Diego caught the first sign of true peace in her eyes since he had met her that cold December morning in the cemetery. Their type of relationship had been consumed tiredly, a prelude to imminent death, like the cure of the needle with which he injected the same morphine which had fought his pain in Bosnia.
“I really hope you go to a better world” he whispered to her, watching her take her final journey.
Then, completely calmly, he moved her body nearer to that of the DI and pulled the hands of the bodies close, placing the gun which had killed Gianni Veronesi in Valeria’s hand, so that it looked as if there had been a tight, rapid struggle between the two. He was careful to not interfere with the blood which had started to gurgle out of Valeria’s belly or that which flowed out of the wound inflicted on the DI.
Perhaps the crime squad would have reconstructed the scene better, perhaps someone would detect the presence of a third person, but whatever the immediate conclusion was on the murders of that week, the deduction that the investigators could reach was only one, involving the complicity between the two and the destruction of his enemy’s image, just as had happened to him.
Using his first two fingers he checked they were both dead.
That rite had become a constant habit; he never left a witness alive, ever!
He carefully removed his latex gloves and put them in his pocket, uncovering his disfigured fingers, flexing and massaging them. He gave one last glance at the macabre scene which would have provoked several questions in the minds of his ex colleagues, causing him to smile bitterly.
He took out a handkerchief and used it to open the window at the back, jumped down with practised agility and disappeared into the night.
His task was not over yet.
46
Several days had passed and spring had exploded into summer without warning.
Although there were a few perplexities, the investigation into the murders committed by a Samurai dressed up as Zorro went in one single direction, supported by a mountain of proof and coincidences.
The involvement of a civil servant in that tragic whirlpool of blood had hurried along the first conclusions. It was important to make sure that the interest of the people could quickly concentrate on something else and that there was no longer the shadow of a dangerous killer to disturb the long summer nights which were about to arrive.
The weapon which killed Valeria Anselmi and Susanna Chiari was incontestably the same one and had probably been used to kill Mauro Ridolfi as well.
An antique katana like the one found in the body of Giorgia Veronesi was used to kill the Barone couple. The probable relationship between Gianni Veronesi and Valeria, entangled in debt like the DI’s wife, had made the vendetta of the lover coincide with the hate of a man deluded by his married life, leading to the explosion of violence which had provoked that bloodbath, until it ended with the double simultaneous murder, perhaps in homage to a rule of the Japanese code of honour, which seemed to be at the basis of the whole affair.
Once everything seemed to have come to the least expected but most logical conclusion, Agent Domenico Saturno continued to nurture a few doubts, but he had graciously accepted both his promotion as well as the version which later became official.
Cesare Cavasso, on the contrary, heaved a deep sigh of relief without asking himself any questions, while trying at the same time to hasten the sale of antique objects in his shop.
47
Laura had returned to Verona the morning after Giorgia’s death.
That tragic Wednesday in Venice she had not been able to talk to her old antiques dealer friend as he had died in strange circumstances a few months ago. She therefore went that day to release her disappointment and pain at the roulette table. When she had heard the first account of what had happened she burst into inconsolable tears, closing herself silently in the pain of her guilt. In her heart she could not conceive such an ending, in which she also had shuffled the cards, becoming an active protagonist, but she was the last person in the world to talk to anyone about it.
The most incredible thing was that the key crime, on which the certain guilt of DI Veronesi was based and about which the investigators had no doubt whatsoever, was that of the ex dancer Susanna Chiari.
Laura, on the other hand, was certain of the contrary because she had actually killed Susanna Chiari, stage name Suzy, herself!
That Monday evening, while Giorgia was sleeping soundly thanks to the sleeping pill she had given her, Laura had taken the keys of her apartment from her handbag with the intention of taking the short sword she knew was kept in the antique chest. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but one way or another she had to end it with Susanna, taking advantage of the momentary shock she must be in after the deaths of Mauro and Patrizia. Laura knew her well enough to know that Suzy would soon bounce back.
Having obtained the weapon easily, she got into the car, pervaded by a strange dark frenzy, and headed to her house without warning.
When she reached the car park in front of the small building and had seen the DI leaving, something mechanical clicked within her brain. Using her copy of the key, assisted unawares by the cleaner they shared, it had been easy to enter silently.
