The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  "Sometimes they start off with minor crimes, and then move up the scale to full fledged perversion, and murder. How do you know there was only the one time? He was only caught once. Sometimes families keep quiet about that sort of thing. They don't want their children exposed to the publicity that inevitably follows police involvement. He obviously has homosexual leanings. He's trying to sublimate them by becoming a priest, so maybe his frustration exploded. Maybe they taunted him or worse, and he's paying them back and enjoying himself at the same time. He could have left the house without his mother being aware of it."

  "Maybe." The Maresciallo sounded doubtful.

  "Well, we don't have anyone else, except him or Baldacci. Take your pick. Baldacci couldn't have done the second one, so either we find an accomplice, or it's not him. Anyway, I'll see the rest of group at two o'clock, and I might try throwing his name at them."

  "Oh dear."

  "Look, I'm not saying it's him, but it's certainly worth following up. I'll see Valdese later. I'm off for lunch now but I'll be here before two. I want to tape the interviews with these boys, and I want to frighten them a little, see if I can shake them enough to make them tell me what they know. I know they know the reason for this."

  The house was empty. He heated some pasta in the microwave, and poured himself a glass of wine, and ate while reading the paper. The murder had been given ample coverage by the press, and he was under extreme pressure to stop what was being called serial murders, the assassin already had a name. He had been dubbed 'The Borgo Beast". The town was definitely on the national map now, and not as a tourist attraction. Various groups within the town were already making their voices heard, the Association of Hoteliers for one, as bookings for the next summer were being annulled. No one wanted to come on holiday in an area where a monster roamed free.

  He pushed the plate away, his appetite gone. He drank the wine pensively, and then went out to the small bar in the old town for a strong black coffee. He was too early for the after lunch rush, and drank alone standing at the empty counter. Two old men sat reading the newspaper at a table. They glanced at him, and then looked away. He knew the minute he left they would discuss him, the case, and his private life, for now they kept silent. He was back at the police station by a quarter to two.

  The two women had eaten a sandwich lunch, followed by a stiff coffee, made by Hilary, who was taking no chances on the kind of brew that Isabelle might dish up. Then, sitting in front of the fire, looking out at the snow-capped mountains, they had talked. Hilary was listening to Isabelle with only half her mind; the other half was thinking about Ruggero, and his not finding her there for lunch, if he decided to eat at home. Home. It was her home, but he was gradually making it his too. Most of his personal belongings were now at her house, and the flat he kept in Lucca was only used on occasion. What would happen now, with a child? She had two children herself, both in England, Amanda working in London, living with her James, and Alexander who was at university, appearing now and then for brief visits. That was how she had wanted it, independent children, with their own lives, leaving her the freedom to live her own. Many families in this area had their adult children living with them throughout their education, and often afterwards. Frequently, the married children lived with their parents, who as grandparents continued their role of child rearing, enabling the grandchild's parents to work, and earn enough to live reasonably well. The country's economy forced women to work, as a single salary was insufficient for a family. Having a child posed innumerable difficulties, because child-care facilities were insufficient, so the grandparent's role had now become extremely important. They were the mainstay for the future of the family. All these problems had caused Italy to have one of the lowest birth rates in Europe. She had been glad not to have to fulfil that sort of role, but now? Now, it looked as though she was going to be a mother again. She examined the problem, for it was a problem for her, and knew it would cause dramatic changes in her life, and in her still young relationship with Ruggero. She sighed.

  "I'm sorry, Hilary, I know I keep rambling on, and you think I'm very silly and boring," said Isabelle sadly.

  "Not at all. I can quite understand that it is ghastly for you to have these murders take place on your land, but you must try and look at the whole thing in a rational manner. In the first place, it has nothing to do with you. Also, you are not at personal risk, and this thing will end, soon, I hope, for everyone's sake."

  "I might go back to England for a while, if Jeremy will have me."

  "Wouldn't he?"

