The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (32 page)

It was almost midday when Officer Carlo Rossi rang the doorbell of Angelica Fossi’s house in the middle of the countryside. Venturi had sent him to deliver the summons. She was to come to Headquarters to be questioned about ‘matters of interest to the police’: a standard phrase that could mean anything or nothing.

The decision had been made by Ferrara in discussion with Rizzo. During the interview they would ask her about the night she had been caught by the speed camera, then about her work and her acquaintances. And, depending on what they found out, they would decide whether or not to search her home.

If they did, they would make use of Article 41 of the laws on public safety. A rule that gave the police the right to search homes, other buildings and vehicles in search of weapons, ammunition or explosives if they had information suggesting that such things might be kept there illegally. It was an old trick, but still useful when it was necessary to act quickly. There was just one condition to be met for it to be legitimate: the existence of an actual item of proof, rather than a simple assumption with no supporting evidence.

As far as Angelica Fossi was concerned, there were certainly elements that linked her to the woman they were looking for: the statement made by the mechanic, D’Amato, her similarity to the identikit, her high-speed journey at night, and, most importantly, the statement made by the Danish waitress, as well as the location of her home.

Rossi rang Venturi and told him that the woman was not at home. He was told to wait there. He was about to get back in his car when he saw a white Ford Escort arriving. The car stopped outside the farmhouse and a woman got out.

It was her. He recognised her from her passport photograph.

He went straight to her. ‘Signora Angelica Fossi?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

He showed her his police ID. ‘
Squadra Mobile
.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘I’ve come to deliver a summons.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. The inspector would like to see you in his office.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right.’

‘If you like, you can come with me.’

‘Thanks, I’ll use my own car.’

She climbed in and set off, and Rossi followed in his car.

The first thing he did was call Venturi. ‘She’s coming, but not in the Mercedes. She’s driving a different car.’ He gave him the licence number and the model.

Angelica Fossi was in the waiting room, shivering in spite of the heat. In her hands was the plastic cup of coffee that Rossi had given her.

Had they found Guendalina – was she hurt, or dead? No, please, not that!

That morning, as if troubled by a premonition, she had woken at dawn after a night of bad dreams. Now she sat there, lifting the cup to her mouth every now and again – she had put three sachets of sugar in it, but it still tasted bitter.

Meanwhile, Venturi was in Ferrara’s office, awaiting instructions. He wanted to know if he would be in charge of the interview. He had found out from the motor licence authority’s database that the Ford Escort had been rented from Europcar the previous day.

Why?

What had happened to the A-Class Mercedes?

Officer Rossi had not seen it in front of the house, nor in the surrounding grounds.

It was almost quarter past one when Angelica was led in to Ferrara’s office. He would interview her with Venturi present.

‘Please take a seat, signora,’ Ferrara said, gesturing to the one empty chair in front of his desk. Venturi was already sitting on the other one.

As she sat down, he looked at her closely and noticed fear in her eyes.

‘Am I allowed to know why you’ve summoned me?’ Angelica asked, staring at them as if trying to figure out something from their expressions. Even her tone of voice suggested how anxious she was.

‘It’s a formality, signora,’ Ferrara replied.

‘But what’s it all about? Tell me!’ She glanced at her watch.

‘Are you in a hurry, by any chance?’

‘I’d only just got home when I had to come here. It’s not a short distance, you know. An hour to get here and, if everything goes well, an hour back again. I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘In that case I’ll get straight to the point.’

‘It’s not…’

‘Not what?’

‘No, nothing, go on.’

‘Do you own an A-Class Mercedes?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Where is it now?’

‘At home. Why?’

‘Do you often go out at night?’

‘Why? Is it against the law?’

‘Just answer the question, please. I ask the questions, you answer.’

‘Yes, sometimes.’

‘And what route do you normally take on your way home?’

‘Sometimes I go through Pontassieve, sometimes along the Via Bolognese, through Fiesole and Borgo San Lorenzo. But why?’

‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,’ he said, an element of steel in his voice now. ‘You’re here to answer my questions, not to question me.’

‘All right.’

‘Did you by any chance take the Borgo San Lorenzo route on the night of 28-29 August?’

Silence.

She was obviously uncomfortable. Her posture suddenly changed, and she started shifting her legs and folding her hands. But it was her face that most struck the two policemen. It had turned as white as a sheet.

‘May I have a glass of water?’ she asked. It was a way of gathering her thoughts and avoiding mistakes in whatever came next.

Venturi left the room.

Meanwhile, in Teresa’s office, Teresa and Officer Alessandra Belli were still sifting through the confiscated material, Sergi’s papers, and the telephone records.

From their colleagues in Rome, they had received a copy of those telephone records relating to Sergi, as authorised by the Prosecutor’s Department in Civitavecchia.

And they had already found something interesting: several calls to Fabio Biondi’s mobile phone.

So the two men knew each other.

Was Fabio the Archivist? Right now, it certainly looked like it.

