A Florentine Death

by Michele Giuttari

  Fortunately, he did not have to spend too long exchanging small talk with Mazzorelli, because he was soon collected by the officer who was to take him to see the prisoner.

  'I hope he has something useful to tell you,' the warden said, by way of farewell.

  Ferrara and the guard left the building where the offices were, went through a large iron door which had to be unlocked twice, then locked twice behind them, and crossed a courtyard about a hundred yards wide. As they walked, Ferrara sensed that he was being watched by hundreds of eyes through the barred windows of the cells.

  They came to a building on the right, where another door was unlocked twice. On the first floor, he was at last admitted to the interview room, a small room not much more than ten feet by ten feet, with impersonal white walls, a table and two chairs, and a small barred window looking out onto an inner garden.

  'May I send the prisoner in, Chief Superintendent?' the officer asked. 'I'll be outside - if you need me just call.' 'Thank you, send him in.'

  Antonio Salustri seemed to have aged ten years. He was thinner, even paler if possible, and without a trace of his old arrogance. Ferrara almost felt sorry for him. He often felt sorry for prisoners who hadn't committed the worst crimes, like murder, rape or kidnapping. But it was a purely emotional reaction. Even the less serious crimes hurt other people, and needed to be punished.

  They sat down opposite one another, with the little table in the middle.

  'You asked to see me,' Ferrara began.

  'Yes, Superintendent.' Salustri's tone was humble, deferential, and his tired eyes had heavy purple rings under them. 'I heard you're looking for Lorenzo Ricciardi and I decided to . . . Well, I have something to tell you.'

  'How did you hear?'

  'Come on, Superintendent, you know about these things. The prison grapevine is better than public radio.'

  'Okay, what have you got to tell me?' Ferrara was curt and offhand. Salustri clearly wanted to get him on his side, but Ferrara preferred to keep a distance between them.

  'First, I'd like your assurance that you'll help me out,' Salustri said.

  'Do you think your information is that important?'

  'I don't know, that's for you to say. What I do know is that I'm running a great risk by telling you. My life could be in danger when I get out of here.'

  'Are you saying you were more involved with the underworld than you admitted in your original statement?'

  'But you haven't yet promised —'

  'Listen, Salustri, I can't promise anything, but if what you tell me is genuinely helpful to my investigation, I assure you I'll talk to the judge. There are no rules about these things, but if a prisoner cooperates it's normal for his sentence to be reduced.'

  Salustri weighed up Ferrara's words. 'Thank you for that. But it's what happens afterwards that I'm afraid of.'

  'If you're thinking of some kind of witness protection programme, I'm afraid we'll have to stop this interview here and now.' Ferrara was reluctant to say this: it might mean that the hopes he had placed in Salustri's testimony would come to nothing.

  'I understand. I'm not asking for anything like that. All the same ... I was wondering . . . well, if it might be possible to help me leave the country. I have relatives in Argentina, I could join them, try and start a new life . . .'

  Ferrara knew that Salustri's criminal record might make such a thing unlikely, but he didn't feel compelled to go into details.

  'I can't say anything for certain, but I imagine a favourable magistrate might even be able to help you with that if you really deserve it. The only thing I can promise you, if you trust me, is that I'll do what I can.'

  Again, Salustri thought it over.

  Ferrara counted the seconds mentally, like a poker player slowly riffling through the cards to see if the last one will give him a straight flush or a completely useless hand.

  At last Salustri sighed. 'I trust you.'

  ‘I’m not sure where to begin. It isn't true that I found the Velazquez by chance. I knew perfectly well it was in the shop, that's why I bought the damned place. I'd known Gualtiero Ricciardi for many years, I'd done lots of little jobs for him. He was heavily connected with the Calabrian Mafia, that's where all his money came from. He belonged to Nitto Santini's clan, the same Nitto Santini you arrested in '78. Gualtiero's father was a distant cousin of Pippo Galabresi's father - Pippo Calabresi who died in the shootout. The clan didn't disappear. According to Ricciardi, it gradually reformed. I can even give you the names . . .' Sweat had broken out on his forehead.

