Death in Tuscany

by Michele Giuttari

  The commanding officer came towards him and held out his hand as soon as Ferrara entered his office. 'Marshal Belsito.'

  Of medium height and solid build, he was probably closer to sixty than fifty The most salient feature of his deeply lined face was his thick grey moustache, drooping at the ends: the classic image of the provincial marshal.

  'Pleased to meet you,' Ferrara replied. There was no need to introduce himself as the sentry had already announced him.

  And this is the captain,' Belsito said, introducing a young man who had risen from an armchair and approached them. He was about thirty, and so tall that he towered over both of them. He had a severe blond crew cut and, with his athletic physique, looked naturally elegant in his impeccable uniform.

  'I'm Captain Renato Fulvi, and for some months now I've been commander of the detectives' unit in the Lucca provincial command.'

  He had a northern accent, perhaps Piedmontese.

  'Pleased to meet you. Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Florence Squadra Mobile.'

  'Please take a seat, Chief Superintendent,' Marshal Belsito said, indicating one of the two visitors' armchairs in front of the desk.

  Ferrara sat down, and so did the two carabinieri: the marshal in the other armchair and the captain behind the desk, where the marshal should have been sitting. It was a strategic arrangement, surely deliberate, which he didn't like. It seemed to be intended to make him feel like an ordinary citizen who had been summoned by them to be interrogated.

  As if to confirm this, the captain, without any preamble, not even the polite formulas expected in a meeting between colleagues, went straight to the point and asked his first question. It was as if he wanted to make it clear that in these circumstances matters of rank were unimportant. And Ferrara did not know if he should be irritated or even more worried about Massimo's position.

  'The marshal tells me Signor Massimo Verga is an acquaintance of yours, Chief Superintendent. Or should we say ... a friend?'

  'He's a very good friend of mine,' Ferrara replied, dryly. 'That's why I'm here, isn't it?'

  'I thought you were here to find out what happened in the villa where your friend was staying?' the captain said, giving the marshal what seemed to Ferrara a vaguely smug look. Ferrara was feeling increasingly irritated.

  'That, too, now that you've told me he was staying there,' Ferrara said. 'I didn't know before.'

  'But you're a police officer,' Captain Fulvi replied in an unbearably pedantic tone. If it bothered him that he had given away a piece of information, however trivial, which Ferrara had not known, he did not show it. And you should know that we're dealing with the case, not the police.'

  This was debatable: for certain types of crime, Marina di Pietrasanta was within Ferrara's jurisdiction. But he preferred to let that go. He decided instead to try a friendlier approach.

  'Of course I know that, Captain. I have plenty to do in Florence, believe me, I have no intention of meddling in this case . . . But, as I said, Massimo Verga—'

  '—is a friend of yours, we understand that. But for us he's a citizen like any other and will stay that way until our investigation is complete.' It was clear from the captain's tone that, as far as he was concerned, Ferrara had adopted completely the wrong tactic. 'You know perfectly well that while it's in progress, there are no friends, or friends of friends.'

  The assertion was so blunt and, since it was uttered in the presence of another member of the Carabinieri, so serious that Ferrara was surprised he managed to control himself. If he hadn't, he could happily have hit this arrogant young man whose only training had probably been in some safe barracks in the north where he'd been stuffed full of theory. Perhaps it was only the sense that this was part of his strange nightmare which held him back. He simply stared in astonishment at the two men.

  Why had his relations with the Carabinieri always been stormy? He thought he had left behind him for good those long-gone times when he had taken his first steps as a detective.

  The episode was fresh in his mind.

  It was in Catanzaro. His chief had given him the job of delivering an arrest warrant. 'Go after eight in the evening,' he had said. 'The man's on probation and is supposed to be at home by then.' The man was a well-known Mafia boss, and Ferrara had gone to his home, trembling somewhat but determined to carry out this important mission - one of his first — to the best of his ability. He had knocked at the door and the small, unassuming woman who opened it had said that her husband wasn't there.

  'That's not possible, signora. You husband is on probation and has to be at home at this hour!'

  'He's gone to the Carabinieri with his lawyer, signore,' the woman had replied.

  So Ferrara had gone straight to the Carabinieri.

