Errant Angels (15 page)

As the door swung upwards and the sunlight streamed in through the opening to illuminate his Aladdin's cave of wonders, Marinetti's attention was drawn immediately to the screen, hidden under a large, heavy cloth. As he looked, he felt the butterflies flutter into life in his stomach.
Too late to go back now
, he reasoned as he took a step forward and carefully removed the cloth. He felt uneasy as the Lion of Saint Mark, from beneath its layers of centuries-darkened varnish, glared at him accusingly from the central panel. He had been obliged to open the screen out in order to accommodate it in the only available space against the wall. Space in his lock-up was at a premium; it had, after all, been built to house a modest little Fiat. As he stared at the object of his disquiet, Marinetti felt himself working up to one of his ‘nervous episodes' – something with which Nicola was only too familiar. The sweat was starting to trickle down the small of his back, but that was not due to the pleasant warmth of the afternoon. ‘No you don't!' he said, half to himself, half out loud. ‘Oh no you don't!'

He flung the heavy cloth back over the screen, as if to blot out the accusing glare. His conscience felt no better, although he fancied that some of the butterflies could possibly have landed.
Just stay safe until tomorrow
, he reassured himself as he patted the cover around the edge of the screen.

He turned his attention back to the large table and the incomplete set of Medici chairs.
Blasted middle-men! How long does it take someone to package two chairs and send them on to me?
He was looking at the space occupied by the ornate table and the matching chairs. Only ten of them at the moment,
but when the other two arrived, the set would then be saleable and he could free up space by moving the items to the shop. He had tracked down the two missing chairs on a recent antique-hunting expedition, following a tip-off from a fellow dealer, but he always preferred to fool himself that the subsequent discovery came as an unexpected surprise. He got more of a buzz out of it that way. For the moment, the table and the existing chairs would have to remain where they were, as big a nuisance as that was. He carefully threaded his way further into the garage, drawn in by the invisible allure of his treasures. As he squeezed past the table, his thigh caught the protecting cover and pulled it with him as he shuffled past. He looked down at the table top, polished by so many hands over the centuries, and being a true antique dealer, he could fully appreciate the patina and character the surface displayed.

‘Ah … how beautiful,' he purred as he ran his fingers a few millimetres above the surface not wanting to touch it for fear of leaving greasy finger marks. He twisted round with some difficulty and managed to pull the cover back into place, but his passion had been awakened. He turned into the garage once again and his attention fell on a tall, glass-fronted seventeenth-century Neapolitan display cabinet, with its bevelled glass panels and highly ornate gilded carvings. ‘Ah … exquisite,' he muttered as he reached out towards it. Then he noticed the large mirror, which had started its existence nearly two centuries earlier in one of the royal palaces in Piedmont. The mercury reflective backing was still in excellent condition and the exuberantly decorated heavy wooden frame, a festival of cavorting
putti
and fruit, was capped by a shield bearing the Cross of Savoy and surmounted by a crown. It was in need of a little restoration here and there, but Marinetti could easily do that once he had the space to use the skills that his father had had the foresight to apprentice him to all those
years ago. To tell the truth, Gregorio Marinetti was a little older than he liked to think people believed him to be. Still, that issue did not occupy his mind at present. The mirror would fetch a good price once he could get it into town and display it in pride of place in the window of the
Casa dei Gioielli.
Then he turned once again and his gaze fell upon another of his treasures, but before he could squeeze his way over to it, his common sense finally took control and reason prevailed.

‘Not today, my beautiful things. Today is only for music. We have a concert on Friday and I must prepare. I am sorry.'

A few minutes later he had extracted himself from the garage and had removed the heavy chair from his van. He manhandled it carefully into position in the front of the garage – not that he could have put it anywhere else, considering the chronic lack of space. Then he carefully checked to ensure that the chair would clear the line of the closed garage door. As he did so, his foot caught the edge of the heavy piece of cloth, which he had flung back over the screen with such force. He nearly stumbled and was only saved by clutching hold of the arms of the throne-like chair he had just placed in front of everything else. The squadron of butterflies took flight once again – exactly as they had often done since the screen first crossed the threshold of his shop. His palms were wet with sweat. He took a step backwards, as if the screen was repelling him and he knew that the lion was still glaring at him from behind the heavy cloth. The frenzied beating of the wings in his stomach had created a feeling of nausea. Anxiously, he looked around to see if anyone was watching, which was highly unlikely considering that the garage was in the middle of nowhere and surrounded on all sides by now largely unkempt fields.

