‘Ciao, Riccardo,’ said a voice from behind him. ‘Apologies for being a little late; we had a case that came up. You know what police headquarters can be like…’
Fossi had no idea what police headquarters could be like, apart from what he had seen in TV dramas. ‘Ciao Doriano, come stai?’ he asked, smiling and standing up to embrace his friend, who was doing him a favour by finding the time to meet him during working hours.
‘I am well, thanks. And you?’ replied Doriano.
Fossi smiled broadly and shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said as they both sat down.
‘I see you’re having a beer. Good idea on a day like today. Thank you, I’ll join you.’
Fossi turned around and caught the eye of a waiter, indicating the need for another couple of beers.
‘So, my friend, what is it that tears you from your columns of figures and brings you to Florence on such a warm day?’ continued Doriano as he took out a cigarette and lit it. He put his mobile phone on the table in front of him. ‘It is turned off… Officially I am investigating and am uncontactable. Unless, of course, she wants to get hold of me,’ he added with a wink.
The two men, who had been friends for many years, grinned at each other from behind their sunglasses.
‘She? Is this the same one you were talking about the last time we met?’ asked Fossi.
‘You bet it is! I can’t remember one like this before… Well, perhaps Giesla, but she was German. My mamma always hoped I’d find a nice Italian girl, and you know what mammas are like,’ replied Doriano, laughing. ‘And you, Casanova?’
‘Still handsome, physically attractive and available,’ replied Fossi.
‘Are you telling me that you haven’t got anybody special at the moment?’ Doriano asked, his voice heavily laden with mock disbelief. ‘That I find truly hard to believe.’
‘Believe it or not, as you wish,’ said Fossi, ‘but it is sometimes best to allow a refreshing break between liaisons to recharge the batteries.’ He was not about to admit to his steamy affair with Renata di Senno. If it were ever to become public knowledge that he was sleeping with the respected wife of the assistant regional state prosecutor, Fossi faced the prospect of being ruined by a vengeful husband. Such revelations could become even more serious and detrimental to any subsequent recovery of his career if they were to spread beyond Lucca. Signor di Senno frequently came to Florence to consult the forces of law and order and Doriano Peri was a senior member of the flying squad, with information at his fingertips on a vast range of subjects covering just about everything – including the latest ‘palace gossip’ and social scandals. Fossi preferred not to think of the consequences of such a revelation. Better to be safe than sorry.
‘There will be someone soon, I have no doubt,’ he lied, smiling.
‘Ah,’ agreed Doriano, ‘so, moving on to more mundane things. ‘What is it that brings you to see me in the middle of the week? Business a little slow?’
‘Not at all, thank you. Business is very brisk at the moment and everything is firmly under control.’ In his mind’s eye he saw the aged Signora Litelli running the office in his absence with her usual accomplished professionalism.
‘I wanted to have a little informal chat with you, Doriano – off the record.’
Peri looked at his friend. He narrowed his eyes slightly behind his sunglasses, which, unlike Fossi’s, were definitely not by Gucci.
‘I have recently been approached by a prospective new client and I was wondering if you might…’ He broke off as the waiter appeared with the two bottles of beer and a complimentary bowl of potato crisps and put everything on the table. ‘I was wondering if you might know of a certain person?’ continued Fossi.
‘Salute!’ said Doriano, holding out his glass.
‘Salute!’ replied Fossi as the two glasses clinked.
They each took a long draught.
‘We know a lot of persons,’ said Doriano, emphasizing the other’s choice of word. ‘I presume that you have a definite person in mind for your enquiry – off the record, naturally.’
‘Naturally. I am interested to know if you are acquainted with a certain Signor di Leone – Daniele di Leone.’
‘That is a southern name, is it not?’ asked Peri, sitting back in his chair. ‘We know of many persons from the south. Do you have a reason for wanting to know about this particular one?’
‘I might well have,’ replied Fossi, ‘because I would rather make sure that this person is who he says he is before I decide to take him on as a client.’
‘What makes you think that he might not be who he says he is?’ asked Peri. Although his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, Fossi knew that this man’s brain was running in top gear. There were no outward signs of any inquisitiveness, but the questions were coming in an organized, logical way. That was, after all, what this man did for a living; he asked questions, pieced together the answers and solved crimes.
‘I don’t know. I have met this person once for an introductory interview … following the same professional procedure I always adopt with a new client.’
‘And?’
‘And … well, I’m not sure why I have to ask you if you know of him. Everything seemed absolutely above board, but I have a twinge of uneasy feeling about things,’ continued Fossi. He firmly believed that nobody knew anything about the darker, more murky side of his business dealings and he was absolutely certain that he would never tell Doriano anything about them, for obvious reasons – friend or not. Fossi decided to play the innocent card. He did not see that he had any real option.
