Vita Nuova (3 page)

As if to prove how busy he was, he placed his big hands on the keyboard and found himself staring into a blank dark screen. If the blasted thing hadn’t finished fiddling around playing music, checking viruses and God knows what and then, for want of attention, switched itself off!

‘If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times!’ he bellowed at Lorenzini, only to be met with another blank silence. Lorenzini, his second in command, was still at the seaside with his family.

‘Well, I’ve had enough!’ He shut the lid of That Thing and closed up his office. It would have to be typed first thing in the morning, because he was going to catch the rest of that film and go to bed. And he would have done just that if it hadn’t been almost midnight and the film long over. He switched on the mosquito killer and stared at the satin-smooth emptiness of the bed, his huge eyes mournful.

Two

T
he builder wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy at all.

‘And if the boss comes?’

‘It’s not your fault. Prosecutor’s orders. You’d do better to go home, all of you, until we’ve finished.’

‘We’re paid by the hour, you know, and we lost all but the first couple of hours yesterday. He’s always late paying us, as it is, and this’ll give him another excuse at the end of this month, you’ll see.’

None of the others spoke; they kept their heads down. The marshal assumed that all of them, with the exception of this one man, Cristiano, a legal immigrant from Rumania who spoke Italian, were without papers. The captain’s men had searched their toolbags yesterday and they had all looked scared.

‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. . . .’ The marshal felt sorry for them, but the search was clearly going to take at least another full day. ‘You’re absolutely sure in your own mind that none of them saw a stranger around yesterday morning? That they’re not just saying they didn’t because they’re frightened of being involved? You did explain to them that I’m not interested in whether they have papers or not?’

‘I told them that this is about a murder, not about their situation. They’d say if they knew anything. They trust me.’

The marshal believed him. Cristiano was a big man like himself, calm and solid and not frightened at all.

‘Besides, I was here before eight, and you can see for yourself how quiet it is round here. You can hear a leaf fall, let alone a car arriving, or even footsteps on the gravel driveways.’

‘And that thing?’ The cement mixer, switched off now. ‘Don’t you start mixing cement first thing—and what about the bulldozer that was working when I arrived?’

‘That’s true . . . he finished yesterday morning and he was taking it away when you people arrived and stopped him. They searched him, too, and took his name and address. He was none too pleased. The boss’ll be furious, as well, because every day it stays here it will have to be paid for.’

‘It can go today. And this cement mixer?’

‘You’re right. It was going from eight until when you arrived . . . I didn’t think. . . .’

‘No. Well, you’d likely have heard the shots, otherwise, and the woman who ran out screaming.’

‘You’re right . . . sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. We none of us notice the noises that are always there.’

Of course, the man could, in theory, have been with her all night, but there was no trace of sexual activity up to now, and he had shot her from outside the door. . . .

‘What about tomorrow, then? Can we work?’

‘It should be all right. Give me your number, just in case. If we haven’t finished, I’ll let you know tonight.’

‘Thanks.’

The important thing, for the marshal, was that they had all turned up for work this morning. Frightened as they were, any idea of a messed-up attempted robbery by one of them, unlikely as it was, faded to nothing.

The marshal started to walk away, treading on planks laid over churned-up yellowish earth. This must have been a wonderful place once. Probably the only building on this wooded hill that was now scarred all over with a rash of fancy houses and bright blue swimming pools. He stopped, hearing a fuss behind him, a voice raised in protest. He turned to look.

One of the builders, young, dark-haired, was gesticulating and shouting at Cristiano. His desperation sounded very real and, as the marshal walked back, he saw the man wave a piece of paper in Cristiano’s face. He fell silent and turned away when he saw the marshal coming.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing, Marshal, nothing—I mean to say, nothing to do with your business. It’s just that we didn’t get paid at the end of July—not properly paid, anyway. I had a bit of a showdown with the boss, and he did give us something but nowhere near what he owes us, so you see why I’m not happy about sending them home. I’ve got a bit put by, I’m used to this, but Milo’s desperate. We were hoping the boss would come by today like he promised and give us a bit of cash.’

‘And what’s on that paper he was waving?’

‘Nothing, it’s just—’

‘Tell him to give it to me.’

Cristiano murmured something to the other man, who handed over the bit of paper. His face was red. The marshal couldn’t read it, but he could see it was a list and he recognized the brand name of some baby food.

