Vita Nuova

by Magdalen Nabb

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Don’t say “we’ll see”! That’s what you say to the boys!’

  ‘It’s also what the doctors are saying to Nunziata. Have you eaten?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You know you get bad-tempered when you’re hungry.’

  ‘I’m not bad-tempered! And I would have eaten by now if I could have found the salt!’

  ‘Oh, I knew there was something else I wanted to tell you. Listen. . . .’

  He listened, holding the receiver clamped to his ear so hard that it hurt, trying to get closer to her warming voice, not following a word of it.

  ‘Concetto, the postman—you remember him—the flat above the grocer’s at the corner of the piazza. His sister worked at the same place as Nunziata, but she left when she got pregnant with her second and then her husband was killed right away in that accident—now what was her second husband’s name? It’ll come to me in a minute—what was I telling you? Concetto, that’s right. So, anyway, his mother was always trying to get him married off, never thinking . . . well, now she knows and she’s more pleased than anything—I think she thinks she can keep him for herself, so she doesn’t know the full story yet. . . .

  ‘So, I’ve said they can go, but they go together—I don’t want Totò going out on his own and I’ve said so. . . .

  ‘Oh, and there’s an Alberto Sordi film on at nine o’clock—that’ll cheer you up. . . .’

  Nine o’clock. Well, he’d missed the beginning, but he knew it by heart anyway. Spaghetti or penne? Spaghetti, definitely spaghetti. He laid his solitary place at the kitchen table but without that anxious loneliness in the pit of his stomach that he feared and hated. He could still feel his ear where the receiver had been pressed against it, still feel the warmth of her voice flowing through him. A big bowl of pasta and a glass of red would be good, and Alberto Sordi would take over after that. The evening had a shape now. He closed the window in spite of the boiling pan. He wanted to shut out the sawing of the cicadas out in the darkness of the Boboli Gardens. The sound made him lonely.

  He wasn’t one of those men who couldn’t cope. He could cope all too well, that was the trouble. Years of it, when Teresa was still down in Syracuse looking after his sick mother and he had been posted to Florence. They’d had such plans and then, the stroke that had left her bedridden . . . long, lonely years. The rich man in the hospital had been luckier. Very slight, they said, a tiny haemorrhage. Have to watch his blood pressure, then. His own was all right, so far. Just his weight that— had to concentrate on the case. Hunger is a distraction. Just don’t overdo it, Teresa always said.

  Mm . . . that was so good, though he said it himself. Of course, she had made the tomato sauce . . . he was going to have just a bit of butter on it, too. He shouldn’t, but he had to keep his energy and his spirits up if he wanted to work efficiently. This might be a delicate case and, anyway, it was a difficult time for him, being alone. It was Teresa who looked after his dieting.

  ‘There’s nothing fattening in any of these meals, so as long as you don’t overdo it with bread . . . and remember to take them out of the freezer the night before. . . .’

  Well, he’d forgotten. He had other things to think about, so, until she came home. . . .

  It had been difficult for Teresa, too, with a sick mother-in-law to care for and no husband to comfort her—but at least she hadn’t been on her own. She’d had the children and his sister Nunziata. It took both of them just to turn her in the bed. . . .

  The loneliness of sitting here, eating by himself, night after night, like now.

  Bit more cheese. He liked it freshly grated, didn’t like it sitting in a bowl in the fridge for days, the way some people did, and some restaurants, too. It went sour. He liked chewing the basil leaves in his sauce, too, and he always told Teresa to leave them whole. The boys picked them out and left them, and Teresa—

  Damn! He should have told her about the prosecutor’s sudden affability. Women are better at understanding that sort of thing. Could be, of course, that in the end he’d remembered that the marshal had been right about that so-called suicide. No, no . . . as if he’d care either way, and even if he had cared, he’d have forgotten by now. It was years ago. No chance of calling this one a suicide. Wouldn’t do, anyway. Rich families don’t like it.

