It would certainly pacify Cinzia when she told her. But would she tell her? Mike had implied that it was an aspect of his life about which he preferred to be discreet, that he would open up only when he was sure she was worthy of his trust. Could she betray him before he had even talked to her?
Besides, she and Cinzia hadn't been in touch very often.
Four times in all, since she had left Bologna. They had not made peace, but they had agreed to a kind of truce over the phone, promising each other that they would meet again soon, in Bologna or Florence, but 'as friends'.
There were times, though, when she missed Cinzia, when she missed her a lot. Times when she would have liked to make love to her all night. She often woke from her sleep and these thoughts would keep her awake through hours of slow agony, haunted by memories of the past. All she needed was a sign and she would have run downstairs, got in her car, and left that enchanting house in Bellosguardo for ever, without a second thought.
Perhaps at times like those, she thought, she was like Filippo Lippi. But there were no sheets long enough to let her down from her terrace and take her all the way to Cinzia's apartment in Bologna. Or she just wasn't as brave as that old painter.
Not far from the Cathedral and the Baptistry, they came to the Romanesque church of San Lorenzo, with its austere unfinished facade.
'Michelangelo designed a facade,' her 'guide' explained, 'but it was never realised. Let's go in.'
It was a relief. The church was not particularly warm, but compared with the cold outside, it was comfortable.
'This way,' he said.
He led the way to Lippi's Annunciation. 'Don't you think it's remarkable?' 'The painting?'
'The resemblance,' he said, almost astonished that she had not noticed it right away.
'To the Madonna in the Uffizi, you mean?' Valentina asked, uncomprehending.
'No, no, they're very different. Look closely, doesn't she remind you of anyone?'
She looked at the beautiful Madonna - eyes lowered, hand raised in an eloquent gesture, clothes softly draped in such a way as to suggest her coming pregnancy - and still she did not understand. Who was the Madonna supposed to remind her of? A famous actress? A model?
She gave him a blank look.
He looked back at her, a mixture of surprise and amusement in his eyes. 'Don't you ever look at yourself in the mirror, kid?'
Valentina almost laughed out loud. Her? A Madonna? Was he mad? If only he knew, she thought. Maybe he was gay, maybe he wasn't. But there was nothing pure or holy about her! Yes, that was something she could tell Cinzia: Valentina the Madonna!
'It's you,' he insisted, in all seriousness.
'Stop it now,' she said, starting to get a little annoyed. 'Let's
go-'
The Madonna's distracted gaze now seemed like a silent rebuke.
'Look at the line of the nose, the lips. The oval shape of the face. It's you. Even those wisps of blonde hair emerging from beneath the headcloth, just like yours the day you were wearing the purple bandana, do you remember? When I first saw you I was stunned. I'd just been here for the umpteenth time, because it's my favourite place in all Florence, and I thought history was playing a trick on me. It was as if you'd stepped straight out of the picture, changed your clothes and come to meet me in Greve.'
'Let's go, please,' she said, almost imploring.
On Monday 31 January Don Sergio Rotondi walked past the church of San Salvatore al Vescovo. It was raining so hard, his umbrella barely covered him, and his shoes and the bottoms of his trousers were soaked. When he got to Number 3, Piazza San Giovanni, he went in.
Inside the Curia of the Archbishop of Florence there was a sense of discreet elegance, and a muffled murmur that testified to the constant activity of those priests assigned to the administration of the diocese.
When he had explained the purpose of his visit, Don Sergio was directed to an office on the first floor, the office of Monsignor the Archbishop.
As he climbed the stairs, he turned the letter over nervously in his hands.
He had to wait twenty minutes before being admitted to another, smaller office. Here he was greeted by a prelate of about sixty, with beautifully groomed white hair. His small hands were equally well cared for, and he moved them gracefully as he spoke. 'Please sit down. I am Monsignor Federici. His Eminence has asked me to examine your case. Yours is a very, very unusual request.'