‘It’s just a shopping list, that’s all. His wife gave it to him this morning. Mostly baby food and stuff. Fifteen euros would have covered it and we thought that today, the boss . . . he was hoping to go to the supermarket after work, but he hasn’t a bean. If he turns up at home at this time, with his day’s work lost and empty-handed. . . .’

Milo was bending over, packing his toolbox. His face was hidden but his hands were trembling. The marshal drew Cristiano aside, took a couple of notes from his pocket and murmured, ‘Tell him to do his shopping. I’m going to be around for a while, so he can pay me back later and, in the meantime, give me your boss’s number—I’ll have a word with him, tell him I’ve got my eye on his business and don’t want to hear any complaints about him. He’ll pay up tomorrow, and he’ll regularize their status, too, you’ll see.’

‘Thanks, Marshal.’

‘It’s an ill wind, as they say. . . .’

The captain’s men seemed to be all down in the newly dug swimming-pool hole. They were working in silence. One of them saw him and waved a negative. They wouldn’t find anything with their metal detectors except junk. The marshal walked on. There had been thunder during the night and, judging by the wet lawns and bushes, some rain. Now the sky was innocent and blue, the birds chirping. Please, God, let the sister have stopped crying. He walked under an archway, through the wing that was being converted. He guessed it had once been the stabling and carriage house, outbuildings of various kinds. He kept close to the walls, where the gravel path was shaded by wooden eaves, and returned to the main part of the house. The garden with its low, geometrical box hedging was on a lower terrace cut into the hillside. Vineyards and an olive grove below and a bit of pasture. Then the perimeter wall. These flower beds looked exhausted and messy after weeks of relentless heat and stagnation. The marshal felt the same. Whatever all that fuzzy flowery stuff confined by the low hedges was, it was dead or dying, and last night’s bit of rain had only helped the weeds. Needed some attention. No sign of a gardener. The studded doors stood open and he could see along the flagged carriageway and out of the front doors that he’d used yesterday. He felt someone was watching him. From inside the passage . . . ? No. After that . . . he walked on a bit, his footsteps loud on the gravel, then stopped. That prickling sensation . . . but where . . . ? Perhaps there was a gardener, after all, and he looked down to his right, scanning the area, but there was no possible place to watch from in that glaring, geometrical emptiness. Turning his gaze straight ahead, he walked forward again and knew for certain that something pale flickered low down to his left. The long barred windows of the kitchen near his feet—or, no, he’d already passed those, must be the other rooms at that level. There had been a door to what would be some sort of servants’ quarters, he remembered. Somebody he still needed to talk to . . . only natural they should be curious. Could be scared, even, given what had happened. Somebody else without a work permit, no doubt. These days. . . .

He walked on to the tower at the end. These oak doors, too, stood open. He’d sent a carabiniere up there with the sister to check for missing objects.

‘And if she shows signs of bursting into tears, bring her
down right away. This was never any robbery, and I want her
in good enough shape to talk, understand?’

The ground floor of the tower was stone-flagged. A shower and a slatted wooden changing room had been built in one corner, and there was an enormous fridge which yesterday’s search had revealed to be crammed with soft drinks and fruit. There was a long, marble-topped table at one side of the room, and deck chairs, beach umbrellas, and a lot of big toys on the other. So the room was servicing the swimming pool outside. The steep stone staircase looked pretty dangerous for a three-year-old to the marshal, and it was certainly hard work for him. As he climbed, he listened for sounds of crying but heard none. And as he listened, he thanked heaven he’d arranged to talk to the sister up here instead of going down to that kitchen again—must remember to ask . . . that flicker of a face watching him. Hadn’t the sister said yesterday there was nobody in the house except herself and her mother? Sitting down there in that cellar-kitchen in this great place. . . .

Thank goodness for the smooth stone banister. Far too high for a three-year-old. . . .

And why would these rich people receive him in the kitchen, anyway? Some sort of insult, keeping him in his place? No, the prosecutor had gone down there, too, when he’d finally turned up.

‘Uff!’ The last flight.

The carabiniere was on the landing.

‘She says there’s nothing missing.’

‘Was she all right when you took her into the bedroom?’ The bed and the stained rug beside it had been covered with polythene sheeting.

‘She seemed to be. I’ll go down to help the others, unless you need me.’

