The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  Antonio Valdese looked petulantly at Di Girolamo, who came into the room with a uniformed policeman, and a tape recorder.

  "Right Antonio, let's have a recorded session, then we won't need to keep on going over things, it will all be recorded." He gave Valdese a bright smile, and nodded to the other policeman who intoned the ritual information into the tape recorder.

  "Now Antonio, just before you tell us your story, I'll ask you one or two questions, for example, what can you tell me about this photograph?" He thrust the photo he had taken from Baldacci's collection, right at Valdese's face. The boy recoiled, and then looked at the photo and yelped. "What's this?"

  "I am showing the suspect the photograph, of himself naked," intoned Di Girolamo into the machine.

  "I don't know anything about this. Who took it?" asked Antonio.

  "Your friend."

  "What friend, I haven't got any friends. Ever since that woman had me investigated for molesting her precious son, no one comes near me."

  "How sad. You should have kept your hands to yourself."

  "I didn't do anything. It was all a misunderstanding."

  Di Girolamo opened a file and turned a few pages, "It says here that the incident took place in the lavatory at the Parish Hall. The boy was urinating when you came in, and watched him, started talking to him, and then offered to give him a thrill, 'jerk him off ' was phrase you used. It says you placed your hands on his genitals. "Di Girolamo looked up at Valdese with a questioning glance.

  "It wasn't like that. I was only a kid myself, and we were messing around. I didn't do anything wrong."

  Ruggero slammed the file shut. "Let's drop that and go back to the photograph. Who took it?"

  "I asked you that."

  "So you did, well then I think I'll tell you, shall I?"

  "Yes."

  "Leopoldo Baldacci."

  "Who?" Antonio sounded genuinely puzzled.

  "Isn't he a friend of yours? The photo was taken by him at your house as you can see, so I thought you must be bosom buddies."

  "At my house!" he sounded aghast, and looked more closely at the photograph. "But how could he, I don't know who he is. I've never heard of him." His lower lip was beginning to tremble.

  "You're a good actor, but the photograph is evidence, and it could well be used against you. The man who took it kept it in his house to gloat over. He's obviously a fan of yours, so I was sure you must know him."

  "Well I don't."

  "He is suspected of murdering Giovanni Lazzerini. We brought him in for the same reason we investigated you, he has a record. Very sad, really, but I expect you know all about it. I'm sure he must have told you."

  "But I've never seen the man in my life."

  "Well he's certainly seen you."

  Valdese decided to say nothing more, so Ruggero leaned over him and said very quietly, "He mutilated a Brazilian trans-sexual so badly that the man had to have plastic surgery."

  "Oh God."

  "Yes, he enjoys hurting people, so I wondered, as you're his friend, if you like it too, and then I wondered if perhaps you had taken your pleasure together with Giovanni Lazzerini's young body."

  "I wasn't there, I was at home with my mother, she's already told you. I don't know this man. I've never even heard of him, and I don't know how he comes to have my photo, and I'm not saying anything else, and you can't make me," he gabbled hysterically in a high pitched voice, and burst into tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Alessio Pinucci sat at a table facing the Maresciallo. The tape recorder was placed at the end of the table where a young uniformed policeman intoned in a bored tone, the date, time, and names of those present.

  "Now Alessio," said the Maresciallo not unkindly, "let's stop messing around and tell the truth for once shall we? You only have to tell us once, and then it is all over. You can rest. You must be tired of questions."

  Alessio said nothing, but looked warily at the other man, as though expecting a trap of some kind.

  "Where were you the night of the murder of Giovanni Lazzerini?"

  "At the Disco with the others. You already asked me that."

  "And where were you on the night of the murder of Walter Verdone,"

  "At home. Ask my Mum."

  "Alright, we will. Where were you when Italo Franchini was brutally murdered on the footpath?"

  "I didn't do them. It wasn't me what done 'em in. You can't think I done it. They was my friends. I told you."