  'Later,' Ferrara said. ‘I’m sure the judges will be really interested. And I'm starting to think we might be able to help you after all. Go on with your story.' He was trying to encourage him, while at the same time wanting him to proceed at his own pace. In his experience it was always better to wait and see what emerged spontaneously in situations like this.

  'After Ricciardi died, I managed to get my hands on the business. His son, Lorenzo, was very young and didn't know anything about antiques. His parents had already sent him to America to study, and he didn't often come back to Italy, even though ..."

  'Even though what?'

  'Well, he was here when the fire happened. He was a strange guy, you know? Shy, not very talkative. He had cold eyes. In my opinion he hated his father. Actually, Gualtiero wasn't his real father. I always thought he'd started the fire himself, to kill him . . . But that's just my theory, I couldn't swear to it.'

  It was quite common, Ferrara reflected, for serial killers to commit acts of arson before graduating to murder. Salustri's confession was turning out to be more and more interesting. A plausible, if complex, psychological portrait of Ricciardi was starting to emerge: a true serial killer who pretends to be a serial killer in order to carry out his plan. But why was Ferrara the end point of that plan? Because he was an expert on serial killers? No, that wasn't the reason, he was sure of it now.

  'Anyway' Salustri went on, 'he went back to America straight after the funeral, but not before I'd got him to promise he'd sell me the business, seeing as I was an old friend of his father. Not long after, I was contacted by a Swiss holding company. They sent me all the papers and the transaction went ahead.

  'I thought I'd done the best deal of my life. I didn't plan to sell the picture straight away, I wanted to wait for the dust to settle. It was my insurance for the future. Then one morning at the end of September last year I get to the shop and see Lorenzo Ricciardi, who's just got back from the States, chatting to Alfredo Lupi. I didn't recognise him because he'd dyed his hair and he went out without even saying hello to me. But Alfredo told me who he was, and I got scared. My first thought was that he'd found out I had the painting and wanted it back. I tried to question Alfredo, obviously without letting on what it was about, because he didn't know anything about the Velazquez, but he was vague and evasive. I was convinced that Lorenzo was on to me and that's why I decided to get rid of the painting. The rest you know.'

  Salustri fell silent. Ferrara said nothing. He was thinking fast, trying to put together the pieces of the mosaic. It was starting to take shape, but was still full of holes and contradictions. Ricciardi had killed Alfredo Lupi, there was no doubt about that. But why not Salustri, who should have been the real victim, if his confession was to be believed? And where did the other victims fit in?

  'But why do you think Lorenzo Ricciardi killed Alfredo Lupi, which we're absolutely certain he did, and not you?'

  'I've wondered that myself. A thousand times. Maybe he tried to get him to say where the painting was hidden, and the poor boy didn't know! That's the only explanation I can think of. I can't imagine what else it could have been, especially as they were friends.'

  'Friends?'

  'Yes. Alfredo had been hired by Gualtiero Ricciardi just before he died, on Lorenzo's insistence.'

  'What else do you know about Lorenzo?' At last, Ferrara was getting to the main object of his visit.

  A strange character, like
I said. The Ricciardis couldn't have children, so they adopted him. Apparently, his real parents were the Calabresis: Pippo, who you killed, and his wife, who was arrested and later died in prison.'

  Ferrara's head started to spin. Everything he had feared but hadn't dared admit, even to himself, was being confirmed. Now there was no escaping the real reason for Ricciardi's hatred, the reason he'd had that video cassette. He saw Lorenzo running it once, twice, a thousand times, obsessed with the image of his father being killed by the police, his mother being taken away in handcuffs, and above all the young police officer shooting from the car. Ferrara himself, the man responsible for making Lorenzo Ricciardi an orphan . . .

  'Do you think Lorenzo knew he was adopted, or who his real parents were?' he asked, wondering for the umpteenth time if that shootout could have been avoided.