‘All right—no, wait. Go across the road to the neighbour who was here yesterday. Her name’s Donati, Costanza Donati. Tell her I sent you and ask her if she’s remembered anything else other that what she told me yesterday—which was nothing, but she was pretty agitated. Anybody going in or out of here by car or on foot, other than the people who live here, including the ones they never think to tell you about, postman, delivery, you know the form. Anybody hanging around in the last few days, and. . . .’ He drew the younger man away from the doorway and murmured, ‘Ask if she ever saw the victim going in or out with a man.’

The carabiniere clattered off down the stone stairs. The marshal tapped on the open door.

‘May I?’

She was sitting on a big, white covered sofa, intent on examining a box in her lap. A shaft of sunlight from the open window made red glints on her smooth dark head and glittered in the gold chain running through her fingers. The door that opened on the bedroom was closed now. The trail of stuff through this first room had been cleaned up after the forensics people had finished.

She looked up but didn’t speak. She was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, a cotton skirt, and brown leather sandals. The marshal noticed that her long dark hair hung loose down her back today and that, without the swollen red eyes, she was even prettier than he’d thought.

‘What about the jewellery? You’re sure there’s nothing missing?’

She was twining the gold necklace round her fingers.

‘It’s all here.’

‘You never know, your sister might have bought herself something nice, something valuable.’

‘She couldn’t have. She had no money.’

He stood looking down at her. Her long fingers were opening and closing on the necklace. It wasn’t just a chain, it was wider and as delicately worked as lace and a jewelled cross hung from it. She could easily break it with her nervous hands. Still, at least she wasn’t crying. . . .

‘No money at all? I suppose, this being your parents’ house, she lived here for free and you told me yesterday she worked, that you drove the little boy to summer school yesterday because your sister had to work.’ He spoke gently, chose his words, hoping to avoid another flood of tears.

‘She’s working on her doctoral thesis in Chemistry and she helps out in the registrar’s office at the university sometimes at busy times. They’re busy now because enrolments started in July but she only does a few hours a week. She had no money for buying jewellery.’

‘What about a present from a boyfriend? A ring, even. They may have quarrelled and he took it away because the purchase could be traced, you see, perhaps through a credit card. Did she wear a ring?’

‘No. Can I keep this? I want to keep it. Daddy gave it to her for her First Communion.’

Her face flushed on the instant she said it. Tears welled up.

‘Of course. You want something to remember her by. You don’t have to explain. Consider it yours, but just leave it here for the moment. It will no doubt all be yours once this investigation’s over.’

‘I don’t want anything else.’

‘You think about it later. I’m sure your sister would have wanted you to have them, or your mother, perhaps. They look like very nice pieces. Are those real diamonds there?’

‘Of course they’re real, and I don’t want any of them! I’m not interested in jewellery!’

‘Try not to get agitated. Breathe deeply.’

She did as she was told, lifting up her face, keeping her big dark eyes fixed on him, appealing for help.

‘That’s right. Deeply and slowly. I have to ask you questions, but there’s no hurry. If you get too upset or tired, we’ll stop and carry on tomorrow. All right?’

She nodded, her fingers still clutching the necklace, her gaze still fixed on him, thick dark lashes fringing the unblinking eyes. . . .

‘All right. Tell me a little about yourself.’ The upsetting bits would have to be dealt with a bit at a time, at long intervals. ‘You were looking after your little nephew yesterday. Does that mean you don’t work? Keep breathing deeply. There’s no hurry.’

‘I’m all right. I’ll be all right. I help Daddy in his office, but not full-time.’

The flush was fading, thank God.

‘I see. What sort of office is it?’

‘A staffing agency. We place people in jobs, domestic mostly, some secretarial.’

Obedient to his instructions, she was breathing deeply, very audibly.

‘I see. So, if I needed a cook or a gardener, I’d come to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘At least, I would if I could afford it.’

‘Our fees are no higher than anyone else’s.’

‘I’m sure they’re not. I only meant I couldn’t afford a cook or a gardener.’ He smiled to indicate that he hadn’t meant it seriously.

‘Oh. . . .’ She did a fleeting imitation of his smile and the fixed stare returned.

‘You’re lucky to live in this beautiful place.’ He didn’t mean that seriously, either, because he wouldn’t like to live in this sad old house whose roots were being torn up by bulldozers. So empty. Yet, behind her head, beyond the open window, was a perfect panorama of Florence below a serene summer sky.