  "Answer the question."

  "I was coming home from work."

  "Where do you work?"

  "I do a bit of labouring on building sites, and I was working at that villa on the main road to Lucca."

  "And you finished at what time?"

  "At five."

  "So it would take you very little time to drive from there to the footpath, say five minutes."

  "Yeah, I reckon. About that, but I didn’t go there."

  "On the night of the twenty-third of December you were at the Duomo at the right time, and we have witnesses who can swear to that."

  "Yeah. I said I was there. That’s no’ a problem. I wasn’t alone, was I?"

  "No, you weren’t for a while but later you were. You didn’t get home until four, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you see, Alessio, you could have killed all your friends."

  "Maybe, but I didn't, see, and you can't prove that I did."

  Annabella said, "Miranda, I know I saw a girl that night. I remember that she was wearing a bloodstained night-dress."

  "Ma, it must have been a dream, the doctor told you that sometimes that happens. I mean look at it logically. How could there have been a girl in a bloodstained night-dress out there. It was dark and freezing cold."

  "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I'm sure there was a girl. I remember thinking that she must be an old biddy, you know someone with Alzheimer's, who had escaped from the house, but when I got closer I saw it was a young girl."

  "Then what happened?"

  "That's just it, I don't know."

  "Ma, do put your mind to rest about this, it was a dream."

  "If you say so, my dear, but it's all so odd."

  Antonio Valdese had recovered sufficiently to continue, and Ruggero Di Girolamo changed his line of questioning.

  "Antonio, what can you tell me about the hammer that your mother burned in the wood stove?"

  "Nothing."

  "Come on, you can do better than that."

  "The stupid cow. It's all her fault. I don't know why she burnt a hammer, she must be crazy."

  "I think she thought it was the murder weapon."

  "But it isn't, is it?"

  "Perhaps you told her to burn a hammer, but she burnt the wrong one. Where is the other hammer?"

  "There is no other hammer, and if she hadn't burnt that one you'd never have even thought it was me that murdered Italo Franchini."

  "But she did, and we do. How unfortunate for you, Antonio, that your mother was so zealous."

  "Well, you'll never find the other hammer because it doesn't exist."

  "Tell me about Giovanni Lazzerini."

  "What about him?"

  "Why did you kill him, was it for fun, or to pay him back for something."

  "I didn't kill him." He raised his blue eyes swimming with tears to look at Ruggero, and said, "I swear before God."

  "I told you before, to leave God out of this, Antonio. I wonder where he was while those poor boys were being tortured to death. Rest assured that He knows, and if it was you, then you will be punished, according to the law, and according to God's law. Think about it. Confession is the only way to achieve any kind of grace."

  "Don't talk to me about religion in that sneering kind of way. At least I believe in God. It doesn't take much to see you're an atheist." He spat the last word out as though it disgusted him.

  "My religious beliefs are none of your concern. I am only interested in finding a vicious murderer,
someone who is perverted enough to enjoy torturing and killing young men."

  “I didn't kill anyone, and you can't prove I did."

  "Maybe, but with the proof that I do have, I can make a case out against you.

  One; you had the victim's blood on your clothes.

  Two; you knew that and asked your mother to wash them, incidentally making her your accomplice.

  Three; you were at the scene of a crime, at the time it took place, and do not deny that you were there, and

  Four; your mother, for whatever reason burnt a hammer in the stove. Italo Franchini was killed with a hammer."

  Antonio said quietly, "I know it looks bad, but it wasn't me."

  "Listen to me Antonio, if you had an accomplice and you tell us about him, then things will go better for you. You’re young, and an older man could have pushed you to commit a crime that normally you would never have thought of committing. Tell me about this man, the man who photographed you, your friend."

  "Oh God, no. I can't take anymore," wept Antonio, and refused to say another word.

  The technicians’ report on the wall that supported the Duomo had come in the previous evening. There was no blood on the wall.

