'What's this all about? Why have you asked me here at this hour? The officer who delivered the summons didn't give me any explanation. He just told me you wanted to talk to me.'
'That's right. I have to ask you some questions and take a statement from you.'
A statement?' the man said in surprise.
'Did you know Alfredo Lupi?' Ferrara asked, abruptly. 'Before you answer, I want you to know that we haven't called you in at random. We have evidence that pointed us in your direction.'
'I knew it, I knew it!' He shook his head disconsolately. 'Yes, I knew poor Alfredo and I'm very upset about what happened to him.'
'So why didn't you come to us of your own free will?'
'Why? Should I have? I had nothing to do with . . .'
'How did you meet?' Ferrara asked, implacably.
'It happened about three years ago . . .' He broke off.
'It's all right, Signor Gori! You can talk freely here. Tell us the truth. If you have nothing to hide ..."
'It's not that. I don't have anything to hide. It's just that it's not easy to explain.'
'It's okay. We're adults, you can talk freely. Don't be afraid - we're not charging you with anything. We have some information, and we're hoping you can confirm it, and perhaps even clarify it for us. That's all.'
'I'll tell you what you want to know, but can we keep it confidential? I wouldn't like my family to find out.'
Til do all I can. You have my word.'
'I met Alfredo through an ad he'd placed in a local paper. 'Thirty-year-old male seeks active partner . . .' that kind of thing. We arranged to meet in the Piazza Liberia. We both felt an immediate physical attraction to each other and decided to meet again. That first time, he told me he preferred the submissive role, which was fine with me. We arranged to meet in a week, at the Florence South tollgate.
'It wasn't easy at first because Alfredo would only have sex indoors. He was afraid we'd be spotted if we did it in the car.
'That's why we decided to get our families involved. We wanted to make our friendship look normal. My wife and his became great friends and Alfredo and I were able to meet more frequently. The four of us even went abroad on holiday together. Nobody in either family ever suspected our relationship.
Actually, the first time we went abroad, to Romania, it was just the two of us. That's where we first made love properly. After that, there were other times when we went away together. At weekends we often went to Cortina, where I have a studio apartment. We were there for a couple of days not long before he was killed.'
And did he tell you about any problems he had, anything he was afraid of? Please try to remember. If you know anything, now's your chance to tell us.'
'But I don't know anything. He didn't say anything about any problems, he seemed the same as usual. I can't imagine who could have killed him or why. I'd like to help you find the killer - Alfredo was a dear friend and I miss him a lot - but I don't know anything else.'
All right, thank you. You can go now.'
Ferrara immediately asked the Prosecutor for permission to tap Gori's phone. Gallo, relieved that things had started moving again, had no hesitation in issuing the authorization. They weren't dealing just with an anonymous tip-off any more, there were concrete facts now that needed to be confirmed as soon as possible. It was even in Gori's best interests, so that they could eliminate him from their inquiries.
That was why Ferrara had preferred not to ask him what he had been doing on the morning of 31 December. They'd be in a better position to tackle that question, if they had to, once they knew a bit more.
Two officers were sent to Cortina to find out about the last time the couple had stayed there, others made discreet inquiries about Gori's other relationships, and his wife was questioned, as was Lupi's widow for the second time.
But it all led nowhere. As the days went by, the initial burst of optimism gradually gave way to a sense of frustration.
Antonio Gori turned out to have no connection with the murder, and Lupi's wife was completely unaware of her husband's double life. Ferrara took care not to reveal it to her, convinced as he was that knowing about it would only make her grief harder to bear.
On Monday 21 February - Ascalchi had just informed him that another prostitute had been found murdered in Bologna - Ferrara realised that the only thing they knew for certain after all this activity was that Lupi had been gay. With all that this discovery implied.
Just like Bologna, Florence had its very own serial killer.
Gianni Ascalchi summed up the situation with a crude comment which was to remain famous for a long time at Police Headquarters: 'What a mess! The Bolognese are butchering whores, the Florentines are slicing queers; I'd have done better staying in Rome.'
6
That night Valentina slept badly.
In her sleep she thought she heard footsteps on the floor below, someone breathing heavily, mournfully.
When she had gone to bed, about midnight, Mike Ross was still out. Being all on her own in that big, isolated villa was an unnerving experience. Especially since, following the advice of that bookseller - advice that had been greeted with enthusiasm by her supervisor in Bologna and the assistant professor in Florence - she had been immersing herself in the study of Renaissance magic, and would drop off to sleep thinking about being burned at the stake and priests officiating at human sacrifices . . .
Next morning, when she leaned out of the window, she saw Mike's Porsche parked outside, next to her Panda.
That cheered her up. She went down to the garden and walked up to the kitchen window. Inside, the Filipino woman was bustling about with the pots and pans.
'Nenita,' she called as softly as she could, in order not to wake Mike, who must still be asleep.
'Yes?' the woman replied, gesturing to her to go to the door, which she ran to open.
'I'm sorry, Nenita, but what's on the first floor?'
'Sorry, madam, no understand,' Nenita replied, smiling.
'The first floor.'
'Yes?' Nenita said again.
