The Marshal at the Villa Torrini (11 page)

'Just carabiniere Di Nuccio.'

'And was he forced to be violent in turn in order to restrain Grazzini? Did he handcuff her? Did he hit her? Throw her to the ground?'

'She was already on the ground. She flailed her arms at him when he bent to talk to her. He held her arms and got her to her feet. We then accompanied her home and gave her into the care of Pecchioli Antonio.'

'Thank you, Marshal. So, one man, without the use of violence, was able to deal with Grazzini when in an aggressive state. Can we come now to the twenty-fourth of December and hear what happened then?'

The Marshal wasn't too pleased with all this. Clearly, the presence of two large, uniformed men is going to have an effect that members of a family don't have. But he had no idea whether he was allowed to protest at this misdirection. He thought probably not. It wasn't his business— though the pathologist had got his in about their knowing they'd kicked her in the stomach . . . The moment passed and he could only carry on with his evidence.

'At 02.17 the bell at the Pitti Station was rung repeatedly. It was heard by my men whose dormitory is above the office where the bell rings. Two of the men went down to answer the housephone. A woman who refused to give her name claimed to have been passing through Piazza Pitti and to have seen someone collapse near our gate. When asked had she called an ambulance the woman said there was no phone near enough, and that all the bars were shut. When my men arrived at the gates they found Grazzini Anna Maria lying on the ground. There was no sign of whoever had rung the bell. One of them called an ambulance and the other came for me.'

'Thank you, Marshal. Now, am I right in saying that during the night the Station at Pitti is closed and that all emergency matters are dealt with through your Headquarters at Borgo Ognissanti?'

'Yes. Anyone needing help can go there directly to report a crime or, if necessary, call out the emergency service on 112.'

'Yes. We know, in fact, that Giorgetti Chiara and Saverino Mario had already tried to call the police emergency number, 113. When that failed to produce what they wanted, instead of calling an ambulance directly as advised, and instead of calling the carabinieri emergency service on 112—they came and rang your bell! Do you have any idea why that should be?'

'Most probably because Giorgetti Chiara knew me. It often happens.'

'She knew you because you had helped her out of some— shall we say—difficulties, some years ago?'

Chiara's lawyer was almost on his feet. The Prosecutor veered away from this forbidden ground and the Marshal could see that it hurt him to do it.

'She didn't, however, want to see you, did she, Marshal? At that hour of night she knew your station was closed and you were in your bed. She didn't ask for you personally, and she certainly didn't wait around until you arrived. Isn't that true?'

'Yes.'

'So. Why you, Marshal, instead of 112? We have heard Saverino claim that it was, indeed, Giorgetti who insisted on going to Palazzo Pitti, claiming that you were the best person to deal with the matter. Wouldn't it be more logical to suppose that she rang your bell, knowing you were not on duty and knowing it would take you time to arrive, the time they needed to clear off the scene—in other words, a call to 112 might produce help too quickly from a nearby patrol and find them still in the vicinity!'

'Objection!'

'Sustained. Mr Prosecutor, the Marshal is not here to give opinions on your opinions but to give his evidence. May we please confine ourselves to the facts.'

'No further questions.'

'Counsel for the defence?'

Counsel for the defence, in an attempt to straighten his stock and his papers at the same time, sent the stock further askew and the papers fluttering to the floor. The Marshal waited, his bulging eyes expressionless.

'We have heard a lot of talk about violence, Marshal. You have known my client for some years, I believe. Would you say that she was a violent person?'

'No.'

'Do you consider her a strong person, a person who influenced the people and events around her?'

'No.'

'How would you describe her?'

'She was weak-willed, easily influenced.'

'Now, my client has stated that she took no part in the violence inflicted on Grazzini but was nevertheless unable to prevent it. Does that statement accord with your experience of my client?'

'Yes.'

'Do you consider it significant then that the weakest of the three people involved should be the one to insist on assigning to you, a person she knew to be trustworthy, the job of seeing that Grazzini was taken to hospital for treatment? That, given her weak character, this demonstrates very clearly her concern for Grazzini?'

'No.' It was all very well deciding to call her 'his client' to cover up that he kept forgetting her name, but he had prepared that little speech before Chiara had spilled the beans about the time. The Marshal didn't want Chiara to go to prison, but he shared the judge's opinion that they should stick to the facts and then decide. Fellow's face was getting even redder and you could see that he was going to insist because he had no alternative speech prepared.

'But is it not clear from her action, from her taking charge when before she had never taken charge, that of the three she was the one who cared?'

'Of the three she was the most frightened. She thought of me because I'd helped her out of a mess before.'

'That's only an opinion of yours, Marshal, if I may say so.'

