Maresciallo Biagioni had an equally disappointing morning. They left the last class for the afternoon, and went off to a gloomy lunch.
Reports were coming in from the men who were doing house to house questioning, but so far it seemed no one had seen or heard anything. It had been a freezing night, and most people went to bed early. Once in bed, unless their farm dogs started barking at intruders, they were unaware of any passing traffic.
Isabelle had been in bed when they had got back the evening before, and when she got up in the morning, she told Hilary that she felt ready to return home. It was raining, the sleety sort of freezing rain that might turn to snow if the temperature were to drop any lower, and then to ice during the night.
"I've ordered a taxi," she said in a bright, brittle tone." So I won't have to bother you for a lift, and please, please believe me, when I say I am very grateful. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there for me, my dear."
Although Hilary's objective had been achieved, and she was relieved that Isabelle was going, she felt the implicit reproach in everything the other woman said. After she had gone, with a borrowed umbrella, Hilary sat over a coffee, mulling over the whole thing. "I am a bitch!" she exclaimed. "But I don't care!" Then with a feeling of freedom, she went up to get dressed, and start living her own life again.
Antonio Valdese, ex altar boy, would be priest, said he had been at home on the night of the murder, and his mother, horrified that they should even think of suspecting her son, had confirmed his alibi. The sex offender from Vallico Nuovo, Baldacci, had not been found at home, and apparently was frequently absent for two or three days at a time, according to his wife, 'womanising' though she used a more vulgar word.
"I thought you said he liked men?" said Di Girolamo.
"I think he likes anything, anything he can hurt." replied Maresciallo Biagioni.
"What was he jailed for exactly?"
"He attacked a trans-sexual down on the coast. You know you get all those Brazilian transsexuals down there. Well he picked one up and tortured him. It was pretty disgusting. Apparently he was known to many of the trans-prostitutes, and they always refused him after the first time. This boy was new, and young. To cut a long story short, he needed plastic surgery when Baldacci had finished with him." The Maresciallo looked a bit pink in the face as he told this story.
Di Girolamo knew him to be rather straight-laced, however he asked. "Are you saying he did something of a similar nature to what caused the death of Giovanni'"
"Yes, precisely," replied the Maresciallo, glad not to have to supply the details.
"Was Giovanni Lazzerini heterosexual or did he have other preferences."
"Nobody said anything."
"Did anyone ask? I mean, perhaps he knew this man, who got a bit carried away, and went too far:"
"We'll follow that line of questioning then."
"It's probably a dead end, but we have to follow any line that could feasibly lead us to this butcher. Now, I want an extra effort made to find that motor scooter. It could have fingerprints on it, or could give us other useful information about where the boy had been, so get more men out on that. We'll finish off this lot of school-kids then I think we get hold of the two older boys in the group. They may have been more aware of something out of the ordinary in this boy's life. Other than that, well, I will be interested to have the lab report on the weapon, and what kind of fragments it may have left in the body, also the head wound might give us more information. And I want Baldacci found as soon as possible. That is a priority."
The last adolescent had been questioned, and looking at his list, di Girolamo saw that there were another seven names, of students who were absent from school that day.
The sum total of the information gained, was that Giovanni Lazzerini had been a very good looking, spoilt, young man, who was very attractive to the opposite sex and took full advantage of the fact. While none of them wished to speak ill of the dead, and many of them were shocked or grieving, several of the girls indicated that he had been vain and thought himself God's gift to women. He went around as part of a group that fluctuated in numbers from four to eight or even nine. They all seemed to be fairly attractive looking boys, but personally Ruggero felt repulsed by their attitude. None of them were very interested in studying for more than a bare pass mark, and they gave the impression that they considered those who did, to be pitied or derided. Most of them cultivated a bored expression, meant to make others feel that their presence was a pain in the arse, and that given the choice, well, they would rather be elsewhere.
A girl called Elena Marchetti, said that she had been out with Giovanni, to a couple of parties, but that the situation had been a bit heavy, and she had not gone out with him again. She had said, quite frankly, that the whole group expected a girl to drop her knickers by at least the third date, though they tried from the outset to get them to, and that none of them had any interest in women, other than as sexual commodities. She had thought that Giovanni had been genuinely interested in her as a person, but had quickly come to realise that she was expected to satisfy his needs and nothing more. She said it was well known among the girls, that they only wanted one thing, and that she herself, preferred older and more serious boys. No one with any self respect would be seen out with any of them, according to her. Ruggero believed her, as several other girls hinted at the same thing, but were less forthcoming about what they felt or knew.
Annabella, sat in the back of the taxi, watching the rain-drops, which had an icy centre, hit the window and melt. The driver went, at what seemed to her, a very sedate pace, probably because he was valiantly trying to avoid some of the larger puddles. At the top of the hill, the car slid gently over the muddy road surface and coasted to a halt about twenty yards from her front door. She fumbled for her money, whilst trying to understand the driver, who, she thought, was attempting to explain that he was worried about the car getting stuck. After ten years spent working in Scotland, where he had made enough money to come back home and set up a taxi service, he spoke almost incomprehensible Scottish with a strong Italian accent. She gave him her best smile, and said, reassuringly, "Va bene, va bene. Grazie."