'What's up there?' Valentina insisted, pointing upwards. 'First floor!'
'Oh yes, first floor,' Nenita replied, smiling broadly to indicate that she had understood. 'That is first floor.'
'Yes, but . . . what's on the first floor?'
'Sorry, signora . . .' Nenita smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
'I see, you don't understand.'
Valentina left the house exasperated. 'If you need anything, just ask Nenita,' she repeated to herself, mimicking Mike's accent. 'Oh, you can ask all right, but she doesn't understand a word!'
She decided she'd have it out with Mike when she got back from university . . .
The assistant professor's class focused on the first chapter of a book by the Italian historian Carlo Ginzburg, Myths, Emblems, Clues. The theme of the chapter was "Witchcraft and Popular Piety".
Valentina found it fascinating.
She hadn't yet read anything by Ginzburg, but promised herself she would get hold of some of his books. And maybe one day she'd go and see him. She knew Ginzburg lived in Bologna, even though he was often abroad. She had never attended any of his classes, and now she regretted it.
Thinking of Bologna reminded her of Cinzia.
When she left the university, she went to a bar to have a sandwich and took the opportunity to call her. They hadn't spoken in a long time.
From her friend's mobile the only response was the message 'The number you have called is not available at the moment
She tried her at home.
'Hello?' The voice was female, but it wasn't Cinzia's.
Td like to speak to Cinzia Roberti. Is she there?'
'Who is that?'
'Valentina. Valentina Preti.'
'Just a moment.'
She could tell that the girl was covering the receiver with one hand while she conferred with Cinzia.
Cinzia's voice came on the line. 'Hi, Vale. What do you want?'<
br />
'Just wanted to say hello. How are you?'
'Fine, thanks, and you?' Her voice was neutral, neither annoyed nor affectionate.
'Me too. Who . . . who answered the phone?'
'Chiara. You don't know her. Chiara, say "hi" to my friend Valentina.'
'Hi, Valentina,' she heard in the distance. The girl was giggling, perhaps sarcastically. Or else quite innocently. All the same, she felt offended, humiliated. She hated this Chiara, even though she didn't know her. 'Is everything really all right?' Absolutely fine, don't worry. How's your course?' 'Okay'
And what about . . . your American friend?'
'He's . . .' She held back. 'He's harmless. Really. I'll introduce you. He's a nice man, he's never tried anything. It hasn't even occurred to him.'
'Either he's gay, Vale, or your charms are failing.'
'Not all men are the same!' she protested. Later, she would wonder why she'd felt such an immediate need to defend him.
'No, but they all want the same thing. You know that, don't you?'
'Not him, I can guarantee it. You ought to meet him, I'd like you to meet him. You'd change your mind about him.'
'If that's the only way to see you again, I'd bear even that.'
Valentina's heart skipped a beat. But if she really wanted that, why was she being so aggressive?
'It's not the only way, you know.'
'But you've never been back to Bologna. It's February 7th now. More than a month.'
She felt guilty. 'You've never come to Florence either,' she protested weakly, knowing that the fault was all hers.
Or maybe not all hers. Who was this Chiara?
'Our home is here, not there.'
'You're right. I'll come and see you soon, I promise.'
'Okay, see you. Bye.'
'Bye.'
She put down the phone, irritably. If it was 'our home', what was that bitch Chiara doing there?
'So, the Squadra Mobile are now looking into the possibility of - what shall we call it — there being Satanists involved?'
'Well, it's one of the areas we're investigating.'
'In other words, there are reasons for you to suspect that these crimes were initiated within some kind of occult environment. What do you think, Professor?'
'It's a fact that in Italy, indeed all over the world, there's a subculture of tiny groups who are interested in black magic and other occult practices. Within these groups, it's believed that through the most abstruse and bizarre rituals, some people can become supermen and superwomen. Some of their rituals have a strongly sexual element, and may even involve some kind of sacrifice, even human sacrifice . . .'
The voices were coming from inside the villa.
Valentina had decided not to ring at the door of his apartment, but to confront Mike directly. She had come through the garden and was now standing outside the French windows.
It was the first time she'd done this. And it would also be the first time she'd set foot in the part of the house where he lived.
He had never invited her.
She looked through the window and the white linen curtain. Mike was sitting comfortably in an armchair, his feet propped on a small, low marble table, in front of the television. The discussion she had heard was coming from the programme he was watching.
She knocked on the glass.
Surprised, Mike got up, came to the French windows and opened them.
'Hi,' he said. He seemed embarrassed. 'May I come in?' she asked.
'Sure, come in. You've never been in the lion's den before.' 'You've never asked me.' 'It didn't seem right.'
'Well, now I've summoned up the courage to do it myself. But I had to talk to you. We need to settle our accounts, it's been a month already'
'That's true. Sit down.' He switched off the TV with the remote control.
'What was that?' Valentina asked.
'A tape I recorded last year. A programme about the Monster of Florence.'
Are you still thinking of writing a book? Were they talking about black magic? It might be useful for my thesis.'
'If you like, I can switch it on again.'
'Maybe later. Let's talk first.'
'Okay. Can I fix you a drink?'