  Chewing over the morning’s events, one phrase came to the surface: Robberies in villas like this one. . . .

  ‘No, no. . . .’ Bit of bread—only a small piece. Had to mop up the last traces of sauce.

  He got up from the table and washed his bowl, fork, and glass and the big pan. There was still some sauce in the small one, so he put it in the fridge.

  ‘No.’ Had the family whose coat of arms was above the doors still been in residence, that might have been true. Paintings and so on. But no, he’d seen backstage before the prosecutor arrived. The man lying in the private clinic might have been rich enough to buy the villa, but all that building work going on behind and the second swimming pool, hardly the style of a noble Florentine family. He’d talked to the builders—well, one of them, anyway, since the others didn’t speak Italian. They were all from Rumania, apart from one Moroccan, and they were working right through August, dividing the colonnade and outbuildings behind the villa into three luxury flats with a communal garden and pool. Two of them had already been sold. People from Milan, the builder said. And then there was that kitchen full of all the latest expensive equipment . . . a far cry from the Florentine nobility, that was. From what little he’d seen of those people, they counted how many matches their servants used. No. No. . . .

  He glanced around his own tidy kitchen, switched the light off, and went back to his office where the two or three notes he’d taken that morning lay on his desk ready to be worked up into a scene-of-the-crime report. It was a simple enough job—or it used to be, until the arrival of That Thing.

  ‘That Thing,’ as he always referred to it, was the personal computer sitting in the middle of his desk. He’d avoided it as long as he could, but, these days, all information had to be computerized and so available throughout the country. Even the daily orders to which only he had the password. All very efficient, of course. He sighed as he switched the wretched Thing on and waited. It was so slow. He’d have had a good half of his report typed with two fingers by now, but instead here he was listening to tiddly bits of music while it sent up pretty pictures, offered him a dozen things he didn’t want, asked him for the same old information and then—just when he thought he could get started— popped up with a suggestion that it could run an anti-virus check.

  ‘No-o!’ Blast the thing. Still, might as well say yes. He could be having a think about things. . . .

  The mother and daughter, for instance. The daughter was what? He looked at the date of birth on his notes . . . twenty-five. Pretty, you could tell, despite the blotched face and the tears. Slim, with dark hair in a long plait behind. No makeup, though he’d noticed tiny traces of eye makeup on the wet tissues that were all over the enormous glass table, so she must use it sometimes. Been out the night before, perhaps. She wore a simple flowery summer frock that, together with the plait, made her look like a little girl. The crying, too, of course. There were so many ways of crying and, in his job, the marshal had heard a lot of them. Most adults smothered their crying, tried to force it back, but this young woman was roaring, loud and unashamed, for help and comfort. The marshal’s instinct had been to place a big soothing hand on her head, as he did with his own children, but these days you had to be careful, so he’d looked at the mother. No response at all. Poor woman. Hardly any wonder she was shocked into silence. She was a blonde, like her dead daughter, bleached now, mixed with the grey, but you could tell by her pale blue eyes. Fifty-one . . . looked older but, then, she was overweight. Born in the Alto Adige and given that her name was German—Anna Wertmuller— she would be German-speaking. Funny, that . . . there was little love lost betwe
en Italian and German speakers up there, and you wouldn’t expect her to have moved down here. Well, he didn’t know a lot about it and today had certainly not been the time to ask. When he’d tried to talk to her, she had only stared up at him like a frightened child might, as though she were waiting for him to tell her what to do. What could he tell her? The only thing he could think of was to try to interrupt the daughter’s crying and suggest she give her mother a drop of something.

  ‘She doesn’t drink!’ The phrase had somehow been howled without interrupting the crying at all.

