Pietro sat sideways on the driver’s seat, the car door open and his legs outside, feet on the ground. He had lit another cigarette and pulled himself to his feet as the two policemen approached, but then realised that standing wasn’t a good idea, so he sat down again. His hands were shaky and he felt queasy. It must be delayed shock, as he’d felt alright before. He put his head down and took a deep breath. The policemen stopped in front of him. A voice asked, “Are you the person that phoned for the ambulance?”
He heard himself answer, “Yes.”
One of the policemen pulled out a notebook and took down his name and address. Then he asked for his driving licence and verified them.
He asked, “Would you like to tell us what happened?” while the other one bent over the front of Pietro’s car examining it with his torch. Pietro was beginning to find the situation unreal. It slowly dawned on him that they wouldn’t believe him. They would think he had run the boy over himself! He pulled himself together and said in a firm voice, “I was driving home and as I came round the bend, I straightened up, and there he was. Someone had run him over and left him there.” He hoped it sounded truthful.
“Yes sir. Was the boy lying as you found him, or did you move him at all?”
“No, I didn’t move him. I only tried to feel his pulse at the wrist, but I couldn’t find it, so I tried in the throat region and there was a pulse, so I rushed back to my car and phoned for an ambulance. They told me not to touch him at all, and I didn’t.” He felt he had been speaking too fast. He looked at them and hoped he was being convincing but he was beginning to feel really worried.
“Well, I think it would be better if you were to accompany us to the police station and I would prefer you to leave your car here.”
They all moved towards the police car, where the senior of the two phoned through for someone to come to the scene of the accident and thoroughly check his car. With a sense of impending doom he got into the police car and was driven up to the town. It was three forty-five a.m and he didn’t think he would be going to bed at all that night.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Morning. The sun was shining in a relentlessly blue sky. A flock of birds screamed past before settling on a telephone wire. Shops were opening, the wooden shutters being removed by hand, carted inside and stacked against a wall until evening when, seemingly heavier, they would be replaced and the shops shut once again. Now the doors would remain open, with bead curtains in the doorway, that clattered, announcing the arrival of customers, and offered effective protection against flies, creating an inner gloom, which was also cool.
A housewife was cleaning the area immediately outside her front door, swilling buckets of disinfectant to counteract the pervasive odour of cat urine, which the local tomcats would renew the next night, and the next.
The old town clung to the mountainside tenaciously, the houses piled on top of each other, the narrow roads winding through the town, and branching off into tiny Vicoli, or steep steps, all leading upwards to the Duomo, the cathedral that crowned the town. Dr. Ruggero di Girolamo stood in the ample piazza outside the Duomo. It had a commanding view of the Apuan Alps, and the valley below. The roofs of the houses were compact and often effectively hid from view the tiny, cobbled roads that ran between them, or even under them, so that some houses had a room suspended over the road. The air was crystal clear and it was cool: the best time of day.
He ran swiftly down the steep cobbled road that would lead him to the Porta Medicea, or main gate to the old town, and then down to the sprawling, modern part of the town, which contained most of its inhabitants, and spread downwards to join the main road in the valley. He walked briskly along the main street, passing the shoe shop, which was tastefully decorated, belts snaking amongst the shoes or over the branches that made up the window display; past the ice cream parlour, which was now serving coffee and brioches to early morning customers; past the travel agency, with flights to Glasgow and London which were the prime attraction; past the estate agent where Tuscan country houses were for sale in two languages; and turned the corner past the bank and the cinema, increasing his pace as he walked down the tree lined road that led to the police station.
He had slept in Borgo San Cristoforo, because he would be interviewing the Proctors this morning. Sitting at his desk with the case file in front of him, he leafed through the contents and fingered the photographs thoughtfully. He had asked Nigel and Robin to be at the police station, for further questioning, at nine o’clock. He took out the photographs of Ettore Fagiolo’s body in the pool, and close-up photos of the head wound that had contributed to, but not caused his death, and arranged them to maximum effect, on his desk, before pressing a buzzer on his table. The door was opened by a young policeman, who was doing his military service on the force as an alternative to the army.
“Yes Sir?”
“Have they arrived?”
“The English couple?”
“Yes.”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“You can always trust the English to be punctual. Send in Robin Pierce.”
“Yes sir.” The door closed and his footsteps receded at a smart pace.
Nigel and Robin were sitting next to each other in the waiting room, looking tense.
“Robin Pierce,” the policeman said, putting his head round the door.
She looked up and murmured faintly, “Yes.”
“Come with me please.”
“Nigel,” she said in a shaky voice “Do I have to go on my own?”
“Yes, you’ll be all right, he won’t eat you,” Nigel smiled at her reassuringly.
She teetered after the young man, her heels slithering slightly on the polished floor.
She was ushered into the room and took a seat facing Di Girolamo. She tried a tentative smile. “Buon giorno Dottore.”
“Buon giorno,” he said crisply. His fingers tapped the photographs in front of him, so that her eyes were drawn to them. These interviews would be in English as the English couple hadn’t even grasped the most elementary rules of Italian grammar. They could understand well enough, but he considered they would be at a disadvantage when speaking.
