Death in Tuscany

by Michele Giuttari

  'So what shall we do?'

  'Well, there's tomorrow. I know you have something to do but. . .'

  'Tomorrow?' he repeated, looking anxiously at Petra, who responded with an expression of resigned disappointment -the expression of someone who had been in this situation many times before.

  'I don't have any hearings, as it's Saturday, but I have to go to Perugia in the morning. I'll be back in the afternoon, though. How about three o'clock?'

  Worse still: the whole weekend would be ruined. But Ferrara realised that Anna was making an exception for him, and he couldn't refuse. Especially as it had something to do with the investigation into the dead girl, which he was taking increasingly to heart.

  'Okay, tomorrow at three,' he confirmed, with a guilty glance at his wife.

  Petra responded with a nod. A bitter nod.

  Midnight.

  Petra had silently unpacked, put the linen back in the drawers, the beach sandals in the shoe rack, the toiletries in the bathroom, and put away the swimming trunks, still in their cellophane package.

  She had said goodnight with a long, affectionate kiss and gone to bed. Ferrara could still feel the kiss on his lips as he paced from the terrace to the living room and back again, trying to work off the tension inside him.

  It was a starry night. The noises of passers-by drifted up from the street. From the Ponte Vecchio he heard a burst of laughter: innocent laughter, probably, but to him it seemed mocking.

  He took refuge in the living room.

  It was a spacious room, divided in two. On one side, the sofas, the armchairs, and a large desk where he often worked at night. On the other, a long, narrow eighteenth-century table, which could be used either as an additional work surface or a dining table when it was too cold to eat outside.

  On the walls, paintings of various kinds and provenance: German ones from Petra's family, others from his parents' house, and others they had collected during their long years together.

  There were also a number of small tables spread through the two areas, cluttered with framed photographs: one of Petra's passions. They were photos of the two of them, of relatives and friends, and of all sorts of occasions that had taken place over the years. For every photograph, Petra tried with a stubbornness and determination that was quite 'Teutonic' -as he chided her affectionately - to find the most suitable frame, one which reflected the spirit and period of the image. There were old black and white photos, and more recent ones in colour. Ferrara also now had an impressive file of electronic images, but from time to time he liked looking over these fragments of their shared history.

  As he did tonight.

  And his gaze finally came to rest on one of the photos of Petra as a child. She was about eight or nine, if he remembered correctly. A slight girl, wearing a calico dress that was too big for her, her thin legs peering out incongruously from beneath the skirt, and a pair of plaits that was in none of the other photos. It was a colour photo, the colours rather faded now, and Ferrara noticed, perhaps for the first time consciously, the little ring on one of the fingers of her right hand: an imitation gold ring, with a fake amethyst.

  6

  'Don't you ever go on holiday, Gatto?'

  It always amused Gianni Fuschi, the head of Forensics, to use that nickname for Ferrara. It had been given him years before by a woman journalist on Il Tirreno, who had become slightly infatuated with his catlike green-hazel eyes and his soft, cautious movements, like a cat ready to pounce. It had immediately been taken up by other newspapers, who never hesitated to use it to mock him, criticise him or just plain provoke him every time the opportunity presented itself. It even circulated among his men: not that they would ever have dared utter it in his presence, but they often used it among themselves, sometimes in a tone of unconditional admiration, sometimes in a teasing way, depending on how well an investigation had worked out, or on the chief's mood at the time.

  The only one of his men who never used it, as far as he knew, was Fanti.

  But that Saturday morning, Gianni Fuschi didn't seem at all amused when Ferrara visited his office, and greeted him warily.

  'What about you?' Ferrara retorted. 'You never take a holiday either.'

  'What can I do? You collect a whole lot of rubbish and dump it in my laboratory. Cans, cigarette ends, bottles of all kinds. Do you have any idea how long it takes to examine these things one by one for prints and traces of saliva? And for what? Rumour has it - and of course I always listen to rumour, it's generally reliable - rumour has it you don't even know for sure there's been a crime. Is that right?'

  'In a way, yes,' Ferrara admitted.

  'Tell me you're kidding or I'll never talk to you again.'

  'There's something strange about this case, Gianni. Something ugly, maybe even very ugly. You have to help me out.'

  'Something strange? And do you think that's enough? It's August the fourth, damn it. Don't I have a right to time off like everyone else? Are you trying to appeal to my better nature?'

  'You're right. So leave the rubbish, as you call it, and have a look at this for me.' He handed him the little bag.

  What the hell's this?'

  'The girl's personal effects. Concentrate particularly on the jeans and see if you find any traces of blood on the inside, especially near the crotch.'

  Fuschi made a face. 'Inside? Why, wasn't she wearing knickers?'

  'I haven't found any yet, and a nurse at the hospital told me that when she was brought in the insides of her thighs were bloodstained, so it's quite likely that the jeans absorbed some of it.'

  All right, but what good will it do you?' 'It's important, believe me. It'll help us to confirm or deny a theory that arose from the autopsy' Which is . . .?'

  'That she may have been raped. Especially if the histological tests show that she wasn't having her period at the time. And if we find blood on her jeans.'