'I beg your pardon. I understood that my opinion was what you asked for. She was frightened, though, that's a fact. When I went to the house she was hysterical. In any case she told me that she hadn't called 112 because it had occurred to her that they might be picked up before they got home. It's in her statement. She was afraid of that and of Grazzini dying, and she was afraid of losing Saverino.'

'Marshal, this is all yet more supposition, is it not?'

'No. It's in her statement.'

Furious, he changed the subject.

'Was Grazzini alive when you went out to the gate?'

'I wasn't sure . . . I thought so . . . ' The Marshal paused, remembering his dream and expecting the Prosecutor to leap up and say 'You
thought?''
but the Prosecutor was deep in whispered consultation with his clerk.

'What action did you take?'

'I covered her with a blanket. She had a lot of injuries, so we didn't think we should move her. I tried to find a pulse.'

'She gave no sign of consciousness? Made no noise?'

'No, none. When the ambulance came I followed it to the hospital with one of my men. She was declared Dead on Arrival.'

'One last question. You know my client well, and consider her a weak character? Would you say that her behaviour depends largely on whose influence she is under?'

'Yes.'

'And would you describe the influence of Saverino as being a positive or a negative one?'

'Negative.'

Chiara wouldn't thank her lawyer for that. If he got her off at Saverino's expense there'd be a reckoning one day. They couldn't keep him in prison for ever.

'No further questions.'

'The court will adjourn.'

The Marshal was glad enough to rise from the uncomfortable little chair, but he had hoped that they might have got through the whole business whereas he was going to have to go through the arrest some other day. Oof! In the old days it was confirm your report and Good Day. He watched Chiara being led away and then made for the exit.

'Marshal!'

He smelled the perfume before spotting the person.

'Galli. I'm surprised you're bothering with this.'

'You're joking.' Galli slid into his dark green coat and felt tentatively at his bouffant black hair. He wasn't good-looking, carried too much weight, like the Marshal, but he looked as sleek and expensive as a pedigree cat and his wife, whom the Marshal had once glimpsed at some official do, was a real stunner. Long hair and long legs like a fashion model.

'I want to talk to you. Rang your office and they said you were here. It's about Forbes.'

CHAPTER 7

The Marshal buttoned his greatcoat and slid his glasses on before they reached the great baroque entrance where the dazzling sunlight would blind him.

'Five below zero last night,' Galli said. 'I think we lost a few tiles. That's going to cost me a packet.'

The carabinieri on guard looked frozen to the marrow, despite the extra thickness of their bullet-proof jackets. Clutching at their machine-guns, they hunched their shoulders against the agonizing blast of the
tramontana
which made their ears ring.

'Let me offer you a coffee.'

'Well . . . I've got my driver waiting.'

But Fara was as warm as toast, sheltered from the wind with the bright sun burning through the windscreen. They left him to wait a little longer. The Marshal had to hang tightly on to his hat as they crossed Piazza San Firenze and made for the welcoming warmth of a big bar near the corner.

They took their small thick coffee laced with a dash of grappa. The
tramontana
seemed to require it.

'It was Fusarri,' Galli explained, 'who told me you were on the Forbes case. He seemed as pleased as Punch about it.'

'Hmph.' That was another thing about Fusarri. He had friends among journalists where it was wiser to have just acquaintances. He and Galli probably went to the same tailor and hairdresser. They both smoked too much. Galli was lighting up now, but a normal cigarette, thank God.

'You don't like him? I suppose he's not your sort. Still, you people never like any magistrate as a matter of principle, admit it.'

The Marshal, as a matter of principle, admitted no such thing.

'I just find him odd, that's all. That way he has of looking as if he's got more important things on his mind and is only listening to you out of politeness. I know he's kept busy, but, after all, what can be that much more important than the case he's on?'

'Women.'

'What?'

Galli chuckled delightedly.

'You didn't know that? Well, I suppose he wouldn't be likely to chat to you about it. They're his only real interest, apart from food and smoking. Quite a swordsman, too, I can tell you. We've had one or two girls in common—not at the same time, he's not a man I'd care to offend.' Galli grinned sideways at the Marshal, squinting against a curl of smoke. 'Trust you, Guarnaccia, to get his number. He
is
only listening to you out of politeness—well, out of a sort of informed interest, as you might say. He could easily afford not to work but he enjoys it.'

'Mph. That explains a lot.'

'Up to a point it does, but don't get the wrong idea. He's brilliant. Anyway, tell me about Forbes. You going to arrest him?'

'Why? I wouldn't have thought there was much in it for you.'

'There isn't, if you mean a story. I'm on the Bribe City job full time. I'm interested in Forbes because the Forbeses are friends of ours, have been for years.'

