Errant Angels (12 page)

17

‘Can it be done, what do you think?'

There was a moment of expectant silence, as the question hung floating on the rising heat escaping from the rear of the monitor screen.

‘Well? What do you think?'

There was another moment of silence.

‘Tito…? Hello?' whispered the voice with some urgency. ‘Are you going to join us today? Sometime?'

Tito Viale sat in front of his monitor, staring blankly at the flickering screen.

‘What's the matter with you this morning? You're on another planet!' continued his colleague, prodding him gently in the ribs.

‘Yes… Er… No. What was that, Piero? I didn't quite catch it.'

‘Too true, my friend; you missed it by a kilometre.' Piero pulled a tolerant face and sat back in his chair. He sighed. Tito seemed to be doing this a lot these days. ‘They want to know if Section 201 can be serviced by the end of next month without too much disruption to the other sectors of the network fed by that sub-station,' he repeated, leaning forward to point at a part of the schematic diagram on the screen which was labelled ‘201'. It was a part of Lucca's extensive electricity network and like the famous map of London's Underground, had been reduced to a simplified mass of coloured straight lines and right angles. The similarity of this complex pattern of lines to a bowl of spaghetti
had not been lost on most of the employees of Lucca's Municipal Electricity Department. They referred to it simply as ‘The Buitone', after a well-known brand of Italian pasta.

‘Yes… I do not see any reason why not,' replied Tito, the semi-glazed expression in his eyes an indication that he was still not totally at his desk. A large part of his mind was still elsewhere, ‘Section 210 can be isolated easily enough with sufficient warning. It just depends on –'

‘I said Section 201, not 210! For goodness' sake, concentrate before you plunge half of Lucca into darkness and we have to explain things!' Piero turned his head to look at his friend. ‘Trouble at home … again?' he asked, more out of genuine concern than pure curiosity.

The two had been friends even before they started working together at the municipality. Piero knew only too well of the increasingly frosty relationship between his friend and his domineering wife. He had never really liked her, but, then again, he had not married her. There had been that occasion when she had phoned him at well past midnight to enquire in a rather off-hand way if he knew where Tito was. Despite the lateness of the hour, Piero had gone around to his friend's apartment. Forty minutes later, Tito had found his way home, looking much the worse for the emotional strain. Piero had then found himself caught in the middle of several hours of acrimonious exchanges between husband and wife; his attempts to placate both parties or – more correctly – to placate Letizia Viale had proved totally fruitless. She could see nothing good whatsoever about her husband, who, by that stage, had been reduced to a gibbering wreck.

It was quite obvious that the marriage, at least from Letizia's point of view, was over. Indeed, it had only been through subsequent counselling over the water cooler in
the office that Piero had managed to convince Tito of the importance of hanging on to the one thing which was his. That was why Tito was still an active member of COGOL.

‘Perhaps you should both establish clear boundaries for your lives … to allow each of you to do your own things; you know, compromise,' Piero had advised. ‘Letizia can pursue her own interests whilst you mind the kids and then you can do the same whilst she does her bit. Split the time fifty-fifty. They are, after all, half hers as well.'

Since then, although Tito had continued to attend COGOL, Piero had no real idea if things were any better on the home front. In fact, it was as if Tito had withdrawn into a secure state of denial about everything and had entered a world of his own, where disconnection gave him the tranquillity and comfort that his home life seemingly could no longer offer.

‘Well? Trouble at home?' repeated Piero softly.

‘I'm sorry,' said Tito. ‘My mind was on other things… Sorry,' he repeated, adjusting his position in his chair, awkwardly.

At a desk much further down the long expanse of the office, a large man suddenly got up from his monitor and turned to walk up the central aisle between the rows of desks.

‘Shit!' whispered Piero, suddenly stabbing a finger meaninglessly at the screen. ‘He's coming over to us. Don't worry I'll deal with Section 201's maintenance schedule. You go off and get yourself a coffee. Oh, by the way. Elimena and I are coming to the concert on Friday. We are really looking forward to it; Elimena wants to make it a proper night out. Hope it is a good show?' Then with a note of genuine friendship, he added, ‘I was wondering if you wanted a hand with setting up the lights after work. I reckon it must be quite tiring doing all that on your own and then having
to perform afterwards. I wouldn't mind learning what to do. You can order me around … I won't complain.'

