The only thing they all knew and remembered was a furious argument on the telephone with Cesare Cavasso, an antiques dealer in the town.
The barman told Veronesi that Ridolfi shouted about the dealer until late the previous evening, convinced that the dealer had sold him a false painting, charging him more than 50,000 euros.
“I’ll ruin you, I’ll shut you down, I’ll finish you off…” were his last words before cutting short the call and with a great deal of satisfaction ordering a strong aperitif to cool his rage.
Ridolfi probably already had a plan in mind to get his own back on Cavasso for the deception he felt he had been a victim of.
It could be a lead and the DI could certainly not ignore it, on the other hand he knew the dealer himself and was a customer.
His wife had passed on her love of antique art and they had often been to see the dealer, looking for something of interest.
His shop was not one of the most elegant in the city compared to the more well-known dealers in the S. Anastasia area of the city, but it was always well supplied and full of new objects.
The shop was near the old University near Borgo Venezia, and Gianni Veronesi headed straight there.
On the armoured glass and protected by an iron grid there was a large notice saying “Occasioni” (sales) and on the handle of the closed door there was another one saying “Back in a minute” with a mobile telephone number for urgent calls.
The DI immediately rang the number, thinking he would only have a short wait as during intervals Cesare was often to be found in the bar next door. In fact the dealer arrived in a flash, bowing in an unctuous fashion, as smooth as his bald, shiny head.
He recognised his visitor, opened the door and invited him inside his shop full of furniture, objects and antique paintings.
“Dottore, how are you? You haven’t bought anything from me in ages.”
“Not today. I came to ask you some questions about your recent dealings with Ridolfi. Did you know he died last night?”
“They just told me. It’s terrible, there are too many thieves around; you can never get any peace.”
“Let’s get straight to the point. I have been told that yesterday you had a fierce argument with Ridolfi.”
“It’s true. Unfortunately Ridolfi got it into his head that the painting I sold him a month ago was false. It is all due to jealousy from one of my competitors who he asked to examine and check the painting: now he really is a specialist in copies, I know that and I even know how he ages them.”
“Well, let’s not go into that. Where were you last night at 1pm?”
“In bed. I sleep alone since I became a widower and …..”
“ … and your money ran out…”
“I’d like to see this painting, or maybe I already have. It’s a Flemish artist, isn’t it?” Veronesi stared into the dealer’s eyes, screwing up his nose.
The dealer went pale and started to perspire, despite the cool weather after the rain during the night.
The DI walked towards the door with a sigh, and then stopped in the doorway, attracted by some antique swords and halberds to his right.
“No, not those… they’re not for you, but the blades I sold you a few years ago, yes. They were truly authentic, Muramasa from the 16th century, you can’t find anything like that now” the dealer said promptly.
Veronesi remembered the pair of samurai swords he had purchased years before, when he was passionate about martial arts and Japanese films.
He opened the door, looked at Cavasso doubtfully, accompanied by the sound of the bell on the internal glass door, and returned to his car.
11
Cesare Cavasso watched Veronesi leave and stood thinking inside his shop, studying his many pieces of art, taking off his short-sighted glasses and scratching the top of his head.
He was a rotund man, not very tall, and completely bald. His manners always appeared pleasant and courteous, but his natural predisposition to dealing gave him a typical air of mystery, jealous custodian of secrets that could hide in the shape of a piece of furniture or in the light and shade of a painting.
Skilled in his profession, his love of all things antique meant he often bought things he could not afford, in the optimistic illusion of always finding customers with his same tastes.
There was ample room for error in his field of work.
He had purchased that Flemish painting of dubious origin on the advice of Giorgia, Veronesi’s wife, in cahoots with her friend Laura, both of them part of one of the most highly qualified architectural studios in the town, with the firm promise that he would be able to find someone else to sell it on to.
And that is what happened.
The lady knew how to convince her engineer friend. She was a frequent visitor to his elegant attic, perhaps not only to organise his interior decorating.
He spent no time thinking about a situation which was of no interest to him, but smiled at how Giorgia probably betrayed Veronesi, who thought he was so tough.
They were none of his business.
He had other things to worry about, for example the second instalment of a payment.
He didn’t dare voice it but it was a stroke of luck that someone had killed Ridolfi that very night.
Ridolfl had called him with the intention of returning the painting and getting his money back, and had warned Cavasso not to cash the cheque he still had.
Yes, the cheque…
He put his hand into his pocket and took out his wallet.
The cheque with which Ridolfi intended to settle the payment was post-dated but now he certainly would not be able to cash it in a month’s time, after he died last night.
He thought of a way to cash it the following Monday.
It would not be easy, even if falsifying documents was his speciality…
He walked into the inner room of his shop and stared at the multitude of objects he would have to sell to pay off the mountain of debt he had accumulated.
