Property of Blood (17 page)

‘The Corot? I see, I see. Well, we can’t accuse him of that, since he’s here.’ He stopped dead and faced the Captain. ‘He
is
here?’

‘Oh yes. I put someone to watch his house as soon as Guarnaccia had his file sent to me. We’ve checked with our Art Heritage Group and there are only two possible art thefts and one of those isn’t in his league. Which leaves us this one.’ He slid a sheet of paper from the file on his knee and Fusarri examined it.

‘Two landscapes… Hm. No chance of his really being involved?’

‘We have no reason to think so.’

‘Well, they’ll serve our purpose, anyway. A routine check, given his previous conviction, and who more apparently innocuous to do it than the Marshal here? Excellent. Right, Maestrangelo, tell me how your discreet inquiries into what’s happening out in the hills are going.’

The Marshal relaxed as their attention turned to matters beyond his competence and he was left in peace to listen. A feeder had been spotted taking a bag of provisions each evening by moped and leaving it inside a ruined farmhouse in the foothills. It was presumably retrieved during the hours of darkness. The feeder was a shepherd boy and had been identified by the local force as a fourteen-year-old relative of Puddu. Nothing could be done with this information at present. The boy would know nothing and could lead them no further. The number of possible guards had been reduced by following the movements of suspects over a three-day period. One was a meat humper at the central market and frequently failed to arrive home in the mornings when he could be expected to go to bed. Another had his own business, gas cannisters and firewood, and was likewise missing for long periods, often at night. These two had both worked with Puddu before, the latter as a feeder and later as a guard, the former as a feeder. Both had prison records. The third suspect had no recorded kidnapping experience but had worked on and off for Puddu for years and had a long record of minor offences. He had recently served a sentence for a knifing incident after the bar fight between the Salis and Puddu clans, according to Bini. Any attempt to close in on these men at present would endanger the victim. They were unlikely to have been involved in removing the Contessa from her palazzo, the greater likelihood being that this would have been organized by Puddu’s city contacts, whether Tuscan or Sardinian. Neither they nor the planner would have had any direct contact with the actual kidnappers, except possibly at the moment when the victim was handed over to masked and unnamed men. They would have been paid off as soon as their part in the job was over.

Once the carabinieri had made sure of the identity of the planner, against whom there would probably be no usable evidence, they would have put names to almost the whole band. Until the victim was safe or some unexpected development occurred, no arrest could be made. When the victim was released, the culprits would either go to ground or leave the country. All they could do was to be ready.

The Marshal paid a visit to the photographer. He went in uniform and took with him a man from the Art Heritage Group, which was housed at the opposite end of the Boboli Gardens from his own station in the Pitti Palace. His feeling was that the specialist should do all the talking, leaving him free to look. The studio in Via Santo Spirito was fairly tatty but filled with some very expensive-looking equipment. The Marshal knew nothing about photography but it was clear, even to him, that this was way beyond the class of studio you usually found when you needed passport photos or first communion pictures. Artistic, he supposed, remembering the ‘ghastly exhibition’ story. Definitely not your weddings and christenings outfit.

Gianni Taccola was exactly as the Captain had described him, cool and arrogant. His black hair was fashionably short and sleek and he wore a collarless black shirt under a blue suit. When the two missing landscapes were introduced into the conversation his expression was derisive.

“You’ll find them in Sotheby’s next New York catalogue. Not stolen, quietly exported.’

‘That,’ said the Marshal’s colleague, ‘was a thought that had crossed our minds but we thought a respectable family wouldn’t be caught doing it themselves …’

‘Nor would I.’ Taccola whipped round, thinking to catch the Marshal staring at a set of enlargements showing Caterina Brunamonti, naked and holding a glistening snake. He didn’t. The Marshal never squared up to the things he wanted to examine. He let them flow around his peripheral vision while centering his gaze on something else, in this case, a close-up of a dusty stone effigy.

You prefer dressed stone to naked flesh?’ Taccola inquired, unable to control his arrogance, inviting the Marshal to turn to the pictures of Caterina.

‘No, no…,’ the Marshal said blandly, forced now to let his glance sweep over the whole set of enlargements, which covered most of one wall. They were in black and white and so dramatically shadowed that there was nothing pornographic or even erotic about them. They were just sinister.‘Very striking …’ In his peripheral vision now was a battered old chaise longue with a length of black silk draped over it.