'I realise that.'
'I assume you've given it a lot of thought.' 'I have no choice.'
Monsignor Federici was watching him closely, his chin in his right hand, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed. 'The Church is no longer as inclined as it once was to . . . turn a blind eye, if you know what I mean. If the media get hold of the story
'But the Church can make exceptions.'
'If there are very, very serious reasons why it should. The Church can do anything - with the help of God.'
'Isn't a corrupted soul serious enough?'
The prelate thought this over. 'Have you brought the letter, as I asked?'
Don Sergio held it out to him.
The prelate took it, put on a pair of half-moon glasses and studied it.
'Good,' he said. 'I think His Eminence will receive you. I hope you're just as convincing when you speak to him. The Archbishop of Florence is a holy man, but he hates being bothered unnecessarily. He has many important duties to attend to in the diocese.'
He stood up and walked to the door. 'Wait for me,' he said, and went out.
He soon returned.
'Please follow me.'
5
Busy with the Monster of Florence case as well as the Lupi murder, Ferrara had not yet had time to show the anonymous message to his friend Massimo.
He finally did it on the last Saturday of that cold, harsh January, just before leaving for Sicily. Outside the bookshop, the rain was forcing pedestrians to take shelter in shops and doorways or, if they absolutely had to get on with their business, to hug the walls in order to take advantage of the overhanging roofs.
Massimo examined the letter for a long time, puffing calmly at a black pipe with a silver ring. Tm not that good at riddles,' he said at last. 'Maybe you could ask one of those people who do puzzles for newspapers. They must have an e-mail address and would just love to have people contact them with problems like yours!'
'I don't think it'd be appropriate in this case,' Ferrara grunted. 'This isn't a game.' He hesitated for a moment. 'It's not the first one I've received.'
'Well, that may help us. What did the others say?'
'There was only one. To be honest, I don't even know if they're connected. It was very different, more like a threat. The Latin motto Memento mori, do you know it?'
Massimo thought this over. 'Was that all?' 'Does it mean anything to you?'
'Quite a bit. To begin with, it's the title of a very good novel, written by someone who's almost a fellow citizen of ours. Actually, she's Scottish but she's been living near Arezzo for ages. Her name's Muriel Spark. She used to come in here occasionally. A delightful woman! If you paid more attention to me, you'd know about her. You really must read the book. I'll give you a copy on your way out. On the house, because I'm sure you'd never buy it. Petra would, but I'll give it to her anyway. Make her read it, she'll like it.'
'Drop it, Massimo. I don't have time, you know.'
'Bullshit! The excuse of the lazy and the ignorant. If you really want to, you make the time. Winston Churchill was a big reader, even in the middle of the Second World War. With all due respect, I find it hard to believe that a police superintendent has more on his plate than Churchill.'
'Okay, you're right, as usual. But seeing as you've read this book, does it hold the solution to my problem?'
'Maybe you should ask the author,' Massimo said. 'But after you've read it, please!' Then, turning serious again, 'But there's something else, which may link the two messages. Both of them have a religious element. The last will be the first is
a quotation from the Gospels, and Memento mori is the motto of a religious order, the Trappists. Maybe this man is simply trying to convert you ..."
Obviously it was a joke, but if it was meant to cheer Ferrara up a little, it didn't succeed. Is this something to do with Don Sergio? he thought.
'And from a literary point of view?' he asked.
'Well, that's my speciality. And that's what bothers me: I can't find any explanation. The first will be the last. What does it mean? That this one's the first and you won't receive any others, which would rule out the hypothesis of a connection? But what would be the point of that? If on the other hand both are from the same person, then our man is playing with paradoxes. Because how can you have a 'first' if there isn't a 'second'? And that would mean we're dealing with an intelligent person, someone with a bit of education. If that's the case, it won't be so easy to decipher the message. It probably refers to things we're not even aware of yet. In other words: expect more messages.'
And more murders? Ferrara wondered.