She had immediately noticed, abandoned in a corner, the scarf Giorgia had given her husband for Christmas with which he had gone to visit the prostitute.
Despite the fact that she was completely at her mercy in that position, Susanna had greeted her with a confident and provoking laugh.
In that moment the two people who stood between her and Giorgia were offering themselves without defence, indissolubly tied by their guilt.
It would have taken the infallible Gianni Veronesi a long time to extract himself from the deep trouble she was thinking of throwing him into. The killer instinct had been growing inside her for a long time. Who knows how many times she had wanted to kill, only the fear of discovery had stopped her, until then.
The almost certainly that her action would pass unpunished hastened her decision, the hate and disgust she suddenly felt pushed her hands to act. Suzy’s neck, long and slender, snapped straight away like a dry branch, but she had wanted to try the pleasure of plunging that blade into her flesh. A moment of madness had come over her, in the egoistical defence of her desperate love.
She had been the one to call the Police, pretending to be Giorgia and asking about her husband, with the intent of keeping him there while she put the sword back from where she had taken it.
At the end however all of it had been useless.
Laura was now more alone than ever, persecuted by new nightmares which had started to torment her. The day after her friend’s funeral she asked for leave from the studio where she no longer felt she could work and decided to go back to Romagna for a while, taking her secrets with her.
48
Lorenzo placed a vase of peonies on the ground in front of his son’s grave and arranged it amongst the others he had brought previously. He looked at the photograph impressed in the marble; Giulio was wearing a carnival costume, Zorro, and he was smiling, in his right hand a plastic sword and in the left a black mask. It was the last photo they had taken of him, at the end of a weekend together, before taking him to a friend’s birthday party.
Valeria had been due to pick him up and take him home. He would have seen him again in two weeks time.
Tears started to run down Lorenzo’s face, he was kneeling, praying in his heart that it would all be over soon. The taste of vendetta had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Spring was already allowing summer to take its place, the peonies would soon have finished blooming and all the vases which covered his son’s grave would have coloured his resting place red, then the flowers would drop off and the wind would blow away the last remaining petals…
But for a few days the green grass would be replaced by the red, the red of the peonies which flower between May and June, a purple red which was already forming in Lorenzo’s eyes, making him re-live images of the scene
at the site of the accident he had raced to as soon as he heard the news. The image of the small lake of blood which surrounded Giulio’s broken body. He saw him for the last time like that. Valeria had forgotten to fasten his seat belt and when the car went off the road his small body had been lifted off the seat and thrown against the car window, which broke. His stomach had been ripped on the fragments and one of these, as sharp as a blade, had slit his femoral artery…
That was the way he too had chosen to die…
He heard footsteps on the cemetery gravel. They stopped behind him. A hand gave him a short samurai sword, unwrapping it from a white cloth, placing in his palm and whispering ”Are you ready? I have to go; other things have to be settled.”
Lorenzo nodded.
He grasped the weapon and admired it with a glance that suddenly became hard and determined.
For the last time he gazed at the picture of his son which became unfocussed as his eyes filled with tears. His chest filled with the last deep breath, then, still on his knees, with sudden decisiveness he plunged the blade into his stomach, pushing it in with all his strength. He gritted his teeth in a suffocated groan; the impact of the sword in his intestines was causing him indescribable pain. Then, with all his remaining strength, he pulled it upwards towards his breast bone, then to the right and left. His mouth opened in a terrible grimace, the blood started to gurgle out of him. All the images of his life appeared at once, on top of each other, on the backs of his eyes, in a sort of rapid photographic procession, while large tears ran down his face.
Before he could no longer hold back his screams he turned his head towards Diego, not to beg him for the final blow, but to challenge him and to confirm his valour. Diego looked at him with the eyes of death, with the cold determination of the final executioner.
His hand had already partly drawn out the katana hidden inside his raincoat, but Lorenzo stopped him with a gesture of his left hand.
He was showing the courage of living death to the finish, in the extreme effort of suicide, the last desperate act of love towards Giulio without whom his life had no meaning.