She opened the car door, and stuck her umbrella outside, opened it, and very nearly lost it to a hefty gust of wind. The rain seemed to be horizontal and sharp needles of icy water hit her face. She reached back for her overnight bag, and heaved it out of the car, as she struggled to stand upright. The driver evidently did not believe in getting out and opening or closing car doors for his clients, so she had to hang the bag over her forearm, in order to slam the door shut. She began taking small tentative steps over the slippery muddy surface, her umbrella threatening to turn inside out so that it had to be constantly manoeuvred to face the wind, and in this manner, she slowly covered the distance that separated her from the house. The car had turned with difficulty, its back wheels struggling for a grip, and finally finding it, had shot a stream of muddy water up her legs. Reaching the haven of the front door, she was forced to put down the umbrella and bag to search for the key, which she had left under a flowerpot, now full of sodden earth. Water dripped down over the front door in a stream from a hole in the guttering, and managed to force an entrance through her clothing, reaching down her neck with icy fingers.
She burst into the house, and gasped at the cold damp smell. The first thing to do was to turn on the central heating, which she did with frozen fingers. Then she looked at the fireplace, there were some charred bits of wood, and enough in the pail for the morning at least. She got the fire started easily, and only then took off her coat. 'God damn, Hilary', she thought. 'The bitch! She let me come back here on this horrible day, when she knew the state I was in.' Self-pity was making her feel ill-used and tearful. The house looked dark and sad, not at all jolly as it had on her first day here, and for a moment she felt dubious about her choice of residence, but not for long. Her resilience was of the kind that would help her survive, and make the
best of things. She put the coffee- pot on to boil, and lit the two wall lights. The fire began to crackle nicely and the radiators began heating up. She started to think about food. There was some bread in the deep- freeze. She got out a few slices, and put them near the fire to defrost. That would do for the evening, but for lunch she would toast some of the bread, fry an egg and open a tin of baked beans, which she had found in the local supermarket in the exotic food section. Yes, a really good little British working-man's lunch today, and something lovely this evening. She mentally reviewed the deep freeze contents.
Italo Franchini was eighteen years old, and worked as a house painter. He said that, yes, he had been a good friend of Giovanni Lazzerini, though he was two years older than the murdered boy, because they were neighbours, and he had known him all his life.
"Italo, were you with the group that evening?" asked di Girolamo.
"Yes, but not for long. I was meeting a girlfriend at nine, and when I left them, they had just decided to go to the local disco. I’ve told the Maresciallo all that."
"I'll need to verify your alibi, so I want the name and address of the girl."
"No problem."
"Who were the girls that Giovanni went out with?"
"Well he was going around with Teresa Rinaldi recently, nothing serious, and before that, I seem to remember Maria Bianchi."
"Did you ever hear him say that someone had threatened him, in any way? I mean by phoning him, or maybe following him around, shouting at him, trying to pick a fight? Did he ever have an argument with someone who threatened to get even with him some time?"
"No, I don't think so, not that I can remember."
“Did he go out with girls a lot?"
"Yeah, well they were all running after him."
"Did he like men as well, to your knowledge?"
"What! He wasn't a bloody queer, quite the opposite. You've got it all wrong, if that's what you think."
"I don't 'think' anything. I ask questions," said Di Girolamo coldly.
"Yeah, well, of course. That's your job I suppose. But no, Giovanni was straight as a die."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The motor scooter belonging to Lazzerini was found in the bushes at the side of the road near a supermarket. It had a broken headlamp, and a huge dent in the front. It was taken away to be fingerprinted, but it didn't look like a very promising piece of evidence.
Of the seven absent pupils, four returned to school the next day, and were interviewed but added no appreciable information.
Leopoldo Baldacci, had been arrested the previous evening, at Torre del Lago, for disturbing the public peace, whilst under the influence of alcohol. He had thrown a chair out of a bar at a retreating prostitute, who had refused him, her (or was it 'his') services
The area of hair around the fractured skull of Giovanni Lazzerini, had revealed cement dust, and brick dust, and it seemed feasible that the blow had been delivered by a builder's tool, a large square hammer, or mallet.
Isabelle trotted round the house under cover of an enormous green oilskin umbrella, one of the authentic old peasant umbrellas, designed to protect more than one person, or even a whole family judging by size of it. It weighed a ton but it did look lovely. She was glad she hadn't to walk far holding it. She had heard the builders arrive after lunch in their battered Ape. Marco was in the ex cantina with his brother Matteo, who seemed more taciturn than ever, and did not reply to her jovial "Buon Giorno".
Marco managed to convey the information that they had only one floor left to do now, and that would be done the next morning. They would remove their cement mixer and other material in the evening, unless she wanted to change her mind, and put in tiled floors now?
"No, no. Niente soldi," she laughed.