The answer to his question was not long in coming.
On the afternoon of Sunday 6 February, Lapo Vanni, who lived in an apartment in the Via de' Cerchi, a side street that ran parallel to the busy Via dei Calzaiuoli, noticed a bad smell coming from his neighbour's apartment as he was returning home after a ten-day holiday. Having knocked repeatedly on the door without getting a response, he had decided to phone the police.
The Squadra Mobile had responded immediately, but the officers sent had had to get the fire brigade in to help them. After ascertaining that the window looking out onto the street was closed and even protected by an iron grille, the firemen had forced open the door. At that point, nobody would have been surprised if they had found a dead body inside the apartment, perhaps someone who'd suddenly been taken ill and hadn't had time to call for help. But they were not prepared for what they did in fact find.
Kneeling on the ground with his torso face down on the bed, completely naked and in an advanced state of decomposition, was the body of a man, who was identified as the owner of the apartment. It was only a studio flat, but tastefully and expensively furnished.
By the time Ferrara arrived, his men were already there, along with a team from Homicide. Soon after, the pathologist - Dr Leone as usual - arrived with the forensics team. Prosecutor Gallo had also decided to be present. After what had happened in Como, Ferrara was not too keen on the idea.
Everyone wore overshoes provided by forensics in order not to contaminate the scene.
The dead man was thirty-two, and his name was Francesco Bianchi. He was not on the police database, not even for reporting lost documents. There was nothing on him at all. The way the murder had been carried out, on the other hand, was significant, especially to Ferrara. A few differences aside, it was a carbon copy of the Micali murder.
The first difference was a broken rose stem next to the body, the second the remnants of a crumbled cigar on the bloodstained sheets, the third a length of wire around the victim's neck, knotted into a noose, which had left a deep, narrow groove in the skin. Apart from that, there were two deep wounds in the man's back, others in the left upper part of the parietal region, clearly visible when Leone turned the body over, and many others on the face, curiously concentrated as in the Micali case. There were even wounds on the arms. All caused by a sharp instrument.
'Is it possible to establish the time of death?' Ferrara asked, not expecting a positive answer.
'From the state of decomposition,' Leone said, 'I'd certainly say days, maybe several. For the moment, it's difficult to establish how many days exactly. I'll be able to make a better estimate after the autopsy'
The air in that small space was still unbreathable. The firemen had had to open the street window wide to let in some fresh air immediately after entering, but the smell of death clung to everything.
'Never seen anything like this,' Leone said, addressing both Ferrara and the Prosecutor, who were following his examination of the wounds closely.
'It looks as if it might have been some kind of erotic game,' Ferrara said, looking around. There were several elements that suggested this: the position of the body, the red scarf over the lampshade, the traces of burned incense, the red roses in the crystal vase on the eighteenth-century overmantel, the almost empty bottle of champagne on the bedside table.
'A game he was playing with the killer,' the Prosecutor said.
'Yes,' Ferrara said, although he seemed to be thinking of something else.
'If that's right, it could make your work easier, couldn't it?' Prosecutor Gallo asked. He was ultimately responsible for the success of the investigation and he was already starting to look impatient.
'It could. But don't forget the rose stem. Red roses are frequently used in black magic rituals. There are six in the vase. Seven if we count the stem by the body. A magic number. Then there's the crumbled cigar—'
'That's a reference to you,' the Prosecutor interrupted, clearly annoyed. He did not share Ferrara's interest in black magic and Satanism, and was afraid that Ferrara might even want to include this murder in his inquiries on the Monster of Florence: if that nightmare was revived, it would throw the whole city into a panic.
'You can take the body away now,' Leone said. 'My work is done. At least for today. Tomorrow we'll see what comes out of the autopsy'
Before leaving with the doctor, Gallo gave Ferrara his instructions. It was up to Ferrara and his men to search the apartment: a bedroom, a kitchen and bathroom. But first he had to wait for the forensics team to finish their work.
