The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  She turned her thoughts back to her errands. Amanda, Hilary's daughter, with her partner James, was due on the 23rd, while her son, Alexander, would arrive whenever he could, sometime before Christmas. The house would be full again, so she needed to shop, but would do that later in the car, going to one of the big supermarkets outside Borgo San Cristoforo. She liked to buy whatever she could in town, and give her support to the small shops that were struggling to survive the vicious competition of the supermarkets. It was none the less true, that the supermarkets suited her when she had to buy quantity, if for nothing else then for the ease of parking. Having everything under the same roof, and not having to traipse around from shop to shop with a multitude of plastic bags, especially in the festive season, when shops were even fuller than usual, was the biggest plus. The negative aspect was the mind-numbing music which was played all the time, in all supermarkets, and the lighting, which always gave her a headache, and made her eyes burn, and redden.

  She chose a Christmas tree, which her local greengrocer promised to deliver that afternoon, and pleased to have solved that problem, she went off to buy fresh ricotta and one or two other things, before going to the little clothing store where two sisters, one blonde, one dark, presided over a counter, already heaped with jumpers, and cardigans. Three customers, were observing the goods, with pursed lips and furtive looks at price tags, as they pronounced a judgement on each item, "Not bad, almost right, but that colour is just a bit too strong, have you got it in green?" This provoked further rummaging, and another two or three items were ripped from their plastic bags, and spread in front of the customer's eyes, on top of the heap. These in their turn were carefully appraised, and then compared with something else found buried deep down in the heap. There was absolutely no pressure to buy one thing rather than another, or indeed anything at all. A customer emerged from the changing room, and looked at herself critically in the full-length mirror.

  "The sleeves are too long, but apart from that, yes, I like it.”

  "Shall I pin them up."

  "Can you do it by the Vigil?" She meant Christmas Eve.

  "Yes. Here, stretch your arm out, how long do you like sleeves, about here?"

  "No, a tiny bit longer. That's fine." The jacket was removed, and set aside for the seamstress who came in everyday to do any alterations.

  "No, not that sort of neckline, looks a bit chilly to me," said another of the customers touching a jersey, after a casual glance at the price tag, "I think I’ll take that one, camel is a good colour, goes with anything, and it's a style she likes."

  "Right, do you want it gift wrapped?"

  "Please."

  "Any problems, bring it back, she can change it for anything she wants. Just keep the receipt." But Hilary knew that even if they lost it, the shop would still change anything, after a glance through the window to make sure that the financial police were not around. (The receipt was to be kept and exhibited up to 50 metres from a shop. Failure to produce one on demand meant a fine for both the shop owner and the client. Three fines, the shop could be closed for a certain period, and the fines could be pretty hefty too.)

  The parcel was wrapped in Christmas paper, and tied with a ribbon, the curls in it produced by the deft use of a pair of scissors.

  It was her turn, but she was already delving into the tantalising pile of clothing heaped on the counter. The sisters rarely manage to have a clear counter during the day, as one customer after another was shown at least ten things to choose one from, and the time involved in folding and replacing the clothing was far greater than the gap between customers. In this period in particular, the gap was non-existent.

  She spent a happy hour in the shop and finally emerged with four packages in a rather smart candy-striped bag that bore the name of the shop, quite simply,' The Rossi Sisters'.

  Now for a cappuccino at the bar, and a brioche, to keep her going till lunch time, and maybe a quick glance at the newspaper, or maybe not considering what would be the main topic in the local and regional news section, and probably in the national section too. She entered the warm, cheerful, noisy bar, and saw someone waving at her. She waved back as she placed her order, thinking, ‘speak of the devil’ as she remembered last night's conversation with Ruggero. She moved towards the table saying, "Anita, lovely to see you." Anita Hope, as usual, was dressed in purple and orange, her long curly greying blonde hair floating around her serene face like a halo.