Taccola shrugged. ‘To be honest, I prefer boys myself, but you know how it is. A client is a client. Perhaps I should adapt one of those signs they put up behind the counter in bars where they don’t want to give credit. “Please don’t ask for sex as refusal often offends.” Couldn’t offend the rich little lady, could I? She financed my exhibition. Besides, she turned out to be a virgin, which made it rather more piquant. Almost but not quite as good as a just pubescent boy. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you…’

As they went down the stone staircase, the Marshal said, ‘Squalid enough place…’

‘Isn’t it? You should see the sixteenth-century villa he lives in. Filled with art treasures legitimately bought with his illegitimate gains. Marble swimming pool surrounded by statues in the garden.’

‘How long did he go down for?’

‘Not nearly long enough, Marshal. Not nearly long enough. I sincerely hope you get him for this kidnapping but I don’t give much for your chances. He’s a clever bastard.’

The two parted company in the street, and the Marshal cut through into Piazza Santo Spirito from behind the church.

‘Blast!’ He had momentarily forgotten about the porter and the closed doors. He was about to press the porter’s bell when he noticed
Contessa S.R.L.
next to it and tried that instead. There was something of a wait, then footsteps. Signora Verdi was dragging one of the huge doors open. He helped her and she put a warning finger to her lips.

‘This is not allowed,’ she whispered. ‘All visitors report to the porter’s lodge, and he calls up to her ladyship to find out if they’re allowed in. I don’t know whether you are.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

She hurried him inside the workrooms. ‘No friends of Olivia’s are allowed in except those likely to cough up money. We’ve worked that one out. Is there any news?’ Every pair of eyes in the room watched for his response.

‘Nothing I can tell you. I really came to talk to you for a moment. I won’t keep you long.’ The truth was she’d already told him what he wanted to know in her first remark but he went through the motions anyway.

‘Do you have one of your labels handy?’

‘Of course…’ She took the box from a shelf. Over half of them had gone. They were going on with their work then, which pleased him. He picked up a label.

‘Do you remember telling me you’d discussed using the name Brunamonti rather than just
Contessaf

‘Did I? I forget. We’ve all been so upset. It’s true anyway, because of pirating, but her ladyship—’

“Yes,
you said that at the time. You meant the Signorina Caterina?’

‘Of course I did! “I am a Brunamonti,” she says to her mother in this very room, “and
you
are not.” Olivia’s heart was broken—not because of the labels, you understand. Well, all I can say is that, except for her mother, we all breathed a sigh of relief when she took against the business and we saw the last of her down here. Criticizing the designers, sneering at the machinists, nothing being done that she couldn’t do better. We had to put up with it for Olivia’s sake but you can imagine how people with thirty and more years’ experience felt about being sneered at by an ignorant chit of a girl—and Brunamonti or no Brunamonti, that’s what she is. Anyway, we were saved when she decided she’d be better than the professionals at modelling. At the Milan show, it was. There she stood, all dressed up and the music playing—bridal gown, Olivia’s piece de resistance, and the blasted girl wouldn’t set foot on the catwalk. Stood there paralyzed. What a scene. Anyway, that was the last we saw of her, thank God. She can’t help not having her brother’s talent but it would help if she only had his good manners, not to mention a bit of common sense
and
a bit of respect for other people.’ Her face was red with remembered anger. ‘It’s incredible how different they are.’

‘I know what you mean. I have two boys myself and they’re as different as chalk and cheese…’ He talked on until she cooled down and then left her with the one bit of good news he realized he could give her, that the little dog was safe.

‘You’ve made my day! Does Leonardo know?’

‘Probably not. I’ve been trying to phone him but…’

‘I know. Well, I’m going up there right now. It’ll give him new life. Little Tessie home and safe!’

The Marshal went next door and ordered a coffee in Giorgio’s bar.

Til make it for you myself. How’s it going?’

The Marshal shook his head. ‘What do they say in the piazza?’

‘Nothing you can believe. Like the papers. If there’s no news they make it up. Talk of the devil…’

The Marshal looked round to see plump, slow-moving Nesti coming in the door.

‘Give me a coffee.’ He had an unlit cigarette dangling from his thick lips, which meant he was trying to give up smoking again. To the Marshal he mumbled, ‘If you can’t find your kidnappers, why don’t you at least arrest that cow of a daughter, whatsername, and keep her out of my office.’