  He ought to try to talk to them both tomorrow, whatever the prosecutor said. For a long time, he pictured the two of them in that huge kitchen he so disliked. Those high, barred windows, a closed door that presumably led to servants’ quarters. A place that size would be a lot of work—but what sort of newfangled idea was it to make a kitchen in the cellar? It was really a wine cellar, with a vaulted ceiling. The faintest trace of a smell that came and went . . . what was it? Each time he’d tried to identify it, it escaped him. Something innocuous, maybe, but connected with an unpleasant memory? The wet tissues she kept squeezing had a light perfume, but it surely couldn’t be that. Short, unvarnished nails. . . .

  The dead woman . . . he looked at his notes again. Daniela. Older than her sister . . . twenty-seven. Single mother . . . well, the prosecutor was right about that, anyway, the man in her life being the prime suspect, as always. He’d need the men the captain had sent him again tomorrow. They had searched the tower, and the grounds immediately below it, all day and found no weapon. That whole area where there was building going on remained to be searched. It had to be done, though the marshal was pretty sure they wouldn’t find anything. Why would he leave it behind? Somebody cool enough to put that bullet in the back of his victim’s head . . . anyone in a panic would have fled as soon as she hit the floor. Captain Maestrangelo had agreed with him about that when they’d talked on the phone that evening.

  ‘A very cool customer. Especially when you think how long she must have taken to drag herself through the living room and into the bedroom in that condition. And he stood there at the door, watching—there were no shell cases inside the flat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very sure of himself. Sure of his aim, too. And no trace of him in the room, I imagine.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Sounds professional. What do you think?’

  ‘Well. . . .’

  ‘You don’t think so.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re right. Only . . . to stand there watching . . . he could have finished her off right away, couldn’t he? To watch that . . . you’d have to really hate somebody— not that that rules out . . . I’m not saying you’re not right, of course.’

  ‘You were on the spot, Guarnaccia, and your instincts are always sound—which leaves us with a professional with a personal grudge. Well, it happens, of course.’

  ‘Yes. But this was a young mother, leading a very quiet life, unless. . . .’

  ‘Unless things aren’t what they seem?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll find out.’

  The captain had made no comment on the prosecutor assigned to the case. Just the briefest silence before saying, ‘I’m sure you’ll be all right.’

  The captain was the soul of discretion—the captain . . . damn! If he’d thought of it, he could have asked about the flat then—but as if he had time to be looking at flats now! What was the point anyway, on his own? It was true that they’d been putting it off for years and that it had to be done. You went on spending your income, house prices rose and rose and come the day you retired . . . it was the right thing to do. Buy something, rent it out, a good investment, keep up with the market . . . no! Not without Teresa. And now he had this case on his hands, so that was that.

  As if to prove how busy he was, he placed his big hands on the keyboard and found himself staring into a blank dark screen. If the blasted thing hadn’t finished fiddling around playing music, checking viruses and God knows what and then, for want of attention, switched itself off!

  ‘If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times!’ he bellowed at Lorenzini, only to be met with another blank silence. Lorenzini, his second in command, was still at the seaside with his family.

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough!’ He shut the lid of That Thing and closed up his office. It would have to be typed first thing in the morning, because he was going to catch the rest of that film and go to bed. And he would have done just that if it hadn’t been almost midnight and the film long over. He switched on the mosquito killer and stared at the satin-smooth emptiness of the bed, his huge eyes mournful.

  Two

  The builder wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy at all.

  ‘And if the boss comes?’

  ‘It’s not your fault. Prosecutor’s orders. You’d do better to go home, all of you, until we’ve finished.’

  ‘We’re paid by the hour, you know, and we lost all but the first couple of hours yesterday. He’s always late paying us, as it is, and this’ll give him another excuse at the end of this month, you’ll see.’

