It was the rarest blood group, present in only five per cent of the population, as the pathologist noted.
The light brown hair found clutched in the woman’s hand, however, belonged to a person with blood type A. Furthermore, the tests had revealed that the hair had undergone cosmetic treatment and had been dyed. The presence of the bulb indicated that it had been pulled out by the root, and confirmed their hypothesis about the victim’s reaction, as demonstrated by the wounds on some of her fingers and her forearms.
Gori closed the report and picked up the phone to call his colleagues at the RIS, the Carabinieri’s forensics department, in Rome and request a DNA test, the only test that remained to be done.
Could this be the turning point?
‘We’re looking for this woman.’
Ferrara began with these words as he stood in front of the journalists in his office. Some of them were sitting with their notebooks on their laps, others were standing around the desk.
They all stared at the identikit, which Ferrara had had blown up. The cameras clicked rapidly. He had decided to release it in the hope that someone might see it on television or in the papers and recognise the woman.
‘She’s probably between thirty and forty years of age. Her hair is long, but’ – here he remembered young Kirsten Olsen’s statement – ‘may also be very short and reddish in colour. She drives a dark, possibly black, A-Class Mercedes.’
He had spoken slowly to give the journalists time to note down all the details. After a while, one of them raised a hand.
‘Questions at the end, please,’ Ferrara said.
The journalist apologised and Ferrara smiled. He had recognised him: he worked for the ANSA agency and Ferrara respected him for his decency and the accuracy of his articles. He had not seen him for a while and was happy he was there.
‘We believe this woman may have something to do with the double murder of Senator Costanza and his butler, Luis Rodriguez. I would ask anyone who may have information to contact my office or call 113, and I hope that this time omertà will not win.’
‘Omertà?’ came a chorus of voices.
‘Are you telling us, Chief Superintendent, that you believe there’s a code of silence in Florence, just like in Sicily?’ The question came from a woman journalist, as short and thin as a breadstick, who worked for a private radio station.
‘I’m only saying that anyone who knows anything needs to talk. And you all know that hasn’t always been the case in other investigations.’
‘Are you by any chance referring to the conspiracy theories surrounding the Monster of Florence case?’ the woman insisted.
‘Yes, of course. And now you’ll have to excuse me, I must go. Thank you.’
This abrupt conclusion triggered a reaction in the journalists, who raised their voices, firing a volley of questions at him. ‘Chief Superintendent!… I have a question, please… I must ask you… Omertà… conspiracy theories…’ Ferrara ignored them, thanked them once again, and asked them to leave him alone.
He had not even considered the possibility that he had just unwittingly lit the fuse of a truly enormous bomb.
60
He lay on the sofa, waiting for the local news. When the usual baby-faced newsreader, who always ended up doing the late night bulletin – he must be putting in the hours while his colleagues were at home with their families – appeared on the screen, he picked up the remote and turned up the volume.
‘There are new developments in the investigation into the murder of Senator Enrico Costanza,’ the newsreader began, while the now-familiar image of the villa in Fiesole appeared in the background.
He sat up. What were these new developments?
‘Thanks to a witness, the police have put together this identikit of a woman seen at the wheel of a dark, perhaps black, A-Class Mercedes in the area where the crime was committed.’
On the screen, the image of the villa was replaced by a drawing that could almost have been a photograph.
‘The police are looking for this woman and are asking the public for their help. Anyone who recognises her or can provide further information is asked to call 113 or make use of the contact details below.’
A telephone number and email address scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
‘One further detail,’ the newsreader added before moving on to the next item. ‘The woman may have very short, reddish hair, rather than long hair as shown in the picture.’
Angrily, he pressed the OFF button on the remote. He was no longer interested in hearing what they said about the murder in Pontassieve.
She couldn’t have seen the news bulletin; she was keeping watch in San Gimignano. Damn it, he had warned her to be careful, not to make mistakes. She’d really blown it, thanks to that fucking ex-convict!
He had to make a move. His plan needed to be modified. And from now on, he would have to act alone.
61
That evening, Ferrara received a visit from his friend Massimo Verga.
They sat opposite one another on the terrace, enjoying the breeze. It was the first time his friend had come to see them since their return from Germany.
Petra poured them each a small glass of Slyrs, a whisky they had been given by a good friend from Germany. It was a Bavarian speciality and Michele only drank it on special occasions.
‘Excellent!’ Massimo exclaimed after the first sip. He lit his pipe and Ferrara lit his cigar. Each of them maintained that his form of smoking was the nobler: it was one of the few subjects on which they did not see eye to eye. They enjoyed the first puffs in total silence, looking up at the glorious star-filled sky.