‘She’s been visiting your office?’

‘Visiting? She’s a fixture. She’s round there now chewing somebody’s ear off. I escaped when I saw her coming. I told you how it’d be. She’s more interested in getting her picture in the paper every day than getting her mother back and it’s the only way she’ll ever make the news, unless one of my colleagues bumps her off, which is getting more likely by the minute. For God’s sake, get this case solved, can’t you? I’ve got to get back—look at this, I’ve taken to hiding behind dark glasses like you.’ He drank off the last of his coffee and rambled out into the busy piazza, unlit cigarette still dangling.

‘What’s up with him?’ Giorgio asked. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen him in a good mood—not sober, anyway.’

‘Oh, he seems to have taken a dislike to the Contessa Brunamonti’s daughter. What do I owe you?’

‘Oh, nothing. On the house. Taken a dislike is right…Don’t know her personally. Never comes in here. What’s her name again?’

‘Caterina.’

‘Ah. D’you know something? It’s too warm. It said on the news last night. Far above the seasonal—What the…’

The glass door of the bar slammed shut, making the whole place vibrate. One of the waiters went and opened it again and wedged it more firmly.

‘You see,’ said Giorgio, ‘far too hot. Must be a storm brewing. Blast of wind like that.’

But it wasn’t a blast of wind.

Ten

B
ecause of the earthquake, felt in Florence but with its epicentre in the next county where it caused enormous damage, Caterina Brunamonti failed to make the first page next morning. Nevertheless, on the basis of the interview she had given, almost three pages were given over to the kidnapping itself and to a polemic surrounding kidnappings in general. From Sardinia, a Prosecutor General launched heavy accusations against the magistrate considered responsible for the escape of Puddu. Prisoners are given periods of freedom, sometimes hours, sometimes days, in return for good behaviour. Long-term prisoners who have served half their sentences for serious crimes can be released on parole. Good behaviour in prison is the speciality of professionals who know how to manipulate the system and of the most dangerous, child molesters and murderers, whose everyday behaviour is excessively meek and obedient. The latter are usually recaptured if they fail to return, sometimes having committed another murder; the former, like Puddu, vanish.

The sentences given for kidnapping are extremely heavy, heavier than those for most murders, but this is mere show if prisoners are then released on parole after serving half their time and allowed to escape. Each time a kidnap victim is freed, cheers go up. Naturally we are all relieved to see the victim alive and well and in the general chorus of joy no one wants to be the first to put in a more sombre and critical note. But every successful kidnapping—the victim released at the kidnappers’ leisure, the ransom paid—is a defeat, not a victory. Like so many laws, that on the freezing of assets is a drastic and rigid one in theory, punishing even those who fail to pay taxes on money known to have been paid as ransom, money whose existence has usually been well concealed until then. In reality, we then hear of ransoms paid, under the protection of clause seven, paragraph four, as ‘Controlled payment of ransom for investigative purposes.’ And yet, not only do the ‘investigative purposes’ fail to result in any arrests on the release of the victim, we even see two government ministers on television consoling us with the thought that the law freezing assets is really quite flexible. A flexible law is a law which is not applied. The popular saying about the law being something you apply to your enemies and interpret for your friends comes to mind. I am as relieved as the next person when one of these victims is released but there is no question in my mind that, at least in Sardinia, the frozen assets law has only decreased the number of smalltime amateur kidnappings. Not only this, but a number of victims have failed to return home and the time of imprisonment has inevitably been lengthened. Professional kidnappers are by no means discouraged. Families are told that if their assets are frozen they must make other arrangements. And when they fail to make such arrangements, malign rumours has it that, if they know the right people, the State does it for them. This is not victory. This is, at best, defeat; at worst, collaboration, and, as a judge, I consider myself rendered impotent and even ridiculous when I think of the successful kidnappers taking their ease in the Bahamas at the taxpayers’ expense. Given such an example, kidnappings of wealthy people with influence in government circles are bound to increase. However, for the moment, all we can hope is that as long as this law is in existence it is enforced, and vigorously so. Otherwise, it must be changed, as must the law that allows dangerous professional criminals freedom, so giving Puddu the chance to kidnap the Contessa Brunamonti. I, and I think most Italians, have had enough. I would like to see the frozen assets law suspended. I would like to see the forces of law and order taking a serious stand against kidnapping by assiduous patrolling of the territory, the capture of those bandits known to be on the run, and the setting up of specialist forces in high-risk areas. Only then would I address myself to the rewriting of the law on kidnapping, first of all making it a crime of violence against the person, not just an aggravated form of robbery.