‘Get a grip on yourself, for God's sake!' he muttered as he turned back to the garage and reached up to close the
door. It was halfway down when he remembered the sign he had made. Without it, Francesco – who was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier at the best of times – wouldn't have a clue which chair he was supposed to take to the
istituto
for the concert. He pushed the door up and walked back to the van. He returned, clutching the sign, but with his attention fixed once again, involuntarily, on the covered screen.

‘Why does life have to be so complicated?' he asked himself as he put the sign on the chair, his eyes still half on the ominous bulk beneath the heavy cloth. It seemed to be exercising equal shares of fascination and dread upon him and it was all becoming just a little too much. He hastily reached up, closed the door gently, secured the two bolts and locked his treasures away behind the security of the two heavy Chubb padlocks. He then got into his van and in almost a total muck-sweat, retreated back down the dirt track in a cloud of swirling dust.

What he could not have known was that, in his haste to escape the accusing glare of the lion, he had flung the protecting cloth back over the screen with such defensive force that the top corner of it had ridden up too high and had draped itself over part of the lifting mechanism that supported the door's weight when opened. As he had closed the door, despite the care with which he had done so, the action of the movement had started to dislodge the cloth. Almost imperceptibly at first, the fabric started to slip, egged on by the encouraging embrace of gravity. What had started out merely as a suggestion of momentum now assumed increasing velocity as the cloth slid gracefully towards the concrete floor, uncovering most of the screen as it did so. On its way down to earth in the darkness of the garage, the cloth flicked across the seat of the throne-like chair and caught the edge of the sign, dislodging it. Not that Marinetti had even noticed, being obsessed as he was
by the presence of the screen, but he had put the sign on the chair upside down. This oversight was now corrected, as the sign slid gracefully under the arm of the chair – like an ocean liner being launched – bounced once on a little pile of the accumulated fabric on the floor and toppled over to the left, righting itself in the process. Leaning neatly and purposefully against the screen, it came to rest in the folds of the fabric. The Lion of Saint Mark seemed to be smiling broadly in the gloom.

‘Take this to the Institute', said the sign at its feet, written in Marinetti's own neat and distinctive writing.

22

Riccardo Fossi had come to Florence to get some information about Daniele di Leone. Having made the decision that he should find out more about this Sicilian before committing himself to any business arrangements, he had made a phone call to a long-standing friend and suggested they meet up for a drink. Accordingly, he was now sitting at one of the attractive tables outside
Il David
, his favourite café in the
Piazza della Signoria
, the large public space in the heart of the city. He felt relaxed and was his usual confident self, hidden behind the dark anonymity of his Gucci sunglasses. The bright Tuscan sun beat down on the city and it was hot – even under the shade of the café's umbrellas. Fossi took a mouthful of his cold beer and replaced the frosted glass on its little paper doily on the table in front of him. He licked his mouth, just to make certain that none of the thick froth from the head of the beer had remained in the stubble of his upper lip. Although it was only mid-afternoon, his five o'clock shadow had already made its appearance. Out in the
piazza
, the usual flood of humanity choked the place: groups being herded around by knowledgeable city guides; smaller groups wandering about on their own; couples who knew what they wanted to see and others who seemed to be in shock, overwhelmed by the crowds and by the realization that they had finally arrived in the beauty of Florence. Fossi lit a cigarette and relaxed more into his chair.

‘Ciao
, Riccardo,' said a voice from behind him. ‘Apologies
for being a little late; we had a case that came up. You know what police headquarters can be like…'

Fossi had no idea what police headquarters could be like, apart from what he had seen in TV dramas. ‘
Ciao
Doriano,
come stai?
' he asked, smiling and standing up to embrace his friend, who was doing him a favour by finding the time to meet him during working hours.

‘I am well, thanks. And you?' replied Doriano.

Fossi smiled broadly and shrugged. ‘Okay,' he said as they both sat down.

‘I see you're having a beer. Good idea on a day like today. Thank you, I'll join you.'

Fossi turned around and caught the eye of a waiter, indicating the need for another couple of beers.