There were paintings everywhere, on the walls, standing against furniture of various ages, inside drawers…
Unfortunately in every field nowadays supply was greater than demand and the antiques business was not immune to the financial crisis being felt over half the western world.
He stood deep in thought; Veronesi’s visit had left him feeling anxious.
He went to the door and locked it from the inside, sitting down on a large, comfortable, 19th century armchair.
He still pondered, rubbing his chin with his left hand in front of one of his magnificent mirrors in which buyers nowadays were no longer interested.
Then he stood up and walked towards one of his 18th century trunks that he kept in the corner, at the back.
He took a key out of his wallet and opened the lid.
From inside, wrapped in dark velvet, he slowly unrolled a pair of antique samurai swords.
Cesare had always loved antique weapons and was more and more drawn to oriental objects, convinced he could make money with this new market which was opening in all directions.
With a respectful and religious gesture he extracted the longer one, a katana, from its original sharkskin sheath and admired it with satisfaction, caressing the cold blade with his fingers, taking care not to cut himself.
It was visibly an old sword, a museum piece, but it maintained perfect weight and balance, it was simultaneously hard and flexible and had not lost any of the features which made it a terrible instrument, able to give immediate death to the enemy when used by capable hands.
Thanks to an odd, complicated swapping of favours and compromises, Cavasso had received it in exchange for a piece of furniture from an old Venetian dealer, who was even more hard up than himself, who used to keep the pair of swords like a relic in the darkest corner of his shop, in turn hidden in one of the most secluded areas in the city of canals.
He once thought that the cutting weapons used in Japan were all the same until he learned from a Japanese dealer who o
wned an oriental art shop in Milan that the men who forged the swords, in ancient times used to mark a sort of signature on the nakago, the end part of the blade inserted into the handle.
He repeated the operation he had learned and dismantled the grip, freeing it and finally uncovering the part he was interested in.
He removed his glasses and squinted to see the strange incisions on that part, a sort of ideogram, the author’s mei or signature.
It was authentic.
Exactly as he had been assured by his colleague who had not even wanted to haggle over the price, telling Cesare what was said about those strange swords.
It was said that the truly original swords possessed a strange, particularly evil power.
The dealer had assured him that he would have contacted some of his customers, quite strange types, who were possibly willing to spend a small fortune for that type of sword.
Until then the swords had brought him no luck, best get rid of them as quickly as possible, despite…
He admired them again.
Just looking at them they was strangely fascinating, evoking ancient images, and each certainly had a story to tell…
He was forced to sell them, to make some money.
He was extremely short of cash and had an important payment which he had to meet; he could not allow even the smallest of debts he had everywhere to be noted.
There were people who could ruin him for a miserable cheque of 10,000 euros if he didn’t find a solution soon.
He picked up the phone and composed a number.
“Hello Signora, its Cavasso. I just received a visit from your husband.”
12
The DI was sprawled in his chair, trying inexpertly to work on his computer, when someone knocked on his door.
It was Pighi, the same crime laboratory technician who had collected the first evidence of the morning, carrying the mobile belonging to Ridolfi.
“As well as the victim’s prints we found the killer must have held it in his hands, or rather gloves. He was probably tempted by the thing, may have wanted to keep it, and then had second thoughts.”
In the safety of his office, with the tape recorder running and a little intrepidly, Veronesi started to check the calls registered on the phone.
Calls received: last 10
Calls made: last 20
The first was made to himself, to confirm the time of the tennis match that Saturday at 11 o’clock.
The DI sighed with regret.
Ridolfi was not one for appointments: he always arrived late, but this time he wouldn’t arrive at all…
He quickly glanced at the other numbers.
There was one which Ridolfi must have called many times and it was the last call.
He composed the number decisively.
An extremely sensual voice replied “It’s Suzy, your forbidden kitten. I’m away for the weekend. Talk to you Monday. A kiss and… a scratch!”
Ridolfi probably felt lonely at a certain time and not having found a companion for the night using his ever-declining seduction skills, he was forced to fend off solitude in the way that most came naturally to him….
In response to one of the other numbers (obviously reserved for only the most intimate of friends) Suzy, immediately recognising the call as coming from the Ridolfi, answered in person.
“Hi Mamo, last night I didn’t answer because I was .. ehm … busy with a…”
“It’s not Mamo. DI Gianni Veronesi speaking. Unfortunately I have to give you some bad news. Your friend Mauro Ridolfi is dead. He was killed last night.”
The voice at the other end took a while to reply, evident sign that the news had taken her by surprise.
“But..? What are you saying? Is this a joke, are you sure?”
“Unfortunately yes, and Ridolfi was an acquaintance of mine too. Who am I talking to please?”
“Susanna Chiari. Maybe you know who I am. I was the wife of the theatre director…”
“Oh, yes, now I remember you!” (she once had the best backside in Verona and probably still had).
