“It would be nice to have the murder weapon with a finger print,” remarked Bruno wistfully.
“Dream on. The carabinieri looked in all the rubbish bins in the area the same morning but no blood-stained clothes and no knife turned up.”
“He’d have got rid of the knife along the road back to the hotel, or maybe he threw it in the river.”
“Yes, but what about the clothes? When he went back to the hotel he was wearing the same clothes he went out in, the same clothes we examined, by the way.” Jacopo sounded a little defeated.
“Maybe he wore protective clothing to do it? Would there have been a lot of blood?”
“Not necessarily. The first thrust killed her and it was a deeply penetrating wound. The rest was done after death and blood loss would have been minimal, according to the pathologist, so no blood spurts from those wounds for a start off.”
“If we can place him there then we can put pressure on him. I know his sort, he’ll crack.”
“Maybe.” Dragonetti sounded dubious. “OK, we’ll leave him in peace for now and see if house-to-house yields anything. Tell Maresciallo Spadaccia to get a photo of Guido and of his rather noticeable car, and I want them shown to everyone who habitually uses that road. If we have a sighting we can start in on him. Until then, it’s pointless.”
“Right, boss.”
“But we must also consider the family members. They were the ones with access to Ursula. They were in the house that night and might well have had some reason for killing her that we don’t yet know about. Lapo is a very disturbed young man, Marianna might be fragile but she also appears to be cold and unemotional and Tebaldo is a complete mess. He’s fallen apart.”
“With grief?”
“Maybe, or perhaps with the realisation of what he’s done. Suppose he killed her, leaving aside the motive for now. He might have done it in a dreamlike state which was why he reacted so violently when he saw her body. It was at that moment he fully realised what he’d done and now he can’t live with himself. How does that sound?” Jacopo asked Bruno hopefully.
“Feasible, I suppose, but there’s still no motive that we know of and no evidence to connect him except a little blood under his shoe which he got from going into the bedroom. Marta stepped in it too. Where would he have got rid of the murder weapon and his blood-stained clothes?”
“Perhaps he went in naked and had a shower afterwards, or went out and disposed of the knife and his clothes. I want to pressure him on that because I think he did go out and I think his wife knew about it. Also, we need to find out if he had a shower, or if anyone else did, come to that.”
“No one mentioned hearing anyone having a shower during the night.”
“We’ll make a point of asking. Now what about Lapo? He went out but there’s no saying he didn’t come back, kill his mother and then go out again to get rid of the murder weapon and blood-stained clothing. Everyone heard him come in at four but maybe he wanted them to. Don’t forget he was very noisy, probably exceptionally so if the noise penetrated Marianna’s chemically induced sleep,” Jacopo pointed out.
“And the girl?”
“Marianna was in the house all night and could have killed her mother and of course she could have slipped out and got rid of anything incriminating.”
“I can’t see a girl doing that to her mother.”
“Come on, Bruno, we both know that a girl could do this as easily as a man. Since when have women been immune to violent crime? Remember Erika and Omar. That was done with a knife too and Erica was about the same age as Marianna. She didn’t just kill her mother either but her little brother, too. Don’t you remember, it was a bloodbath. So if it was Marianna, what was her motive? The only thing we know is that she disagreed with her mother about the boyfriend.”
“True, and how big a deal was that?”
“It wasn’t. She’ll be eighteen next month and comes into her inheritance. Moving on, there’s always the faithful servants. What do you think about them?”
Bruno sighed. “No, I don’t fancy them for it. They’re too faithful and Marta certainly could never have done it. It’s possible that Piero did – and his motive?”
“Perhaps Ursula had something on him. Perhaps he wanted to leave but was forced to stay.”
“Is that a motive?”
“Who knows? I want to see him again, dig a bit deeper into his relationship with ‘Madam’.”
“Talking about motives, I think I’ve identified the author of the anonymous letters.”
“Who?”
“A member of the Rossi family. Either the old man, though I doubt he can write, far less use a computer. No, a more likely candidate is the grandson, Claudio Osvaldo Rossi. He calls himself Ozzie.”
“Go on,” said Drago
“When I went there it came out that the old man hates Germans. His brother was killed by a German during the war and he was quite rabid about it, resented Germans coming here and ‘lording it over us’. Now that was the same phrase used in the letter. Plus, he knew that Ursula’s first husband manufactured arms. Also, he still hasn’t got over Ursula ‘exterminating’ the cats, as he puts it. Perhaps he got his grandson to write the letters.”
“Could the old man have climbed up the wisteria trunk and got in through the balcony?”
“I suppose so. He’s pretty ancient but he looks quite fit.”
“How would he have known that the shutters were open?” asked Drago.
“Maybe he took a stroll there every evening on the off chance but Claudio Rossi looks more the sort to me. He could have gone there to steal something but Ursula woke up and saw him so he killed her and, because of the way he felt about her, he mutilated her too.”
