Death in Tuscany (56 page)

'Where does he live?'

'Who, Viktor?' he said, close to laughter. 'How should I know? In my opinion not even those two bast— that Alex and Nard — know where he lives.'

'Where did you see him?

'I've never seen him. I don't even know what he looks like. All I know is that those two are scared shitless - pardon my language - of even mentioning his name. They're terrified of him. Me too, if you must know. He has a bad reputation even among the Albanians.'

'Why do you say it was his fault you ended up inside?'

'Because he was the one who organised the whole thing. We were supposed to give the drugs to him. He had something on Zi Turi, can you imagine?'

'What do you mean?'

'Those ten kilos of heroin were a payment.' Ferrara's heart missed a beat. 'Mind explaining that?' 'Sure, I know everything! I'm the one who got caught in the middle. I knew those two before. Alex and Nard. They

used to come to the bar, they were part of the scene. They knew I was one of Zi Turi's men, I'd told them that myself, to impress them. One day they tell me their boss, Viktor, has an important message for my boss, and I have to give it to him. Viktor is holding a hostage, a woman who's very important to Zi Turi, her name is Simonetta, and he's willing to let her go in exchange for ten kilos. For Zi Turi, that's peanuts. He doesn't think twice about it. He tells me to do everything they ask. So they organise an exchange.'

'But when you had the drugs, they didn't give you anyone in exchange,' Ciuffi objected.

'That wasn't how it was supposed to work. Viktor didn't trust the Mafia. The understanding was that I was supposed to go with the two Albanians to get the drugs, then they would take me to the place where the woman would be handed over.'

'Only the woman?' Ferrara asked, unable to restrain himself. 'Wasn't there a man as well?' His voice came out sounding hoarse and thick.

Zancarotti looked at him blankly. A man as well? No, they didn't tell me anything about that. . .'

'Do you know why Salvatore Laprua was so interested in this woman?' Rizzo asked, knowing what Ferrara was going through and thinking it best to take his place at this point.

'No, they didn't tell me, and neither did he. I was supposed to do what I was told and that was it.'

'So you have no idea where she was being kept prisoner?'

'No. They were supposed to take me there . . . but then you police butted in.'

'Does Viktor still have the woman?'

'I hope so, if they haven't done another exchange in the meantime. I'm sure Viktor wouldn't have handed her over without getting the drugs.'

'We're going to check all this out now, Zancarotti,' Ferrara cut in, before the other two men could say anything, 'and if what you say turns out to be true, you're guaranteed a place on the witness protection programme. I'm sending you back to prison now but I'll tell the warden to put you in a different cell. From now on, it'll be better if you don't have any more contact with the two Albanians.'

'Thanks,' Zancarotti replied, relieved.

It struck Ciuffi that he ought to phone Mazzorelli. It was time to get Inspector Guzzi out of there. There was no point any more in having him share a cell with Alex and Nard, and it could actually be dangerous.

Petra knew as soon as he came in.

It wasn't so much the tired look on his face or the sad expression in his eyes, as his stance, the position of his body, which seemed all at once to droop. He looked like someone who had fought too many battles and lost the latest one.

She said nothing.

Later, as Ferrara was forcing down his third forkful of spaghetti - which also turned out to be the last - she looked affectionately at him and said softly, 'Talk to me, Michele.'

Perhaps it was all the time that had passed, perhaps it was the anxiety which had been with him for too long and was now consuming him, or perhaps it was the tension reaching breaking point - or perhaps all three things together - which resulted in two large, agonised tears streaking his cheeks.

'It's over now,' Petra sighed in such a heartfelt way that Ferrara felt obliged to tell her everything.

When he had finished, he realised that Petra was struggling to find words that were not platitudes, and she did so in her own way, drawing from that well of practicality which had always been her husband's anchor.

