The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (17 page)

There were still five minutes to go.

Ferrara got out of the car and looked up at the clock on Fiesole’s bell tower. Five minutes to twelve. He looked about him, then walked across the square, filled that day with the stalls of the weekly market. The presence of certain vultures of the press had not escaped him. It was predictable.

There were a number of wreaths and bouquets on the ground on either side of the main door of the cathedral.

He went in.

The two blocks of pews on either side of the wide central nave were already half full. He stopped for a few moments by one of the stone columns near the entrance. Some of the people sitting in the back rows turned round to look at him. He moved along the right-hand nave, turning to look to his left. There were many well-known faces, including several politicians in their requisite black suits, sitting in the front row along with the mayor. No family members. Costanza’s only grandson lived in the United States and, from what they had gathered, he had been on bad terms with his grandfather, so Ferrara was not surprised by his absence.

In other words, there was nobody here who would make any effort to stop this death from fading into insignificance, no relative ready to build up the memory of the ‘dear departed’, if possible through public statements or by taking part in television broadcasts.

Costanza’s body had arrived at the church that morning directly from the morgue at the Institute of Forensic Medicine, without being put on display. Now it lay in a coffin in front of the altar.

A forensics technician, positioned to one side of the square and well stocked with cameras, had been photographing the participants as they had arrived over the past couple of hours.

On the other side of the square, a plain-clothes officer was noting down the licence numbers of their cars, most of them big, powerful vehicles.

The priest began the service.

At the end of the mass, the coffin was carried out on the undertakers’ shoulders, and in a matter of minutes people started to drift away, apart from the few who set off in procession towards the cemetery. For a while, Ferrara followed them at a distance, then slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and took a cigar from his leather case. He lit it and took a few puffs to make sure it did not go out. It was his third of the day.

Then he walked slowly back to his car. As he walked, he caught an exchange of remarks between two old men.

‘He really is a great loss,’ one of them was saying.

The other nodded. ‘A death is always painful, especially when it’s the death of a brother.’

Obviously two Freemasons…

He got back in the car and ordered the driver to take him back to Headquarters.

The Piazza San Giovanni was packed with tourists pointing their cameras at the façade of Florence Cathedral and Brunelleschi’s dome, the largest masonry dome ever built. The queue of people waiting to get into the baptistery was so long that it stretched almost the whole way round the building. The sun beat down on them.

Next to the entrance, a woman sat on the floor with a child in her arms, her crossed legs covered by her long, ample skirt. In front of her was an empty cup into which nobody dropped any coins. People’s indifference was palpable. They did not even spare her a fleeting glance: it was as if she were a ghost or a plague victim.

Angelica and Guendalina were walking hand in hand, exchanging long glances every now and again. You did not have to be the most observant person in the world to grasp the nature of their friendship.

They walked along the left-hand side of the building and reached the Piazza del Duomo, where they stopped for a few moments to admire the round slab of white marble in the pavement by the apsidal wall of the cathedral.

‘This,’ Angelica said, ‘marks the exact spot where, on 17 February 1600, the huge gold-plated copper ball on the roof lantern fell after being struck by lightning.’

‘Seventeen’s always an unlucky number,’ Guendalina said with a smile, looking up at the dome.

‘The ball rolled down along the buttresses, causing a lot of damage, and then stopped right here.’

‘And then what happened?’ Guendalina asked, her eyes those of a little girl eager to learn something new.

‘It was replaced two years later, by order of Duke Ferdinand I.’

‘Could it fall again?’

‘No. Thanks to the invention of lightning rods, that’s impossible now.’

‘Well, that’s a relief!’

Guendalina looked up again at the dome. She was struck by the number of visitors all the way up there. ‘Shall we go up?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to see the city from above. It must be amazing.’

‘Not now, Guendi. We’d have to wait for hours in this heat. We’ll go another time, as soon as it opens.’

Hiding her disappointment, Guendalina let Angelica lead her to the Via de’ Calzaiuoli. They reached the Piazza della Repubblica with its cafés, then the Via Strozzi and the Via della Vigna Nuova. They walked past extremely elegant but sadly empty shops. Business in Florence was changing: even the tourists were deserting these streets, preferring to travel to factory outlets a few miles out of town.

As they walked, they did not notice a young man with faded jeans, a white T-shirt and a reddish beard who had been following them for some time.

The imposing eighteenth-century building had just one entrance. In front of it was a pay and display car park, with a taxi rank about a hundred yards away.

The porter, wearing a grey uniform trimmed in red, was giving directions to a young tourist with a map of the city open in her hands. Meanwhile, a coach full of Japanese tourists had pulled up.

All the hotels in the historic centre were full as usual. There never seemed to be enough beds in Florence for all the visitors.

Rizzo looked around, then walked in through the elegant glass door.

Once in the foyer, he realised why this had come to be regarded as one of the city’s top hotels. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the wooden ceiling.

He headed for the bar area. On the way there, he glanced at the inner garden with its swimming pool and saw several people lounging on sunbeds beside it.

The furnishings of the hotel displayed refinement and sophistication. The walls were wood-panelled. There were few paintings. Comfortable armchairs stood around small tables. He sat on one of the stools at the bar and waited for the barman, who was busy making a cocktail, to finish. When the waitress went on her way with the cocktail on her tray, he ordered a coffee. As the man turned to make it, Rizzo studied him carefully, thinking of the questions he needed to ask him.