An ex ballet dancer, a cube dancer in various nightclubs, she had appeared on TV in a popular variety show but, even though she was willing to do anything to advance her career, she was not successful. So, after participating in some hard porn shows in the city outskirts, she adapted and became the wife of an arts manager and theatre director.
Her husband, after nourishing the illusion that she was all his for a while, soon realised Susanna’s nature was not made for the life of a couple. He put up with her betrayals and excessive spending for a while and then decided to give up on her, and moved abroad to manage discotheques and direct musical videos in South America.
Suzy didn’t really care.
Exploiting her physical attributes and a natural predisposition for intrigue, together with her acquaintances she started to organise evenings, expensive birthday parties for lonely men, bachelor parties, and anything which involved beautiful, very willing women and very rich men.
The fact that she owned several mobile phones and the sort of message she recorded made him think that she very often worked as a high class escort.
“Excuse me Susanna, where are you now?” asked Veronesi.
“I’m in Lugano and I’m busy for the weekend, even if this news has thrown me into despair, believe me.”
Veronesi believed her, considering that Ridolfi was probably one of her best clients.
“By the way, can you tell me where your husband is?”
“Ex husband” she corrected him “we’ve been divorced for years now. As far as I know that pig is in South America! He called me last night to tell me he is going to Santo Domingo for a while. That shit is not coming home in case he owes me money for the alimony I am due and I have to work hard… I would come straight back to Verona, but I am busy with a very… important client. I have a business deal with a little Swiss gnome, if you get my meaning?”
“I understand, however, when you get back give me a ring, I’d like to ask you a few questions. If you can, can you contact your ex husband and get him to call me at headquarters? Always ask to speak to me”.
He would have his work cut out to check all the husbands of the women that Ridolfi had seduced.
He continued looking through the numbers scrolling on the mobile phone, and amongst those saved in the address book, and noticed with disappointment that as well as various, slightly equivocal, names such as Patty, Evelyn, Carol and others, there was also his wife’s name, connected to Laura, her best friend and work colleague.
All the numbers called that night belonged to women, apart from his own and one answered by Cavasso, the antiques dealer.
He shivered with disgust mixed with jealousy at the thought that the man, as greasy and as false as one of his paintings, was held in such consideration by his wife Giorgia, who attributed him great experience and inborn taste. His wife justified the fact that he had no money because of his passion for antiques which he could not resist buying. Often, often out of curiosity, fearing that some object which had caught his archaeological fancy could end up in the hands of any other competitor or colleague, Cavasso bought impetuously without having the necessary financial means.
Giorgia had made him buy the antique trunk in the style of Louis XIV which dominated his living room from him at a very good price. He paused.
He thought perhaps he should inform the magistrate in charge of the case that there was already a first suspect without an alibi, even if he did not believe that Cavasso was capable of committing murder.
He should also inform him of the web of acquaintances that involved both he and his wife, more than usual.
First of all he had to find out what that nosey parker Saturno had found out behind his back; he might have been instructed to report everything to someone higher up.
If the case was resolved quickly it would be the last link towards his promotion, they would not have been able to deny him it any longer.
&
nbsp; He was tired of being a DI.
He glanced at a photograph taken a few years before… at the time he had been a fine young man, without an ounce of fat on his body, his thick straight hair still jet black.
His eyes were still as dark as then, but his appearance was duller, his skin was wrinkled, the hair he had left was now silver and he no longer possessed the same determination.
Although he had not become more ugly or heavier, he had just suddenly got old, even if he kept fit by playing tennis and going to the gym.
He was approaching fifty and was at a crossroads: promotion or stay an officer forever.
He had always felt torn between the soul of a town policeman and that of a district chief with an American-style attitude.
He had to keep on believing that his life had not been practically a failure.
He looked at the photo of his only son who had said goodbye to his parents and moved to London, where he worked as a financial analyst.
He resembled Giorgia in everything, even in his character, she had brought him up that way and he had never interfered in his upbringing.
A lump of regret twisted in his throat.
He went back to work.
He concentrated on cross-checking Ridolfi’s mobile phone.
There was a call which the Ridolfi had replied to, by calling it back.
Veronesi pressed the redial button: “the person you have called could have their phone switched off or is not available, please call later…”
13
SUNDAY
The air was cool but the sun was already high in the sky over the lake and seemed to draw shiny swords amongst the small ripples in the water moved by the spring breeze.
Threatening clouds were gathering on the horizon again and moving south, a sign that winter had not yet relinquished its cold grip.
Lorenzo, who had slept almost all through the previous day, Saturday, left the hotel for a short stroll amongst the small coffee shops which peaked out of the green of the valleys.
He had brought Valeria there when she was expecting Giulio; their life seemed serene even though dissatisfaction and boredom transpired often on his wife’s face. Deep inside she hid her fear of not surviving childbirth, the anxiety of the mystery of labour tied to the pain she would have to go through, the fear of criticism in case she was not able to be a good mother, she did not feel ready…
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