  Despite prolonged searching, no rock had been found with blood on it, but Di Girolamo was so certain that there had to be one, that he sent for the bloodhounds to come and comb the woods. At the back of the Duomo the land fell away sharply, and a well thrown stone could have travelled quite far. It was winter and although the undergrowth thinned out during the winter months, it was quite impenetrable at some points. All morning the dog handlers clambered around amongst the thick bushes and the lianas, the fallen trees, and the blackberry briars, as well as the disgusting debris thrown there by humans who had no compunction in ridding themselves of unwanted cookers, bottles, plastic bowls with holes in them, condoms, ice-cream wrappers, and old car tires.

  When the stone was finally found, Ruggero felt a great release of tension. He was right, this boy had been murdered, and probably by the same person who had murdered his friends. He said to Maresciallo Biagioni, "I said it would be the one I didn't fancy as the murderer, and it certainly looks like you were right."

  "Well, as I said, it'll be diminished responsibility. He's not too bright as you will have noticed yourself. He drives that Ape truck because he couldn't manage to pass the driving test, and that doesn't require a driving licence. He didn’t finish his schooling either."

  "Yes, but what we need is proof. We don't have the ropes, or the murder weapon, the Ape has yielded nothing, and we can only place him on the scene for the last murder."

  "We'll have to go for that then, and hope he'll confess to the others."

  "Well, we can try."

  "In the meantime, we'll search his parents’ house."

  Krishna Hope watched the news on television, and when he heard that two people were helping the police with their enquiries and recognised Alessio, he was quite shaken. His father asked, "Do you know who that is?"

  "Yes, it's Alessio Pinucci. He's a bit simple, but very funny in a vulgar sort of way. He hangs around with us."

  "Not the other boy though, Antonio Valdese?"

  "God no. He's an absolute creep, quite disgusting."

  "What do you mean?

  "He's got his religion, and his mum, and he's queer to boot."

  "I do wish you wouldn't use words like that Krishna, We have tried to bring you up not to have any kind of prejudice, and then you use a homophobic word like, queer. Really! "

  "Sorry Dad. It doesn't mean anything when I say it."

  "Then please don't say it."

  "OK. Any way it seems to me he's far more likely to have done it than Alessio. I mean Alessio, poor sod, is one of the group, but Antonio is a misfit. Every one knows he was caught fiddling with a choirboy, and anyone who would do that would do anything."

  "I doubt it. Also, is Alessio really one of your group? Isn't he someone you all laugh at and keep around like a tame animal?"

  "Well, that's a nasty way of putting it. We all like him."

  "Do you, and do you think of him as the same as you?"

  "In what way?"

  "Krishna, don't evade the issue."

  "Well, he's with us, and he's different, at the same time, but he's a good guy."

  "How do you think he likes to be laughed at?"

  "Well it's not at, it's with."

  "Krishna, be honest."

  "Alright, so sometimes it's at, but he doesn't mind."

  "You don't know that. Be realistic, Krishna. This young man comes from a poor, ill-educated family. He’s simple, and you all make fun of him. You come from a privileged home and you’re a good looking young man, like the rest of the group. You all have girls queuing up for you, does he?"

  "No, but…"

  "You're all having a good education, what about him? You all have families that help you, does he?"

  "I have to answer no to all that, but you're still making it too cut and dried. He's funny, and usually we laugh at his jokes, not at him. He's a good guy, harmless. You will never convince me that he would kill anyone, and certainly not in such a perverted away. Come on Dad."

  "But the other boy, Antonio would?"

  "I don't know, but he seems more likely. First he's not a boy, he's twenty three; second he dotes on his Mummy, which is weird at his age; third he's already fumbled in the choirboys knickers, and that's a perversion in my book, and fourth, he's so ghastly, that if I had to choose between the two, I would have no doubts at all."