“So, let’s have the Rossi grandfather and his grandson in for a chat and I think I’ll call Guido della Rocca back in too.” Jacopo finally felt a faint spark of hope. The amount of evidence was so small and the motives they had unearthed so far were so irrelevant that anything solid was extremely welcome.
The Rossi grandfather: full name, Primo Alfredo Rossi, aged eighty-one, had changed into what looked like his Sunday best for the occasion. The smell of mothballs was very powerful, but Bruno thought it infinitely preferable to the smells that had tormented him at the farmyard. Away from his territory, the old man appeared to have lost his sense of security and also seemed somehow to have shrunk. He looked older and even a little fragile. Dragonetti observed him carefully, noting that as he walked he favoured one leg over the other, possibly a sign of hip joint problems. Could this man really have climbed the vine to the balcony?
He put out his hand. “Dottor Jacopo Dragonetti.”
The old man shook it saying, “Primo Rossi.”
“Please sit down. Is your leg troubling you?”
“What kind of a doctor are you?”
“I have a doctorate in law but I couldn’t help noticing your leg seemed to be giving you some pain.”
“Ah, gives me gyp. It’s me hip, but I’m not going to let them butcher me.” He sat down carefully and stared straight at Dragonetti. “Fire away.”
“I expect you remember my colleague, Dottor Faro, who interviewed you yesterday.”
“Oh, the pretty boy.” He shot him a disdainful glance. “Waste of time.”
“Well, I’m going to waste some more of your time.” He thrust a piece of paper under the man’s nose, “Read this.”
The old man shook his head. “I can’t. Never had the time for learning. Don’t hold with it. I’ve worked all my life.”
“Tell me about your brother who was killed during the war.”
The old man looked startled, “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“That depends on what you mean by anything. Let’s just say I’m interested.”
Rossi looked at him warily, “The war was a long time ago.”
“I know, but some things stay with us all our lives. There are things we can’t forget.”
The old man looked up
at him with suddenly tearful eyes, “That’s true. You never said a truer word.” He shook his head sadly. “I’ll never forget. My brother was only a kid, the youngest in the family. They shot him for no reason, just for fun, and they laughed. It was a couple of German soldiers, the bastards. They’d had too much to drink and didn’t care who they fired at. I couldn’t do anything. I ran away to save myself and left his body there. We came back and got him when they’d gone.” He bowed his head.
“So you don’t have any affection for the Germans.”
“No, I don’t. They got off too lightly. I can’t bear to see them come back with all their money and have people fawn over them. It’s disgusting. They should stay away.”
“And does your grandson feel the same way?”
“He does and proud of it. I told him the whole story.”
“So you weren’t too pleased when Ursula von Bachmann came to live at the villa.”
“That German cow. You know her first husband makes guns. That’s how his family made their money. They supplied the German army during the war. What I don’t understand is how come all these Germans have pots of money when they lost the war.”
“As you yourself said, the war was a long time ago.”
“True, true. But she was a wicked woman. Only a German could have done what she did.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She exterminated all those cats what never did her no harm. Germans are good at extermination.”
Dragonetti decided to change the subject and moved on, “What did Signora von Bachmann come to say to you?”
“She wanted me out, offered me stacks of her German blood money and expected me to be delighted.”
“But you weren’t. In fact you threatened to run her through with a pitchfork.”
“She made me that mad, but I wouldn’t have done it really. I just wanted to see her frightened.”
“And was she?”
“Yes.” He smiled at the memory. “She was.”
At the villa, only Tebaldo, Isabella and the children were at the breakfast table. Marta served them. Her hands shook as she carefully placed the coffee pot on the table. Her general appearance was that of a tired old woman. Ursula’s death had aged her immensely.
Isabella asked, “Marta are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you, Signora.”
“You don’t look well.”
“Well, no, I don’t suppose I do.”
Teo said, “I do understand that things must be very difficult for you at the moment, but I’m not sure what we can do about it.”
“Cook will be back tomorrow and the other staff.”
“I can help you today if you like,” said Isabella. “I don’t see why you should have to soldier on alone.”
Marta looked quite shocked. “I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you. Piero and I can manage quite well.” She left the room with dignity.
“My God, I’d have thought she’d be pleased.” Isabella was quite affronted.
“Isabella, that’s not how it works here, but it was kind of you.”
“She didn’t think so. She’s never liked me.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“I always get it wrong.”
“No, that’s not true. You’re doing a good job with the kids.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly she felt tears rush to her eyes. It was the first nice thing Teo had said for such a long time. “Thank you for that.”
Teo looked at her carefully. For the first time in months, he appeared to be seeing her as a person, who could be hurt, and realised from the way she was so grateful for such small praise, how little he had given her.
“Signor Rossi. Your full name is Claudio Osvaldo Rossi, is that correct?”
He nodded. “Ozzie. That’s me.”
