Clothes and shoes were still scattered across the floor. Trotti recognized the same Vuitton suitcases that Agnese had bought before she left Italy for the last time—from which clothes tumbled on to the wooden floor.
“Still haven’t tidied away your luggage, signorina?”
Laura Roberti ran a hand across her eyelids. “Studying until late last night.” She shrugged. “Would you gentlemen care for some coffee?”
Without waiting for a reply she went to the cooker, unscrewed an espresso machine and filled it with water and coffee.
Trotti sat on the edge of the bed. Pisanelli went to the window, opened it and undid the shutter. The light flooded into the room. He closed the window again.
“Signorina Roberti,” Trotti said, as the young girl handed him a cup of steaming coffee—with brown froth, as he liked it, “I must ask you a few questions.” He deflected his glance away from the delicate breasts visible beneath the nightdress as Laura Roberti bent over.
She looked up and smiled.
“I’m afraid that the last time I was here you lied to me.” He paused. “I think you know more about Signorina Belloni’s death than you choose to admit.”
“Sugar, Commissario?”
57: Luigi Lavazza
The coffee was excellent and very hot.
“Saicaf?” Trotti asked, running his tongue along his lips.
“Lavazza—what else do you expect from a Turin girl?”
Looking at her, Trotti found it difficult to believe Laura Roberti capable of lying. A soft, delicate face and a small fragile body that was crying out for protection.
Her voice was calm, devoid of intonation. “What makes you think I lied to you?”
“You said you were in Santo Stefano last week, signorina. I don’t think you left the city. I think you were here at the time of the murder. And I believe that you know a lot more than you’ve already told me.”
“I know nothing about Rosanna’s murder.” The features did not change but the delicate face turned pale.
“No, Signorina Roberti, it was not Rosanna who was murdered. It was her sister—the sister who lived at Garlasco. Maria Cristina Belloni.”
Her mouth fell slightly open. Laura Roberti closed it and put a hand to the chest of her nightdress. “Maria Cristina?”
An act, Trotti told himself. The girl is lying.
“Then where’s Rosanna, Commissario?”
“I wish I knew.” He looked at her. He was sitting on the unmade bed. “Last night I watched her car being fished out of a canal in the Po delta.”
“She drowned?”
“The car was empty.”
The young woman bit her lip. “I hope Rosanna is alive.”
“You’ve heard from her?”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Me?”
“What kind of relationship did you have with Rosanna Belloni?”
“I’ve already told you. Signorina Belloni was very kind to me. Occasionally she’d talk to me—like an aunt or a godmother. A kind person.”
“You’ve no idea where she is?”
“Why d’you think I should know?”
“Why did you lie to us, signorina?” Trotti gestured with his thumb towards Pisanelli who was standing by the window.
“Lie, Commissario?”
“You weren’t in Santo Stefano. That was an invention. You told us you’d driven back, that you were tired.”
“Commissario . . .”
Trotti held up his hand. “You’d better give me your parents’ phone number.”
“Why?”
“Your father—I’ll ask your father where you were last Saturday night.” Trotti shrugged. “He can tell me if you were in Santo Stefano.”
“You’re accusing me of killing the woman?”
“Do you have an alibi, signorina, for last weekend?”
“Why should I want to kill anybody?”
“I’m not saying you killed anybody. I’m asking you where you were.”
“With him.”
It was Pisanelli who spoke, pulling himself away from the window ledge. “With who?”
“Gian Maria. I was with my fiancé.”
“Where?”
A slight sigh. “You’re right—I didn’t tell you the truth.”
Pisanelli asked, “Why not?”
She raised her shoulders. “You must understand me. My parents wanted me to go with them to Santo Stefano. They always want me to stay with them.” A sound of irritation. “What can I do there? I ask you, what am I supposed to do in the Langhe? Sit around in the fields, watching my dear father’s grapes growing on the vines? Talk with Papa? He’s never there—or if he is he spends his time with the peasants playing at the gentleman farmer and discussing the grapes and the harvest. Or you want me to talk with my mother? My mother? An ageing princess? What can I talk to her about? She hasn’t got two ideas in her head to rub together. Other than her Stéphanie of Monaco and the Aga Khan, she’s not interested in anything. Oggi and Duemila, that’s all she ever reads. She’s not interested in me—she never has been. I hate Santo Stefano. I hate the Langhe. I hate Piemonte.” There was an unexpected vehemence in her voice. “And I hate my parents who in twenty years have given me everything—everything—Vuitton suitcases and Lacoste shirts, the best schools and holidays in Chamonix—everything except one moment—one tiny moment of genuine affection. Everything, Commissario, except warmth.” She fell silent, looking defiantly at the two men.
“Why did you lie, signorina?” Pisanelli had pulled up a chair and now he sat on the edge, leaning towards the young girl, his elbows on his knees. His shoes, Trotti noticed, were highly polished and spotless.
Her glance went from Trotti to Pisanelli and then back to Trotti.
The young face was pale.
Trotti touched the back of her hand. “Why?”
“I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
She didn’t answer.