His body fell back, flooding his son’s grave with blood, anticipating the red of the peony blooms, the same flowers that often graced the kimonos worn by the ancient samurai warriors.
Diego had become a more imposing figure; he appeared to have taken on the appearance of a true keishaku, even if his intervention had not been needed this time.
He bowed his head slightly towards Lorenzo’s dying body, honouring it, then, with an almost religious gesture, he slid his daikatana back inside its sharkskin cover and caressed its grip. He owned others, all forged in Japan in the 16th century, but none like this one. What he was holding was a true, authentic, original Muramasa! At last it had returned to him and the price he had to pay cost him nothing: the cash he found in his victims’ pockets!
The silence of his steps walked with him away from the place that death had chosen to reside in. He had taken away life from whoever asked him to and from those who no longer had a right to live…
Some still had their lives, at least for the moment.
He glanced at the city stretched out over the horizon, above which, between the grey of the clearing sky and the green of the earth from which the vapours of humidity rose, flaming orange clouds began to spread out.
The beauty of the sunset after long and dark days of rain seemed to stun him for a moment, and he stopped to reflect.
In the same way that he had not needed Diego to help him commit suicide, Lorenzo could have easily killed Ridolfi without his help. He had already established the perfect alibi and, as well as the gun, he had a long kitchen knife hidden in his jacket, therefore…
The antiques dealer, who from the window of his local bar had spotted the Barones on their way home under the rain after their evening at the cinema, had also suddenly had a strange and diabolical idea of how to clear his debts.
He had thought about taking advantage of the confusion, pretending to fall ill, sneak out unseen, putting on a pair of the latex gloves he used when restoring furniture and ..
And DI Veronesi? As soon as he closed his front door behind him he had hesitated about going back in and asking his wife further explanations about those strange stains on his sword. He had suddenly realised the truth about the way he had been set up and had suddenly been filled with a murderous rage which exploded inside him.
And finally Valeria.
She seemed to be weak, the unknowing victim of her unlucky destiny, but she had accumulated so much hate and disgust that she had found the strength to involve all those she met in her wish for death.
Who knows?
Diego stroked his Muramasa again.
Perhaps the demon that lived inside knew the truth.
Maybe?
It was a real puzzle… best left to the devil himself.
Pushed by the wind the clouds had started to dance in front of the sun, changing colour, transforming into red tongues of fire which seemed to wrap themselves around Diego’s body, flooding it in a warm light like that of primordial African sunsets.
He withdrew even deeper inside himself, gripping his swords tightly and continued his journey, offering himself like a sacrifice into the horizon of the dying sun which seemed to swallow him up, little by little, while the sound of a long, never-ending, terrifying laugh started to surround him, continuing to echo in the air until it slowly dies in the approaching night darkness.
Between the 15th and the 16th century in Japan the word ninja was given to a warrior expert in the techniques of moving amongst the enemy without being identified.
Muramasa are magnificent Japanese swords which owe their name to an ancient forger who lived in the same period, a craftsman who went mad and whose works where surrounded by a cloud of mystery and curses.
When he forged his swords it is said that he put spells on them, evoking Fudomyo, an evil and ruthless demon.
It is said that the Muramasa had a negative influence on the samurai who handled them, forcing them to fight and kill for the rest of their days.
My first thanks go to the city of Verona where I am often a willing guest, a place I have chosen as the permanent residence for my vagabond spirit.
To my faithful friend Xandier, careful scrutinizer of my
first notes.
To the irreplaceable Marnie, without whose favour I would not have finished what I started writing.
To the wise and always pleasant Armeud, whose conversations around the table encouraged me to continue.
To the ever more indispensable Xabrienne, severe critic
of drafts.
And finally, to the reader who purchased this book, with the request not to give it to others, after reading it…
This eBook is published by
Grosvenor House Publishing Ltd
28-30 High Street, Guildford, Surrey, GU1 3EL.
www.grosvenorhousepublishing.co.uk
All rights reserved
Copyright © Vincent W Mallory, 2006
www.vincentwmallory.com
The right of Vincent W Mallory to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The book cover image is copyright to Vincent W Mallory
ISBN 978-1-78148-440-1 in electronic format
ISBN 1-905529-71-6 in printed format
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
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