"Unless she wakes up."
"Of course, and in that case obviously you'll want to be with her, but otherwise just come. We should eat at about one, maybe later, depends on the turkey."
"Thank you very much. It's terribly kind of you. Perhaps I could check up on Belle's house while I'm there. Is it alright if I let you know tomorrow morning."
"Fine. Goodbye Miranda."
"Goodbye,"
The President of the Organisation Committee for the Living Nativity, met with di Girolamo, and gave him a list of all the participants, of whom there were seventy-six. The names of all the children had been marked with red ink, and after subtracting them, that still left fifty-one. It was going to take ages to get to them all. This was the methodical, boring, repetitive, leg work that could be safely left to the uniformed men. They could sift out the unimportant, find out which of them was definitely at home after midnight, and who had stayed on. It took the rest of the day for them to do so, because many people were at work, and a few were away. Some had already left for their Christmas holidays at the ski resorts.
The autopsy was performed that afternoon, and this unprecedented haste, was partly in response to Di Girolamo's appeal, and mainly in response to fears of public criticism. This case had an appalled but enthralled nation glued to the television, and avidly reading their daily newspapers.
The Borgo Beast, had aroused a primeval fear. Adolescents were being ferried everywhere by their anxious parents, and in the north of Italy, there had actually been a copycat murder. A Brazilian transvestite had died after a client had thrust a metal dildo violently and deeply into him, and left him to haemorrhage to death in the little flat he shared with a friend. His killer had already been identified, but had protested that he hadn't intended the man to die. He had only wanted to please him, but when he had seen a lot of blood had been so frightened that he had run off and left him.
The newspapers had quickly caught on to the similarity, and seemed to be determined to milk the murders for all they were worth. Di Girolamo had avoided the press like the plague, limiting himself to very brief statements, and usually just giving the press a daily handout, not in person, of course. Journalists wasted whole pages discussing these murders in great detail, and then ran a series on serial killers. Psychiatrists were interviewed, and managed to say a lot, while saying very little. There were discussions on policing, on youth, on homosexuals, and on claustrophobic small towns, where people were afraid to be different.
Television crews had been occupying the local hotels for the last ten days, and apart from the daily rehash, had had little to add until Italo Franchini had been found dead. Then once again, they had put the town on the front pages and in the prime position on the news on television. When they heard of this death, even if it turned out to be unrelated, Di Girolamo knew they were going to make things even more difficult for him. Public opinion made pressure on politicians, who in their turn put pressure on the police which filtered down to the ranks. He was the fall guy. He had a great sense of failure, even though he knew he had been thorough, and had left no avenue unexplored. If this boy had been murdered too, then he would have to start all over again. This time he would have to ask himself, did he have one psychopath, or two.
Camilla arrived in the afternoon. Cosimo was asleep in his car seat; his dark eyelashes curled on his plump cheeks. His mouth was slightly pouted, as though about to start sucking. Camilla was pale and drawn. She wore jeans, and a thick, black, down-filled ski jacket. Hilary took the sleeping child from the car, and laid his heavy little body against her shoulder with remembered expertise, while Alex helped Camilla with the suitcases. Then he went off to park the car, while Hilary led the way in, talking softly, so as not to wake Cosimo. "There's a cot in the bedroom upstairs, do you want me to take him up or shall I put him down here?"
"This is fine."
She laid him down very gently on the sofa, and pulled the coffee table up beside it, placing a big cushion on it, so that should he roll over in his sleep he would not fall, or hurt himself. Camilla sat down at the other end of the sofa. She looked very tired.
"Can I get you something to eat or drink?"
Camilla opened her small hold-all, rummaged in it and produced a tin of green tea.
"I'd love a cup of this, if you don't mind."
"Of course.” She bustled out to the kitchen. Alex came back, and went in to introduce himself and sit with Camilla. She could hear their voices murmuring, but not what they were saying. She made the tea in a small teapot, and brought it in on a tray with a cup and saucer, and a tea strainer.