“You thought you’d be accused of the murder?”
She moved her head to one side and raised her shoulders slightly.
“Well?”
The girl remained silent.
Trotti said, “I think you’d better give us his phone number.”
“Who?”
“I’ll need to speak to Gian Maria.”
There was a long silence.
“You will give me his number?”
She started to cry reluctant tears that pushed their way from out of the corner of her eyes. “He doesn’t love me.”
Trotti touched the back of her hand again. “Don’t cry, Laura.”
“Gian Maria’s not interested in me as a human being. But I can keep him warm in bed. And for his family and friends, I’m a pretty little ornament that he can show off.” She pushed a tear angrily away.
Pisanelli was almost laughing. “The man you’re going to marry, Signorina Roberti? The man you’re going to marry as soon as you have your degree?”
Abruptly the slim young woman stood up. She looked at the two men coldly. “Excuse me. please.” Without another word she went out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“She’s lying, Commissario.”
“Why?”
“To protect somebody. She’s trying to protect somebody—and I don’t think it’s herself.” Pisanelli shrugged. “Unless of course she murdered the woman.”
With a single gulp, Trotti raised the cup to his lips and finished the coffee, which had now grown cold. He winced, then popped a rhubarb sweet into his mouth.
“What’s she doing?” Trotti gestured to the telephone that lay on the floor, attached to the wall by a long red cable. “You’d better listen in case she’s trying to phone someone.”
“Gian Maria?”
Trotti tapped the narro
w bed he was sitting on. “I don’t know where Signorina Roberti spent this night,” Trotti said, “but it wasn’t in this bed. Nobody’s slept in this bed since the last time we were here. No room here for two people.”
Pisanelli laughed unpleasantly.
58: Bed
Trotti knocked on the door and then without waiting entered the bedroom. It had been decorated in the same scarlet silks as the hall. Two armchairs, lots of cushions, a thick carpet. There was an old painting of Madonna, Child and plump angels on the wall. Because the blinds were closed to the morning light, the bedside lamp was on. The air was stuffy.
“Spying on me, Commissario?”
She had got dressed and now was wearing jeans and her espadrilles. She sat in one of the armchairs. Her eyes were red from crying.
“Tenente Pisanelli and I must go, Signorina Roberti. I need to know what your plans are. You see, I’d be grateful if you didn’t leave the city without informing me. And I’d be grateful if you’d give me your boyfriend’s phone number.”
“So you think I killed the Belloni woman?”
“At my age,” Trotti said in a soft and reassuring voice, “I’ve learned that it’s best not to think anything.”
She turned her head away. She started to cry.
Trotti approached her, aware that her small face was pretty, that her small body was fragile. “I don’t see why you felt you had to hide the truth, Laura.”
“Because I was here.”
“There’s no crime in loving a man, signorina. And there’s no harm in spending the night with him.” He made a gesture towards the church. “And only an old bigot, a sour old font frog, would say it was wrong to go to bed with a man you loved without being married.”
“A font frog?” Laura Roberti smiled through her tears. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the smile vanished. “The trouble is I don’t think I love him. Just as I don’t think he loves me. We’re just using one another. He wants my body—and I need warmth. Is that too much to ask for? I need to be loved. And even if the love isn’t sincere, I can always pretend.”
“You didn’t have to lie.”
She shrugged without looking at the two men. Pisanelli was leaning against the door. He sniffed, rubbed his nose. There was still gel in the lank hair that hung down over his collar.
“You were here with him on Saturday night?”
Laura did not reply.
“You heard sounds in Rosanna’s flat? Maria Cristina was most probably murdered some time Sunday morning. Did you hear anything?”
She shook her head.
“You must tell me the truth, Laura. You see, you’ve already lied. Don’t make things worse for yourself.”
She sighed. “I was at the Lido until eight—I’d spent all the day of Saturday with friends. He came to pick me up at the Lido. We got back here, we phoned for a pizza and then we watched television. I was very tired. I had sunbathed—and I had swum. We were in bed by ten o’clock.”
“Did you make love?” Pisanelli asked and Trotti turned to give him an irritated glance.
The eyes glinted behind the tears. “That’s none of your business.”
Trotti nodded towards the bed. “It’s here that you sleep, Laura?”
“This is my parents’ bedroom, but it’s the only double bed.” She shrugged.
“You shouldn’t have lied to me, signorina.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How tall is Gian Maria?”
She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Is he tall?”
She shrugged. “Average height—perhaps a bit taller. Why do you want to know?”
“Do you know of any small man coming into this building?”
She put her hand to her cheek. “Small men? I don’t think so. Should I?”
Trotti gave her a reassuring smile and moved towards the door. The girl stood up. In the red light her face was drawn. “I never really met Maria Cristina, although I think I saw her a few times. She was crazy, wasn’t she?”
“She was often on sedation.”
The girl accompanied them to the front door.
“And if you leave the city, signorina, you must please contact me. And you understand I’ll need to speak to Gian Maria.”
Laura Roberti nodded docilely. She closed the door behind them and they heard the bolt being drawn.
“She’s lying.”
