“I have heard another version of the facts. I have heard that you left before you were kicked out, that the committee was bound to vote unanimously to throw you out.”
“Of course it would, with Diana as President. The committee votes the way she wants it to. If your source of information is that …Miriam Greene, then you've no doubt heard a version that has very little to do with the truth.”
“I was told your work was generally unsatisfactory, and detrimental to the St Christopher Festival.”
“Well, that's an opinion, but take it from me, it was Diana who wanted to get rid of me.”
“Why?”
“She wanted someone she could manipulate.”
“Was that why you killed her, to show that she couldn't manipulate you?” He barked the question quite harshly. “Or was it a form of revenge?”
The little man, turned such a deep shade of red and wheezed so alarmingly, that Di Girolamo thought he might be about to have an apoplectic fit. “What!” he gasped. “What rubbish! You can't be serious.”
“No, I don't think I am, but you could have done it, you know.”
“Well, I didn't.”
“As I have no proof that you left the hotel, then I have to say that, for now, I believe you.”
“Thank God for that. You had me frightened there for a minute. One hears such dreadful things; police brutality and the like… Can I go now? I'm due to record a tribute to Diana and Pier Francesco, for the television. They'll be putting it out on the evening news, nation wide, not just regional RAI Three station.”
“I'm sure that will be good for your career. I'll make a point of watching it.”
“Well, knowing what you know, I'm sure you'll find it quite amusing.” He heaved himself from his chair and took himself off. An opportunist, but not a murderer.
Anna Gonnella turned out to be a very beautiful, sensual woman. She wasn’t a girl, but a woman. She used very few aids to beauty. Her lips were full, her green eyes were fringed with black lashes, and her black hair hung straight and shiny as a raven’s wing to her chin. Her figure was not fashionably thin. She had broad hips which curved voluptuously from a very small waist. She was fairly tall, for a woman, and had large breasts. She wore clothes that accentuated her figure, without clinging to it, or appearing vulgar. She looked to be in her late twenties. Di Girolamo, who had checked her identity card before meeting her, knew she was thirty five and had a daughter of eight. Her husband was thirty eight and looked very tough and attractive, in a rough way. ‘The stereotype of a lorry driver,’ he thought, ‘in the same way that a thin man with glasses might be the stereotype for an intellectual.’
They met at the back entrance of the estate, and Di Girolamo led her in to the shelter of some bushes, before talking to her.
“Would you please tell me where you were on Saturday afternoon, between two thirty and four?”
“I was here. Olly picked me up at about two fifteen, and we stayed together until four, or maybe a little later. My daughter was with friends, so there was no hurry.”
“You would swear to that?”
“Yes, but I would hope not in court.” She had a rather deep voice and Di Girolamo found her very attractive. She suddenly said, “Please do not judge me.”
“Signora, I do not judge people. All I want is to be one hundred per cent certain that you were with Orlando, all afternoon. You will have to give me a written statement to that effect, and it may be produced as evidence. I have no need to remind you of the consequences of perjury. This is a murder, in case you have forgotten. I can’t allow your personal problems to stand in my way, but I do assure that I will only use your statement, if I absolutely have to.”
“If you do use it, and it is made public, then I cannot bear to think what will happen. My husband is a violent man. I made a mistake marrying him. I have to live with that. There is no way out. When my child is older, maybe, but not now.”
“Sometimes things are not as bad as they seem.”
“No, sometimes they’re worse. I live as a prisoner, and I feel like a prostitute. There is no love. I have to stay with him. I try to make the best of it. I empty my mind when I’m with him. My daughter is the only one that counts. If you think Olly killed his mother, you’re crazy. If it had been my husband, then maybe he could have done it, but not his mother.”
“He loves you?”
“Yes.”
“I see. How long has he been your lover?”
“Three years. No one knows. No one at all, apart from one friend, and believe me, that’s not easy in a small town.” She paused, “Prepare a statement and I’ll sign it, but do your best not to use it.” Her voice was low, and he felt drawn in to this secret world of theirs; almost an accomplice.