  'He knew he'd been adopted. Gualtiero told me that. But he probably didn't know who his real parents were. Gualtiero would have had to tell him about his connections with the Calabrian underworld.'

  'But he might have discovered it from his father's papers, after his death.'

  'That's quite possible.'

  Another piece had fallen into place. But where did Stefano Micali, Alfredo Lupi, Francesco Bianchi, Giovanni Biagini, Cinzia Roberti and Valentina Preti fit in?

  The officer knocked discreetly at the door. Forty minutes had gone by and he wanted to make sure that everything was all right.

  'Everything's fine,' Ferrara replied, although he certainly wasn't feeling fine. He looked across at Salustri, who seemed exhausted and was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. 'Would it be possible to have two coffees, a bottle of water and some cigarettes?'

  'I'll see,' the officer said, and closed the door.

  'Thanks,' Salustri said.

  'How long have you known Lorenzo?'

  'Since '84, I think. He was just over ten. But I never saw much of him. His parents had always wanted him to go to boarding school, hoping to give him an education that would keep him out of their world. He didn't often come to Florence.'

  'I see. Do you think that's why he hated them?'

  'Frankly, yes. Gualtiero told me once the boy had had a bad time at boarding school, but didn't want to give up.'

  The officer returned with a tray containing the coffee, the cigarettes and the water. Ferrara smiled: he was back in the world of paper cups.

  'The warden would like to know if you're going to be much longer.'

  'I don't think so. Ten, fifteen minutes at the most. Thank him for his patience. And thank you, too.' The officer let the room.

  Salustri lit a cigarette and took deep drags at it. Ferrara lit a cigar. The air would soon be unbreathable, but it was worth it.

  'Do you have any idea how much Ricciardi's estate was worth?'

  'Billions of lire, but I don't know how much.' And it all went to Lorenzo?'

  'I don't know, but I think it's unlikely. As I said, Ricciardi senior was connected with the Calabrian Mafia and some of the money must have been used for laundering. I don't think the clan left it all to Lorenzo. It's possible he belongs to the clan, but I doubt it, as he wouldn't have stayed in America all that time and I'd probably have known about it. Most likely, they found a way to share the inheritance.'

  'Do you have any idea where he might be hiding?'

  'No. Abroad, I suppose. That's the likeliest. Or maybe Reggio Calabria or Aspromonte. That's if he kept his links with the Calabrians, or contacted them again.'

  That was something he hadn't thought of, and he couldn't rule it out. After all, Lorenzo Ricciardi was in unlawful possession of a firearm, which suggested he might still have underworld connections. It was unlikely he'd brought it with him from the United States.

  'You said Alfredo Lupi was a friend of his. Do you know any others?'

  'No. Like I said, he was a shy person. I don't think he had many friends, not even when he was at boarding school, which is when you'd expect people to make friends. I think he was a loner even there, especially as he hated the place.'

  'I see. You said it wasn't in Florence, right? Was it a private school?'

  'It was run by priests. Very exclusive. His father, or rather his stepfather, wanted the best for him, like I said. And to keep him away from the business, of course. I think they closed the place down later, after some scandal the Church managed to cover up.'

  Ferrara's head started buzzing again. 'What was the name of this boarding school?'

  'San Benedetto something . . . oh, yes, San Benedetto in Bosco, it was part of an abb —'

  CLICK!

  Two more pieces fell into place with military precision, echoing deafeningly in Ferrara's head. He suddenly remembered, word for word, as if he were seeing a transcript in his mind, the last part of his conversation with Monsignor Federici:

  'Father Sergio is merely a poor, frightened man.' 'Frightened of what?'

  'His sins? The world? Who knows?'

  'Or the killer? Maybe he's a split personality, and is trying to escape his other self by shutting himself up in a cell. Or maybe he knows who the killer is, but can't say anything.'

  That was the detail that had escaped him this morning! He had originally said that last sentence as part of his attempt to see Don Sergio, but it was his instinct as a detective that had suggested it to him and now it was turning out to be right.

  Two separate leads pointed to the abbey of San Benedetto in Bosco.