  "Come and sit down here Hilary, I'm on my own today. How are you?"

  "Fine."

  "No, how are you really?" said with an intense exploratory look as though she wished to probe the depths of Hilary's mind, and perhaps discover that the word 'fine' meant nothing at all, and that in reality things were not fine, not at all fine.

  "Fine, really," Hilary said in a jovial tone, as though to allay any lingering doubts that Anita might have. Their conversations always started like this, the inevitable antipasto before the conversational meal, and as always Hilary was provoked into a desire for facetiousness. "And what about you? What have you done with all your children, suffocated them?"

  "Ha ha, almost. They're all at school. To tell the truth they are all terribly excited about Christmas, and considering they’re all a load of little heathens, I can't think why."

  "Don't you give them presents?"

  "Oh yes, but we don't make that big a thing of it. This year they have all decided to believe in Santa Claus, just to annoy their father I think. Also Shiva has got religion at the moment, and tells me she will be going to midnight mass. I think she was disappointed when I didn't turn a hair, or try to make her change her mind. Aren't children strange?"

  Mentally commenting, ‘Yours certainly are’ Hilary replied blandly," I suppose they are sometimes."

  "That's what's so marvellous about them really, you know, their unfettered imagination. Of course giving them the freedom to say what they think, without squashing them, and allowing them to play out their fantasies is wonderfully stimulating for them. It's so good for Shiva to be having this religious interest at this precise moment in her life. I'm really pleased about it."

  "Are you?"

  "Of course. It's very healthy for her to question things now, and take an interest in the spiritual side of life, and of course the Catholic Church is ideal, all those statues, and rosaries, and symbols and vestments. I'm sure she'll come out of it quite strengthened."

  Hilary munched her brioche, thinking that all conversation with Anita was the same, year after year. It only concerned the children, and their development. As if to surprise her, Anita said," I am very worried."

  Hilary was shocked. Anita was never worried. She was fascinated, enthusiastic, capable, coping, caring, often placidly content, and generally vibrantly happy and self satisfied. "You are worried," she repeated.

  "Yes, these murders. Constantine thinks we have a psychopath in the area, in fact he would be quite prepared to do a profile for the police if they want him to, though it's not really his thing, but actually my concern is the children. They have the utmost freedom as you know, and well, Krishna is only 18, and Hari of course, and at that age they feel they are immortal, so they don't take all the precautions they should, and right now seems to me to be a period of great danger for young men, so yes, I am worried."

  "I see. I have to admit that I didn't really think about this aspect of it."

  "That's because you are no longer parenting, but for those of us who are, let me tell you, it isn't easy, especially for me, now. Emotionally I mean."

  "Why now?" her eyes involuntarily dropped to Anita's abdomen. "Not…"

  "Yes."

  "But what about Last, he won't be last anymore?" asked Hilary inanely.

  "No, he won't be, will he. It's rather upsetting. The poor child will be questioning the meaning of it all, it will add to the normal resentment towards, and jealousy of, a new sibling. He may well feel cheated, and there's another aspect to this, what about the new child finding the on
e before him called Last. I mean he's bound to realise his conception was not intentional."

  "But how did it happen? Sorry, stupid question"

  Anita looked distracted and replied, "Oh, well, it was a Tantra thing, that well, it didn't…anyway it just happened, and I am really concerned that Last will feel his very existence is threatened by this usurper. I expect that's why I worry so much about Krishna, and Hari, I'm just removing it, and that's so silly. I will have to face it sooner or later."

  "Can't you call it Post Script or something."

  "Really Hilary. I hope you aren't serious. That isn't a name."

  "No, of course not. I was trying to lighten the mood." But actually, she had thought they might well give it a name like that, considering what had gone before.

  "I must leave you Hilary. I'm off to collect the dog food. I dread to think what would happen if we were to run out over Christmas."