He met with the Maresciallo again for lunch. It was a wonderful way of combining business with pleasure, and was very agreeable to his colleague as well.
“Look, this is the situation. We have Ambra without an alibi, and with a motive, which she denies, but witnesses tell us that her mother had said she would marry him, and I quote,' over her dead body’.” He took a sip of wine and continued. “Then we have Riccardo, who looks very promising, even if you have known the family for years. He has a motive, the same as Ambra, plus he wants the money. Also he had opportunity, and he was seen going in the direction of the house, at the right time. And he lied, and you know my theory about liars. Also, no one was better placed to know that the axe was there. In fact, he may well have left it there for that purpose. Even worse, his was the only fingerprint we found on it.
Reluctantly, we move on to Francesca, who denies motive, but it is true that she argued with her mother, and was being kicked out. She also had opportunity, because although her car was parked ostentatiously all afternoon in one place, she could well have reached the house by some other means. Is there a bicycle in the new house?”
“I doubt it. Can you see her bicycling in the heat to and fro’ the Villa? Someone would have seen her.”
“Well, it’s technically possible although, I agree, unlikely. Let’s move on. I have seen Giorgio Paconi, and I really think we can eliminate him. I doubt he'd have the strength to do it. The man can hardly breathe.
Then there's Chiara, whom I have yet to see. It’ll be interesting to hear her explain the presence of horse dung and the partial print of a riding boot, near the pergola when everyone says she didn’t go near it. Her motive? Again money, for her riding school project. Opportunity? Well, no one saw her after three o'clock, so she was alone and could easily have done it. She’s a strong girl too. Now who else have we got?” he riffled through a folder.
“Cosimo, I’m afraid is probably out. The timing’s all wrong. His mother had been dead for nearly an hour, by the time he arrived. I can't understand why he thought it would be to his advantage to have us believe he arrived earlier. It put him right on the spot. Unless of course he wanted us to think he must be innocent, because otherwise he would not have lied to his disadvantage.”
“Is his alibi totally reliable?” asked the Maresciallo.
“I'm still trying to have it verified. We can't have the word of one young man as his alibi. Besides from what the police on the coast tell us, his evidence was hardly disinterested. I understand he is a homosexual.”
“You mean that Cosimo is queer? Sorry, I mean homosexual. I would never have thought so.” His tone was one of shocked wonderment.
“Come, come, Maresciallo, I thought I’d got you over being shocked.”
“Thank God, his mother isn't alive to find out.”
“I'm sure she would have been far less easily shocked than you are. Let us move on. Now, Arturo the worm. Well he had the opportunity, but it's very dicey timing. He had to get there, do it, and get back again to the pool before his wife came back, and don’t forget he couldn’t know how long she would be absent. But it is possible. As for the motive, well, primarily money, but I must say that living there sounds pretty awful, and as I said yesterday, even
a worm can turn.
Emily. Now Emily is mentally unbalanced. She could have done it, and then gone into shock, some of them do; you know that, but I don’t know that we could prove it. She certainly had the opportunity, and admits being there at the right time. We’d need a confession. If all else fails we’ll have to lean on her. At least there’s a chance she’ll break, if it was her.” Di Girolamo ate some soup and waited for Maresciallo Biagioni's comments. He knew the local man would defend Riccardo Bertollini.
Maresciallo Biagioni shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Look, I think Emily is definitely in the clear. She was devoted to her mother. You didn’t see her afterwards; she was in a terrible state. Still, I suppose anything’s possible. She may have amnesia for the terrible thing she did. That happens. Then there’s Arturo. Well, as you said, the timing's tight. As for Ambra, she’s pregnant, and I don't like to think that a pregnant woman would wield an axe, but, it’s true that she had the best opportunity and a very strong motive. However, in my opinion, Orlando seems the most likely to me, unless of course Cosimo's alibi turns out to be false. He, of course, as you know, was my first prime suspect,” stated Maresciallo Biagioni.