'In that case,' the Marshal sighed, 'you can tell me more than I can tell you. What I can tell you, given that you're not writing it up, is that I'm not the person who should be on the case. My business is with people like them.' He indicated the Tribunal opposite. 'Something like that happens and I can have the culprits inside in a few days. This Forbes chap . . .'

'You don't like him? Forget I asked. You don't or you'd answer. Well, having said we're friends . . . ' Galli hesitated.

'It was her you liked,' finished the Marshal.

'Then you do know something?'

'No, no . . . Just one of her neighbours chatting. She said it was something they quarrelled about, Forbes and his wife, that all their friends were her friends really.'

'I suppose that's more or less true. No, I thought you might have found out—you will anyway, it's common knowledge—that I had a bit of a thing for her myself.'

'No, I hadn't found out. You were lovers?'

'We would have been if I'd had my way but she was ferociously loyal. She fancied me, though I say it myself, but she wouldn't, she said, not until she'd definitely given up on Forbes, a thing she was loath to do. Nobody likes admitting they've picked a lemon, do they? At least, women don't. They think it makes them look fools or failures. Well, he was the one who was a fool and a failure. Not that he could help being a failure, but he could help being a fool. Fancy having a woman like that—she was one in a million, I can tell you—and leaving her without. He hadn't touched her in a year, she told me that. Anyway, whoever said that about their friends wasn't far wrong. I think he's a right little turd, pardon the expression, and if he had something to do with her death I'm interested, story or no story. What do you need to know?'

'I wish I even knew that. This Forbes . . . He'll inherit a goodish bit, I gather.'

'Mm.' Galli looked unconvinced. 'Two more coffees,' he told the barman. 'If you're talking about a motive, I can't see that being it. He had full use of her money as it was, without the responsibility of it.'

'Didn't he earn anything at all?'

'Him?' Galli laughed. 'How would he ever earn anything?'

'He says he's writing an article.'

'Oh, he's always writing an article. Might even have been paid for one or two of them but they're the ones Celia'd been asked to write and given to him. Probably did half the work herself, anyway, and gave him the credit. The others he does for nothing, for some English language magazine that's printed here and given away free by hotels. The rest of the time he works on his mythical book. No, he doesn't earn anything, but she gave him all the money he wanted.'

'Like a spoilt child, by the sound of it.'

'That's what he is. And when she wasn't writing the articles for him, he'd be round at my office or at Mary's to try and get one of us to provide.'

'And did you?'

'More or less. Difficult to get out of it. Among journalists— real journalists—it's done. We give each other a hand since we're always pushed for time. But it's reciprocal. Not like with Forbes.'

The Marshal frowned and accepted a second coffee. The bar was filling up with people taking their morning break.

'You're not in competition, then?'

'Certainly not with jerks like Forbes! No. I know what you mean, but there's no competition to get the story out before the other papers, not when it's been on the TV news the night before.'

'I suppose not. Still . . . he struck me as an intelligent man, even so—not that I'm a judge.'

'Oh, he's intelligent enough, but he'll never make a journalist or a writer of any sort. Doesn't communicate. He's only interested in himself, you must have noticed that— Will you excuse me a minute?'

The young journalist who had been in court had come into the bar and was signalling for a word with Galli. They stood together near the door, talking rapidly under their breath, while the Marshal stayed near the counter, gazing tranquilly through its glass at the heaps of cream cakes and plates of fresh sandwiches. The thought of a real lunch awaiting him at the end of the morning left him feeling calm.

'Sorry.' Galli returned with an unlit cigarette dangling. 'Mario's the one who's following the Forbes case, by the way.' The young journalist was still in the bar but didn't approach them. 'Wrote the story about Julian being found blind drunk in the bedroom. Is that true?'

'Yes, it's true.'

'He wanted to talk to you, but I put him off.' Galli removed his cigarette, looked at it speculatively, and put it back in his mouth.

'I'm afraid I don't have a light . . . ' the Marshal said.

'No, I don't want a light. I'm trying to give up so I don't light them for a bit. What were we saying?'

'About Forbes only being interested in himself. But by his own account he was interested in women. This Mary, for instance, among others.'

'What?
Forbes? Who told you that?' Galli unstuck the cigarette from his lip and held it between forefinger arid thumb as he stared at the Marshal in amazement.

'He did,' the Marshal said. 'He was talking about a number of women though he only gave me the one name. After all, if he and his wife weren't—''

'God, what a bastard. It's not true, any of it. He's off his head! Mary barely tolerates him and that only because she's—was—a close friend of Celia's. And if he really was having it off with anybody else, you can bet your life we'd all know about it. You can't keep a secret like that in a town this size—Oh, I've seen him trying, many a time, but I've never seen him succeed. What a filthy trick to say a thing like that about Mary, and to you.'

