The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  "Yes. I'm sure they would, but I need Signora Smith to confirm that it is the body she found, and that the scene appears to be unaltered since she left it."

  "But Sir, it's terrible."

  "They know that. You forget the Signora found him." They all moved forwards, Hilary, very apprehensively, as her only brush with a dead body had been the previous summer, and that had been a comparatively simple one. The thought of witnessing a tortured body was not pleasant. The clearing enabled them to stand side by side and shine their torches together towards the tree trunk that danced and flickered in the moving lights, the face that leered from it, seemingly staring in amusement at them.

  "Jesus Christ," hissed Hilary, as they all moved forwards and the desecration of the body became evident. She turned away feeling tears rise to her eyes. Maresciallo Biagioni moved a little closer, then stopped.

  "Rossi, put tape round the area, we can do nothing here until the lab boys have been over it." He shone his torch carefully onto the dead boy’s face, then moved forwards and slid his hand into the jacket pocket, extracting an I.D card He opened it and read it carefully.

  "Well, I'm afraid it's the missing boy. Thank God his parents can't see what's been done to him." He turned to Hilary, "Ask the Signora if he was exactly like this when she found him." Isabelle who now seemed more in control of herself, said that yes, he had been exactly like that. She asked Hilary if they knew who he was, and when she said yes, he had been notified as missing yesterday evening, she asked, "Poor boy, how old was he?"

  "Sixteen."

  The rest of the evening was a nightmare. Policemen came to set up a tent over the area, as it was now threatening to rain, if not snow. It was certainly cold enough for snow. The police photographer had been, and gone. The medical examiner had given a cursory examination. The Prefect had allowed them to remove the body, and had returned to finish an interrupted meal, actually a five course dinner, in his honour, given by his family to celebrate his sixtieth birthday. Hilary and Isabelle had gone back to the house and sat there while cars arrived and departed, men shouted, and equipment was moved about. The incomprehensible staccato cackle of car radios and the flashing lights, gave the evening a surreal feeling. Isabelle moved to the window and firmly shut the inner wooden shutters against this intrusion into her world. They stoked up the fire, and watched the flames dancing. They had little to say to each other this evening. Any conversation would have seemed futile, and to talk about the murder was the last thing either of them wanted. At ten Hilary started out of her chair as she saw Ruggero look into the room.

  "Ruggero!" she cried. "Have you come to see me or are you on the case?"

  "Both. Look I'll sort this out for you as soon as possible, so you can get home to bed."

  "I think I should take Isabelle home with me. She can't stay here."

  "I'll sort it out, give me a few minutes." He disappeared but true to his word was back almost immediately and shortly afterwards the two women left, driving away from the scene of horror, back to apparent civilisation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The autopsy on the body of Giovanni Lazzerini, aged 16, performed with uncustomary haste, the next afternoon, December 15th, revealed the cause of death to be from internal haemorrhaging. A metal broomstick had been thrust with such violence into the boy's body that it had ruptured the intestine in several places. There was also a small fracture at the base of the cranium. Death had occurred on the night of December 13th, and based on the analysis of the stomach contents, and information about the time of the last meal, could be pinpointed at between 10.0 and 11.0p.m, but definitely not after midnight.

  The rictus, observed with such horror by Isabelle, had been caused by a small black, plastic rubbish bag, which had been made into a ball and rammed into the boy's mouth, probably to prevent the victim from screaming. Cords had been tied around the wrists and feet, at some point, but were not present. Results of the examination of scrapings from the nails, dust and fibres from the hair and clothing would not be available until later.

  Examination of the murder scene, had revealed quite a large amount of debris, some of which had obviously been there for some time, and the surprising number of weather battered, used condoms, suggested that the place was used as a summer rendezvous. The area could be reached via a small footpath, from the rough dirt road that led up from the main road and served a few outlying farms. It was a secondary road to Altamura, but was used infrequently, especially in winter, because it was potholed, and in bad weather, muddy and icy. The small footpath showed signs of evident disturbance, consistent with the dragging of a body, and it was without doubt the way the boy had been brought here to the clearing.