On the same page, in heavier print, was an article which defended the existing law on frozen assets but which criticized heavily the one allowing a known kidnapper, serving a thirty-year sentence, to be allowed out on parole.

In principle, the law should remain because it ensures that ransom is paid under police control, marked and traceable. Ransom paid in secret could compromise an investigation. Let’s be careful then, not to throw out the baby with the bathwater at this point. The law requires modification, yes, but, more importantly, we should be thinking about preventing those kidnappers who have been successfully captured and imprisoned from walking free.

The rest of the page was taken up with statistics and rundowns of recent kidnappings. Overleaf was a double-page spread with photographs of Leonardo and Caterina Bruna-monti. The picture of Leonardo was the one previously published in this same paper. The one of Caterina was new, glamorous, with a touch of show-business tragedy in the form of dark glasses to suggest eyes ruined by shed tears. An interview accompanied the pictures. The Marshal read it in his office and the frown on his forehead was not of concentration but apprehension. The interviewee was referred to as ‘a spokesperson for the Brunamonti family.’ The Marshal’s worst fears were realized.

Your feeling, then, is that this kidnapping was based on false information?

It must have been. The amount of the ransom request is way beyond our means. Their information must have been false.

And where do you feel such false information could have come from?

Obviously, no one can say for sure. We may never know.

But you have a suspicion?

Not of a particular person but, unfortunately, the Contessa’s running her business from within the Palazzo Brunamonti meant that a great many more people frequented the building than would have been the case otherwise, and, of course, anyone working there permanently would have an unusual amount of contact and, inevitably, of information.

What is your opinion of the law freezing your family’s assets?

I think it’s an intelligent law, protecting us and helping in the apprehension of the kidnappers.

You’re not afraid of its causing prolonged imprisonment of the victim and even the risk of the victim’s death?

I don’t see why that should necessarily be the case. We are cooperating with the State, and the State must cooperate with us in return.

And what form do you feel this cooperation should take?

I know of a number of cases in which the ransom was paid by the State using marked notes as a way to further the investigation.

So you hope the State will come to your aid?

It’s the only thing I can hope since we don’t have the means to pay ourselves. I’m well aware that we don’t have the sort of political contacts to guarantee first-class victim status. We can only collaborate and hope that even a second-class kidnap victim has a chance of survival.

Before the Marshal got to the end of the page the phone connecting him to Headquarters rang.

‘Guarnaccia.’

‘Have you read it?’

‘Yes…yes, I’m reading it now.’

‘Don’t talk to any journalists.’

‘No. Will you call a press conference?’ His eyes, still scanning the paper, caught sight of a headline about first- and second-class kidnap victims.

‘Not if I can help it but the Prosecutor will be the one to decide. I’m certainly not answering any questions about those ransom payments. Apart from anything else I don’t know the answers. What I’m concentrating on is saving this victim.’

‘Do you think there’s any hope?’

‘Not much, but if they don’t kill her today when they read this article there’s a faint chance that something might change. The son might be sufficiently frightened by it to come for help. I’m assuming this is the daughter’s handi work, though there was a bit of an attempt to cover her tracks by saying
the Contessa
instead of
my mother.’

‘She never does call her
mother,
she calls her
Olivia.’

‘Really? Well, unless she’s extremely stupid she must want her dead.’

“Yes
… a bit of both, perhaps. She’s very dangerous. I think, with your permission, Captain, I’d prefer that what she refers to as collaboration should occur in the presence of the Prosecutor. She’s threatening to come round here, you see…’

‘No, no, no, absolutely not. Don’t receive her or God knows what we’ll see in the papers next. I’ll warn the Prosecutor. He’s going to work on the Contessa Cavicchioli Zelli. I’m concentrating on the known contacts of the feeder we’ve spotted.’

‘Is there anything further I can do?’

‘You can only hope that some element in this story changes because otherwise its conclusion can only be that poor woman’s death.’