‘Here’s your coffee, sir,’ the barman said. ‘Would you like a glass of water too?’

‘No, thank you.’

Rizzo drank the coffee, then took advantage of the fact that it was a slack moment to say to the barman, who had moved over to the bottle rack, ‘Excuse me, would you mind coming here for a moment?’

‘Not at all.’

The man, who was short, fat and completely bald, was wearing a striped waistcoat and a pale tie. His name badge identified him as Piero. He looked at the ID Rizzo had produced.

‘I hope I haven’t done anything wrong?’ he said hesitantly, in a typical Sardinian accent.

Rizzo took a photograph of Senator Costanza from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

‘Of course. He was a customer here. The poor man! What a terrible way to end! I read what happened in
La Nazione
. Have you found out who did it?’

‘Had you seen him recently?’

‘Yes. Let me just think for a moment.’ He took a piece of paper out of a drawer. ‘Oh yes, I was on duty on Saturday night. I remember now: the Senator came in here after dinner and sat down at that table there.’ He pointed to a table to his left, the one furthest from the bar.

‘What time was that?’

‘Ten thirty, ten forty-five.’

‘Was he alone?’

The barman waited a couple of seconds before replying. ‘No, he was with someone.’

‘Who?’

The man shrugged. ‘Someone…’

In the meantime, the waitress had returned with a new order.

‘Excuse me a moment. Our guests around the pool are waiting for their drinks. With this heat…’

He poured two glasses of beer and two flutes of champagne, put the champagne bottle in an ice bucket, handed everything over to the waitress, and came back to Rizzo.

‘Who was this somebody? A man? A woman?’

‘A man. I’d never seen him before.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Not really. I only saw him for a moment when I took two whiskies over to the table.’

‘Was he young or old?’

The man hesitated. ‘In the evening we turn the lights down… there were other customers and I was on my own. But I did get the impression he was middle-aged, maybe a bit older.’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if to apologise for not being more specific.

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘About sixty. Younger than the Senator, anyway.’

‘Tall? Short? Thin?’

‘I couldn’t tell you anything about his height, but I think he was of average build. What struck me was how lined his face was.’

‘Beard? Moustache?’

‘No, neither.’

Rizzo had taken his notebook out of his jacket pocket.

The barman started to look worried. ‘What are you doing? Is this an interrogation?’

‘For the moment, I’m just making a few notes. After that, we’ll see.’

The barman seemed to stiffen.

‘I should explain that I’m investigating a murder, in fact two. Senator Costanza was killed the same evening he came here for dinner. This is a serious case and I urge you to tell me the truth and not hide anything from me, or I’ll have to send for a patrol car and continue this conversation at Headquarters.’ This time Rizzo had assumed a more resolute tone.

‘But I don’t know that other man, I swear,’ the barman said, looking around as if wanting to reassure himself that no one was listening. ‘Why don’t you ask the waiters and the maître d’? One of them might know who he is.’

‘Did they leave together?’ Rizzo asked.

The barman shrugged. ‘Yes, they did.’

‘Do you have CCTV?’

The barman shook his head. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘No thanks. The coffee was enough. How much was it?’

‘Nothing, it’s on me.’

‘I insist.’ Rizzo took a ten-euro note from his wallet and put it on the counter, then walked out of the bar area and over to reception.

‘I need to speak to the manager,’ he told the girl at the desk, showing his police ID.

‘I’ll call him straight away.’

The manager introduced himself as Fabrizio Gentile. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a smart white shirt and a pale grey tie.

‘To what do we owe this visit?’ he asked once he had examined Rizzo’s ID. ‘Is there some kind of problem?’

‘I’d just like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I’m investigating a double murder.’

‘A double murder?’ the manager echoed, his face turning red.

‘Senator Costanza was killed a few hours after he was here in the company of another man. To all intents and purposes, the staff who served him in your restaurant and bar were the last people to see him alive.’

‘But —’

‘All I’d like to know is whether the man who was with the senator was one of your guests?’

‘What’s his name?’ the manager asked, turning to look at the register.

‘If I knew his name, I wouldn’t be here.’

‘In that case, if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll have to ask my staff.’

‘I’ve already talked to the barman.’

‘What day was it?’

‘Last Saturday, between seven and eleven in the evening.’

‘Please bear with me a moment.’ He went behind the reception desk and leafed through another register. ‘They’re on duty tonight, between six and midnight.’

‘Can you give me their names?’

The manager seemed undecided at first, then resigned himself. Rizzo made a note of the names of the maître d’ and two waiters in his notebook. Then he took a business card from his wallet.

‘I’d like you to contact them and tell them to come in to Police Headquarters this afternoon, before they go on duty.’

‘They won’t miss their shifts, will they? I’d have real trouble replacing them. We have several staff on holiday at the moment.’

‘No. If they come in by three o’clock, they’ll be able to start their shifts as usual.’

The manager nodded.

Rizzo said goodbye and started towards the main entrance, but turned back after a few steps. ‘Did you see the senator that evening?’ he asked.

‘No. It was my day off. I normally have Saturdays off when I’m working on Sunday.’

‘Thank you.’

Once outside, Rizzo looked at the front of the building for a moment and saw that there was a CCTV camera to the side of the entrance.

And they’d told him they didn’t have CCTV…

He wanted to go straight back, but decided to question the barman’s colleagues at Headquarters first.

Maybe he had been hiding something.