“I have asked you to come today because I want to ask you one easy question.” He looked into her eyes. “Why did you not tell me that you came back to the Villa Rosa on the night of the murder?”
“Was it important?” she gasped.
“Answer the question.”
“Well, Nigel had forgotten some documents, and we turned back. We had a lot of time in hand.”
“Continue,” he barked.
“Well, he went into the house, got them and we drove off. That’s all.”
“I see. That is not the answer to my question. Why did you not tell me?”
“It didn’t seem important.”
“That was for me to judge. Did you know that omitting to give me this information could be construed as withholding evidence?”
“No, no, it wasn’t that. It just wasn’t important. What did it matter?” She sounded more confident now.
Di Girolamo shuffled the photos around, revealing the autopsy photos, which were shocking, even to him. Robin’s eyes followed the movements of his hands. She looked away.
“Perhaps you didn’t tell me, because you knew that Nigel had killed Ettore and you were frightened I would find out.”
“Oh my God, that blackmailing little shit has told you a load of lies. You can’t believe him!” She sounded incredulous.
“Yes,” said Ruggero firmly, having no idea what she was talking about. “I’m afraid I do. Things look very bad for Nigel.”
“But surely you don’t really believe him? He’s a pathological liar. Nigel only paid him off, because he didn’t want to be hassled by this. It’s not true, none of it. You mustn’t listen to him.”
“I have to listen to anyone who has information concerning the case, and I have to investigate. You have admitted you were there, but you tell me nothing happene
d. My informant says otherwise,” he lied.
“But he’s lying. You can’t possibly believe what he says. Anyway why should you believe him, rather than us? It’s our word against his really, isn’t it? Perhaps he did it himself?”
“Perhaps he did. Perhaps you did. How can I tell?” He spread his hands. “It seems probable that Nigel could be guilty. You see, Ettore Fagiolo was in Nigel’s house, and Nigel was already angry with him. I think that he argued with him, fought with him and finally killed him.”
Robin felt tears spring to her eyes. “Please believe me, there was nothing to hide, no evidence was withheld, no crime was committed. Nigel wouldn’t hurt a fly and I don’t see how you can prove otherwise.”
“You defend him well, this husband. Tell me, why should my informant tell me lies?”
“How should I know? Everyone knows he was crazy about Ettore, so he’s telling lies about Nigel because he knew they’d quarrelled.”
“It is possible. Or as you say, he could have done it himself, but again, why should he?”
“Perhaps they had a quarrel, a lover’s tiff that got really nasty.”
Ruggero digested this information and replied calmly “I think that very unlikely.”
“Well, to me it’s no more unlikely than Nigel doing it.”
They remained in silence for a while. Di Girolamo judged that he would get no further information of any use from her, so he pressed the buzzer summoning the young policeman again. “Thank you for your help. I have no doubt that we will meet again,” he said, dismissing her, and then, to the conscript, “See her out, you know which way. Then bring him in.”
Robin was accompanied to a different room and asked kindly to wait for Nigel there. The door was closed firmly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nigel had almost expected Robin to be in the room with Di Girolamo, but found they were alone. He made no comment. The photos were in evidence, and the Italian kept moving them around, so he averted his eyes. He thought it was a typical police trick. It seemed obvious that this Dr Ruggero di Girolamo was trying to make him feel upset, soften him up, before he began questioning him. Well it wasn’t going to work. He straightened his shoulders, blew his nose, and looked the policeman squarely in the eyes. Ruggero felt like laughing at this ridiculous Englishman, who would be ready to defend the British Empire, if there still was one, and was trying so hard to look as pure as snow, when, as Ruggero well knew, his life would not bear scrutiny. He remained silent for a moment while he decided on his tactics.
Then suddenly he barked out, “Robin Pierce has just confessed that she knows that you killed Ettore Fagiolo on the night of July 8th, having come back unexpectedly and surprised him in your house.” He stared at Nigel, whose ruddy face took on a darker hue, which then spread down to his neck.
“Liar!” shouted Nigel, as though outraged at the enormity of this statement, his eyes bulging from their orbits, his neck straining, with all the cords in evidence, as he thrust his chin even higher.
One up to him, thought Di Girolamo. It was hard to fight these people. To start with they had an inborn sense of superiority, and that gave them the confidence and the authority to bluster their way out of situations in which others would become bogged down, and swallowed up. The only way to get anything resembling the truth, would be to use the cunning for which Italians were renowned ever since Macchiavelli had set down instructions to his prince. He’d held his own pretty well with Robin, but this man was going to be very wearing. He felt almost bored at the thought of going through the whole thing all over again. He knew it would be more or less the same, and he was sure that he would learn nothing new. Stifling a yawn he stared at the window, wishing he were out in the sunshine. Perhaps tonight he would attend the open-air concert. He had heard instrumentalists practising in the school this morning, as he went past, and he was fond of Baroque music.