‘A twinge?’ repeated Peri, sitting forward in his chair. ‘What sort of twinge?’ Fossi’s friend of many years had suddenly become the professional policeman. A natural curiosity, developed over years of investigations, had automatically switched itself on. Fossi sensed that his question, which to him had seemed perfectly innocuous, could be laced with a hidden danger. From behind the smokescreen of his sunglasses, Fossi suddenly felt uneasy about the situation he had created. He had started asking questions, but had had to do so by framing them in a context that would hide his own involvement in something that he already knew was decidedly illegal and rather dangerous. He would have to hide that dangerous fact if he was to maintain his squeaky clean appearance with those bent on removing the influence of organized crime from the tainted legal system. He was also only too well aware from stories he had heard that those from within the ranks of organized crime had little forgiveness and were often bent upon revenge. Discovery and betrayal were two things neither side tolerated and Riccardo Fossi suddenly fancied that he had managed to place himself firmly in the crossfire from both.
‘You must know of the recent reports of professional people taking on new clients, those clients then turning out to be involved in illegal activities, which then involve those professionals.’
Doriano looked on, but said nothing.
‘Of course, if they had had any idea that these activities were illegal, I’m sure the professionals would not have taken on the clients in the first place, although there were reports of a couple of them being trapped by police posing as the very people who were trying to commission their services.’
‘Riccardo, my friend, are you trying to tell me that you have taken on a new client who is not clean?’
Fossi wished he could just ask Peri outright if he could check to see if this di Leone character was genuine, or if he was a police entrapment operative cruising the upper echelons of the professional market, bent on trapping the greedy or careless. Naturally, he realized immediately that he could not.
‘Me? Good God no! What on earth makes you think that? I just ask before I find myself possibly put in the position I have described … in the future. Better to be safe than sorry,’ he concluded with a smile, the falseness of which was largely masked by the sunglasses and the beer glass, which he held to his mouth.
‘Hmm…’ said Doriano, who was obviously chewing things over in his mind. ‘I have to
say that, if such a professional person found himself in a predicament of this nature, immediate contact with the authorities might be taken as a redeeming factor in mitigation … should such a circumstance arise. Having friends in high places sometimes works, but it cannot be guaranteed to do so every time.’
‘Believe me, my dear friend, as I have said, I am not one of those professionals,’ replied Fossi, careful to keep his voice evenly modulated. ‘I simply ask before I might find myself unwittingly becoming one.’
‘Then you are wise to do so, my friend. Daniele di Leone, you said the name was? What does he do, that he sought out Lucca’s finest accountant … whose services certainly do not come cheap?’ He drained his glass almost to the bottom. The afternoon was marching on and he would shortly have to get back to the Questura.
‘Olive oil and crystallized fruit, amongst other things. He said that his family is from Sicily: the northwestern tip of the island, as I recall,’ said Fossi.
‘If his business is that extensive, then why hire an accountant on the mainland? Why not use the company accountant?’ asked Doriano softly.
Fossi began to feel a little trickle of panic fight its way up through the beer bubbles in his stomach. It was a strange feeling – one that he was most certainly not used to. ‘I have absolutely no idea. I, too, thought it a little strange, which is why I asked for your advice – off the record, of course,’ he said.
‘Advice?’ repeated Peri, a grin crossing his mouth. ‘Surely, my dear Riccardo, you mean information?’
‘Well…’ replied Fossi, shrugging. ‘Yes … I suppose that could be how your policeman’s mind might see things.’
An hour later, Riccardo Fossi sat in the air-conditioned comfort of a first-class railway carriage as the train pulled out of Santa Maria Novella Station in Florence on its way to Genoa. There would be several stops before he would have to change at Viareggio to catch the local train to Lucca, but that was an inconvenience worth tolerating as it meant he was able to leave Florence at an earlier time. As the train picked up speed he settled back and tried to process the conversation he had just had in Florence. Doriano Peri had indicated what would happen to those who were foolish enough to involve themselves in illegal dealings. He had said that the CID had no knowledge of any undercover operations in the Florence-Pisa-Lucca area, although he did let slip that there had been something similar recently, further north in Bologna, even if it was a local issue. Parts of the conversation kept bouncing around in Fossi’s head, but he had been assured that Doriano knew of no undercover operation going on in his area.
Fossi was not certain if his expedition to Florence had accomplished anything. At best, he had hoped for possible confirmation of a police entrapment operation in the area. He had come away with nothing, except the assurance that his life-long friend would run a check on di Leone’s name through the police records – strictly off the record, naturally – to see if they had anything in the database on him.
23
‘I’m after tellin’ yourself what ’twas himself said – no more, no less,’ said Elizabeth in her off-hand yet totally devoted way.
‘And exactly what was it he said?’ asked the Contessa as she propped her bicycle against the wall of the entrance vestibule of her apartment in the Piazza Anfiteatro. Carlo remained perched in the wicker basket over the front tyre, looking like a white, curly-haired marble figurehead. He looked at the Contessa in full expectation of being picked up and gently returned to terra firma.
‘Come on,’ she said as she lifted him out of the basket, ‘time for tea, I think.’
The Contessa had been busy with her extensive rounds, which had included a piano-playing break at the hospice, and now she was thirsty and tired.