'Perhaps not only to me. He claims he told his wife.'

Galli was as appalled as the Marshal had been.

'In that case maybe she'd at last decided to leave him and there's your motive.'

'Very nice. Except that he told me about it. You've seen him trying to pick up women, you said. Where would that be?'

'At Il Caffé. Two or three nights a week. We all go there.'

'What café?'

'Il Caffé. You must know it, it's right across from your station in Piazza Pitti.'

'Oh, that place. It stays open too late.'

'It stays open until a decent hour for people like us who sometimes work till eleven or even midnight. And if you want to know something else he's been going there this week, after Celia's death. And she's not even in her grave yet.'

The Marshal, who had always seen Galli as cynical in the extreme, looked at him in surprise. He was upset.

'You really cared for her?'

'Yes, I did.' He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it quickly. 'She must have told somebody. If she was going to leave him she'd have told somebody. Talk to Mary. She's the most likely one—and ask her about Christmas. Whatever he did, or told her he'd done, it must have been at Christmas.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because nobody saw them. They didn't turn up to any parties when they'd said they would. We all knew something was up.'

The Marshal sighed. 'Well, I'll ask. I hope she can tell me something because I got nothing out of him. Except, when I think about it, that he bought her some furniture.'

'He
bought?'

'Well, yes, after what you've said I suppose it must have been with her money, but it's not much help all the same, is it?'

He looked out through the doorway at the steps to the Tribunal across the square. 'I'm grateful to you for what you've told me, but I still wish . . . I arrested those three the day after it happened. I've known Chiara Giorgetti since she was a teenager, and I know her mother.'

Galli followed his glance. After a moment's silence he said, 'You've done it before—if that's what you mean, if you're bothered by their being foreigners. There was that Dutch business—'

'No, no . . . it's not just that. The Dutchman, he was an artisan, not a writer, not an intellectual, and besides, I never spoke to any of those people. You may not think much of Julian Forbes, but he's cleverer than I am and I know nothing about him. I don't understand him and I never will. Still, it's not your problem. I don't know why I'm saying these things to you.'

'Because I cared about her, that's why, isn't it?'

'It might be, I suppose.'

'Well, whatever the reason, it's not true, what you're saying. Julian Forbes is a coward, morally and physically. You probably scare the living daylights out of him. And, whatever you may imagine about intellectuals, forget it. What's the difference? Sex, drink, jealousy, panic and cowardice. All the world's a village; it'll take you a bit longer to get Forbes but there's no rush, is there? As long as you get him before he damages anybody else the way he damaged Celia. She deserved better, and now it's too late.'

'Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, Oh Lord. Lord, hear my
voice. Let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.'

The Marshal had placed himself right at the back of the little church so as to leave a number of pews between himself and Celia Carter's family and friends. The mass had already begun when he slipped in. The priest, who was Irish, had said the mass in Latin, since there were people from various countries present, but the prayers he was saying now, as he blessed the coffin, were in English. It was all so unexpected, but then everything that he had learned since yesterday evening when Father Jameson had got in touch with him had been unexpected. The first surprise had been that she was a Catholic.

He'd assumed that, being English, she would belong to the English church. He'd thought to find himself at a Protestant service in Via Maggio, instead of which he was in the little church belonging to the hospital of San Giovanni di Dio, almost next door to carabinieri headquarters in Borgo Ognissanti. Father Jameson had explained that he said mass there in English once a week. Not that Celia Carter had ever attended. He had met her just the once, he said, but when Mary Price Mancini, her close friend and a practising Catholic, had come to organize the funeral, he had decided to speak to someone. He had visited headquarters in search of whoever was in charge, and had eventually been taken to the office of Captain Maestrangelo, who had listened to him and then telephoned the Marshal.

'A Jesuit, Irish, though he's been here most of his life. I think you should hear what he has to say.'

'She was a Catholic? I never thought . . .'

'No, I was surprised myself. In any case she didn't go to church, so . . . You couldn't come over here to the church? They're bringing the body in this evening and he wants to be there.'

'Of course.' And he had gone. The coffin already lay then, as it lay now, in the aisle before the altar. The priest had been kneeling beside it at the end of the pew on the left, praying as he was praying now. The prayer had been in Latin then and the Marshal had understood it. In English he could only pick out the odd word, but he had served at enough requiem masses as a child to know that it was the same.

'If Thou, Oh Lord, shalt observe iniquities, Lord, who shall
endure it?'

Hat in hand, he had made his genuflection, waited a moment, then touched the priest on the shoulder.

'Ah . . . Is it you? It's so dark in here and my eyes aren't what they were.'