The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara)

by Michele Giuttari

81

  ‘You’re making a big mistake.’

  They had driven up to the restored cottage in two cars. Angelica had unwillingly opened the front door, but now stood in the doorway, trying to stop Ferrara from coming in. But he ignored her: he wanted to get to the bottom of this.

  They were in San Godenzo, about twenty-eight miles from Florence. The municipality was named after Saint Gaudentius, a hermit who had retreated into the local mountains with their covering of chestnut trees to lead a life of prayer.

  During the rest of the interview at Headquarters, the woman had retreated behind a wall of absolute silence, so Ferrara had decided to proceed with a search of the property. If they found guns or ammunition, everything would be much clearer, but anything at all that could be linked to the double murder would mark a turning point.

  ‘You have the right to request the presence of a lawyer or another trustworthy person,’ Ferrara advised her once they were inside the house. ‘Provided that they join us as soon as possible. Otherwise, we’ll start the search regardless.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone,’ she replied in a calm voice. ‘Just hurry up.’

  ‘Very well then, it’s now 3.15 in the afternoon and we’re beginning the search. You will come with us into every room. You must always be present. That’s what the law stipulates.’

  Angelica nodded.

  ‘We’ll try not to make a mess,’ Ferrara assured her.

  She shrugged, a sceptical expression on her face, and followed him to make sure that everything was put back more or less where it had been found.

  They moved from one room to another, spending the longest time in the bedroom and in a small room used as a study, which was subjected to an especially meticulous inspection. Venturi took on the task of examining the computer, after requesting the password, while his colleagues emptied the drawers and put to one side notes, receipts, diaries, photographs, and documents relating to her job as a social worker.

  Within a little over two hours, they had searched almost everything. No weapons, ammunition or explosives had been un- covered.

  To one side of the garden, beneath a wooden shelter, they had found the black A-Class Mercedes. Angelica told them it had broken down, which was why she had had to rent the Ford Escort.

  Obviously, they insisted on checking for themselves. Rizzo put on gloves, sat at the wheel and tried to insert the key, but without success.

  Angelica found it hard to hold back a smile: unsure of what to do and aware of the fact that the police might be on her trail, she had simply snapped off the key in the dashboard to back up her little story.

  Now Ferrara was discussing with Rizzo how to proceed. There was no question this was a problem.

  Having made use of Article 41, they could not confiscate any items except those specified by the law: weapons, ammunition or explosives. If they were to do so, they risked their search warrant not being validated by the Prosecutor’s Department. They might even be accused of conducting an illegal search. To make matters worse, Angelica had no previous convictions, had never been reported in connection with any offence, and was a social worker.

  They were still discussing their options when Teresa came over, followed by Angelica. She and Officer Belli had searched the bedroom even more thoroughly and had found something. So proud was she of her discovery, Teresa could barely contain her delight.

  It was a miniature camera, not much bigger than a two-euro coin, with a one-millimetre lens capable of filming the entire room. It had been concealed in the darkest corner of a Gustav Klimt poster.

  ‘What can you tell me about this?’ Ferrara asked Angelica.

  Angelica had turned white. She was visibly shaking. It had been a surprise for her too. She seemed disorientated.

  ‘I can’t imagine who could have put it there,’ she replied after a long pause. ‘Maybe the woman I rented a couple of rooms to a few years ago. I was only living on the first floor in those days.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘I can’t remember, but there must be a copy of the contract among the papers you found in the study. It was only for six months. All I remember is that she was an American student attending the international school of art. She wanted to become an expert on the restoration of frescos and paintings. Then she moved to Florence, near to the main campus, Villa Il Ventaglio. You should be able to trace her there.’

  ‘We’re going to have to send this off for analysis,’ Ferrara said, holding up the camera.

  ‘If you must.’

  Ferrara walked outside and called Gianni Fuschi. He asked him to send a team from Forensics to check whether there were any other miniature cameras or bugs.

  The camera might not have anything to do with the murders, but it was advisable, even essential, to carry out further checks.

  Fuschi was reluctant to send out a team and advised delaying it until the following day.

  ‘We can’t wait until tomorrow, Gianni,’ Ferrara said. ‘This is urgent!’

  ‘OK, Michele, I’ll come,’ Fuschi said at last, with a great sigh. ‘And I’ll also inform Rome and a few expert technicians who work with us.’

  In the meantime, a police officer who had been carrying out a closer inspection of one of the other rooms had found another miniature camera.

  One was strange enough. Two indicated that something very, very odd was going on.

  Angelica said nothing, even when faced with this second item. She looked at her watch. It was almost six and it looked like this might take some time. She did not know whether or not to reschedule their appointment. But she would not be able to call him anyway.