  "Quite." A vision of a starving pack of dogs ripping the little Hopes from limb to limb flitted across her mind. "It was lovely to have seen you again Anita, say hello to Constantine for me, and if I don't see you before, I'll say Happy Christmas, and I do hope, (ha ha! Sorry! ), that you solve the problem."

  "I'm sure we'll think of something, after all a problem couldn't exist if there wasn't a solution to it, or I should say, it exists only because it has a solution. Come up for drinks at Christmas, and bring the children, they are coming aren't they."

  "Yes, they are. I'm sure they'll want to come and see you all. Look after yourself, Anita." Anita set off at a fast trot, her long skirts swirling round her boots, purple and orange scarf flying behind her, a pregnant forty-seven year old, who had devoted her life to raising a pack of little monsters.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Marco had tried banging on the door, and calling, but there was no answer. Cautiously, he pushed at the door, and found it was open. Leaving the dog outside, he entered calling again, and then worried that she might be ill, mounted the stairs still calling her name. A quick look round the upstairs rooms satisfied him that the house was empty. He stepped outside puzzled. The car was there, although that might mean nothing in itself as she could have taken a taxi if she was going far, no it was the open door, and the lights on that worried him. Furthermore, the house was warm, and the radiators were hot, so she couldn't be far away. He walked round to the back of the house, and saw a full basket of wood set down outside the woodshed. Ah! so she had gone to get wood, he thought. Where was she then? He called again and again, but there was no reply. His dog had disappeared now as well. He gave a sharp whistle, and the dog reappeared a few minutes later climbing up the steep bank below the house.

  "Where have you been?" he asked it. "Come on, earn your living, search! Search !" he exhorted it. The dog nose to the ground, began snuffling and running round in ample circles, "Search !" called his master, and the dog looked at him, before disappearing over the brim of the track, where he had been before.

  "Come back here, you stupid animal, " called Marco, moving towards the path in front of the house. He scanned the countryside with his eyes, and saw the dog was already at the bottom of the gully, digging at something. Peering down, he saw what looked like a dead animal. He whistled to the dog, who stopped digging and looked up at him then eerily, howled. At that moment, Marco had a ghastly premonition. He had found Isabelle.

  He began to descend the steep side of the gully, his feet slithering, his hands finding grassy tufts to hold onto and brake his descent. At the bottom, he stood beside the dog, and looked in horror at the woman's body curled in foetal position, her back to the steep bank then, crossing himself involuntarily, he knelt and carefully placed two fingers to her throat. He thought he could feel a pulse, and opening her coat, lay his ear to her chest. Was it an illusion, the faint sound he heard, or only the blood pounding in his own veins? He was breathless, and shaking. He took his jacket off, and covered her, extracted his mobile phone, and called for an ambulance, giving them detailed instructions on how to reach him. Then he put the phone away, and removed his woollen hat, and gently placed it on Isabelle's head. There was nothing else he could do, but wait. The ambulance would take at least ten minutes, and then they had to get down here, and carry her up somehow. He looked around for the best way up for a stretcher, walking about restlessly, as he waited. She looked dead to him. Her face was so white, and cold, she felt so cold. He bent to touch her cold face, and placed both hands palm down on her cheeks, to warm them.

  Then at last he heard the sound of the siren, growing now louder, now fainter, as the vehicle went around the bends of the winding road. He scrambled to his feet and climbed back up the gully, reaching the top just as the ambulance started on the private road up to the house. Waving his arms, he caught their attention, and less than a minute later, three men had jumped from the vehicle, and as he explained everything to the doctor, while walking fast to the edge of the road, pointing and suggesting, the other two had already unloaded the stretcher and their gear. All four of them quickly descended to the bottom of the gully, where the doctor rapidly examined Isabelle.

  "She's alive, but only just." He began barking orders, and before long, the sound of the siren once again increased and diminished as it wound its way down to Borgo San Cristoforo. Marco was left alone, without his jacket he now realised, so he went into the house, and turned off the heating, locked the door, and pocketed the key, before rushing home to get another coat, and jump into his car to follow the ambulance down to the hospital.