“Yes, Orlando was looking good for it, but he does have an alibi again; he was with a woman. I think it’s a valid one, because she confirmed it, but I’d hate to have to use it in a court though, as the poor girl looked pretty desperate.”
“Which girl?”
“Anna Gonnella. Do you know her?”
“Anna Gonnella, you said? Yes I do know her.”
“Apparently her husband is violent, or so she says.”
“Well, she’s right. Her husband is a devil. He’s been warned a couple of times about using his fists. He solves all his problems like that. He’s had a go at her too, everyone knows. You’ll see her out with a black eye, or a split lip, and you know damn well it’s him. Once she went to the hospital with two broken ribs, but she said she had fallen over. What can I do? My hands are tied unless she accuses him, and she’ll never do it. If he found out about this affair, he would kill her, or as near as damn it.”
“I see. Well, we’ll do our best not to use it. Let’s hope we arrest someone else, and soon. The thing is that this boy, Orlando, well he’s a man really though one tends to forget it, spends money, loses money and needs money, all the time. He is probably the one with the most convincing motive.”
“I agree.” said the Maresciallo firmly.
“So, to sum up, who are the main suspects? Riccardo, Ambra, Orlando, Emily, Arturo, and possibly Chiara. Also unless his alibi can be confirmed, Cosimo is still in the running and, don't let us forget, there was that bloodstain on his shirt cuff.”
“Is that your order of preference, or of probability?”
“It’s not in any order at all.”
“Who do you fancy?” asked the Maresciallo.
“Orlando. She might be giving him an alibi, but he could have left her at any time and done it, and she could be covering for him. Maybe if they have enough money, she’ll risk it and run away from her husband, taking the child with her, to some remote and safe place, with Orlando, of course. If she was desperate enough, she may even have had prior knowledge. Perhaps they planned the whole thing together”
“It's possible. I thought you would say Riccardo was your first choice.”
“No, he’s my number two. What about you?”
“Definitely not Riccardo. I agree that it was probably Orlando, with or without the active cooperation of his lover. If Cosimo’s alibi falls through, then it was definitely him, otherwise, I favour Ambra. I don’t believe that after an argument like that, they were behaving normally the next day. It doesn’t ring true. Her mother had just told her that she would marry Riccardo ‘over her dead body’ and she was about to sack him, so Ambra might have been desperate enough, but not Riccardo. He probably didn’t believe that the row was that terrible, after all he wasn’t present. Anyway, he’s straight as a die. I know him.”
“I’ll be seeing Chiara this evening. Maybe she’ll have some useful information. Maybe she did it? We’ll see. There is just one other strange thing. Take a look at this.” He showed the Maresciallo the enlargement that he had had made of the footprints.”
“Interesting, but there are the other prints all over it, there’s only a fraction of it visible.”
“Yes, but it had to have been made that day, because there was that storm, which washed all the ground smooth during the night, even that inside the pergola, so when was it made, and by whom?”
“You think it’s vital?”
“Could be. I’ve got some ideas, but I’ll keep them to myself for now.”
Di Girolamo packed the files back in his briefcase. The restaurant owner had given them a small back room to themselves, and they had enjoyed a vegetable soup, followed by a slice from a giant meat loaf, known as a ‘polpettone’ and string beans. They had finished with fresh strawberries, and then a stiff coffee, ‘ristretto’.
“Does Hilary cook well?” asked the Maresciallo, out of the blue.
“Yes, she does.”
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” said the Maresciallo jovially.
“Perhaps you’d like an invitation one evening, when all this is over? Or would your wife find it awkward having to dine with two sinners?”
“Come on, we’re not that old-fashioned here.”
“I rather had the feeling that you were, you know. Your disapproval is like a wet blanket on my good spirits.”