  The sentry had tried to stop him going in, saying that the marshal was busy and could not be disturbed, but he had simply ignored him. The marshal had not been well pleased by the intrusion. He had two men in his office, both smartly dressed in dark pinstriped suits, so that Ferrara had not been able to tell at first which one of them was the man he had come to arrest.

  He had ignored the marshal, walked up to the two men and, recognising one of them as the Mafia boss, addressed him directly.

  'You have to come with me. I have a warrant here for your arrest.'

  'I knew this was coming,' the man had replied confidently, 'but I can't go with you. The reason I came here with my lawyer was to present a medical certificate.'

  'I find you here, instead of at home in your bed,' Ferrara had retorted, in a similarly confident and determined tone. 'If you're fit enough to come here, you're fit enough to come with me.'

  'I've just had an operation. I'm full of stitches. There's no way I'm getting in a car. If anything happens to me the responsibility will be yours.' The Mafioso's gaze had turned threatening.

  'I'm perfectly happy to take that responsibility. Now come with me.'

  At that point the marshal, who was still on his feet behind the desk and had remained silent until now, had objected. 'Really, I—'

  But Ferrara had not let him finish his sentence. 'We're wasting time here.' He had turned to the officer who had come with him. 'Sergeant, the handcuffs.' The sergeant had gone up to the Mafioso, taken him by the arm and led him away.

  The Carabinieri had kicked up a major fuss over this incident. A Mafia boss had been arrested right inside their building - not by them, but by the police. The head of the Reggio Calabria Squadra Mobile had had the unenviable task of smoothing things over. He had persuaded Ferrara to agree to the marshal countersigning the report.

  'Only because you ask me and you're my boss,' Ferrara had said. 'If it was up to me, I wouldn't let him sign. But I just follow orders.'

  'Could you tell us what kind of man your friend is?'

  The captain's voice seemed to reach him from a long way away, jolting him out of the memories which had suddenly crowded into his mind.

  'Tell me something, Captain,' he replied, incredulous. 'Is this an interrogation?'

  He had conducted many interrogations, but had never been interrogated himself. Was this, too, part of the nightmare?

  'This is strictly off the record, Chief Superintendent. For the moment all we need is a little background information. And you did come here of your own free will. Unless . . .'

  'Unless what?' Ferrara asked, seeing that the captain was taking his time finishing the sentence.

  'Unless the deputy prosecutor who's coordinating the investigation subsequently decides it's necessary to take a formal statement from you. But if that's the case, we'll inform you in due course.'

  We'll inform you in due course! Not 'We'll let you know' or something similar. The words could not have been more official, and Ferrara felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.

  He knew the law. He knew that if the deputy prosecutor decided to request a formal statement, he would receive a written summons to appear, and he would have at least three days to comply, as laid dow
n in the rules of criminal procedure.

  'I have no problem making a statement, Captain. I came here voluntarily to talk to you about Massimo Verga in the hope that it would help the investigation, perhaps speed things up. I didn't want you to waste valuable time on false leads. And I remind you that, as a detective and as head of the Florence Squadra Mobile, which, as I'm sure you know, has jurisdiction here for some crimes—'

  'Of course we know, Chief Superintendent,' Captain Fulvi cut in, clearly galled by Ferrara's implicit criticism of the slowness of the investigation. 'But in this case the investigation is totally within the jurisdiction of the Carabinieri, as authorised by Deputy Prosecutor Lupo of the Prosecutor's Department in Lucca. We're grateful to you, thank you, but we don't need help from Florence. We can call on our special operations divisions for reinforcements, if necessary'

  Ferrara recognised the name of the deputy prosecutor as someone he knew, and that reassured him a little, but he preferred not to show it. He adopted a more docile tone, realising that the important thing was to try and get out of here as soon as possible, away from a' situation which was becoming increasingly absurd.

  'Captain, tell me what you want to know,' he said with feigned resignation. 'I'm at your disposal.'

  All right, Chief Superintendent. I'll repeat the question: what kind of man is your friend Massimo Verga?'

  Meanwhile, the marshal had taken a few sheets of white paper and a pen from a drawer, ready to take down Ferrara's answers. Even if this wasn't a real interrogation, the statement would end up as an entry in police records, signed by the two Carabinieri, and would be passed on to the deputy prosecutor in charge of the investigation.