‘So, my friend, what is it that tears you from your columns of figures and brings you to Florence on such a warm day?' continued Doriano as he took out a cigarette and lit it. He put his mobile phone on the table in front of him. ‘It is turned off… Officially I am investigating and am uncontactable. Unless, of course,
she
wants to get hold of me,' he added with a wink.

The two men, who had been friends for many years, grinned at each other from behind their sunglasses.

‘
She?
Is this the same one you were talking about the last time we met?' asked Fossi.

‘You bet it is! I can't remember one like this before… Well, perhaps Giesla, but she was German. My
mamma
always hoped I'd find a nice
Italian
girl, and you know what
mammas
are like,' replied Doriano, laughing. ‘And you, Casanova?'

‘Still handsome, physically attractive and available,' replied Fossi.

‘Are you telling me that you haven't got anybody special at the moment?' Doriano asked, his voice heavily laden with mock disbelief. ‘That I find truly hard to believe.'

‘Believe it or not, as you wish,' said Fossi, ‘but it is sometimes
best to allow a refreshing break between liaisons to recharge the batteries.' He was not about to admit to his steamy affair with Renata di Senno. If it were ever to become public knowledge that he was sleeping with the respected wife of the assistant regional state prosecutor, Fossi faced the prospect of being ruined by a vengeful husband. Such revelations could become even more serious and detrimental to any subsequent recovery of his career if they were to spread beyond Lucca.
Signor
di Senno frequently came to Florence to consult the forces of law and order and Doriano Peri was a senior member of the flying squad, with information at his fingertips on a vast range of subjects covering just about everything – including the latest ‘palace gossip' and social scandals. Fossi preferred not to think of the consequences of such a revelation. Better to be safe than sorry.

‘There will be someone soon, I have no doubt,' he lied, smiling.

‘Ah,' agreed Doriano, ‘so, moving on to more mundane things. ‘What is it that brings you to see me in the middle of the week? Business a little slow?'

‘Not at all, thank you. Business is very brisk at the moment and everything is firmly under control.' In his mind's eye he saw the aged
Signora
Litelli running the office in his absence with her usual accomplished professionalism.

‘I wanted to have a little informal chat with you, Doriano – off the record.'

Peri looked at his friend. He narrowed his eyes slightly behind his sunglasses, which, unlike Fossi's, were definitely not by Gucci.

‘I have recently been approached by a prospective new client and I was wondering if you might…' He broke off as the waiter appeared with the two bottles of beer and a complimentary bowl of potato crisps and put everything on
the table. ‘I was wondering if you might know of a certain person?' continued Fossi.

‘
Salute!
' said Doriano, holding out his glass.

‘
Salute!
' replied Fossi as the two glasses clinked.

They each took a long draught.

‘We know a lot of
persons
,' said Doriano, emphasizing the other's choice of word. ‘I presume that you have a definite
person
in mind for your enquiry – off the record, naturally.'

‘Naturally. I am interested to know if you are acquainted with a certain
Signor
di Leone – Daniele di Leone.'

‘That is a southern name, is it not?' asked Peri, sitting back in his chair. ‘We know of many persons from the south. Do you have a reason for wanting to know about this particular one?'

‘I might well have,' replied Fossi, ‘because I would rather make sure that this person is who he says he is before I decide to take him on as a client.'

‘What makes you think that he might
not
be who he says he is?' asked Peri. Although his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, Fossi knew that this man's brain was running in top gear. There were no outward signs of any inquisitiveness, but the questions were coming in an organized, logical way. That was, after all, what this man did for a living; he asked questions, pieced together the answers and solved crimes.

‘I don't know. I have met this person once for an introductory interview … following the same professional procedure I always adopt with a new client.'

‘And?'

‘And … well, I'm not sure why I have to ask you if you know of him. Everything seemed absolutely above board, but I have a twinge of uneasy feeling about things,' continued Fossi. He firmly believed that nobody knew anything about the darker, more murky side of his business dealings and he was absolutely certain that he would never tell
Doriano anything about them, for obvious reasons – friend or not. Fossi decided to play the innocent card. He did not see that he had any real option.