"Amanda and James, my daughter and her partner, will be back later, they had a little last minute Christmas shopping to do. I don't know when Ruggero will be in; he's up to his neck in work at the moment."
"Cosimo will wake up soon. I've got a bottle made up, but I'll need to heat it."
"I'll show you the kitchen, when you've finished your tea. Alex can sit with the baby."
Camilla looked at the playpen, which Hilary had set up near the window. "This is a nice room."
"Yes, I like it too. I work in here." She indicated the computer on an old desk in the corner.
"It feels peaceful. Show me the kitchen," she said abruptly, standing up. Hilary led the way, and Camilla came in slowly, looking at the big table, the marble surfaces and sink, the kitchen fire, and the French windows that led out onto the terrace. She put her hand on the high chair. "You're very thoughtful. You seem to have got everything he'll need."
"I borrowed them."
Camilla handed her the baby's bottle, and Hilary asked her how she wanted it heated, in hot water, or in the microwave.
"I don't like to use the microwave for the baby."
"Do you want to see the bedroom while we're waiting for the milk to warm."
"Yes, please."
They went through the hall, past the Christmas tree that Amanda and James had decorated with white flashing lights and silver balls. Hilary led the way upstairs to the small bedroom, where the chest of drawers had a pile of fluffy towels on it, and the single bed had a small cot at the foot of it. The window looked out onto the valley and the mountains beyond. The cot was made up, and two new fluffy toys sat in the two bottom corners.
Camilla sat down on the bed, and burst into tears. Hilary sat down beside her, and put her arms around her. Alex could hear their voices, but was absorbed in watching Cosimo, who was waking up, yawning delightfully, and stretching his arms, and body. He opened his eyes, and looked at Alex with the clear cold stare that babies give to something new. Alex had the feeling that Cosimo might decide to cry, but as he smiled at the baby, he suddenly smiled back, showing six teeth, four up, two down, and emitted a loud ggaa noise, in greeting.
"Pleased to meet you too, Cosimo, I'm Alex." He stood up slowly, and called "Mum, the baby's awake."
"We're coming."
"When they got downstairs, Alex was showing an enthralled Cosimo, a moving toy. The baby's eyes were riveted on the toy, and he was still with concentration, but when he heard his mother enter the room, and saw her, his entire body expressed his delight.
Signora Valdese was sitting apprehensively with her lawyer, and appeared to be even more frightened now than when she was alone. She looked at him after every question, before answering, as though he were a teacher about to fail her in an examination, and then again after she had spoken, obviously anxiously awaiting his approval. They were getting nowhere. She denied all knowledge of the hammerhead in her wood stove, and said that she had burst into tears at the sight of it, because she knew things were looking bad for her son. She denied knowing her son's clothes were bloodstained, and said they just looked muddy to her. She affirmed that she did all her washing at the outside sink, as elbow grease was the best detergent for muddy stains. When he informed her that tests had shown that the clothes were stained with Italo Franchini's blood, she said, that she had no idea why that should be. Her son had said nothing to her about what he
saw that afternoon, but she knew that he was innocent. He was incapable of murder, indeed of any violence whatsoever, he was a gentle boy.
"Man, not boy, Signora Valdese. Your son is a man, and if he is guilty he will pay for his crime, as a man, not a boy."
They let her go, they could do nothing else, but they kept Antonio, even though after two hours of gruelling interrogation, he still stuck to his story.
The few names that Michele Rinucci was able to remember included actors in the nativity, as well as Mad Maria, a mentally handicapped young woman, who was sexually adventurous, and adept at evading her carers.
Slowly, Di Girolamo was building up a picture of those who were present near the Duomo after midnight, and in what order they had gone home. As he interviewed them one after another, they all seemed to confirm that at some point Pietro Lagonda had wandered off, but they didn't know how far he had gone. The older couple who were supposed to give him a lift, couldn't find him when they left shortly after two, after collecting one or two items from the stall, and thought he had gone off with someone else. Mad Maria had been bothering the men a bit, and they were worried about her, "some men are animals," said the Signora, and they would have taken her home, but she ran off laughing and they couldn't get her to come to the car.