  What she could never have imagined was that he already knew everything.

  82

  I’ve seen you, Gatto! I’ve been watching you the whole time. Maybe now you’ll realise you’re dealing with someone much more cunning than you, and certainly brilliant. No, I don’t think your intelligence can help you. And you won’t catch me.

  Sitting in front of the monitor in his room, he had watched every step of the operation since the police had arrived. He had been amazed to see them and wondered why they had gone there.

  Had they been clever enough to link Angelica to the killings?

  And why was Ferrara himself there?

  Had he really been that cunning?

  Or had it been Angelica who had led them there, having told the police about Guendalina’s disappearance?

  These were the questions buzzing around in his head as he stared at the now-blank monitor.

  If Ferrara was the supercop they said he was, he might even track him down.

  But, if that happened, he had already come up with a plan. And he had a nasty surprise in store for him.

  You have no idea how vulnerable you are! Poor Gatto!

  Meanwhile, strange news had arrived from Munich.

  Deputy Prosecutor Vinci had received a phone call from Marshal Gori, who had presented himself at the Polizeipräsidium as soon as he arrived in Germany.

  His colleagues had provided him with the file on Leonardo Berghoff, and he had gone through it with the help of an official from the Italian Consulate who acted as translator. Then he had got the same man to translate for him the reports relating to the shooting on the Marienbrücke, the bridge below Neuschwanstein castle.

  Now Gori was calling to supply further details.

  Leonardo Berghoff had indeed been killed on that bridge. The post-mortem report and the documentation relating to the funeral provided irrefutable evidence of that.

  ‘Where was he buried, Marshal?’

  ‘In the cemetery at Füssen, near Neuschwanstein. According to my colleagues here, it’s a town near the border with Austria.’

  ‘I’ll call the Ministry of Justice,’ Vinci said. ‘We need to proceed with the exhumation of the body. I’ll put the formal request in today.’

  ‘I’ll await your orders,’ the marshal said, and hung up.

  He left the Polizeipräsidium and set off on foot
towards the Marienplatz. He was planning to do a bit of sightseeing in the city centre and sample the local specialities at the Spatenhaus restaurant opposite the National Theatre, which a colleague had recommended to him.

  It was not often that he was sent on missions abroad.

  Darkness was about to fall over the Tuscan countryside, but the police activity at Angelica Fossi’s house was unceasing. Following his call to Fuschi, Ferrara had made another one to Headquarters to ask for more men, including officers from the SCO.

  At about eight in the evening, when the sultriness that had persisted throughout the search eased off and a gentle breeze which made the work less tiring began to blow, Fuschi said to Ferrara, ‘We need different instruments: our colleagues from Rome who are joining us have them.’

  Having examined the miniature cameras and identified the make, he had realised that with the equipment he had available it was not possible to locate the receivers. Since they had not been found inside the house, they had to be somewhere else, most likely in the grounds.The technicians arrived in less than half an hour. They got straight down to work, using special machines to take measurements and properly survey the ground, including metal detectors and ground-penetrating radar to search for objects under the surface. These machines could detect cavities as far down as a hundred and thirty feet and so reveal the existence of any underground rooms or tunnels. They were normally used by archaeologists to locate the whereabouts of tombs and underground shelters. The ground was scanned and the image sent to a computer to be analysed using 3D software.

  The engineers positioned the equipment on the ground and began to scan it according to a well-established protocol, proceeding in horizontal and vertical lines so that not even the most distant corners were left unscanned. And, while an operator monitored the working of the machine, from which tubes and wires protruded, an engineer at a laptop analysed the images of the subsoil with all its different layers.

  Meanwhile, the forensics team, in their white suits, were sifting the air inside and outside the house to establish the presence of possible antennae for the miniature cameras. This was on the assumption that whoever had installed the cameras might have wanted to extend their broadcast range so as to follow the filmed action from a greater distance.

  Other officers continued to shift the furniture away from the walls to check the areas of wall and floor that had been covered by them.

  Ferrara was following the outdoor operations, convinced that everything that could be done was being done. He had entrusted the supervision of activities inside the house to Rizzo.

  Teresa and Officer Belli had stayed with Angelica, who was increasingly anxious. She kept walking in and out of the house, and they were with her every step of the way.

  There was no secret room in the house, nor were there any bugs or any more miniature cameras. They had conducted a meticulous search of every square inch, but nothing had come to light.

  Surprisingly, however, the one new development came from the grounds.