  "Well, I suppose so, though Elizabeth is a bit, well, not exactly unwelcoming, but I don't really feel at home with them. Oh dear, I don't know what I should do. I feel terribly vulnerable. I don't expect you to understand that, I mean you've got a man with you, and anyway you live in town, but my dear, this place is so isolated, and quite frankly, I could be murdered in my bed and no one the wiser. You do see what I mean?"

  "Yes, of course I do. I think you are quite safe, Isabelle, but if you feel this way, then maybe you should leave for a while. A short break until this is all over, and then you can come back and get on with your life. You obviously can't work if you're this upset."

  "I know you think I'm a silly woman," said Isabelle with unusual perspicacity, "but I so wanted to have my first Christmas here, alone in my own little house. I love this house, and I want to live here, but I can't cancel out that dreadful image, the boy I mean, and I feel somehow threatened by all this, even though I know it's perfectly illogical of me. I feel as though everything is tainted." She sighed, and looked hopelessly at Hilary. "I wish I was as strong as you are Hilary, but I'm not."

  Hilary felt a pang of pity for Isabelle, and she answered, "I don't know how strong I'd be in your situation. I think you've been very brave, but that you have reached your limit, and need to stand back a little from all this, get it in perspective, or wait until it has all been cleared up. Go to Jeremy, and sod Elizabeth. Look it's the nineteenth today, go tomorrow, have Christmas with your grandchild, and come back for a new start in the New Year. It'll all be over by then."

  "Yes, you're right, I'll do it." She jumped to her feet. "Now, first things first, I'll phone Jeremy, then book tickets. Thank you, Hilary. Thank you my dear for listening to me, and putting up with me." She squeezed Hilary's shoulder with her hand as she passed her, on her way to the telephone. Hilary stood up as well. "Right Isabelle, I'm going. You'll be fine, so I'll leave you to get sorted out. You'll be so busy you won't have time to think till you are on the plane. Have a nice Christmas, and see you in the New Year." She pulled on her coat and left, waving back to Isabelle, who was waving at her with one hand, while she held the telephone with the other. Isabelle was looking very purposeful, now that she had decided, and Hilary left her feeling quite sure she would be fine now. She had just needed someone to tell her that her instincts were right. Hilary smiled up at the sun, and breathed in the fresh clear air. The mountains were snow covered and in the late afternoon light were blushed with pink light, a pair of ridiculous pink clouds floated over them. The air was cooling with just the faintest brush of colder air, harbinger of the freezing night that before long would grip the area in its icy grasp, leaving it silvery and still, frozen to immobility. Many trees were bare, but others still retained their autumn colours. On the grassy banks there were no flowers now, and the grass itself was sodden, in places yellowed or browned by the previous icy night.

  Most of the farm houses had the characteristic plume of wood-smoke, the fireplace going full blast, or a little 'stufa economica' serving a dual purpose, for heating the kitchen and cooking, a side compartment filled with hot water. She had used one of these little stoves herself for years, hanging clothes over the heat to dry, the kettle singing on the hotplate, or a minestrone bubbling, the oven hot enough to cook in, and the water in the side ready for the washing up. She had embraced what she had considered a very simple way of living, but which she now realised had been quite complicat
ed. Procuring wood and keeping the stove going had been time consuming, and tiring. She was glad that now she had only to push a button to have heat, or to cook. Many people had integrated the two ways of living, the old with the new, but Hilary had done with all that, and her own 'stufa economica' sat rusting in the lemon house.

  Isabelle, heard the car drive away, and felt pleased that she had made her decision. Jeremy had been out, but Elizabeth had been quite charming, saying, 'of course you must come,' without hesitation, so now Isabelle was explaining with barely concealed impatience to her travel agent. "I don't care if it's cheaper, there's no point in my going to that God-forsaken airport. I'd have to cross London and it will take as much time and expense to do that, as it will to fly from Pisa to Gatwick."