There was a pause as Tito processed the offer that was being made to him. During the time his home life had deteriorated, he had sub-consciously built boundaries around himself, as a means of self-protection from the feelings of isolation and of not belonging. By being unloved and worn down by his domineering life-partner, he had become self-critical to the point that he believed he was unlikeable and no longer fitted into society. He knew he wasn't functioning properly at work and even his interaction with the other members of COGOL was no longer the same. Now, suddenly, this simple gesture of help from a long-term friend, who he had known since before he had embarked on what had become a miserable chapter in his life, came like a bolt out of the blue. In a flash Tito saw this well-placed offer of help to be a lifeline; it was a signal that he had some self-worth; that he could do something that would not be picked on and denigrated and that he should accept this offer as a means of starting to clear his mind over what to do next. Perhaps he could get through his misery by owning up to his problem of denial and by starting to do something about it. But one step at a time…

‘Thanks Piero. Yes, I would really like that … Thanks … I truly appreciate… I'll bring two coffees back with me,' he whispered with a glimmer of renewed confidence.

18

Inspector Michele Conti returned to the
Questura
shortly before 4.00 p.m. He had been to Pisa to give his evidence in a trial concerning a jewellery robbery, which had ended in bloody violence, but he had found the case boring because the evidence against the accused had been irrefutable and so presented very little challenge. The lunch he had enjoyed and the pleasant train trip there and back had more than made up for the cut-and-dried nature of the case. Back in his office, he had no sooner taken his jacket off than he was summoned to his commanding officer's inner sanctum, where he found himself standing in front of
Questore
Bramanti's desk.

‘Well? How did it go? Did you get your convictions?'

‘It was an open and shut case. Fifteen years each,' replied Conti.

‘They should have been given twice that,' grunted Bramanti, shuffling a file of papers around on his desk. ‘And what about that screen … the anonymous accusation?'

‘I have recorded my findings in my report,' replied Conti, indicating the pile of folders on Bramanti's desk.

‘Before I read it, I want you to tell me about it. Is it your opinion that there is any truth in this allegation … about the screen at the Marinetti shop?'

His superior grunted a second time and seemed to be in considerable discomfort, so the prolonged reading of a police report was probably beyond him. Conti had been unable to make his report the previous day. When he had
returned to the
Questura
after his very enjoyable interlude in the
Café Alma Arte
, he had been told by the desk sergeant that
Questore
Bramanti had had to go home, as he continued to feel unwell. That had been yesterday. Apparently this morning, in response to an urgent summons from his superior, the
questore
had gone straight to police headquarters in Florence for an important meeting. He had not returned to Lucca until shortly before 3.45 p.m., looking harassed and a little the worse for wear for presumably having indulged in an excellent luncheon with the
commissario.
The desk sergeant had found it rather difficult to maintain the appropriate degree of respectful decorum when relating this last point. Conti, whilst seeing the more amusing side of what an excellent luncheon with the
commissario
implied for the perilous state of Bramanti's stomach, had, nevertheless, reproached the man for his lack of respect. Even if
Questore
Bramanti was a far from popular man with his underlings, a certain degree of deference was due to his position.

‘Well?' growled Bramanti. ‘I'm waiting!'

The expression on the elder man's face seemed almost unchanged from what it had been the previous morning, following the usual weekend of culinary over-indulgence.

Perhaps it is not the food and he's been on the pills again. That's a bad sign
, reasoned Conti as he scanned his superior's face before noticing the half-empty pill bottle standing in front of a framed picture of Bramanti's family. Inspector Conti was particularly observant and his superior's attempt at hiding the bottle had been pathetically amateurish. Conti had also noticed the tell-tale white flecks of chewed pills in the corners of the elder man's mouth – visible evidence of the prescription stomach pills Bramanti had recently taken to chewing like sweets. Conti cleared his throat and began.

‘
Signor
Marinetti knew about the von Hohenwald screen,
but I could not see anything on display that matched the photo Pascoli had found on the Internet. Marinetti seemed able to answer my questions satisfactorily and offered no objection to me inspecting his storeroom. In fact, he seemed a little shocked at the very suggestion that he might even consider giving floor space to anything that was not lawfully purchased. He became really rather angry,' continued Conti, embroidering the truth a little, ‘and it was only my diplomacy that succeeded in placating him.'

The self-congratulatory comment flew over the
questore's
head unnoticed. He winced slightly and grunted softly. Conti continued.

‘After all,
Signor
Marinetti assured me that he enjoys a very distinguished career and is highly thought of in the international antiques trade. He also informed me, with some authority, that he resented any suggestion that he would ever even consider compromising his professional standing … not even for a single second.'

‘Did Marinetti offer any suggestion as to who might have written the note?' asked Bramanti, who seemed to be growing increasingly irritated.