  'May have been . . . if . . . if . . .' Fuschi observed sceptically.

  'What else can we do? You know that's the way we work: we theorise, we check things out, we change our minds on the basis of results. All that's necessary, along with a certain amount of intuition and a lot of patience, as well as the extremely valuable technical support we get from people like you. If all the maybes and the ifs are confirmed, my dear Gianni, we still might not be able to draw the conclusion that she was murdered as well as raped, but we'd be very close.'

  'In which case I'd still have to sort through the rubbish, except this time there'd be a reason for it. You see, I win!'

  'No, I win, because you'll carry on talking to me after all!'

  'Go on, go.'

  'Bye. Let me know what you find. Call me at home, call me on my mobile, it doesn't matter. This is urgent.' 'Bye!' Fuschi waved him off. 'For now,' Ferrara said.

  It was four minutes to three by the time he got to the Prosecutor's Department, and one minute to three when he knocked at the door of Anna Giulietti's office.

  'Come in, Chief Superintendent, please sit down,' she said, in the solemn tone she reserved for their work meetings.

  Although they had grown a lot less formal with each other since becoming friends, Anna had insisted that their personal relationship remain strictly confined to their meetings outside the office, on the grounds that they wouldn't be able to deal with each other in a professionally correct way if the friendship factor came into play. And it wasn't only a question of putting it on in front of third parties, it was a rule that had to be observed even when they were alone. Outside, they were friends. Inside, they were colleagues - or even enemies, if their respective roles required it.

  To Ferrara, this compromise solution had seemed a bit schizophrenic at first, and he had been sure it wouldn't last. But it had, and he was starting to get used to it - not that he always carried it off as well as she did - and to see that it really worked!

  'Good afternoon, Signora Giulietti,' he said, sitting down in front of the imposing narrow walnut desk with its gently rounded edges a
nd its elegant Z-shaped decorations. It was a fine Art Nouveau piece - designed by Van de Velde, she had told him proudly the first time he had complimented her on it - inherited from her grandfather, who had been a notary. She had brought it here from her home in an attempt to make her office a little less anonymous: an attempt echoed today by a colourful bunch of gladioli and lupins in a crystal vase on the windowsill.

  Are they from an admirer,' he asked, 'or was someone trying to bribe you?'

  'Don't joke about it. You know perfectly well I don't have a private life. They're from the florists below my apartment, and I paid good money for them.'

  There wasn't a trace of sadness in these words, but they were indicative of a solitude which would have been incomprehensible in a woman who was still youthful, beautiful and rich, and belonged to an old and illustrious Florentine family, if she herself had not told him how her profession was everything to her and gave her all the satisfaction she needed in life.

  'So, to business,' she continued.

  All right, Anna.'

  She glared at him because of his informality. 'I made a few discreet phone calls last night, and now I know everything.'

  'Lucky you. I find that the further I go the more I seem to be in the dark. How much can you tell me of what you know?'

  'Enough. But first I need to ask you some questions.' 'Go ahead.'

  'As you know, I've been asked to oversee the case of the young prostitute who died on August second at the Ospedale Nuovo. I've been told that you're very keen to see it through.'

  Ferrara merely nodded. Again the girl was being referred to as a prostitute.

  'Could you tell me how far you've got?'

  'To be blunt, Signora Giulietti, I still have a long way to go. She was a young girl, almost a child, and we have to take that into account.'

  A child? No one told me that. How old, exactly?'

  'No one knows, exactly. But between thirteen and fifteen, sixteen at the most.'

  Anna looked angry for a moment, although it wasn't clear who with.

  'We haven't yet managed to establish her identity,' Ferrara went on. 'That's why we're leaning towards the theory that she was an illegal immigrant. We still don't know if she was in fact a prostitute. The cause of death was almost certainly a heroin overdose, but we still don't know how she came to take it.'

  And is that why your report suggests homicide as a consequence of the administration of drugs, according to article 586 of the penal code?'

  'That's our preliminary suggestion, yes. I'll follow every possible lead, of course, but at the moment homicide seems the likeliest hypothesis. Both the pathologist and the head of Forensics are currently evaluating a number of elements which may indicate that the girl was raped before being killed . . .'

  'Raped? A prostitute? Well, it's possible of course, but I hope you're not letting your imagination run away with you,

  Chief Superintendent. However, I understand your - what shall we say? - your determination, if the poor girl really was as young as that, even if she does turn out to have been a non-Italian citizen. I understand it and I share it. Just as I appreciate the various initiatives you've already undertaken or intend to undertake, and I want you to know you can count on the total support of the Prosecutor's Department. What is not clear to us, however, is what the hospital has to with it.'

  That 'us' did not pass unnoticed.

  'What do you mean?' he asked.

  Anna Giulietti opened the green cardboard folder she had in front of her and took out Violante's request to see the girl's medical records.

  'This seems to be what's causing all the fuss. At least partly. As far as I understand it, we need to answer certain basic questions. Who was this girl, where does she come from, how did she end up where she ended up, and are any third parties directly or indirectly responsible for her death? Am I right?'