Pisanelli shook his head. “Not lying.”
“I don’t believe her.”
“She’s not lying—she’s suppressing the truth.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Commissario, when does she sleep in that big bed?”
“When she has company?”
“But Gian Maria is in Ferrara. That’s what she says and it’s probably true. Yet from the stale air in that room, it’s fairly obvious that a man has spent the night there.”
“A man? Who? You mean last night?”
Pisanelli chuckled. “Her visitor got away while she was making you your Lavazza coffee. Or perhaps you didn’t notice the handheld dictating machine on the bedside table.”
59: Maserati
“Ah, Commissario.”
The two men turned. Trotti squinted against the light.
“I was looking for you,” Maserati said and gave a forced smile. It was rare that he was to be seen out of his white lab coat. “Actually, I was about to go for an early lunch.”
“Bit early for an early lunch, isn’t it?”
“I’ve got a headache. Been at the university all morning. I don’t like working on spectrographic analysis.” He wore jeans and a loose jacket; the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. Since getting married, he had put on weight. There was the beginning of a double chin. Although casually dressed, Maserati somehow appeared ill at ease away from his laboratory. “I hear you were at the autopsy of the Belloni woman, Commissario.” He did not look at either Trotti or Pisanelli.
“I left half way through.”
“Getting squeamish?”
“I had more important things to do.”
“So you weren’t there for the cause of death?”
Trotti frowned. “Bottone has already submitted his report?”
Maserati shook his head. “Nothing written—and I don’t suppose there’ll be anything for a couple of weeks. He’s waiting for our lab analysis. Dottor Bottone is already in America.”
“America?”
“On some forensic course. At Baltimore, I think. One of these American universities where they do courses in crime scene investigation.” A dry laugh. “Great admirer of the Americans, our Dottor Bottone. What the Americans say is gospel. That’s why he places so much importance on crime scene investigation. He was absolutely furious he didn’t get called down to San Teodoro. Bottone hasn’t got much time for Dottor Anselmi.” Maserati’s eyes looking past Trotti. “But then, Dottor Bottone doesn’t have much time for anybody other than Dottor Bottone.”
They were standing, Trotti, Pisanelli and Maserati, in the entrance of the Questura. Outside the sun shone on the near-deserted city. A couple of women who had primly tucked their skirts under their saddles cycled slowly along Strada Nuova.
Italia Felix.
Maserati touched Trotti’s arm and said, “You know the Belloni woman was drowned, don’t you?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“I’m not a chemist, of course. That’s Antonioni’s field—and more often than not, we have to send stuff to Milan, because we just haven’t got the equipment. We can’t even do X-ray diffraction, for heaven’s sake. But there wasn’t much problem on this. You see, Commissario, the human lungs were never conceived to absorb water.”
“Water?”
“What do you think? Bottone may be arrogant but he knows his stuff. He was quite right to drain li
quid from the lungs as well as taking blood samples. We’ve been able to analyze it. Antonioni did the diatom test at the Faculty of Pharmacy this morning.” Maserati smiled with professional satisfaction. “It’s not tap water—and most certainly not the local tap water which has a high content of sulfur.”
“You can identify the water in her lungs?”
“Traces of aquatic weed, that sort of thing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that it has to be fresh water.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “Sea water has a higher osmotic pressure than blood and so it doesn’t get drawn through the lungs into the bloodstream. Belloni’s blood has been diluted with water—most probably with water from the river.”
“How do you know that, Maserati?”
“My professional opinion is that she was drowned in the Po. Or at least the water in her lungs comes from the river. Diatoms are algae that exist in both sea and fresh water. They get absorbed into the blood. That’s why Dottor Bottone sent us samples of body tissue.”
“Maria Cristina’s corpse showed no sign of immersion. And there was blood on her head—and on the floor.”
“If you’re strong enough”—Maserati gave Trotti a brief, nervous glance—“you can murder somebody in a bowl of water.”
“And the blood?”
“You can’t strike somebody while you’re drowning him? Believe me, Commissario, the woman was drowned. She was also hit with a blunt instrument prior to her death, but that was not the cause of death.”
“Then in your opinion, Maserati, Maria Cristina was drowned—possibly in a bowl of water—in her sister’s flat at San Teodoro?”
“I don’t know where she was killed. There don’t seem to be traces of a struggle. But there is adrenalin in the blood, implying that the woman was scared, that she knew what was coming—the fight or flight syndrome. However, Antonioni and I are merely scientists. Unlike Dottor Bottone, I have no pretensions of being a crime scene detective. All I can tell you is what I know to be scientifically verifiable.”
“What do you know?”
Slightly offended by Pisanelli’s question, Maserati took a deep breath before answering. He looked at neither of the two men. “Our spectrum analysis would suggest that the victim was drowned in water from somewhere upriver from here. Somewhere where there is less industrial pollution. But whether she was drowned in the Po or in the flat at San Teodoro, I don’t know. As you say, Commissario, the body shows no signs of immersion. That’s your problem. You’re the detective—I’m just a humble scientist.”
Black August Page 23