‘I did not tell Marinetti about the note. It would have served no purpose other than to cloud his responses to my questions. I have, however, checked with my contacts at Interpol and, as Pascoli has already informed us, there really is a von Hohenwald screen, but it doesn't appear to have turned up here in Lucca,' continued Conti. He enjoyed making the reference to his Interpol colleagues. From past experience, he found it didn't hurt to name-drop when talking to his superior.

‘So, it is your opinion that the note was nothing more than a prank … a malicious joke on
Signor
Marinetti?' asked Bramanti. He eyed the little bottle hidden in front of the picture frame and had to stop himself from involun tarily reaching out for it. A disdainful expression crossed his face,
the downward twist of his mouth revealing yet more of the white residue in its corners.

‘Or a joke on the police,' replied Conti, ‘or on a frustrated lover, or on a rival dealer. Who is to say, sir? Although any of these options could be possible, I think it all highly improbable,' suggested Conti. ‘Although, of course, there does remain the question of who wrote it … and why. I did ask Marinetti if he had any enemies, professional or otherwise.'

Questore
Bramanti gave yet another grunt and shifted his position once more. Conti's report served to confirm what, in his mind, he had already decided: the entire affair of the note could be dismissed. Besides, his mind was already firmly centred on other more important internal matters of his own wellbeing.

Conti waited respectfully for a few seconds, but when it became obvious that there were no comments forthcoming, he continued. ‘It would seem from what Marinetti said that there is no love lost between antiques dealers generally. He referred to the profession as being a rather cut-throat one. In light of his statement, I could suggest a possible suspect although it would, perhaps, seem a little too obvious.'

Conti was about to suggest the name of Alonzo Adriani, the other principal antiques dealer in Lucca, but he left the sentence unfinished. He stood waiting for a response from his superior. When it became perfectly obvious that the
questore
had lost all interest in the matter, Conti followed suit.

‘We have far more important things to deal with at the moment,' continued Bramanti. ‘At headquarters in Florence this morning…' A sudden grimace of pain, as momentary as it was obviously intense, caused him to stop in mid-sentence, an action that was not lost on Inspector Conti.

‘Sergeant Pascoli!' he bellowed over Conti's head. Almost
immediately, a harassed-looking man appeared expectantly at the office door. ‘Pascoli, go down to the canteen and bring me a glass of cold milk – a large one!'

Inspector Conti was about to ask if there was anything he could do to help, but his superior pressed on before he could do so.

‘They want us to concentrate on these murders, so just file the report on this antique screen under “Anonymous – unsolved” and get on with solving real crime. Assistant State Prosecutor di Senno has been given overall command of the local investigation: both of the cases here in Lucca and of the murder over in Montecatini of that German woman. The Foreign Ministry in Rome has now become involved and I fully expect that we'll have the
Carabinieri
around here shortly, telling us how to do our job.'

‘That's everyone except the Finance Police and the Swiss Guard,' quipped Conti. Bramanti failed to see the funny side and glared at him frostily, as if to cool the uncomfortable heat within his own stomach.

‘What?' he asked impatiently. Whether this was as a result of headquarters in Florence meddling in his area or from his internal disturbances, it was impossible for Conti to tell.

‘
Sí
,
signore
,' said the inspector, deciding that there was no real point in continuing with the business of the anonymous note. Everything was dutifully written up in his report, anyway. Given the total lack of evidence, the least said about the von Hohenwald screen under the present circumstances, the better. ‘We shall turn all of our attention to solving the murders, as instructed by Florence.'

‘That will be all!' snapped the
questore
, waving the inspector out of his office with an irritated flick of his hand. ‘I want you to prepare me a detailed report on all three cases – the similarities, method, clinical implications … everything. You know the routine. Have it on my desk not later than ten thirty tomorrow morning, if you please.'

As Inspector Michele Conti reached the office doorway, he turned. ‘There is one other thing.
Signore
Marinetti sings in a chamber opera group. They have a concert this coming Friday. The group is under the direction of the Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli –'

‘And is there any significance attached to this information?' asked the
questore
, his earlier expression of discomfort now deepened by a touch of curiosity.

‘I have tickets to attend,' replied Conti, ‘and I was wondering if the
questore
would also be attending? The Contessa does have a splendid reputation for the high quality of her concerts and singers … and refreshment is provided during the interval.'

Bramanti glared at him for a few seconds, his earlier icy expression now positively glacial and charged with disbelief at the inanity of his junior's question.

‘Pascoli! Where the hell is my milk?' he bellowed, angrily waving Conti away.