  It was nine-thirty in the evening when one of the forensics technicians located the transmitter. It had been well camouflaged in a cherry tree and its signal was directed towards the side of the mountain opposite. There could be no doubt as to where exactly: there was only one building within an area of more than a thousand feet.

  ‘Francesco,’ Ferrara ordered Rizzo, gesturing to the isolated house, ‘run checks on that house immediately. Find out if anyone lives there and, if so, who. Meanwhile, position some men around the house with orders to inform us immediately if there’s any suspicious activity.’

  He went quickly to Angelica’s study. He would have to ask her more questions. The time had come to make her talk, to move things along. In the light of what they had just discovered, she might open up, or at least provide them with something new to go on.

  That extremely sophisticated surveillance system suggested the work of someone highly qualified. It was more than just a matter of operating two cameras. There must be something else. Right now, whether or not it was all connected to the double murder didn’t really matter. They had to find out, and as soon as possible.

  83

  Meanwhile, in Munich, it had started to rain heavily. Covering his head as best he could with a newspaper, Marshal Gori answered his mobile. It was Vinci, phoning to tell him that everything had been agreed with the German authorities and that the exhumation of Leonardo Berghoff’s body would take place in the morning.

  Luca Fiore and his deputy, ‘No Balls’ Vinci, had kicked up as much fuss as they could with the relevant office of the Ministry of Justice to ensure that the request was granted as soon as possible, effectively cutting through all the red tape. They would decide how to deal with Chief Superintendent Ferrara afterwards.

  For Luca Fiore, the time for a showdown was fast approaching. He would at last be able to free himself of that troublesome Chief Superintendent, who was like a dog off his leash, who always acted off his own bat and never looked anyone in the eye. At the same time, he would score points with those powerful friends whom Ferrara, with his usual disregard for anything and anyone, had tried to investigate over the years.

  And besides, it was obvious that Ferrara was hiding something in this particular case. A dead man who comes back to kill again? What could he be thinking?

  The solution to both problems was just a few hours away.

  Angelica looked at Ferrara with a shocked expression, wide-eyed, wringing her hands nervously.

  She did not know how to behave in this situation, what attitude to adopt, who she should trust – or who she should suspect.

  She felt as if she was living in a bad dream. But it was all true. She had proof now that he was the one who had been spying on her, who knew all about her and Guendalina, who had watched them in their intimate moments: kissing, caressing, arguing, making love. He had seen through her in no time at all, uncovering the lies she had told him about her clandestine relationship with Guendalina.

  And there was something else, a crucial detail.

  Under the chest of drawers in the living room, the police had found the wedding ring and gold chain that Guendalina had been given by her mother shortly before her death. The only things she had left of her, which she would never deprive herself of. She could well remember Guendalina’s words the first time she had shown them to her: ‘They’re the most precious things in the world to me. If I were to lose them… I don’t know what I’d do.’

  And now she had disappeared, leaving those pieces of jewellery behind. No, she couldn’t have left like that, not willingly. He must have taken her, probably by force.

  Damn you, you bastard!

  ‘Signora,’ Ferrara said gravely, ‘at this point I must ask you to cooperate fully. If you help us, everything will be easier for everyone, including you. We’re all exhausted, but now’s the time to talk.’

  He was looking into her eyes to read her reaction. It was obvious that she was still holding something back. A secret, maybe a shameful one.

  After a few moments’ silence, Angelica looked away from Ferrara and lowered her eyes to the table, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. She seemed to be on the verge of bursting into tears, as if the weight she was carrying inside was too great and her anguish had got the better of her.

  ‘I can’t keep quiet any longer, I can’t. All right, I’ll tell you what happened.’

  ‘Good. You have everything to gain by telling us the truth.’

  Ferrara took his notebook and pen from his pocket and put them down on the table.

  Angelica began her story.

  She told him how she had met Daniele De Robertis and how they had become friends. They were neighbours: he lived in that former convent on the mountainside opposite. A certain passion had grown between them, she said, but it had never blossomed into a real relationship, because of his sexual problems.

  She broke off abruptly, bowed her head and began to cry. Ferrara took a tissue from his trouser pocket and g
ave it to her. While he waited for her to compose herself, he jotted a few sentences in his notebook: the questions he would ask once he had heard her story.

  ‘I recently met someone and fell in love…’ She hesitated again, unable to hold back her tears.

  ‘Please be brave, signora. If there’s something you need to say, just get it off your chest.’

  ‘Guendalina, the woman I love, has disappeared.’

  Up until an hour ago, she went on, she had been convinced that her companion had left of her own accord, out of jealousy.

  ‘She was sure I was cheating on her.’

  She told Ferrara about how they had met, and about her so far futile efforts to find her.