Drago looked at him. He had quite a few earrings, a ring through his lip and one at his eyebrow. When he spoke, another was visible on his tongue. His black hair was long and curly, his eyes, too, were dark. He looked like a Spanish pirate or perhaps a gypsy.
“What do think about Ursula von Bachmann’s death?”
“I don’t think about it.” He guffawed.
“Very funny. Come on, you must have had some thoughts on the subject.”
“Not really.” He lolled back in the chair, completely at ease.
“Who do you think could have killed her?”
“How should I know? It’s your job to find out.”
“Did you like her?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with her. I didn’t even know her. The day she came to the house was the first time I spoke to her.”
“And the last.”
“Yeah.”
“I was talking to your grandfather about the war.”
“So?” His way of speaking was what Drago would have termed insolent and provocative. He ignored it.
“And he doesn’t like the Germans very much.”
“Neither do I and I expect he told you that, right?”
“Yes he did. It must have been very upsetting to have a German come and live in the villa, right on your doorstep.”
“Yeah, well, we didn’t see much of her.”
“But she wanted you out and I’m sure you didn’t want to live next door to a German, so why didn’t you go?”
“Not my decision. Grandad won’t take her money. He’s got a thing about it, you know, because of her husband making guns.”
“Where were you on the night she was killed?”
“Out.” His body had stiffened slightly.
“Are there witnesses to that fact?”
“Yeah, everyone saw me around. I was playing snooker in the bar.”
“What time did you go home?
“About one, maybe,” he said warily.
“Did you see any vehicles on the road to the villa?”
“Oh come on, there are always vehicles. You don’t expect me to remember, do you?”
“Do you own a computer?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“What do you use it for?”
“This and that, mainly the internet.”
“Do you ever write letters?”
“No.”
“You didn’t write to Signora von Bachmann and suggest she take herself off?”
“No.”
“You didn’t threaten to do something about it if she didn’t go?”
“No.”
“I think you did.”
“Can you prove it?” He sneered.
“Claudio, will you tell me what really happened that afternoon? What did you and your grandfather do to make Ursula von Bachmann so angry? Did you talk about the war? Did you offend her national pride?”
“No way. I was real polite.”
“Did you tell her something about Guido?”
“Guido?”
“Oh come on, I’m talking about Guido della Rocca, the man she was going to marry. Did you tell her he was screwing around?”
“Me! I don’t know him either.”
“Then tell me who does. Who was hanging around that day? Who did she bump into on her way home?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“Did you kill her?”
“You must be joking. Of course I didn’t.” He sat up in the chair as though preparing for flight.
“You could have done.”
“But she was killed in the house, right? So how did I get in?”
“You climbed up the wisteria and went into the house via the balcony.”
“Not me.”
“Well, I don’t think your grandfather is up to it, but you are. You’re young and strong and could easily have climbed up.”
“Look, it wasn’t me. I’ve never set foot in the villa and anyway, why would I do it? It’s crazy. Prove it. Have you got proof?”
“But you did write the letters.”
“Prove it.”
“Why did you write threatening letters if you weren’t going to carry out
your threats?”
“If I had written the letters maybe I wanted to frighten her off. Maybe I thought she’d go away and leave us in peace. That’s all.” It was on the tip of Claudio’s tongue to give them the info they needed but he was too frightened. The way things were looking now, they’d never believe him. Besides, tomorrow he was going to get paid for it. Why give for free today what you’ll be paid for tomorrow.
“Well, you’ve been left in peace now. You’ve got exactly what you wanted.”
Despite meticulous house-to-house inquiries there was no new information. No one had seen Guido’s white sports car that night.
“Let’s put some pressure on him. Don’t forget he lied about leaving the hotel so now he’ll tell us where he went.”
Bruno went out and Dragonetti was left reflecting that without proof that Guido was at the villa, they would have nothing, unless he confessed. The truth was, he didn’t think that Guido had done it. Bruno did. He hated men of Guido’s type and thought them capable of anything, but Dragonetti disagreed. Men like Guido didn’t kill. Guido was too refined, too delicate and besides they had independent witness statements from those who had no cause to defend him, that he couldn’t take the sight of blood. The only way he could ever have killed Ursula would have been accidentally, maybe a shove during an argument that caused her to fall and strike her head, not this premeditated murder. He just couldn’t see Guido wielding a knife while Ursula lay sleeping in her bed. A man who was known to have reacted so strongly at the sight of a little blood? On the other hand, there was no one else, except, of course, Ozzie. Was his hatred strong enough? Was he some kind of psychopath? How had got into the house? Perhaps he had a key, maybe obtained when the restoration was taking place. He made a note to contact the builders and find out if Ozzie was ever around. Perhaps he’d been employed as a labourer. He said he did a bit of this and that. It would seem likely that labouring on the villa, so handy and close to home, was perfect.
Broken Chord Page 21