The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (31 page)

The stink of burnt plastic filled the air.

Having had the seals removed, Rizzo ordered the search to begin. He had only just set foot in the apartment when he realised that what the fire had not wiped out, the water and the efforts of the firefighters had. It would be difficult to reconstruct the sequence of events. The devastation was total. The scene of the crime had been completely destroyed. It would be impossible to find fingerprints, shoe prints, fibres, hairs.

In accordance with the fire brigade’s instructions, the officers started to move cautiously around the apartment. They found that only a few CDs and DVDs had survived, along with a pair of miniature digital recorders. They put them in plastic evidence bags, ready to be passed on to Forensics.

They moved on to an inspection of the bedroom. It was there that, after shifting pieces of wood, furniture and fragments of roof tile, all burnt and blackened by the flames, they found the safe. They had not seen it at first because it was covered with charred remains.

Fabio Biondi’s friend had told them the truth.

‘Commander, can you get one of your men to open it?’ Rizzo asked Fossati, who had requested to be present.

‘We’ll need an oxyhydrogen flame.’

‘It’s vital we don’t damage the contents.’

‘Don’t worry, Superintendent. I’ve got just the right man on my team. He’ll join us in a few minutes with exactly the equipment we need.’

‘Good.’

While they were waiting, the two men talked, the Commander revealing a fair amount of curiosity. He asked Rizzo whether the fire might be linked to the other crimes committed by the lift arsonist, as
La Nazione
called him.

At first Rizzo just shrugged. ‘We don’t have anything to support that theory, but we can’t rule it out. Just as we can’t rule out other possibilities.’

His instinct told him that this fire had nothing to do with those other crimes.

On his return from the search of the apartment, Rizzo went straight to see Ferrara, and found him with Teresa.

‘Have you got anything for us, Francesco?’

‘Some interesting things, I’d say.’

‘Go on.’

His deputy explained that they had found a number of folders in the safe, untouched by the fire. Inside were photocopies of documents, some of which had the word
CONFIDENTIAL
written at the top. They all referred to well-known criminal cases that had either already been solved or were still open.

One folder had on its cover the words
THE
BLACK
ROSE
. Inside, all the sheets had been labelled
SECRET
.

‘Michele,’ Rizzo said, ‘this reeks of the Secret Service. Fabio Biondi must have been a spook.’

‘I think you’re right. One of those experts that nobody would ever suspect, which is precisely why they’re useful. These days they don’t just recruit from the civil service, but from the private sector too.’

‘But he couldn’t join the police because he was an inch too short!’ Teresa exclaimed.

‘That doesn’t mean anything, Teresa,’ Ferrara said. ‘Being an expert in various areas matters a lot more than height in certain lines of work.’

By far the most interesting discovery was the file on the Black Rose.

There were so many questions without answers.

Why had others known of the existence of the Black Rose when they hadn’t? Why had they only discovered it thanks to Leonardo Berghoff’s letter?

And why had Fabio Biondi been killed?

‘He obviously discovered something he wasn’t supposed to, Michele,’ Rizzo said.

‘Do you think he might have died because of the video?’ Teresa asked, feeling guilty.

‘It’s possible,’ Ferrara replied.

‘And what happened to it? Was it one of the things destroyed in the fire? Or is it in the possession of whoever killed him?’ It was almost as if she were asking herself the questions.

But then the next question had to be – and all three of them were wondering this – how could the killer have known about Fabio’s work on the video?

They considered this in silence.

And Ferrara remembered what he had read in Sergi’s papers:
The Archivist
. Who worked from home.

He formed a hypothesis: whoever had killed Sergi must have either already known about the role Fabio Biondi was playing or extracted the information from the inspector before killing him. It was pure supposition, but not unfounded.

Ferrara ordered Rizzo and Teresa to search through Sergi’s papers, his telephone records, who he had been meeting, even more thoroughly than before. Everything had to be looked at. They mustn’t forget Fabio Biondi’s telephone records either.

‘That’s where we have to find the answers to our questions,’ he concluded.

They agreed.

He had read the online news in the early hours. All the papers were talking about the death of Fabio Biondi. From what he had read, the investigators seemed to be linking it to the lift arsonist.

He burst out laughing. That arsonist didn’t have a fucking thing to do with this.

Poor bastards! Let them carry on with their investigations! Let them squander their money – they wouldn’t discover anything anyway!

He dialled an international number to say that he would be another couple of days.

‘I need to sign an important contract. You know how these people like to play hard to get.’

Then he changed the sim card and sent a text.

Gori could hardly believe it. To think he had asked them to check their records only to be thorough!

The DNA profile did match someone in the records: Leonardo Berghoff, who had died in Germany on 5 July 2004.