‘A twinge?' repeated Peri, sitting forward in his chair. ‘What sort of twinge?' Fossi's friend of many years had suddenly become the professional policeman. A natural curiosity, developed over years of investigations, had automatically switched itself on. Fossi sensed that his question, which to him had seemed perfectly innocuous, could be laced with a hidden danger. From behind the smokescreen of his sunglasses, Fossi suddenly felt uneasy about the situation he had created. He had started asking questions, but had had to do so by framing them in a context that would hide his own involvement in something that he already knew was decidedly illegal and rather dangerous. He would have to hide that dangerous fact if he was to maintain his squeaky clean appearance with those bent on removing the influence of organized crime from the tainted legal system. He was also only too well aware from stories he had heard that those from within the ranks of organized crime had little forgiveness and were often bent upon revenge. Discovery and betrayal were two things neither side tolerated and Riccardo Fossi suddenly fancied that he had managed to place himself firmly in the crossfire from both.

‘You must know of the recent reports of professional people taking on new clients, those clients then turning out to be involved in illegal activities, which then involve those professionals.'

Doriano looked on, but said nothing.

‘Of course, if they had had any idea that these activities were illegal, I'm sure the professionals would not have taken on the clients in the first place, although there were reports of a couple of them being trapped by police posing as the very people who were trying to commission their services.'

‘Riccardo, my friend, are you trying to tell me that you have taken on a new client who is not clean?'

Fossi wished he could just ask Peri outright if he could check to see if this di Leone character was genuine, or if he was a police entrapment operative cruising the upper echelons of the professional market, bent on trapping the greedy or careless. Naturally, he realized immediately that he could not.

‘Me? Good God no! What on earth makes you think that? I just ask before I find myself possibly put in the position I have described … in the future. Better to be safe than sorry,' he concluded with a smile, the falseness of which was largely masked by the sunglasses and the beer glass, which he held to his mouth.

‘Hmm…' said Doriano, who was obviously chewing things over in his mind. ‘I have to say that, if such a professional person found himself in a predicament of this nature, immediate contact with the authorities might be taken as a redeeming factor in mitigation … should such a circumstance arise. Having friends in high places sometimes works, but it cannot be guaranteed to do so every time.'

‘Believe me, my dear friend, as I have said, I am not one of those professionals,' replied Fossi, careful to keep his voice evenly modulated. ‘I simply ask
before
I might find myself unwittingly becoming one.'

‘Then you are wise to do so, my friend. Daniele di Leone, you said the name was? What does he do, that he sought out Lucca's finest accountant … whose services certainly do not come cheap?' He drained his glass almost to the bottom. The afternoon was marching on and he would shortly have to get back to the
Questura.

‘Olive oil and crystallized fruit, amongst other things. He said that his family is from Sicily: the north-western tip of the island, as I recall,' said Fossi.

‘If his business is
that
extensive, then why hire an accountant on the mainland? Why not use the company accountant?' asked Doriano softly.

Fossi began to feel a little trickle of panic fight its way up through the beer bubbles in his stomach. It was a strange feeling – one that he was most certainly not used to. ‘I have absolutely no idea. I, too, thought it a little strange, which is why I asked for your advice – off the record, of course,' he said.

‘Advice?' repeated Peri, a grin crossing his mouth. ‘Surely, my dear Riccardo, you mean
information
?'

‘Well…' replied Fossi, shrugging. ‘Yes … I suppose that could be how your policeman's mind might see things.'

An hour later, Riccardo Fossi sat in the air-conditioned comfort of a first-class railway carriage as the train pulled out of Santa Maria Novella Station in Florence on its way to Genoa. There would be several stops before he would have to change at Viareggio to catch the local train to Lucca, but that was an inconvenience worth tolerating as it meant he was able to leave Florence at an earlier time. As the train picked up speed he settled back and tried to process the conversation he had just had in Florence. Doriano Peri had indicated what would happen to those who were foolish enough to involve themselves in illegal dealings. He had said that the CID had no knowledge of any undercover operations in the Florence-Pisa-Lucca area, although he did let slip that there had been something similar recently, further north in Bologna, even if it was a local issue. Parts of the conversation kept bouncing around in Fossi's head, but he had been assured that Doriano knew of no undercover operation going on in his area.

Fossi was not certain if his expedition to Florence had accomplished anything. At best, he had hoped for possible confirmation of a police entrapment operation in the area.
He had come away with nothing, except the assurance that his life-long friend would run a check on di Leone's name through the police records – strictly off the record, naturally – to see if they had anything in the database on him.