'No, thanks.'
'Coffee, tea?'
'No, really, I'm fine.'
Mike went to a low wooden cabinet with a beautiful inlaid surface and took out a bottle of whisky and a glass for himself.
The room was surprisingly spacious and luxurious. From the frescoed ceiling hung a huge crystal chandelier with at least two dozen drop-shaped bulbs. The walls and ceiling were decorated with elaborate stuccoes; large, valuable-looking paintings - landscapes and religious scenes - in elaborate gilded frames hung on the walls. The armchairs and sofas were beautifully upholstered, and the polished terracotta floor was strewn with large rugs. The dominant colours were red and yellow. To Valentina, it seemed like something out of a costume drama: a cardinal's drawing room, that kind of thing.
'Remarkable, isn't it?' Mike Ross said, as she looked around.
'Amazing. I thought it was just a big old house in the country originally, not a real villa.'
'Maybe it was. One of the previous owners was a famous antique dealer. He's the one who refurbished it.'
'He must have been very rich.'
'So they say'
'How did you get it?'
'Friends at the bank.'
'It must cost a fortune.'
'If you really want to know, the newspaper pays for it! Including your apartment. That's why I can't —' 'No, Mike, it's still not right.'
He pressed a button on the remote control and sat down next to her. 'You said you were interested in the tape, right? Let's have a look.' He started the programme again.
'That's Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Florence Squadra Mobile,' he explained, freezing the image on a close up of the policeman. 'An interesting guy. He's the one who reopened the case of the Monster of Florence after the killer had been arrested and everyone thought the case was closed. He actually tracked down two accomplices. Even the FBI had assumed the killer had acted on his own! Now he says there were other people behind him, paying him to carry out the murders. Look.'
The image jerked back into life. 'So, Chief Superintendent,' the host was saying, 'you believe that those who paid for the murders are still at large.' He turned to the criminologist. 'What do you think of that, professor?'
'It would be the first such case in history. Maniacs commit crimes, they don't commission them. Their pleasure lies in killing, cutting, disposing of the pieces ... a serial killer obeying orders doesn't make sense to me.'
'But there is some evidence of Satanic rituals, isn't there, Chief Superintendent?'
'I'd like to stick with the facts. And it's a fact that during the trial of the Monster's accomplices, certain things emerged that. . . Here, let me read you what the judges said, and don't forget the appeal court upheld the judgement. I quote: "Clues have emerged which indicate that there may have been a third party financing the crimes we have considered in this trial." Clues have emerged. The implication is clear. We have to continue with our investigations. It's our duty'
The man was about fifty, spoke with a slight Sicilian accent, and looked pleasant and well groomed. He was wearing a dark grey suit, a sky-blue shirt and a blue tie. His hair long black hair, combed back and streaked with white at the sides - partly covered his ears. And his sideburns were white, in contrast with the thick black eyebrows which accentuated the shape of the eyes.
A cat's eyes, Valentina thought.
He spoke calmly, quietly, measuring his words. She thought she detected a sly expression on his face as he spoke, almost as if to underline the feline effect of his eyes.
'We're going to show some file footage of Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Florence Squadra Mobile,' the host said, 'to give our viewers some background on the man leading the hunt for the Monster's paymasters - supposing there are
any'
'Look at this,' Mike said, watching the screen with rapt attention.
The footage showed Ferrara, at least twenty years younger, in charge of a team that had surrounded a building. Beneath the image, the caption: Reggio Calabria, August 1978.
Michele Ferrara, wearing a bulletproof vest, had climbed onto the roof of a police car and was firing a volley, one shot after the other, at one of the windows in the building. A group of men were seen backing away from the windows to avoid the bullets.
One of the men looked as if he had been hit and fell to the floor, but it was hard to be sure. The image was blurred: the footage may have been shot by an amateur or off the cuff by one of the police officers.
'He killed that one,' Mike said.
Maybe not,' Valentina replied, curiously involved in these images even though they were of no great interest to her.
'He did,' Mike insisted, almost irritably. 'He killed him.'
'But they were gangsters, weren't they? I don't suppose you Americans treat gangsters with kid gloves, either.'
Mike said nothing. He was following the action as if hypnotised.
The men inside the building tried to escape through the back door, but Ferrara's men were waiting for them in large numbers. The last image was of the gangsters being led in handcuffs to the police cars and vans.
Among them was a woman.
Mike pressed a button on the remote, and the screen went black.
And the bit about magic?' Valentina asked.
'Some other time. I've had enough for today'
He did seem tired. Valentina didn't insist. Instead, she took out her chequebook.
Mike looked at her in surprise. 'Listen, kid. Maybe I haven't made myself clear. I didn't ask you to stay here to make money on something that's already paid for by my newspaper.'
'So why did you ask me to stay here?'
'Because you remind me of Lippi's Madonna? I don't know. You're the only woman I've ever felt at ease with. The only one I've ever really liked.'
It sounded as if it hadn't been easy for him to say these words, and she thought it was sweet of him.
'If you want to stay, I'll be very pleased,' he said. 'If you want to pay, find a hotel.'
A Florentine Death Page 14