  'Yes, of course, but the medical records may contain useful information.'

  'On her progress while in hospital. But the crime happened before she got to hospital. By the time she was brought in, she'd already overdosed and was close to death, wasn't she? And she died of that overdose, you've confirmed that.'

  'True, but the results of the blood test that was done soon after she was admitted may tell us a lot of things—'

  'Isn't what Professor d'Incisa told you enough? Or can't you just ask him for those particular results?'

  'How do you know I saw him?' Ferrara asked, angrily. Now he knew where the description of the girl had come from (Professor d'Incisa had called her a 'whore' during the autopsy). D'Incisa had complained and the complaint had reached Prosecutor Gallo, Anna's boss. And Lepri had been talking to Gallo before his outburst to Giulietti. . .

  There was an amused look in Anna's bright blue eyes. 'I told you, Chief Superintendent, I've made my own inquiries. You, though, aren't telling me everything, are you?'

  'The inspector who was originally following the case had the impression the hospital neglected the patient,' he admitted, 'and my conversation with the consultant confirmed that impression.'

  'I thought as much. You're talking about malpractice, is that it? Do you think there are grounds for opening an inquiry?'

  'No,' he had to confess. As I said, these are just impressions. But perhaps if we can obtain the medical records and find out more about what led to the overdose, we may also discover—'

  Anna Giulietti sighed. 'We're talking about two different investigations, Chief Superintendent. Do you agree?' 'Yes.'

  'Of the two, the first is of no great interest to anyone, except for you and now me; the mere possibility of the second has already created a fuss.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'So you still have no idea why the Commissioner is getting so upset?'

  'Because I went to the Nuovo?'

  'Doesn't matter. But who's in the hospital?'

  'Professor d'Incisa?'

  'Yes, but not just him. Other consultants, professors, surgeons . . . Doctors, Ferrara.' 'So?'

  'Come on, don't play the innocent. Do I have to spell it out for you?'

  The puzzlement on Ferrara's face was eloquent enough.

  'Come on now! What world do you live in, Chief Superintendent? Freemasons! Don't tell me you don't know that in the medical profession, especially here in Florence, it's almost impossible to get anywhere in your career unless you're a member of some lodge or other, official or not!'

  It might have been an exaggeration, but there was a lot of truth in it. Everyone knew that many hospital doctors were Freemasons. And that the bonds of brotherhood between them were so strong that they would help each other in secret to protect the reputation of a Mason in trouble with the authorities.

  Anna Giulietti's observation moved the investigation into thorny territory. For good or ill, Freemasonry was a powerful institution, which had survived periodic persecutions and demonstrated a resilience and a tenacity capable of defying any government, since governments, by definition, were transitory. An ambiguous institution, but, as far as anyone knew, dangerous only when it deviated from the norm. Officially, it was a perfectly respectable organisation, which, over the course of its long history, had counted a large number of important figures from the political, military, artistic and cultural worlds among its members: Garibaldi, Washington, Lafayette, Beethoven, to name but a few.

  His mind was working fast. 'Do you mean Lepri . . .?'

  'Ferrara, are you still playing the innocent? I don't know if the Commissioner is a Mason or not, it doesn't really matter. All it takes is for those who count in medical circles to exert pressure, and for the pressure to get to Lepri, Gallo, whoever, whether they're part of the Brotherhood or not.'

  'And to you, too?'

  She smiled enigmatically. 'Does that matter?' she asked. As I see it, I'm doing you a favour. The message is clear: an investigation into what went on in the hospital isn't welcome. As we've established, you have two different investigations in progress. Digging in your heels over the s
econd may compromise the first. I have good reason to believe that, if I hold off on granting this request,' she said, pointing to Violante's document, 'you'll be able to continue your investigation into the girl's death without any problems.'

  Is there a female lodge? Ferrara wondered. He couldn't tell whether Anna Giulietti - the 'iron prosecutor' as she was known to her colleagues despite her blonde hair and blue eyes - was blackmailing him or helping him. If there was such a lodge, it was very likely, given her illustrious ancestry, that she belonged to it.

  'I see,' he murmured.

  'I hope so. But I haven't finished.'

  'Go on.'

  'If the first investigation reveals solid evidence - and I mean solid, I hope we're clear about that - that one or other of the doctors or nurses at the Ospedale Nuovo may have contributed to this patient's death, I expect you to do your duty. Then, and only then, I'll be quite happy to grant the request.'

  It was still early when Ferrara left the Prosecutor's Department and hurried back to his office.

  He was not at all disheartened by the line Anna Giulietti had chosen to follow. Freemasonry, inaccessible as it was, might well be a line of inquiry that was worth pursuing. He'd have to be extremely discreet, though, or he risked jeopardising his tacit pact with the deputy prosecutor. It was the kind of operation that required the offices of the incomparable Fanti, and he called him as soon as he got in.

  'What is it, chief?' Fanti said, even before he had entered Ferrara's office.

  'I need the membership lists of all the official Masonic lodges in Florence . . . and even the unofficial ones, if possible.'