  Dr Ruggero di Girolamo, who by now was familiar with the area, once again found himself in charge of a murder investigation, his third here since the previous summer, in what had been considered, until then, a quiet backwater, with a low crime rate in general, and an almost negligible homicide rate.

  He looked gloomily at the results available, and felt unaccountably depressed. Usually he felt a rush of adrenalin at the start of an investigation, but not this time. Perhaps it was because of the nature of the crime, so barbaric, and smacking of perversion. He preferred a nice clean shot, and an identifiable bullet, but this was unprecedented, and clues were almost non-existent.

  Then of course there was this other personal thing, gnawing at him, his need to talk to Hilary, and his own need to digest what he had been told in Florence. He had arrived home the day before wanting to discuss the whole thing with her, but it had been impossible. He had hardly seen her since the murder because he had spent most of the previous day crawling about the woods, and driving up and down the back road. He turned his thoughts back to the investigation.

  He had organised men to ask at each and every house or farm about what traffic they had seen, or heard on the evening in question. Others were interviewing the boy's friends. He himself had spoken to the distraught and bewildered parents, but had gleaned little of use.

  Maresciallo Biagioni knocked and entered. He looked as unhappy as Ruggero.

  "This is going to be a tough one," he said, sitting down heavily.

  "I know. We've had nothing useful yet. No one heard or saw anything that evening. His family… well, they had nothing to tell me. There had been no threats, no nasty letters, nothing. So far, from the interviews you’ve given me, the kids he knew seem to be as much in the dark as we are, and the boys he was with that evening had no idea where he was going, or with whom."

  "Well, we haven't finished yet, maybe someone will come up with something useful. I don't know what things are coming to. First that baby in a plastic bag, and now this. I've never known anything like it." He shook his head in disbelief. He had come to Borgo San Cristoforo to spend the last few years before retirement in his home town, a quiet job, no big crime scene here, and within the last few months had found himself face to face with murder, three times.

  "Is the baby still alive?"

  "Yes, she's still holding her own. People want to adopt her. She's big news on the television. Last night doctors made an appeal for the mother to come forward, but she won't of course."

  "No, I suppose not. Still, it could be a very frightened adolescent, who panicked and regrets dumping the baby."

  "Yes, there was one near Naples I seem to remember, that turned up, absolutely horrified by what she'd done, said she had no memory of it. But for the one who turns up, there are ten who won't, and then of course there are the ones who get found out."

  "Well, unless she needs medical attention, there's little chance of that. To get back to the boy, Giovanni Lazzerini, I think I will interview the boys he was with that evening, myself, so fix that up would you. Have you brought the list of sex offenders?"

  "Yes, that's what I came for; I nearly forgot." He handed it over.

  "Have you looked at it yourself? Anyone promising?"

  "Promising. If you mean interested in young boys, yes, there's a
few. I put a red tick on those, and the ones that come from the immediate area are marked with a blue star. The others are all from all over the province."

  "Thank you. Ok. I'll look at these, and let you know who I want to see, and get me Lazzerini's friends, as soon as you can."

  He looked down the list. There were three sex offenders who were classified as violent, none from the town, but one from the area. He lived only 10 kilometres away on the other side of the river. Of the two sexual offenders from the actual town, one was seventy five, and now living in the old people's home, and the other, a young man of twenty three, had fumbled with a choir boy when he was altar boy, five years earlier, and had lived a pure life ever since.

  He walked through to the Maresciallo's office, and asked, "What's this altar boy like, Antonio Valdese?"

  "He hangs around the church a lot. Seems he might become a priest, or so town gossip has it."

  "I want to see him, and this man, Leopoldo Baldacci from Vallico Nuovo."

  "Fine. I've got the first boy coming in, in half an hour's time. He didn’t go to school. None of them did and he was still in bed. He'll be along as soon as he's dressed."