  None of the others spoke; they kept their heads down. The marshal assumed that all of them, with the exception of this one man, Cristiano, a legal immigrant from Rumania who spoke Italian, were without papers. The captain’s men had searched their toolbags yesterday and they had all looked scared.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. . . .’ The marshal felt sorry for them, but the search was clearly going to take at least another full day. ‘You’re absolutely sure in your own mind that none of them saw a stranger around yesterday morning? That they’re not just saying they didn’t because they’re frightened of being involved? You did explain to them that I’m not interested in whether they have papers or not?’

  ‘I told them that this is about a murder, not about their situation. They’d say if they knew anything. They trust me.’

  The marshal believed him. Cristiano was a big man like himself, calm and solid and not frightened at all.

  ‘Besides, I was here before eight, and you can see for yourself how quiet it is round here. You can hear a leaf fall, let alone a car arriving, or even footsteps on the gravel driveways.’

  ‘And that thing?’ The cement mixer, switched off now. ‘Don’t you start mixing cement first thing—and what about the bulldozer that was working when I arrived?’

  ‘That’s true . . . he finished yesterday morning and he was taking it away when you people arrived and stopped him. They searched him, too, and took his name and address. He was none too pleased. The boss’ll be furious, as well, because every day it stays here it will have to be paid for.’

  ‘It can go today. And this cement mixer?’

  ‘You’re right. It was going from eight until when you arrived . . . I didn’t think. . . .’

  ‘No. Well, you’d likely have heard the shots, otherwise, and the woman who ran out screaming.’

  ‘You’re right . . . sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We none of us notice the noises that are always there.’

  Of course, the man could, in theory, have been with her all night, but there was no trace of sexual activity up to now, and he had shot her from outside the door. . . .

  ‘What about tomorrow, then? Can we work?’

  ‘It should be all right. Give me your number, just in case. If we haven’t finished, I’ll let you know tonight.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The important thing, for the marshal, was that they had all turned up for work this morning. Frightened as they were, any idea of a messed-up attempted robbery by one of them, unlikely as it was, faded to nothing.

  The marshal started to walk away, treading on planks laid over churned-up yellowish earth. This must have been a wonderful place once. Probably the only building on this wooded hill that was now scarred all over with a rash of fancy houses and bright blue swimming pools. He stopped, hearing a fuss behind him, a voice raised in protest.
He turned to look.

  One of the builders, young, dark-haired, was gesticulating and shouting at Cristiano. His desperation sounded very real and, as the marshal walked back, he saw the man wave a piece of paper in Cristiano’s face. He fell silent and turned away when he saw the marshal coming.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing, Marshal, nothing—I mean to say, nothing to do with your business. It’s just that we didn’t get paid at the end of July—not properly paid, anyway. I had a bit of a showdown with the boss, and he did give us something but nowhere near what he owes us, so you see why I’m not happy about sending them home. I’ve got a bit put by, I’m used to this, but Milo’s desperate. We were hoping the boss would come by today like he promised and give us a bit of cash.’

  ‘And what’s on that paper he was waving?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just—’

  ‘Tell him to give it to me.’

  Cristiano murmured something to the other man, who handed over the bit of paper. His face was red. The marshal couldn’t read it, but he could see it was a list and he recognized the brand name of some baby food.

  ‘It’s just a shopping list, that’s all. His wife gave it to him this morning. Mostly baby food and stuff. Fifteen euros would have covered it and we thought that today, the boss . . . he was hoping to go to the supermarket after work, but he hasn’t a bean. If he turns up at home at this time, with his day’s work lost and empty-handed. . . .’

  Milo was bending over, packing his toolbox. His face was hidden but his hands were trembling. The marshal drew Cristiano aside, took a couple of notes from his pocket and murmured, ‘Tell him to do his shopping. I’m going to be around for a while, so he can pay me back later and, in the meantime, give me your boss’s number—I’ll have a word with him, tell him I’ve got my eye on his business and don’t want to hear any complaints about him. He’ll pay up tomorrow, and he’ll regularize their status, too, you’ll see.’

  ‘Thanks, Marshal.’

  ‘It’s an ill wind, as they say. . . .’