'Michele, you mustn't give up now.
Das darfst du nicht.
The man didn't tell you anything about Massimo.
Nichts.
Until you know for certain you have to keep thinking he's alive and waiting for you. Do you remember your nightmare? You don't know where he is, but he's still calling you. I can hear him, Michele. I can hear his voice, you can't not hear it yourself.'

The nightmare did not recur that night, but he did not need it to release the tension.

His wife had seen to that, and the following morning he woke up very early, more determined than ever.

37

Before ringing the entryphone, Ferrara checked his watch. It was exactly ten in the morning.

It had taken him more than an hour to get here. He had had a bit of difficulty in finding the Via Sant'Andrea, which went from the canal to the heart of Viareggio without any street signs on the corners. In the end he had had to ask directions from one of the two plain-clothes men who were keeping an eye on the area around the building.

It was a four-storey building, with a balcony in front of the central window on the first floor. The facade was of grey-green concrete, made to look as if it were stone.

'Who is it?'

The voice was rather hoarse, the voice of an old man who had just woken up.

'Police! Open up, please.'

He heard a click, and the wooden door half-opened. He climbed to the second floor.

Salvatore Laprua was waiting for him in the doorway.

He was tall, thin and dark-skinned, with white hair combed back. He was still wearing silk pyjamas beneath a burgundy dressing gown, also of silk. On his feet he wore a pair of very elegant slippers. His small, inquisitive eyes studied Ferrara as he completed the climb.

'I'm Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Florence
Squadra Mobile,'
he said as soon as he stood facing him.

'Are you alone?' the man asked in surprise.

If he had come to arrest him, as he was perhaps expecting him to, he wouldn't have come without his men.

'This time, yes,' Ferrara replied, sustaining his gaze. 'For what we have to say to each other, we don't need anyone else.'

Both men's eyes had started saying more than their words, conveying messages no tongue could express.

'Please come in, Chief Superintendent.'

He led Ferrara along a short, pleasantly appointed corridor to the living room, where he invited him to sit down on a green velvet sofa and took a seat in the armchair next to it.

It was an ordinary middle-class living room, with a few nice pieces of furniture and a large, ugly TV set.

The apartment smelt pleasantly clean.

'Tell me,' the old man said, 'why has an officer of your rank come all the way from Florence to see me?'

'Because I need you.'

The man nodded. He was used to giving and receiving favours.

A short, plump, elderly woman with completely white hair entered the room at that moment and stared at Ferrara wide-eyed.

'Rinuzza . . . don't worry . . . You know, this man is in charge of the police in Florence, he's an important person. Make us some coffee.' His Sicilian accent was stronger when he spoke to her.

The woman went out.

'Chief Superintendent, it's an honour for me that you've come to my house . . . We're just two old people, two poor old people with not many years left, as you can see. What little we have I've worked for. All my life I've worked. Now I'm retired, I have little money and not many friends. I don't know if I . . .' He trailed off.

'I'm not asking for anything difficult. You just have to help me find someone.'

'Who?' the man asked, apparently surprised. A friend of mine
...
or someone I know?'

'Not a friend of yours. A friend of mine. His name is Massimo Verga and he went missing at the same time as a woman named Simonetta Palladiani.'

Laprua did not bat an eyelid. 'Verga . . . That's a Sicilian surname . . . and I think you're Sicilian, too, there's a hint of it in your accent.'

'Yes.'

'I think that'll make it easier for us to understand each other. But I've never heard of the man you mentioned. I've never heard his name.'

'You have heard of the woman, though,' Ferrara said, with such conviction in his voice that Laprua made no attempt to deny it. They were entering a territory where caution was essential, because it was easy to make the wrong move.

'If you say so. May I smoke a cigar? It helps to refresh my mind. At my age . . .'

'Of course, this is your home. In fact, let me offer you one of mine . . . here.' He took two cigars from a leather case.

Laprua lit his cigar with a gold Gartier lighter which he picked up from a low table. It was one of the few discreet signs of opulence in the room. Everything else had been cleverly chosen to give the impression of a man of modest means. Ferrara stuck with his usual disposable plastic lighter.