‘Tea? Nonsense! Himself said nothing about tea!’ snorted Elizabeth from her position at the head of the short flight of stairs that led up to a pair of imposing double doors. This was the formal entrance to the spacious apartment and Elizabeth McGraunch, in anticipation of her employer’s return, stood filling the open left-hand door as if she owned the place. In a hypothetical manner of speaking, she probably did.
‘Is he coming for tea, then?’ asked the Contessa as she started to climb the steps. Carlo’s leash had been unclipped and the dog was up the steps and through Elizabeth’s bow legs in a flash. This was an action which happened on an almost daily basis, but which always managed to destabilize the aged domestic. She grabbed hold of the closed half of the door to steady herself.
You hound from hell! she thought, swaying back into as vertical a posture as her curved spine would allow her to adopt, but she said nothing, having learned several Carlos ago that such comments were very unwise, even allowing for the Contessa’s extremely tolerant nature. ‘If yourself’ll just be listening for a change, yourself’ll know that himself phoned and tells Elzeebit something about a cream that doesn’t smell. Himself has found it at the hospital and will have it delivered to the Insingtote for your hooley.’
Elizabeth always referred to Luigi as ‘himself’, even to his face.
‘What cream?’ asked the Contessa as Elizabeth swayed backwards to allow her through the door, before closing it resolutely behind her. In the confines of the entrance vestibule the loud bang sounded like a howitzer being fired.
‘How should I be knowing? And it doesn’t smell, so it doesn’t,’ mumbled Elizabeth as she dutifully followed the Contessa across the marbled entrance hall. The two women progressed further up the stairs to the first-floor rooms. ‘I’m just a’tellin’ yourself the message … not interpring … intersper … I’m not after explaining what ’tis himself meant.’
They climbed the stairs in silence for a few seconds.
‘Yourself’s not having something she shouldn’t be havin’?’ asked Elizabeth, her eyes fixed firmly on the back of the Contessa’s head in her own peculiarly concerned way.
‘Screen!’ said the Contessa triumphantly, suddenly stopping as she did so. ‘Luigi’s found me a screen for the concert. Oh, the dear boy!’
Elizabeth was taken completely by surprise by the sudden halt in their progress and nearly careered into her employer. She was obliged to steady herself against the balustrade. ‘That’s what himself said,’ she muttered. The sudden, unexpected stop had caused her curved spine to extend to its fullest extent, but her mouth was still only just level with the Contessa’s shoulder. ‘And it doesn’t smell,’ she repeated. ‘So, is yourself ill?’
Elizabeth was nothing if not forthright at the best of times. She also had a habit of locking herself into a verbal loop, which the Contessa had discovered over the years was best treated by simply changing the subject.
‘Tea, I think, please,’ her mistress said, resuming her upwards progress.
‘Would that be before or after I finish me ironin’?’ mumbled Elizabeth as they reached the top of the stairs.
‘There ’tis, yourself’s tea,’ said the maid as she put the tray on the folded cloth, which covered the piano lid, ‘and now Elzeebit will be back to the ironin’, which won’t do itself, so ’twon’t,’ she added closing the door loudly behind her.
From the comfort of his cushion, Carlo growled softly. Seated at the keyboard, the Contessa did not look up from the piles of operatic scores that surrounded her.
‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ she said, ignoring the comment about the ironing. Long years of interaction had taught her that her resident Irish terrier’s bark was far worse than her bite and that her pronouncements were merely un-barbed, muttered statements of fact. Across from the keyboard and piles of scores, where the tray of tea had been placed, a strong column of steam could be seen escaping from the spout of the teapot. It was bisected by an early evening sunbeam, reflected off a window across the arena and it highlighted the cloud of dust motes the tray had disturbed from the fringed throw covering the bottom half of the grand piano. They swirled about happily in the glow of the sunbeam, like a densely packed corps of graceful ballerinas. The Contessa sighed. Perhaps the op
portunity for even the simplest dusting and polishing had now passed; she had long ago begun to think that the time for reminding Elizabeth to do so certainly had. As she shuffled the scores, she wondered why the singers in COGOL – her silver-voiced angels – had not been affected by the dust, which obviously lingered in plentiful supply.
I think I’ll let that cool a little, she decided as she sorted her pile of scores, many of which would be needed for the concert. Luigi had offered to find her a suitably discrete bookcase in which to store them in some sort of order, but his kindness was always met with a postponing reply. The Contessa felt securely happy surrounded by the tools of her trade and had no desire to change things. She stopped at a rather battered score of Puccini’s La Bohème, the cover of which had a long tear down it. The once-white, thick paper exposed by the tear had turned a deep sand colour over the years. Now, it almost matched the shade of the brown paper tape that had been used on the inside of the cover to repair it.
Poor Elizabeth; she’s a bit like this book … rather torn and quite faded, thought the Contessa as she gently fingered the tear. Still … we have to carry on.
It never occurred to her that she was also in a state of ever-noticeable decline as the years progressed, but it had never been in her nature to notice or even admit to such a thing. She had always been an active person. When she was younger, there were those who remarked that she was hyperactive, and she saw no reason why things should change now, simply because of the intervention of the passing of time.
Errant Angels Page 17