Massimo was the first to speak. ‘Who would ever have thought that one day we would find ourselves up here smoking and drinking whisky?’
On the rare occasions when they managed to meet up, the two old friends always ended up reminiscing over their high school days. After school, Massimo had chosen to study Philosophy and Ferrara did Law. He had wanted to become a police superintendent and he had done so. Meanwhile, his friend had opened a bookshop in the Via Tornabuoni that in the space of just a few years had become a focal point for cultured Florentines. They had lost touch, as often happens when friends go their own ways, far from their home town, but had met up again by chance right here in this city: a gift of fate.
Ferrara knew that his friend might help him understand the various meanings of the word Genius. When he heard the question, Massimo could not help laughing loudly. He was convinced that, while rising through the ranks of the police, Michele had fallen into an abyss of ignorance.
‘What are you laughing about, Massimo? I need to find out why a killer might have used that word to sign his message.’
Massimo immediately turned serious and nodded. He launched into an explanation, although he took a roundabout approach. ‘Well, you know that Latin was always my strongest subject. The word derives from gignere, which means to generate or create, and was given to the deity that represented man’s creative spirit…’
In the Roman religion, he went on to explain, the dies natalis was dedicated to Genius, while for the Greeks he was the daimon, a divine being inferior to the gods, but superior to mankind.
He stopped to take another sip of Slyrs. Ferrara did the same, then took a few more large puffs on his cigar, which was going out.
‘This whisky really is very good, Michele,’ Massimo said.
Below them was the gentle glow of the lights on the Ponte Vecchio. It was a priceless view.
‘Moving to the present day,’ Massimo went on, ‘and in a more down to earth sense, a genius is of course a special being, someone with exceptional gifts, like Dante, Leonardo da Vinci, Einstein. But in this case it could be what’s called an “Evil Genius”.’
All this was what Ferrara had expected to hear. But he had thought it was worth a try, in case the word hid some other secret meaning, one which might have a significance for Satanists, whom he had encountered in recent investigati
ons, or for Freemasons – another world that remained something of a mystery to him. No, the killer probably just thought of himself as a criminal mastermind, an evil genius. That had to be the meaning of the two letters written on the base of the statue of Perseus.
Now it was his turn to explain the mystery. He took a deep drag on his cigar, and at that moment felt a surge of confidence. A confidence that came from the presence of a true friend he could always rely on.
San Gimignano
It was almost midnight.
The ground floor rooms were all lit up as if it were day. And the lamps along the tree-lined avenue that led to Sir George’s villa had not been switched off yet.
Everything looked as if an all-night party that would finish in the first light of dawn must be in full swing. But such was not the case. There were only two people in the house: Sir George and his guest, Richard, sitting in comfortable armchairs, sipping a highly refined grappa, Riserva da Vinacce di Chianti.
Far from prying eyes and ears, the two men were weighing up the pros and cons of a decision that should resolve the situation in Florence forever.
Richard had already informed Sir George that the contents of Costanza’s safe-deposit box in Lugarno had been confiscated by the police.
‘I’ll get our Brother, the “fake beard”, involved,’ Sir George said. ‘He knows how to deal with such things.’
Richard did not object. He was in no position to do so. It was up to Sir George to make the final decisions. That was how it had always been, and how it would be in the future.
It was after two by the time all the lights were switched off, but no car left the villa.
Clearly the guest was sleeping there tonight.
It was an unfortunate inconvenience.
PART FIVE
A CURIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
62
Night of Friday 3 to Saturday 4 September
Guendalina was half asleep.
She thought it had been Angelica waking her. Then she remembered that Angelica was in the Siena area on business – dinner with an aristocratic lady who was thinking of commissioning a portrait from her – and would be back late.
And anyway, Angelica was usually very careful not to wake her.
For a few moments that seemed like hours, she lay there motionless, holding her breath, her heart pounding fit to burst. She looked at the window. The moonlight cast disturbing shadows into the room.
She listened carefully.
Nothing.
But she was still sure she had heard something. A noise, a slight rustle.
Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion, fuelled by the news she had heard on the radio: a young Cuban woman had been brutally murdered in her apartment in Pontassieve, probably by a maniac.
She raised herself to a sitting position.
Could it have been an animal?
She steeled herself: maybe it would be best to go and check all the windows and the front door. It was only now that she realised how much she missed Angelica. She would have felt safe with her. She reached out a hand to switch on the bedside lamp. But the light did not come on.