  "Most serial killers are not as you have just described. They appear to be normal. They live quietly, and are masters of behavioural disguise. I agree that often they live with a doting mother, and or have strong associations with the church, but they usually appear to be well integrated into the society they live in. They don't want anyone to have the slightest idea about their abnormality."

  "Well, I still think it's Antonio, but of course it could be neither of them."

  "Perhaps. I had an idea that you yourself might know something, or have an idea about all this?" His father looked at him quizzically.

  "I did, but I wasn't right. It was just an idea I had, not anything definite. Anyway, I knew as soon as they arrested Antonio that it had to be him."

  "And you feel sure you were mistaken earlier?"

  "Yes. Absolutely."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  By now the days and nights had become one long piece of time. She had no idea any longer of how long she had been here. There was no light and dark to separate the days from the nights, no clock to tick away the hours and the minutes. There was just the now, and the before.

  Her body hurt, she felt feverish, and she slept and slept. She didn't eat at all now, but she drank, great draughts of water that never seemed to quench her endless thirst. Her body lay exhausted on the bed in the stuffy room that had become her prison. Only one thing was real to her, and that was her baby. She knew it was alive and she knew it was waiting for her.

  Isabelle was feeling wonderful, or so she said, and her thoughts were turning towards home. She knew that Miranda didn't have to go back to London for a while, and was hoping desperately that her daughter would stay with her when she went home, just to settle her in. She didn't quite know how to broach the subject, so for now she said nothing. The thing that was really worrying her was this so-called dream. Never had anything seemed so real, despite its alarming unreality. She had done as Miranda suggested and tried hard to believe it was a dream but, now, as she thought about it, she knew with absolute certainty that it was real, and she remembered something else as well.

  "Darling, when do you think they’ll throw me out of here?" she asked her daughter.

  "Quite soon I would imagine."

  "Darling Miranda, you are being absolutely wonderful to your poor old mum. It doesn't seem quite fair, and I do so hope it will all be over soon."

  "I'm sure it will."

  "There is just one thing th
at's bothering me."

  "Spit it out." She looked at her mother's face and said, "Not that girl again."

  "Yes, my dear, you see I remember everything quite clearly now. It just came back to me when I woke up."

  "Tell me."

  "Well, I'll start at the beginning. It was late, midnight-ish I think, and the fire was going out. I had run out of wood, and I needed some to bank up the fire for the night, so I went to get the wood, and I heard her calling for help. No, that's was afterwards." She thought for a moment and then went on. "I slipped on my way back from the woodshed, and my torch beam lit up this white shape, so I shone my torch on it. I remember thinking it might be a ghost, but it was a woman in a night-dress. Then I thought she must be some demented old biddy, but she was only a girl, almost a child, and there was blood on her clothes. She kept saying "Aiutami", help me, and something about a bambino. I know it wasn't a dream."

  "Well no one said anything about a girl. You were found at the bottom of the gully outside your house the next morning, by that builder of yours, Marco. You were half dead, frozen, and you must have hit your head on a rock or something."

  "No no, it wasn't like that at all. I remember everything now. I was talking to the girl, and somebody hit me over the head. I swear to you." She screwed up her eyes as though to see clearly into the past, "Yes, that's right, I was over to the side of the house, and I said to her, "I'll go and get help". I remember now, I was going to phone Hilary."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure. There's some madman out there, who is killing those boys, and he must have tried to kill that poor girl, and me too, I suppose."

  "But Ma, if there was a girl, then what happened to her?"

  "He must have killed her too."

  "But there aren't any missing girls, at least I don't think so. I mean I was up at Hilary's at Christmas, and no one said anything about a missing girl."

  "Oh! Well, no matter, maybe she escaped him, or maybe no one knows she’s missing yet. I know it was real. It can't have been a dream."

  "Don't get upset please. Put it out of your mind for the moment. I want to get you properly well, so that I can take you home."