  "Good. Send me in a coffee and a brioche would you. Thank you."

  He returned to his room, and tried to imagine what had happened. Had the boy been taken elsewhere and then brought in a vehicle to the footpath, dragged up to the clearing and killed, or had he met with his assassin at the footpath and then been immobilised and dragged away? If the former hypothesis was correct, then, did he meet the man, or was he taken by chance? If he met with him, then he knew him. Why did he meet with him, and why did the other become homicidal? Or, was it premeditated. There were the ropes. No one would carry ropes by chance at 10.30 in the evening. So it was premeditated, but for whom, for this boy, or for any boy that took his fancy? If it was premeditated, then the boy was lured to meet him, lured to his death, either at the footpath, or in any other place. He was hit over the head with something, the autopsy, had merely suggested a heavy, blunt, square instrument, perhaps the analysis of the skin around the wound give more clues, as to the exact type of instrument used, a hammer of some kind? If it was by chance that it was this particular boy, then where had he lain in wait for a victim? If, on the other hand, it had had to be this boy, then what had been the reason? Had the murderer wanted to kill him for some time, and had he a specific reason for wanting to do so? Had the boy been mobile? Obviously he was too young to drive a car, but maybe he had a motorbike.

  A knock on the door interrupted his thought processes, and he called "Come."

  The Maresciallo ushered in a young boy, and announced, "Francesco Orsi."

  A rather slight young man came into the room. He had long blonde ringlets, and an earring. His jeans, (Levi's 501, of course), were very worn and so frayed in places that the skin was visible underneath. He was also wearing a long- sleeved U2 tee shirt and dirty, once white, trainers and carrying a heavy leather jacket lined with sheepskin. He was very beautiful, but wore a truculent expression.

  "Ah, come in, please sit down, Francesco. I know you have already been questioned, but, I wondered if, now that a day has passed, you might have remembered anything else that could help us in this inquiry into the death of your friend."

  "I don't think so. I've already told them about that evening."

  "Yes, I know. Bear with me. I'm going to ask you to tell me all over again. Now, we'll start at the beginning. At what time did you meet Giovanni?"

  "We all met up down at the Pear Tree Pub at about 8.15 to 8.30. I wasn't checking my watch."

  "Right fine, of course you weren't. Now, just tell me what you talked about."

  The boy looked wary, and replied, "How can I remember, just the usual things, I suppose."

  "No, what I mean is, you discussed the evening's programme didn't you."

  "Programme!" The boy looked at him scornfully.

  "You're deliberately being unhelpful, aren't you? Look, usually, when you decide to hang out in one place rather than another, don't you say, 'let's go here, or there' or are you telling me, that you just mill about, and then settle down somewhere, anywhere, by chance!"

  "Alright, we wanted to go to the Winter Beer Festival, across the river, but we didn't have enough wheels, so we thought we'd go to the local disco."

  "And did you?"

  "Yeah."

  "And Giovanni came too?"

  "Of course." His tone implied that he was answering someone mentally deficient, and he raised his eyes towards the ceiling. Di Girolamo ignored the provocation, and asked, "You all stayed together all evening?"

  "No, Not all evening. I think Italo had a date, so he didn't come, but the rest of us stayed in the disco."

  "Not always within each other's sight, I presume."

  "You presume right," the boy said facetiously.

  "The place was crowded?"

  "Packed."

  "So one, or more, of you could easily have left the disco, killed Giovanni, and then come back, and say that he had been there all evening?"

  "I suppose so, but forget it. There’re no weirdoes in our group."

  "Did Giovanni say he was meeting someone later? Come on, help me. Will it cost you that much to tell me, rather than make me ask you idiotic questions. I don't enjoy squeezing this out of you one drop at a time, anymore than you do. To tell you the truth, I'm just as bored as you are."

