

Rizzo, back from Viareggio, was delivering his report on Salvatore Laprua.

'He didn't come out during the time I was there. In the neighbourhood he's known as a polite, softly spoken person. He's been living there for several years with his wife, they don't have any particular friends, they're old and don't get out much. Just to do the shopping, or sometimes they take a stroll down to the sea.'

'Do they ever go to the harbour?'

'He does sometimes, but not often. And he always goes alone, never with his wife. He has a manager who runs the fishing fleet for him. He doesn't deal with it himself.'

'Not surprising, if it's just a cover. Let's keep him under surveillance, shall we?'

'Sergi and two constables are at the harbour, another two are keeping watch on the house.'

'Good. Deputy Prosecutor Giulietti has given us authorisation to tap his phones. I'll leave you to see to that. Thanks.'

Serpico was sitting under the awning of the Piccolo Tito on the Lungomolo Corrado del Greco, savouring a
granita.

With his long hair, unkempt beard, ripped jeans and Iron Maiden ‘I-shirt, he looked like a tourist mingling with the regulars in the bar, enjoying the merry, colourful spectacle of the small fish market, where the fishermen who had returned from fishing all night were displaying their wares, as they did every morning.

They moored alongside the canal, set up low metal stalls in front of their boats, and arranged the crates of fish on them. Many of the fish were still alive.

The quayside was packed with people looking around in fascination and buying contentedly.

'Haven't you ordered anything for me?' Officer Scugni asked, sitting down next to Sergi. He was also wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and had a Nikon digital camera slung across his shoulder.

'Yes, a coffee, but it was getting cold so I drank it myself. What do you want?' 'I'll have a
granita,
too.'

'It's better if you go inside and order it, they take forever here.'

When he came back, Sergi gave him a questioning look.

'They're not back yet,' Scugni said. 'I checked with the others and they told me that sometimes they're late back because they go a long way out to sea, and when they do come back they're heavily loaded. They're easy to recognise, because they have three large boats, the biggest ones around, and they always travel together. They're called
Alfio, Vito
and
Tonio.'

'That's them,' Sergi said, seeing two of the three trawlers approaching the mouth of the canal. The third soon appeared. 'Let's go.'

They watched as the three forty-foot fibreglass Merlin Craft with their two 350-horsepower engines docked. The boats attracted a clientele of connoisseurs, who had been waiting patiently for them. They did not put out stalls, but sold straight from the boats to the most insistent customers, a few crates going directly to restaurant owners. But most of the fish were quickly loaded onto a white van bearing the words
La Prua Fisheries
on the side.

Sergi made a note of the licence number. He and Scugni walked to the anonymous silver Fiat Punto, got in, and drove to the harbour exit. When they saw the van come out, they started following it, making sure there were a few cars between them.