She got up silently, put her feet on the floor and groped her way to the switch for the overhead light. But that did not come on either. A shiver ran down her spine. Her fear turned to terror.
At that moment a gloved hand covered her mouth and nose, and a tall figure grabbed her and threw her to the floor. She tried not to lose control, but felt as if she could not breathe. She was afraid she was going to pass out.
She made a quick movement to the side and managed to break free and stand up.
‘That wasn’t a good idea, Guendalina.’
It was a man’s voice, hard and cold. A man who knew her name.
‘Don’t try and resist, it’ll only make things worse.’
She started to kick out at him. But her attacker managed to dodge her kicks. Then he was on top of her again, holding her still with his hands. He slapped her hard across the face, making her stagger.
‘Help!’ she cried, with all the breath she could muster. But no sooner was the word out than she realised that nobody could hear her. She was alone in the middle of the countryside.
‘Don’t h-hurt… me… I… b-beg… you,’ she stammered.
She jerked free again and ran down the narrow corridor to the living room. Everything was dark here too. No glimmer of light came in through the blinds, which, unusually, were closed. He must have closed them himself: it was now clear that he had planned it all. She staggered, lifting a hand to her face. Her cheek seemed to be burning from the impact of his slap. She remembered that poor Cuban girl. She must find a way out at all costs. But a cabinet had been pushed against the front door. In a fit of desperation, she shouted Angelica’s name.
‘Quiet, Guendalina. Nobody can hear you.’ The voice was calm now, as if trying to reassure her.
Next, she tried to get into the kitchen, but slipped. Her strength was fading, she could not feel the ground beneath her feet. She swayed and almost fell.
The man laughed. ‘Can’t you see it’s useless? Why don’t you give up?’
She spun round. ‘Who are you?’ she cried.
At that moment she was dazzled by the light of a torch. She blinked. He was six feet tall, and he was right in front of her. He was wearing a balaclava. Then she saw the gun in his hand.
‘Noooo!’ she screamed with all her remaining strength.
‘Sit down!’
She obeyed.
‘Now write!’ He took a pen and a piece of paper from his pocket, put them in front of her on the table and dictated a few sentences to her, which she wrote with a trembling hand by the light of the torch.
He ordered her to stand up.
As she did so, he shot her in the chest.
63
Angelica was driving along the Siena–Florence road.
It was an isolated stretch, and she could put on as much speed as she wanted. She was in a crazy rush to get home to Guendalina. She would look in on her quickly, then sleep on the sofa so as not to wake her.
After the Certosa tollbooth, she took the A1. That way she could avoid having to drive through the city. Her itinerary was: Florence South exit, Bagno a Ripoli, Pontassieve, Dicomano, and home.
She had no idea of the surprise that awaited her.
I’m going and don’t try and find me. Maybe I’ll get in touch when I understand myself and most of all, you, better.
Goodbye!
Guendi
It was three twenty-five in the morning and Angelica, head bowed, eyes swollen with tears, was clutching Guendalina’s note, which she had found on the bedside table.
It wasn’t possible, she kept repeating to herself, shaking her head. It wasn’t possible that Guendalina could have just gone like that!
She looked at the piece of paper again. It was definitely Guendalina’s handwriting, even though it looked a little shaky in places.
There couldn’t be any doubt about it. Some of her clothes were missing from the wardrobe, and her make-up was gone from the bathroom. Her suitcase was gone too.
Why had she done it? Angelica wondered. Surely it couldn’t have been jealousy…
She realised that she had thought she knew her well, but she really didn’t. They had met in prison. How could she have known what kind of person Guendalina would be once she was released?
For the moment, she told herself, it might be best to wait.
In her heart, she hoped that the door would suddenly open and reveal her Guendi.
That was all she had: hope.
64
Saturday 4 September
SUPERCOP MICHELE FERRARA ACCUSES FLORENCE OF OMERTÀ was the headline in La Nazione that morning.
Florence has reacted angrily to the accusation of omertà made by Michele Ferrara, the head of the Squadra Mobile, who is currently investigating the murders of Senator Enrico Costanza and his butler Luis Rodriguez on the night of 28–29 August. The bombshell cam
e after Ferrara summoned some journalists to his office yesterday afternoon to ask for their collaboration in tracking down a woman whose identikit picture he showed them, and in providing information about the car she is believed to drive, a dark-coloured A-Class Mercedes.
By yesterday evening, after the news had spread courtesy of private radio stations and local TV news, Florentines in bars and piazzas throughout the city reacted, accusing the supercop of crossing the line with such a grotesque and defamatory claim.
The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) Page 23