"There was no reasoning with her. I think someone had given her too much to drink, poor thing. She's no sense when she's sober, so I dread to think what she got up to. She fancied one of the shepherds, I can't remember his name, not poor Pietro, God rest his soul, no it was another one. He went off earlier, though come to think of it, I thought I saw him going back up there, as I was leaving, well, maybe it was him, I can't be sure."
Her husband hadn't noticed because he was carrying the wooden trough that baby Jesus had been put in, and could hardly see where he was going.
"You have to take things home straight away, you know, or you might never see them again. Last year someone pinched my grandmother's iron that I lent for one of the artisans shops. I was very upset about that, so this time we took all our stuff away that night."
Another couple of witnesses distinctly remembered seeing the shepherd come back, and Di Girolamo felt the excitement grow in him, as he began to pin down which shepherd it was.
The preliminary autopsy results were phoned in, and confirmed what the doctor had said. The first impact with the ground had been with the feet, both legs had fractures at the ankles, and the femurs had been driven out of their sockets. The boy had then fallen to one side, and could just possibly have hit his head very hard on the wall as he went down, but it was much more likely, considering the type of fracture, that he had received a blow to the head with a rock, probably before he went over the wall. There was powdered stone in the jagged wound, which could have come either from hitting the wall or from a stone used as a weapon. Most of the stones around would probably have the same makeup as the wall, which was crumbling in several places, near the top. He advised them to look for a stone, or rock, small enough to be held. If they found it, it would certainly retain human debris. Of course, there could be human debris on the wall, if he had hit his head there, but it would be almost impossible for them to see it. They were advised to cover the wall with plastic sheeting, to protect it, until the technicians came up to examine it, and that might not be until after the holiday, as they were short staffed.
Di Girolamo cursed. This meant wasting a man twenty four hours a day guarding the wall, and other men, combing the area for rocks. He phoned down for extra manpower, and knew that everyone would be very unhappy about losing their Christmas holidays, over what might turn out to be an accident. The only good thing was that the weather had stayed crisp and bright, and would preserve any clues.
Alessio Pinnucci was brought back to give an explanation of the missing two hours. At the bakery, it seemed, he had only popped in, and gone straight off. The young baker, Alessio's friend, who Di Girolamo had questioned earlier, had looked a bit shifty.
"You do realise," Di Girolamo had said sternly, "that either you are lying, and if so I wonder why, or your friend is lying. Which of the two?"
"Why should I lie? Alessio dropped by to say hello."
"Only to say 'hello' at that time of night, or did he come for some other reason."
"No, what reason?" His innocent tone had sounded unnatural, false.
"You tell me? Maybe he came to get something from you."
"Like what?"
"You tell me." During the whole interview Di Girolamo had been certain he had seen this unprepossessing youth somewhere before.
As the youth had made no reply, Di Girolamo asked, "What did you say your name was?"
"Giuseppe Bianchi."
"Ah, I believe we have already met, at your home, when I came to see your sister. I didn't know you were a baker."
"I'm not really, they only took me on last week as they're short handed, you know, there's a lot of extra work at Christmas. I'm sort of an apprentice."
"I see. I expect that your parents must be very pleased that you are finally doing something to earn your keep. Now, tell me why Alessio came to see you."
"I told you, no reason; he just popped in to see how I was getting on."
If Alessio had gone there for something other than company, then perhaps it had been to buy a little something from his friend, to make the night even more exciting. "Keep an eye on the bakery," he said to Maresciallo Biagioni later, "I have the feeling they might be selling something other than bread at night."
"After Christmas. They'll be no baking done until the early hours of the twenty-seventh."