“I’m sorry. I’d just like to see the pair of you being a little more discrete. I mean this is a small town, and people talk. First there was Bruno, and I think most people thought he and Hilary would get married, but now…”
“Good heavens man. Why are you so concerned about it?”
“Well, I knew her husband, and I, well, alright…it's none of my business.”
“I see. Well, I suppose it's understandable.”
He looked at the Maresciallo and added, “Please don’t say anything else.”
They walked on in silence. Then the Maresciallo blurted out, “Look I know you've only known her just over a month, but it's awkward. It's different in a big town, that's all I'm saying. You have to think of her reputation. It looks furtive, you know just coming up on and off. People think you're married and having a bit on the side.”
“Please stop now. I don't give a damn, and neither does she. Alright? I don't feel the need to justify what I do, and neither does she. I'm sorry if I offend your sensibilities.”
“I know I'm old fashioned.”
“Good. I’m glad you do, because you are. So let's say no more.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Chiara stepped gingerly out of the car, assisted by Orlando. It was more, or less, forty-eight hours since her fall, and she still felt shaky, but the headache was much better.
“Can you manage the stairs? I could carry you, if you like.”
“No, you couldn’t. I’m nearly as big as you are. No, just give me a hand and we’ll take it slowly.”
Her broken arm was in a plaster cast and a sling. It was heavy and she felt a little unbalanced, but finally they made it to the top.
“Take a deep breath, and prepare yourself for Auntie B.”
“Poor old thing. How is she?”
“Looks awful, even older than last time. I think she’s ill.”
“Poor love. It must be hard for her, this …” she searched for a word “all this,” she finished lamely. “I mean, she loved mother, and well, I expect she thought she’d go first.”
“Well, see what you think, but I think she’s really ill. Emily keeps fussing around her, and Arturo is being ultra charming. It’s revolting. Perhaps they’re hoping to be remembered in her will.”
“Oh Olly. You are wicked!"
“I know but, really, Emily is driving us all mad.”
“Come on, I feel strong enough to go in.”
They went into
the drawing room, where the rest of the family were drinking their afternoon tea. Chiara noticed her aunt immediately, and saw that Olly was right. Even allowing for grief, Aunt Beatrice was ill. She felt tears rising to her eyes, and cried, “Aunt Beatrice, come and sit beside me.” The old lady came and put her thin hands on the girl’s shoulders as though to brace her.
“My dear girl. Are you fit to be home?”
“Oh yes. I hated being in hospital. I prefer to be here.”
“What did the doctors say?”
“That I’ll be fine. I’ve got a hard head, and the arm was only a simple fracture. They’ll take this off in three or four week’s time. I’ll manage. What about you? You don’t look well. Are you ill?”
“Don’t let’s talk about that now.” Her freckled, bony hand patted Chiara’s smooth young one. “This is a sad thing. I understand your brothers and sisters are organising a private funeral for the day after tomorrow. I’ll stay for that and then a few days longer. Perhaps I can be of some help, moral support and so on, but after that I’ll leave, and you’ll have to sort out your lives alone. Always remember though, that as long as I am alive, I will help you in any way that I can.”
“Thank you. You’re a lovely person. What would I do without you?” She gave her aunt a kiss on her wrinkled cheek and was surprised to feel that her skin was cold. It felt thin, stretched tenuously, paper thin over the muscles that were wasting beneath it. At that moment she realised that her aunt was dying, oh not immediately maybe, but it would be soon. Olly gave her a cup of tea.
“Did you stir it? Because with one hand, life is a little more difficult.”
“Yes, I did. I know what it’s like; remember when I did it, skiing? That arm has never been the same since. It was a lot worse than yours though, bones splintered and sticking out all over the place. Don’t you remember?”
“God, I must have been about five. How am I supposed to remember?”
“Yes, I suppose you were, I was only eighteen. They sent me to Bologna, there was a very good orthopaedic surgeon there, and he cleaned up all the mess Anyway apart from the scars, and the weakness, I’m as good as new.”
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 44