How was it possible? The marshal could barely breathe as he read the fax from Rome. What should he do now? he wondered. Call Ferrara right away? Or speak to the Prosecutor first?

As a loyal carabiniere, he chose the second option.

Having first informed his colonel, he hurried to the Prosecutor’s Department.

Luca Fiore was sitting behind his desk.

Gori and Deputy Vinci, who had already been informed, took their seats in the visitors’ chairs.

‘Marshal,’ Vinci said, a slight smile hovering over his lips, ‘tell Prosecutor Fiore what you’ve discovered.’

Gori summarised the tests carried out at the biology lab in Rome and the results.

Luca Fiore looked stunned at first. Then he recovered his wits and said in a resolute voice, ‘Marshal, I would urge you to exercise the utmost discretion. We must act with caution and check this as thoroughly as possible. I want you to go to Germany in person and confirm what actually happened to this Berghoff.’

‘Of course, Prosecutor.’

‘If necessary, we’ll ask our German colleagues to exhume the corpse that was buried under that name.’

‘I’ll leave this afternoon, Prosecutor.’

‘Thanks, and keep me updated.’

‘Of course!’

The marshal left the room. When the two prosecutors were alone, Luca Fiore said to his deputy, ‘Luigi, this Ferrara has been telling me tall tales. He’s sent us death certificates for a criminal who turns out to be alive and kicking. A criminal who’s slaughtered a poor young girl.’

‘A monster.’

‘Precisely. And then there was that letter about the secret lodge that he sent in with his request. We were right not to agree to it. What would have happened if we’d authorised him to search Cosimo Presti’s home and office? We’d have been in real trouble.’

‘This whole thing could be a pack of lies.’

‘That’s what I think.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘Nothing for now, Luigi. Let’s wait and see what the marshal finds out.’

‘And then?’

‘When we’ve got the results, we’ll decide whether to search Ferrara’s office. It’s possible we’d find something interesting, perhaps proof that he’s been lying all along. What do you think?’

‘I’ll personally go with the Carabinieri to search it. And I’ll leave his office like a brothel after a brawl.’

‘I’ll come too. All the Head of the State Police has managed to do so far is ask him to write a letter of apology for the press conference, but I’m going to destroy his career. He’s really crossed the line this time, and I’m going to make him pay for it.’

A broad smile appeared on Vinci’s face.

‘And we won’t even tell the Commissioner,’ Luca Fiore concluded.

‘Absolutely not. It has to come like a bolt from the blue.’

Ferrara opened the folder.

Inside was the data Fanti had gathered after receiving the fax from the traffic police.

Ferrara lingered over the passport photo stapled to the form. He was sure he had never seen that face before: the open, honest face of a young woman no different from many others. But, looking at it more closely, he thought he detected a certain similarity to the identikit.

In the notes from Special Ops, he read that her conduct record was clean, she had no criminal record, had never been reported to the police, and had never been involved in direct political action.

He called his secretary and complimented him on his excellent work.

‘It’s not finished, chief,’ Fanti said, blushing.

‘What’s missing?’

‘I still need to go there and make some discreet inquiries. I might find out more from her neighbours.’

‘No, there’s no need to go anywhere. You’ve done an excellent job and now it’s finished. Get Rizzo to come and see me.’

‘I saw him go out about ten minutes ago, chief. Shall I call his mobile?’

‘Yes.’

Fanti withdrew, looking puzzled. Had he made a mistake? But what?

It would torment him for the rest of the day.

They were in San Gimignano again, in a rented car this time.

They were not far from Sir George’s villa, taking a lot of photographs: the final details for the last piece of the jigsaw. Later, he would decide what to do with that bitch he was holding prisoner. Maybe he’d set her free. She hadn’t seen his face, nor did she have any idea where he had been holding her. It would be a favour to his old friend and accomplice.

A gift, in fact.

It was just after eight in the morning when they saw a car drive out through the gates. It turned in the direction of the town and after a while drove past the car park where they were waiting. They set off after it. Apart from the driver, the only occupant of the other car was Sir George, who got out in front of the Porta di San Giovanni before the car drove on and turned left. They now got out and started following him on foot, keeping at a safe distance. No more than fifty yards, though, so as not to lose sight of him.

They saw him buy a number of daily newspapers, sit at a table at his usual bar in the Piazza della Cisterna, leaf through some of the papers and eat a brioche. Alone the whole time. At that hour, the square was practically deserted. Finally, he paid and stood up, went back the way he had come, and met up with his driver just outside the gate. He got into the car and went back to the villa.

His guest had left.

They set off back to Florence.

‘Tonight’s the night,’ he said to Angelica. ‘Nine o’clock, the usual place. Don’t be late.’