  Did Don Sergio really know the killer? Had he become a recluse to suppress a secret he could not confess? Would an interview with Don Sergio at last make it possible for Ferrara to reconstruct the entire case and understand who Lorenzo Ricciardi really was?

  Rather than wait until he was back in the office, he called the switchboard from the car and obtained the number of the Curia.

  He was in luck. Monsignor Federici was there, and was happy to take his call.

  Tm sorry to disturb you, Monsignor, but I'd like to ask you something.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'You told me you knew Don Sergio well. Could you tell me where he went to school?'

  The monsignor did not seem surprised by the question. It was as if he'd been expecting it and was relieved and amused that it had finally arrived.

  'Yes, San Benedetto in Bosco, the same place he's just gone back to, when it was still a boarding school. The school's closed down now. A pity, it was a good school. Quite a journey he's made, don't you think? All the way back to the place where he started.'

  'That dispensation from the bishop ... It is still valid, isn't it? I can still talk to Don Sergio?'

  'Of course. After what His Eminence did to get you that interview, not to do so would be . . . well, a waste of his valuable time, I'd say. I sincerely hope it's worth it.'

  'Thank you. I think it will be.'

  'Call me tomorrow morning, and I'll tell you when you can see him.'

  3

  Once he was off the main road, Ferrara could not help regretting that he had taken his own car. A police car would at least have had the aura of officialdom.

  His old Mercedes was not meant for this tortuous dirt road that wound at first through a wood full of chestnut trees and gradually emerged in a genuine forest, full of big beeches, Scots pines and the occasional silver fir. The sudden dips and ubiquitous stones really put the car's suspension to the test, and the brambles hanging over the road scratched the bodywork.

  He might also have to put up the chains, because wide swathes of the forest were still under snow. He drove extremely carefully, afraid that roe bucks, wild boar, stags or fallow deer might suddenly appear and bar his way. Having travelled more than twenty-five miles - on the map he had calculated it was only about ten miles to the abbey - he noted that he was moving at a speed that varied between six and ten miles an hour! He cursed. He still had another hour of this torture.

  The road was so bumpy, it made the CD jump, and Callas was hiccoughing rather than singing Caro nome. Ferrara finally switched off th
e player in exasperation. He couldn't even stand Rigoletto at the moment.

  He was tempted to turn back, but it wouldn't make sense after coming this far. That was the way he was: once he'd started on a particular road, he couldn't turn back, not even when common sense told him that the problems still to come could well outweigh those he had left behind. The mere thought that anything he'd done thus far had been a wasted effort was more than he could bear. He was stubborn. He was Sicilian.

  Twenty minutes later he caught a fleeting but distinct glimpse of the vast monastic complex. He was up on a ridge, and the monastery was down to his left. The road twisted down towards it. What struck him most from this first glimpse was the precise geometrical arrangement of the walls and buildings and the sheer size of the complex.

  He checked the speedometer and realised that he had gone faster than anticipated, thanks to a few straight, clear stretches of road where he'd been able to increase speed. He had the impression that the closer he came to his target, the better the condition of the road.

  He accelerated confidently, pleased with the excellence of German engineering that had allowed his old car to pass this unexpected test with flying colours.

  The satisfaction, however, was short-lived. There was a huge trunk across the road, which forced him to brake sharply The trunk had clearly been cut down recently and had been stripped bare of branches.

  He had two options: either turn back, or leave the car and proceed on foot. Being Ferrara, he had no hesitation in choosing the second of these. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. It had been late morning when Monsignor Federici had phoned him and told him that Brother Anselmo would be expecting him at two o'clock.

  He got out of the car and looked around. There was not a soul in sight, and it was cold. The only sounds were the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the dull thud of snow coming loose from the foliage of the fir trees and falling to the ground, the chattering of a few distant birds and the sporadic snapping of branches as animals passed. Knowing there were wolves about, he was pleased that for once he had a pistol in the glove compartment of his car. But he felt uncomfortable having it on him, and he would never have dreamed of entering a monastery carrying a weapon.