  After some argument, she banged the phone down, and sighed. They thought they might have a place for her on a plane tomorrow, but did she realise it was nearly Christmas, and where do all globe-trotting Italians go for Christmas? London, of course. They would phone her back in half an hour's time. She rushed up to her bedroom, and pulled out a suitcase then, opening drawers, she pulled out a few things, and mentally ticked off what she might need. Something smart for Christmas, and possibly the theatre, and /or dinner. She pursed her lips before choosing two outfits, one an evening dress, and a trouser suit from her wardrobe. She would travel in the sheepskin jacket and woollen everyday trousers and pack another pair. "Now shoes…" she said out loud. They were her passion, and she owned about twenty pairs, several of which were handmade. She made her choice, and a few dashing accessories went in as well. She always thought that an expensive belt or scarf could turn something mediocre into something interesting, so spent a fair amount on accessories.

  By the time the phone rang, she had packed and the suitcase was waiting at the door for the next morning. Her flight was confirmed, the midday flight, which meant getting to Pisa by eleven at the very latest, or half ten would be better, so she would leave at nine, maybe even half past eight if the roads were icy, to have time in hand.

  She smiled and hummed to herself as she prepared her meal. The fire was stoked up, and she felt warm for the first time since she got back to the house. Yes, she thought, by the New Year I'll be ready for a new start.

  Ruggero was halfway through the afternoon's interviews, and was getting nowhere. No one knew anything, though he was sure that one or two of the boys had some idea. Well, if they did, they weren't telling him about it. The last boy he had spoken to had seemed very uncomfortable. Yes, he would see him again. He underlined the name, Pietro Lagonda.

  He called out, "Avanti." A tall dark-haired youth came in. He wore his ringlets tied back in a loose ponytail, and an earring glinted from one ear. A tiny black pointed beard gave him a faintly Spanish, or possibly demonic, air. He was wearing a hat, and a very long quilted raincoat, in a dark greeny-grey colour. His expression was one of amused intelligence, as though Ruggero's handling of the case afforded him some inner amusement the cause of which the policeman was unable to interpret. Did the boy think he was so way off as to be laughable? Was he wrong to think the group knew something? The boy sat down, took his hat off, and looking very composed stared at Di Girolamo with his intelligent and sardonic yes, as though to say, 'I think that you, Mr. Policeman, will fail whatever test I choose to set you, because you don't know what you're about.' His expression was just short of facetious, it was however, provocative. It said, 'try me and see where you get', with the self evident answer, 'nowhere.'

  He looked down at his notes; this was the medical student who had been at Pisa for the last few days. What was the boy's name, something outlandish he seemed to remember? Ah yes, "Krishna" he said aloud, "You are Krishna Hope?"

  "Yes, and before you ask, my father is English, an English psychoanalyst, and he has given us all weird names."

  "All?"

  "Yes, there are eight of us. Primo, the first born, Costanza my elder sister, Shiva my younger sister, Speranza, my youngest sister, which as you must know means hope, so her name translated is Hope, Hope; then there's Massimo, my younger brother, my poor little brother, Last and of course Hari, my twin brother. As you can imagine, we all hate him, my father that is, not that it matters very much as he's never here, and he'd never believe that anyone could really hate him, and if he did believe it, he would consider it healthy. As long as they aren't repressed, or sublimated, all emotions, even the most appalling, are healthy."

  "Where did you come from? Why haven't I met you before?"

  "I don't know. Why should you want to?"

  “Weren't you a friend of Giovanni Lazzerini, and Walter Verdone?"

  "In a way, but then I don't see them very often, I'm in my first year at university, and I live in Pisa most of the time. Also I am a couple of years older."

  "What are you reading?"

  "Medicine, of course. I am still seeking parental approval, as you can see."

  Ruggero shook himself. This boy was very clever. He had taken him by surprise, and was running the interview to suit himself. He, Di Girolamo was being played like a fish. "Listen to me, Krishna; you are listed as being a friend of the two dead boys. Were you with Giovanni Lazzerini on the evening of the 13th December?"

  "Ha! Am I a suspect?"

  "Come on, stop messing around. Let's get this over with. It's not a game. Just tell me where you where that evening." His tone was serious and the young man responded.