"It sounds like everything is grinding to a halt for Christmas."
"I would quite like Christmas at home myself; my brother's coming up from Florence with his wife and their daughter. We don't see them very often."
"I'm sure you'll be able to have some free time, I want some myself. Make sure that the men only do short shifts, so that they all get some time with their families, and don't detail any men with young children, they should be home with their families. I'm going to let Antonio Valdese out on house arrest for Christmas."
"That sounds very generous," remarked the Maresciallo.
"Not really, I'll have him back on the twenty-seventh, for further questioning, and we'll see what's what then."
"What about the hammer head?"
“Ah, the hammer head, yes, well they've just phoned the report in. They said it was doubtful that it was the hammer used on Italo Franchini," replied Di Girolamo
"What! With all those blows, how could they tell?"
"There were some single blows, including one to the shoulder, and it was made by a bigger hammer, more the kind that builders use, some sort of mallet. Antonio's was a carpenter's hammer, much smaller."
"It doesn't mean he didn't do it."
"I agree. He may well have done it, with another hammer. I think his mother thought he had done it, and burnt their hammer to get rid of it."
"Oh well, I suppose that means we're back to square one."
"In a way, but before I go home this evening, I want to talk to Mad Maria, or whatever her name is."
"Maria Cottafava"
"Get her for me, now please."
"Alright, but you'll be sorry." Maresciallo Biagioni almost smirked at him.
"No I won't. You'll be staying in the room with me and, if you like, I'll get a social worker to sit in on it too."
"She won't tell you anything with her social worker there."
"Alright then, we'll risk it with just the two of us. While I'm waiting, have Alessio brought into the corridor, I want him to see Maria come in."
Maresciallo Biagioni smiled broadly, and left the room. Five minutes later Alessio was brought to the corridor, where a genial Di Girolamo offered him a cigarette, while he glanced frequently at the main door, and ostentatiously looked at his watch.
"I'll have you in later Alessio, I'm just waiting for a witness to arrive, and I hope she'll clear up one or two points f
or me. You don't mind waiting, do you?"
"Course not." The boy shifted nervously on his chair, and pulled on the cigarette, with frequent short drags. His hand touched the small bruise on his neck.
The minutes passed slowly, until at last the door opened and a giggling Maria was ushered in by a rather red faced Maresciallo. She walked past Alessio, and then bursting into a fit of giggles, turned back and suddenly sat down firmly on his lap, saying, "Shall we do it again?"
Alessio turned scarlet, and pushed her hard so that she fell on the floor and started crying. Maresciallo Biagioni helped her up, and said, "Come on Maria, you mustn't sit on men's laps."
"He likes it, ask him."
Alessio bowed his head and said nothing, so Maria, said, "Go on tell them you like it. Tell them that you done it with me last night. Why did you push me on the floor, I hurt my bum, look!" She raised her dress revealing a plump bare behind.
"Oh my God!" said the Maresciallo purple in the face. "This is even worse than I expected. Put your dress down Maria. You mustn't do that."
"Why not, he did it to me."
"Well, Alessio, what have you got to say about that?" asked Di Girolamo.
"She's crazy."
"Is she?"
"No I'm not. I'm not crazy." She wept loudly.
"Of course you're not. Now come into my office and tell me all about what Alessio did to you last night."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The town was illuminated with rows of stars strung across the main road, but the shops were closing now as people began to think about their traditional Christmas Eve Dinner. Di Girolamo walked home, through the quiet streets. He paused in front of the toy shop window and, after only a momentary hesitation, went in and although he looked at educational toys, he bought something quite different. He was tired. It had been a long day, but he knew that the most difficult part of it was waiting for him at home. He had not yet seen Amanda and James, because they had been out yesterday evening, when he came in, and he knew that Hilary was going to talk to them this morning. He had gone to bed at long past midnight, and got up early. He couldn't even remember if he had eaten lunch, but he was certainly very hungry now.
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 63