Nothing changed. The daughter never did turn up at the Marshal’s office. Once, he spotted her in the street, coming out of a fashion house shop with two beribboned dress bags, but her eyes slid away from his and she walked quickly on. The Captain’s men watched on the hills and scrutinized the Lost and Found columns in the paper, the most common place for the exchange of messages. Nothing likely appeared. All possible informers were contacted with no results but then, as the Captain pointed out, they knew who the kidnapper was but at this stage they couldn’t act on the information since any attempt to search for the hide-out carried the risk of the victim’s being killed if they unknowingly got too near. Their arrival would be spotted at a distance of kilometres in such territory.

Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli told them she could not let them mark the notes she passed to the Brunamonti family.

‘I don’t know what’s best but they made me promise and I did promise so I can’t go back on my word. I know you want to catch these bandits but I just want Olivia home. Do you think she’s still alive?’

No one knew what to answer. Weeks of silence passed.

When a change did come it was as unexpected as it was unhelpful. The English detective, Charles Bently, presented himself at the Public Prosecutor’s office and announced that he was dropping the case.

‘We had rather thought,’ said Fusarri, ‘that by this time you’d be dropping the Contessa Cavicchioli Zelli’s
unmarked
ransom payment.’ Just to let him know they weren’t completely in the dark.

‘I know my business, Mister Prosecutor,’ Bently said, ‘and I don’t consider it any part of my business to get myself killed.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Fusarri said, ‘and Elettra—the Contessa—did warn me that she would be unable to provide the whole amount and no one could expect you to run such an obvious risk to your life. I also appreciate your correctness in coming here to tell us of your decision. If you felt able to tell us what time limit we’re dealing with on this, it might help to avoid an equally great risk to the Contessa Brunamonti’s life.’

‘I’m glad to know you appreciate my correctness.’

The Prosecutor put his hand up. ‘Of course, of course. I can’t expect you to break the confidence of whoever is paying your fee. I beg your pardon.’

‘Thank you. And you’re wrong. I only take a fee when I can do the job. Until I make that decision I’m on daily expenses. I can’t do this job without the ransom money. Nevertheless, I will not betray a confidence. The family must decide about the extent they wish to cooperate with you. All I can tell you is that I have myself advised them to collaborate. If they drop a wholly inadequate sum of money, after that article in the paper, she’s dead. As long as they delay and the kidnappers imagine they are trying to scrape together the whole amount, then even if they pass or have passed the deadline, there’s hope. As long as that hope exists, they must keep her alive or get nothing. If they decide to make do with less, cut their losses, they might as well kill her as not. They won’t want to put future jobs at risk. My opinion is, they’ll wait, and if the family collaborates with you, you can use the waiting time for your purposes. It’s only a question of the right informer, I imagine. Your Special Operations people are good, I know that.’

‘Oh, indeed they are.’

‘So, the right informer then. In our recent talks you told me of an attempt to inculpate an enemy clan. No hope of their knowing something?’

‘Every hope of their knowing everything, but not of their telling us about it. They come from Orgosolo, a place where it can take three weeks for an arrested man to admit to—not give—his name. The Orgosolese idea of an effective defence is total silence. You can’t trip him up in a contradiction or a lie if he doesn’t open his mouth. What they say is “Nothing comes from nothing”.

‘Sounds like something from Shakespeare.
King Lear,
if my schoolboy memory doesn’t deceive me.’ The Englishman stood up. ‘But I see their point—and your problem. Well, I must leave you. My plane leaves in little more than an hour. Mr. Prosecutor. Captain.’

The Captain, who had witnessed this exchange in silence, rose to shake his hand after Fusarri. The Englishman’s cool correctness was impeccable. Only for a moment was it shaken when Marshal Guarnaccia appeared, apparently from nowhere, and offered his hand, too, to this exotic personage.

‘Ah! You’re here, too. I beg your pardon. Didn’t notice you in that corner—I mean, thought you were a guard of some sort…’

‘Yes.’

Only a question of the right informer.

As the door closed, Fusarri dropped back in his chair, took a deep, noisy breath, and then leaned forward to fix the Captain with a bright stare.

‘Every Sardinian up there will know where she is, won’t they?’

'More or less.’

‘But more or less won’t meet the case, will it? More or less would kill her. We have to know exactly, don’t we?’

‘Yes.’

Fusarri leaned back again and there was a moment’s silence. Then he turned his head slowly to where the Marshal sat, bulky and silent.

‘So who will know
exactly?
Marshal?’

The Marshal shifted uncomfortably under his stare, looked at his hands, his hat, his shoe. ‘Bini would be the man to ask.’