  The boy looked at him with a spark of interest, and said, "Look, we don't tell each other everything, but it's true that he said he wanted to leave early. He didn't say why, and we didn't ask. He left us at about 10.0, no, maybe a bit later, but before 10.30. I don't remember exactly. Anyway, he didn't say he was meeting a bird, but if I thought about it at all, I would have thought that would be the only reason he would have gone off on his own."

  "Did he have a girlfriend, a regular one I mean?"

  "I don't think so, but then he wouldn't have told me."

  "Do you know any of the girls he went out with?"

  "Yeah, but I don't reckon it was one of them that did him in like that, do you?" the green eyes stared mercilessly into his.

  Di Girolamo said in a gentler tone, " No. The only reason I would like to know the names of any past girlfriends is because, if I can speak to them, they might be able to tell me who he was seeing now. Girls do tend to tell each other who they're going out with, and I would like to know, because if I know where he went after he left you, then I'll maybe have more chance of finding out who got him."

  "Maria Bianchi, she lives in Vicolo Buio, and Teresa Rinaldi, she lives on the main road going up to Castello… on a farm."

  "Thank you, Francesco." He opened the door for the boy and watched him leave.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Annabella was hard to take as a guest, especially as a shocked and upset one. She moped about the house, occasionally weeping, and then asking questions that expected, and indeed could have no answer, mainly about the bestiality of man, and asked repeatedly, why, why, did it have to happen to her? She said that her whole life in Italy would be tainted with the appalling memory of that ghastly scene in her enchanted wood. Hilary sighed and made her yet another cup of tea, and hoped that she could convince her unwelcome guest to leave and get on with her life as soon as possible. She had problems of her own. Ruggero had been very busy and she knew there was very little chance of them having a moment alone together to discuss whatever it was, that had taken him to Florence on the day of the murder. He had told her that he must talk to her as soon as possible and that something incredible had happened. He needed time to talk her, but so far they had seen each other briefly, and almost always in the presence of Isabelle. Isabelle's voice interrupted her thoughts, "You're so kind to me, my dear. I don't know what I would have done without you, and I know what an intrusion this must be into your life, so really… thank you."

  Hilary felt uncomfortable, looking at this unhappy plump face, especially when she remembered how only two days be
fore, Isabelle had been bursting with enthusiasm, and joy.

  "Look Isabelle, I was only too happy to bring you here, and please stay as long as you feel you need to. You might feel that your house is contaminated as you call it, now, but pretty soon I'm sure you'll get this thing into proportion and want to be back in your own house. You haven't quite finished the lower floor have you?"

  "No. Well, to tell the truth, I'm not going to. I can't afford it. The men are just finishing putting concrete floors down, the "gettata" and by the end of the week they'll be out. I will finish it one day in the future. Actually, this whole thing has been frightfully expensive, and I'm really reduced to counting my pennies now. I think I was a tiny bit too liberal before, but then I kept falling in love with things, and I had to have them, and, so…Well, anyway, I'm very pleased with it. Don't you think it's turned out quite well?"

  Hilary got her happily talking about the house and hoped that that would sow the seed of the desire to return there.

  Ruggero walked through the old town alone. He was going to see Maria Bianchi, named by Francesco Orsi as an ex girlfriend of the murdered boy. She lived on the Vicolo Buio, an aptly named rather dark, little cobbled street below the Duomo.

  Her parents were alarmed at first when they saw him, the mother had actually turned pale, but when he explained the purpose of his visit, had been visibly relieved, and welcoming. He wondered if there was a particular reason for this, or whether it was just the general unease that a police visit always seemed to generate. He was ushered into the best room, the salotto, and sat uncomfortably on the edge of an obviously rarely used divan. Little tables were covered in handmade, crocheted, white cotton circular or rectangular doilies, and the curtains at the window- panes were hand-crocheted too, with an elaborate design featuring an Olympian scene. A portrait of the Pope presided, on the chestnut wood dresser, flanked by sepia-tinted photographs, of what were obviously honoured ancestors, dressed in their wedding finery; the men with drooping moustaches, the women with their plaited hair curled round their ears.