‘We’ll have to tell the Chief Superintendent,’ Teresa said.

Picking up the phone, she dialled Fanti’s internal number and asked him to let her know when the chief had finished his interview.

‘In the meantime,’ she said, after hanging up, ‘let’s go and get a coffee and a brioche. I’ve got a feeling we’ll be skipping lunch again today.’

‘You’re making a big mistake.’

They had driven up to the restored cottage in two cars. Angelica had unwillingly opened the front door, but now stood in the doorway, trying to stop Ferrara from coming in. But he ignored her: he wanted to get to the bottom of this.

They were in San Godenzo, about twenty-eight miles from Florence. The municipality was named after Saint Gaudentius, a hermit who had retreated into the local mountains with their covering of chestnut trees to lead a life of prayer.

During the rest of the interview at Headquarters, the woman had retreated behind a wall of absolute silence, so Ferrara had decided to proceed with a search of the property. If they found guns or ammunition, everything would be much clearer, but anything at all that could be linked to the double murder would mark a turning point.

‘You have the right to request the presence of a lawyer or another trustworthy person,’ Ferrara advised her once they were inside the house. ‘Provided that they join us as soon as possible. Otherwise, we’ll start the search regardless.’

‘I don’t want anyone,’ she replied in a calm voice. ‘Just hurry up.’

‘Very well then, it’s now 3.15 in the afternoon and we’re beginning the search. You will come with us into every room. You must always be present. That’s what the law stipulates.’

Angelica nodded.

‘We’ll try not to make a mess,’ Ferrara assured her.

She shrugged, a sceptical expression on her face, and followed him to make sure that everything was put back more or less where it had been found.

They moved from one room to another, spending the longest time in the bedroom and in a small room used as a study, which was subjected to an especially meticulous inspection. Venturi took on the task of examining the computer, after requesting the password, while his colleagues emptied the drawers and put to one side notes, receipts, diaries, photographs, and documents relating to her job as a social worker.

Within a little over two hours, they had searched almost everything. No weapons, ammunition or explosives had been un- covered.

To one side of the garden, beneath a wooden shelter, they had found the black A-Class Mercedes. Angelica told them it had broken down, which was why she had had to rent the Ford Escort.

Obviously, they insisted on checking for themselves. Rizzo put on gloves, sat at the wheel and tried to insert the key, but without success.

Angelica found it hard to hold back a smile: unsure of what to do and aware of the fact that the police might be on her trail, she had simply snapped off the key in the dashboard to back up her little story.

Now Ferrara was discussing with Rizzo how to proceed. There was no question this was a problem.

Having made use of Article 41, they could not confiscate any items except those specified by the law: weapons, ammunition or explosives. If they were to do so, they risked their search warrant not being validated by the Prosecutor’s Department. They might even be accused of conducting an illegal search. To make matters worse, Angelica had no previous convictions, had never been reported in connection with any offence, and was a social worker.

They were still discussing their options when Teresa came over, followed by Angelica. She and Officer Belli had searched the bedroom even more thoroughly and had found something. So proud was she of her discovery, Teresa could barely contain her delight.

It was a miniature camera, not much bigger than a two-euro coin, with a one-millimetre lens capable of filming the entire room. It had been concealed in the darkest corner of a Gustav Klimt poster.

‘What can you tell me about this?’ Ferrara asked Angelica.

Angelica had turned white. She was visibly shaking. It had been a surprise for her too. She seemed disorientated.

‘I can’t imagine who could have put it there,’ she replied after a long pause. ‘Maybe the woman I rented a couple of rooms to a few years ago. I was only living on the first floor in those days.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘I can’t remember, but there must be a copy of the contract among the papers you found in the study. It was only for six months. All I remember is that she was an American student attending the international school of art. She wanted to become an expert on the restoration of frescos and paintings. Then she moved to Florence, near to the main campus, Villa Il Ventaglio. You should be able to trace her there.’

‘We’re going to have to send this off for analysis,’ Ferrara said, holding up the camera.

‘If you must.’

Ferrara walked outside and called Gianni Fuschi. He asked him to send a team from Forensics to check whether there were any other miniature cameras or bugs.

The camera might not have anything to do with the murders, but it was advisable, even essential, to carry out further checks.

Fuschi was reluctant to send out a team and advised delaying it until the following day.

‘We can’t wait until tomorrow, Gianni,’ Ferrara said. ‘This is urgent!’

‘OK, Michele, I’ll come,’ Fuschi said at last, with a great sigh. ‘And I’ll also inform Rome and a few expert technicians who work with us.’

In the meantime, a police officer who had been carrying out a closer inspection of one of the other rooms had found another miniature camera.

One was strange enough. Two indicated that something very, very odd was going on.

Angelica said nothing, even when faced with this second item. She looked at her watch. It was almost six and it looked like this might take some time. She did not know whether or not to reschedule their appointment. But she would not be able to call him anyway.

What she could never have imagined was that he already knew everything.