  Hilary walked home pleased with what she had bought. She had bought a little red jacket for Cosimo in the children’s clothing shop, and felt it was the first positive thing she had done. It was still cold, but the sun was shining, and the view of the mountains was incredibly clear. She had heard the ambulance while she was entering the clothing store, and had felt the momentary shiver of fear that always accompanied that sound. On its return, the other customers had commented that it had seemed to come from the Altamura road, and she knew that before long the bush telegraph would fill her in with the details. Living in a small town, meant that more often than not, the ambulance was for someone one knew. At least the children were not here, and she no longer had the worry that it might be one of them. The trouble was that small towns got to you in the end, and you became as neurotic as everyone else. She let herself in and put her parcel in the hall cupboard, took off her jacket, and was moving towards the kitchen when the phone started ringing. It was Marco, and she listened with a sort of horror as he told her that Isabelle had apparently fallen down a gully, probably yesterday evening, and was now in hospital at death's door. She put her jacket back on, and rushed round to the garage, to get the car. Five minutes later, she was at the hospital car park, waiting for a free space.

  "Ruggero, it's Hilary."

  "Yes. What is wrong?"

  "It's Isabelle, she's in hospital suffering from severe hypothermia. Apparently, they think she went to get some wood last night from the woodshed, and slipped over on the ice and fell down the gully. Anyway, that's where her builder, Marco, found her this morning. God knows how long she'd been lying there. She's got a fractured skull as well, so they've taken her down to Pisa, anyway, I'm following on."

  "Let me know what happens."

  "Feed the cat for me, if I'm not back when you get home tonight."

  "Of course."

  "Ciao. I love you"

  "That's my sentiment too…"

  "Oh sorry, you're not alone. I didn't think."

  "It doesn't matter. Thanks for phoning. Ciao."

  She drove down to Pisa, and spent the rest of the day waiting around on the uncomfortable plastic and chrome chairs, sustaining herself with dreadful coffee from the coffee machine, and leafing through the old and appalling scandal magazines left on the waiting room table. They must have been hard up for new scandals as one of them dated 1995, had old photos of Brigitte Bardot and Gunter Sachs. What really amused her was the grey metallic strip over the genitals of S
achs, to be removed with the aid of a coin, as in lottery tickets. She stole it to take home and show Ruggero. She had never seen anything like it. Presumably it was pornography for housewives. There were also lots of photos of VIP ladies, caught sitting without knickers, or so the photographer asserted. A bull fighter, with his trousers ripped, revealing all filled the centre pages, and had to be the luckiest man alive. It was, all in all, quite an instructive day.

  Isabelle had a fractured skull and a cerebral haemorrhage, which had been arrested and would hopefully not need surgical intervention. She was in intensive care, and would remain there for at least forty-eight hours. Hilary had phoned Jeremy, who had booked a flight for the next morning. She phoned Ruggero again to tell him she would stay the night in Pisa and collect Jeremy in the morning, take him to the hospital, translate for the doctor, and hopefully get home sometime the next day. She booked into a 'pensione' near the hospital after buying herself a toothbrush and a change of underwear.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The blow-up of what Ruggero thought of as the rape photo was interesting. A dark mark on one corner was probably a leaf according to the photographic expert, so presumably the photo had been taken from the bushes. The film was the kind that did not need a flash, so also presumably the rapists had no idea that they had been seen.

  Balducci, when Di Girolamo confronted him with the photo, said he had no idea who the group were, just kids having some fun, and anyway, he hadn't taken the photo.

  "Who did?"

  "How should I know? I don't know where it comes from, maybe you planted it."

  "Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Look you help us, we help you."

  "Promises, promises. I don't buy it."

  "You will be accused of murder, unless you can tell us where you were on the night in question."