He glanced at the reports on his desk. There was nothing of any interest to him. There had been an accident, hit and run. There had been several break-ins and quite a few people on their summer holidays had lost valuables and electrical equipment, televisions, V.C.R’s and even computers. It always surprised him that these delinquents knew exactly when a family would be on holiday. Even those who had paid for the local security service to check on their houses had had break-ins, and their wall safes ripped out. For such a small area it did seem rather a high rate. This intimate knowledge of people’s movements would seem to indicate local offenders, but the expertise seemed very professional. He sighed, it wasn’t his problem, thank God! Just imagine dealing with irate householders in this heat! Actually, given the summer increase in the crime rate, he supposed that the burglar theory could explain the Fagiolo murder. He just didn’t believe it.
With a sigh he turned his attention back to Nigel, who was looking around the room in an attempt to show how at ease he felt. He coughed, to gain Nigel’s attention.
“Why did you pay the blackmailer?”
Nigel looked disconcerted. One point to me, thought Di Girolamo and continued staring at Nigel, who was obviously thinking furiously and finally came up with an answer.
“To avoid misunderstandings.”
“Ah, misunderstandings. I see. You mean that, had I known of your return to the Villa Rosa, I might have misunderstood and thought that you had been involved in this vicious murder.” His hand indicated the photos.
“Yes, and I was right. That is exactly what you are thinking.” He sounded more in control.
Damn, thought Di Girolamo, I’ll have to flummox him again.
“Why do you think the blackmailer took your money, but then decided to inform me anyway?”
“I have no idea.”
“Come on, I am sure you can hazard a guess.”
“Well, perhaps he was feeling vindictive, and once he’d got a little money out of me, enough to immediately satisfy his habit, he decide to throw me to the wolves. I mean I don’t know what he told you, but most of it was bound to be lies.”
“Why did you go down to the pool?” Ruggero decided to risk asking.
“I didn’t. Did he tell you that? I think if you are going to follow this line, I should have a legal representative.”
“As you wish. I am not charging you.”
“No you’re not. Because you don’t have any proof to back up your allegations, which are based on the lies told you by a little drug-addict.”
Ruggero sighed again. How predictable this man was. He felt there was no point in continuing the interview, as there was no more to be gained.
“The police are bound to investigate all allegations. That is all I have been doing,” he lied. “It would have been better if you had told me yourself, that you had returned to your house that night. Perhaps I would have been less suspicious, but you do see the position in which you have put yourself. If you are innocent then you have nothing to fear by telling the truth.”
“I doubt that, but I am innocent. The truth is that I came back, got my papers and left immediately. I didn’t tell you because I knew that you would think I was involved in this murder, but I wasn’t. I had nothing whatever to do with it, and you can’t prove that I did.” He tilted his chin in a belligerent manner.
Di Girolamo stood up rather abruptly. “Thank you for your co-operation. Please do not leave the town for the moment.” He put his finger on the buzzer, and when the conscript arrived, made a hand movement which meant, get him out of here, then he walked over to the cupboard and made a pretence of looking through the files there, leaving Nigel to go without further salutation. “Bring me a coffee,” he barked over his shoulder.
Well, he had gained some valuable information. Nigel was being blackmailed, and had paid up. The blackmailer was a drug addict and a friend/lover of Ettore. He had not heard that Ettore was gay. When the young conscript came back with his coffee, he asked him if Maresciallo Biagioni was free for a chat. He would be bound to know who this blackmailer was. One step at a time he was getting closer
to the murderer.
At the other end of town, Augusta Fagiolo had just taken her glass bottles to the bell-shaped glass refuse container. On her way she surreptitiously slipped an envelope from her pocket into the post box on the corner. She had seen no one yet that morning. She did not like gossiping, and divided her time equally between church and home, so she knew nothing of the news, spreading like wildfire through the town, that Marco was at death’s door. Had she known she might have thought that God had struck him down for his wickedness.
She was wearing an old pair of slippers that flapped softly on the pavements. As she walked along, she was muttering prayers, and one hand was in her pocket holding her rosary. She felt evil all around her and had been sleeping badly since she had found the photographs. Images had burned themselves onto her retina, into her brain.
Someone else in town was very pleased to know that Marco was at death’s door, that person hoped that very soon Marco would be joining his lover. In fact, had all gone as it should have, he would have already been with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Gino and Alda Rossi sat side by side on the uncomfortable beige plastic and chrome hospital chairs. They had the hopeless look of those who have been waiting for an interminable time. Alda had reddened eyes, and still clutched a handkerchief. They sat in silence as they had nothing left to say to each other.
At last a masked green-robed figure with sterile overshoes and head covering, emerged from the swing doors, tearing at his mask. They rose together from their chairs and took a couple of steps towards him, but he stopped them saying, “No, no. Please be seated.”
Alda felt her legs weaken at his words and sank back into her chair. Gino remained standing until the doctor himself took a chair and sat down facing them. “The operation was successful, under the circumstances. We have done the best we can, but the injury was very serious, as I told you before I started operating. The wound was lacerated, fragments of bone had penetrated the brain, and there was earth and other debris in the wound. There was also a haemorrhage within the brain. We have cleaned up, removed the bone fragments and repaired everything that we could, but, as you know, the brain is the most delicate of all our organs. I’m very sorry, but I can’t tell you that he will live, or, that if he does, he will be normal. We will be able to judge better later.”
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 11