The forensics people were already moving about in their white overalls, examining every space and every object. They had found a number of prints, notably on the crystal glasses next to the champagne bottle on the bedside table, and on the rim of the toilet bowl. They had also found bloodstains on the inside of the wash basin in the bathroom, which seemed to indicate that the killer had washed the knife after the murder. The knife itself had not been found.
Once the forensics team had finished, it was the turn of Ferrara's men to carry out a thorough search.
The whole operation did not take long, because there was not a great deal in the apartment. It seemed more like a pied-a-terre than a fixed abode. They did not find anything useful.
Ferrara decided to go back to Headquarters and get on with the interviews. Lapo Vanni was asked to follow them, along with the other residents who were at home that day.
'How did you come to discover the body?' was the first question Ferrara asked Vanni when they were in his office.
'Well, I didn't exactly discover him. I smelt him. I'd been away for ten days on holiday and I was struck by the stench coming from his apartment.'
'Wasn't there anyone in your apartment while you were away?'
'No. I'm a widower and live on my own. I have a son who works in France. That's where I've been.' 'When did you leave?' 'Ten days ago, I already said.'
'Did you see or hear your neighbour as you were leaving?'
'No. I didn't even notice if the apartment was occupied, but I don't suppose it was. This Francesco Bianchi wasn't around, he usually only came at weekends.'
'How well did you know him?'
'Hardly at all. Because, like I said, he wasn't there all the time. We'd occasionally meet on the stairs or the landing and say hello.'
'What do you know about him?'
Almost nothing. I know he lived in Siena, and taught art history in senior high school. I also know he bought the apartment about four years ago because he loved Florence and liked to come here whenever his work permitted. At least that's what he told me on one of the few occasions we spoke.'
'How long have you lived in the Via de' Cerchi?'
'I've always lived there. It was my parents' apartment.'
'So you've known Bianchi since he arrived four years ago. Four years is quite a long time. It's a small building, I find it hard to believe you never exchanged anything more than polite chit-cha
t.'
'But that's how it was, Superintendent. I realise it may seem strange, but you have to remember that Bianchi wasn't there all the time, like I said. It was his second home.'
'Did you ever see him with anyone? A member of his family, a friend, another neighbour?'
'He was always alone when I saw him, and I'm pretty sure none of my neighbours spent any time with him. I'd have known if they had, we all get on pretty well.'
'I'd like you to think very carefully. Are you absolutely sure you never saw him with anyone? Male or female? After all, a studio apartment is most often used as a bachelor pad, isn't it?'
'I suppose so. But I swear I never saw him with anyone. I got the impression he wasn't married. I don't think he even had a girlfriend. It seemed to me he was a real scholar.'
'Signor Vanni, I think we'll have to talk again. In the meantime, see if you can remember anything else. You do realise you haven't really told us anything, don't you?' There was a touch of irritation in Ferrara's voice. 'I think you know what we're after.'
'Yes, I think so. But frankly, I don't think I can help you. I've heard it said that he sometimes came home with other men, men who were younger than him and - well, let's say of a lower class. I didn't mention it because it was just gossip, and I don't like gossip. I don't even remember who told me.'
'Please try to remember.'
The interview was over.
In the meantime, the few other residents, interviewed by Ferrara's men, had not come up with anything useful either. It was as if the man had never lived in their building. They knew nothing about him. He might as well have been a complete stranger.
It was very late by now and Ferrara decided to go home, getting through the crowd of journalists with a laconic 'No comment for the moment.'
The next day, Headquarters was like a madhouse. It seemed to Ferrara as if history was taking an ironic revenge, because the building had actually been a madhouse originally: the once famous Hospital of Bonifazio, the first psychiatric hospital in the modern sense, instituted between the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth. Ferrara had not been surprised to learn that such an institution should have been built in a place like Florence, with its long history of dark deeds and strange urges. He had already become familiar with the ambiguous nature of the city.
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