Matteo, who was on his knees, smoothing out the freshly poured cement, looked round as she laughed, and muttered something, that fortunately she was unable to understand. She saw a flicker of displeasure on Marco's face, and he touched her elbow, leading her to another room to show her the dried cement floor, and point out the hole he needed to fill in, where numerous central heating pipes had been passed through the main wall. The electrician still needed to come and finish off threading the wires through, and then the area would be closed off until she had enough money to do all the tiling, and put in a bathroom. She sighed. It would have been so nice to have it ready for her family this summer, but she had to accept that it was impossible, at least for this year. She turned to Marco. "Domani sera, venite a bere il vino con me. Io pago tutti." Yes, she would pay them immediately, and have a drink with them to round off this phase of the work. "Tutti, anche Alessandro e Paolo." Marco gave her the thumbs up sign, and said "O.K"
Mission accomplished she plodded back to the house, and sat looking at the dismal rain. It was also cold, and the central heating was rapidly consuming the gas in the cylinders. She phoned down for some more to be delivered, but that would not be until the next day, and then only if it stopped raining, or so she understood.
Well it was no good moping about, she chided herself, she must do something. She armed herself with a bucket, mop and floor cleanser, and climbed the wooden stairs, remembering to lower her head at the sixth stair up to avoid hitting it on the floor above, and entered her bedroom, rolled up her sleeves and set to work.
Leopoldo Baldacci, now unpleasantly sober, and still wearing the stained clothes of the evening before, when he had been arrested, sat facing Ruggero di Girolamo, neo-father, though no one could possibly know this,.
“Well, Mr. Baldacci, could you tell us where you were on the evening of the 13th of December, between ten and midnight?" asked Di Girolamo pleasantly.
"How the hell should I know," replied the other.
"Well, I advise you to remember, and hope that someone else remembers too, or you may well find yourself facing a murder charge," said di Girolamo icily.
"A what!"
"Murder. A brutal murder committed on that evening, which you seem unable to remember."
"I'll have to think. I must have been drunk, and I can't always say for sure where I was when I'm drunk. Let me think now."
"Take your time, and while you are at it, would you care to tell us where your 'Ape' truck is, as your wife is unable to tell us where you might have left it."
"Ape?" He rubbed one hand over his stubble, and then up the side of his face, looking puzzled.
"Yes, you know one of those three wheeled vehicles that make a lot of noise. You own one."
"Oh that! Well, that’s at the station, yes, that's right, not the nearest, the next one down on the way to Lucca. I left it there and got the train down to the coast."
"When was that?"
"I can't remember."
"Where did you lodge?"
"How the hell should I know?" He shifted on his chair
"Well, if you don't, and unless you can provide a decent alibi, with witnesses, for that evening, you are in deep trouble."
"Why me? Why pick on me? Have you got proof I was there, wherever it was? I thought I'm supposed to be innocent until proven guilty." He looked belligerently at the policeman.
"Not you, not with your precedents."
"My what!"
"Precedents. It is you that enjoys sodomising people with whatever comes to hand, isn't it?"
"I've never killed anyone."
"There is always a first time, and I think that's what this was. You carried things just a bit too far this time didn't you, and then you ran off to the coast to get out of the way."
"Prove it."
"I intend to."
The interview continued for a long time, Maresciallo Biagioni and di Girolamo took turns, and at the end, exhausted, had to admit they were getting nowhere. The Ape had been recuperated and taken in for testing. The dust in the back was collected in the hope that they would find something, a hair, fibres, anything, from the dead boy, but until they had results, they could do nothing more. They both went home, tired and frustrated.
Isabelle had defrosted a pork chop, grilled it, and after a plate of spaghetti with oil, garlic and chilli pepper, ate it with a rather tasteless winter tomato. She drank red wine, and finished the meal with sheep's cheese, an apple, and then a good coffee. She felt absolutely bloated, but content. Her fire crackled merrily, and with the curtains drawn, the room seemed cosy and protective. She went to bed early, pleased to notice that the rain had finally stopped, and the dark night sky was studded with stars. It wasn't till much later, that she dreamt of the boy, and woke hearing his screams, which continued even as she sat up shaking in the bed, with the light on, and were, she told herself, the raucous screeching of a fox, an inhuman chilling sound.
The girl heard the noise of the vehicle fading away, as her father left for the evening. He was going to the bar to play cards. She knew that her mother would finish off the kitchen chores and go to bed by nine thirty at the latest. Then she would do it, she would get out of here and look for her baby, find where they had hidden it, take it back and hold it in her arms. She wept softly. She had always believed that he really loved her, after all, they had their secrets. She remembered his loving hands, and her acquiescence, with a shudder. This betrayal was the end of everything. He had no right, no right at all to do this. He would pay for it, dearly.
CHAPTER NINE
The weather had cleared again, and yesterday's rain had frozen, leaving a sparkling cleanliness behind it. Outside Isabelle's house, the churned up mud was covered with a plate of glistening ice, so thin that it presented no danger. The grass with hoary blades, twinkled in the early morning sun, and the sky was once again a crisp bright blue.
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 53