  "I was with the group. I don't know where Giovanni went, he said he had something to do, and I mind my own business."

  "So you've no idea where he was going."

  "No."

  "And you can't guess? You look pretty bright to me, are you sure you couldn't make a guess."

  "If I wanted to make a guess, I'd say a girl, but I have no knowledge that it was so."

  "Why would you guess a girl rather than, say, a dealer."

  The boy raised his eyebrows. "He's not a druggie, you know, unless you count pot and that's practically legal. Anyway, I suppose I would say a woman, because of his after-shave, rather a lot of it I thought. More than usual."

  "Just to set the record right, pot is nowhere near legal. I hope I won't find any on you."

  "Want to search me." The dark eyes mocked him.

  "Not just now, thank-you." He changed tactics and asked, "Do you know Antonio Valdese?"

  "That creep. Now there is someone my father could help, but he'd never ask for it."

  "What's wrong with him?" asked Di Girolamo innocently.

  "What's right with him? Come on, haven't you met him?"

  "Never mind whether I've met him or not, just tell me what you know, or think you know about him."

  "Well he's an awful fat little repressed homosexual paedophile, who fancies little boys, but would never do much about it other than a quick fumble in the choir stalls. He's trying to get in with God, the ultimate father figure, as his own is missing, and his mother suffocates him, and treats him like a ten year old. So I'd reckon, he's frightened of women, because they are like the controlling figure in his life, and he's frightened of men, so he tries to ingratiate himself with them. He's effeminate, (that would placate male aggressiveness) and he’ll probably become a priest, and all the women will adore him, and if he's lucky, he'll find a brother priest who will relieve his sexual needs. But, having said all that, I am not my father, only his son, and I'm only guessing. In case you wondered I'm not homophobic, only Antonio-phobic, in fact some of my best friends are homosexuals." He gave a mocking smile at Di Girolamo.

  "Very funny. Does any of your group have any contact with him?"

  "Regrettably, we're all straight."

  "What about negative contact, I mean teasing him or worse."

  "No. He's out of sight, man."

  "Do you know a man called Leopoldo Balducci, lives across the river about ten kilometres away, aged about fifty?"

  The boy looked puzzled. "Never heard of him."

  "Do you think it is a coincidence that both the murd
ered boys came from the same group?"

  "How should I know? If the man likes doing it to young boys, then you could probably calculate the probability of two of them belonging to the same group. This is a small town, and the number of groups of kids our age is a bit limited. But if you choose to think it sinister, then maybe you're right."

  "Which girl would you think Giovanni would be meeting?"

  "No idea. I mean I do know he was screwing Teresa Rinaldi, but that was only natural, I mean, we've all had her, it was his turn."

  Suddenly di Girolamo lost his temper. He was sick of these boys who were bent on taking no notice of what he was saying, refusing to take things seriously, who knew the reason for these murders and out of some misplaced sense of loyalty were never going to tell him why, and were just wasting his time. "Get out." He said abruptly.

  "What?"

  "I said, get out, you facetious little jerk, I've had enough of you for one afternoon. Your attitude makes me sick."

  "Was it the word 'screwing', you objected to? I thought you policeman had more control. Alright, I'm leaving, glad to have been of some assistance, or wasn't I?" He put his hat on, and slowly left the room. Di Girolamo manfully dominated an impulse to go and kick him up the arse and speed his departure from the room.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Maresciallo Biagioni put his head round the door, “The boys are back with the stuff from Baldacci's house, shall I send them in?"

  "Yes, and can you bring me a bottle of Ferrarelle, please."

  "Got a nasty taste in your mouth?"

  "How did you guess?"

  "Krishna's a facetious little bastard. I'd love to kick him in the pants. His father never did; didn't believe in corporal punishment, or so he told me after I caught Krishna smashing school windows when he was ten. His dad said it was a healthy reaction to repressive authority, and quite harmless. He paid for all the windows, and I thought he was going to congratulate the boy for not sublimating his urges. I asked Krishna why he did it, and he said 'because I wanted to.' His dad looked almost proud of him."