  'To me, and to the many people who know him, he's a highly regarded person, and a very hard worker. For some years he's been the owner of a thriving bookshop in the historical centre of Florence, which numbers some of the most distinguished people in the city among its customers. Massimo Verga himself is a highly cultured man. He's never been in trouble with the law, apart from one juvenile episode of no importance, as I'm sure the marshal will already have ascertained. If he hasn't done so, I can provide all the paperwork.'

  'Do you think he may have had any questionable associates?' the captain asked, ignoring this barb.

  Did Fulvi include him in that description? Ferrara wondered, with bitter amusement.

  'I don't know of any questionable associates. If I'd suspected he had any, I wouldn't have kept him as a friend, as I'm sure you can imagine.'

  The captain nodded, and Ferrara had the feeling he had realised what an inappropriate question that was to ask a policeman, let alone the head of the Squadra Mobile.

  Renato Fulvi was silent, as if pondering his next question. Then he exchanged a quick glance with Marshal Belsito, and it was the marshal who asked the next question.

  'Chief Superintendent, do you think your friend and Signora Simonetta Palladiani were romantically involved?'

  Now we're getting to it, Ferrara thought.

  'No,' he said, 'but it wouldn't surprise me if they were lovers, as you told me on the phone.'

  The glance of disapproval the captain gave the marshal did not escape him. They were equal now, as far as giving away information went.

  'You see,' he continued, 'Massimo Verga has never married, and has had lots of affairs. He has a weakness for women, as do many Italian men, but I don't think that counts as a crime and none of his girlfriends have been . . . questionable.'

  'But adultery can get people into trouble,' the captain said. 'Signora Palladiani was a married woman.'

  'Not really, according to today's edition of Il Tirreno. She and her husband were separated, I think it said.'

  The captain looked at him with what at last seemed to be sympathy.

  'Don't you think you're clutching at straws, Chief Superintendent?' the marshal said. 'They had never divorced. We're not exactly sure what kind of relationship they had. We'll find out, but for the moment what we know is that the three of them were there that night in Signora Palladiani's villa in the Via Roma—' (two-one to the marshal, Ferrara thought: another piece of information he hadn't known before) '—the husband, the wife and the wife's lover. Now one of them is dead, and the other two are missing.'

  In his place, Ferrara thought, he might have come to the same inescapable conclusion.

  'It isn't possible, Marshal. Massimo Verga isn't a criminal and would never ever ..."

  What?'

  'Massimo Verga wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly . . . believe me.'

  'Do you have any idea where he might have gone?' the captain asked, seemingly determined to continue with what was turning out to be a genuine interrogation. 'Do you know of any contacts he has, either in Tuscany or elsewhere, who might be sheltering him?'

  'I have no idea . . . Massimo is not the kind of person to have secrets. The fact that he's missing worries me a lot. If you can't find him, it must mean something serious has happened to him. Do you understand, Captain? Something that's stopping him from getting in touch with anyone ..."

  There was such distress in his voice that the captain paused for a long time before continuing.

  'Last night, a patrol went to his apartment in Florence, but there was no one there.'

  'He lives alone, Captain

  'Does he have any relatives in Florence?'

  'No. His only relatives are in Catania, which is where he was born.'

  'We've already contacted our Sicilian colleagues,' the captain said.

  'Let me ask you something. Do you really think Ugo Palladiani was murdered?'

  There was another, longer pause. 'We're certain of it.'

  Ferrara felt his strength fail him. 'Why?'

  Fulvi thought about it, then replied, articulating his words clearly, 'Chief Superintendent, I don't think you've quite understood. We're the ones asking the questions!'

  This was the last straw. All the frustration Ferrara had been feeling during this ridiculous conversation boiled over. 'No, Captain, you're the one who hasn't quite understood,' he began, his voice gradually becoming louder as he went on, although he had no idea where this outburst would lead. 'First of all, you seem to have forgotten that I'm not some street vendor you can push around, not some pickpocket on the beach, not some rowdy drunk. I'm the head of the Florence Squadra Mobile and I won't tolerate an officer of the law getting a kick out of throwing his weight around. There's a man out there who may be in grave danger. If he isn't already dead, seeing how much time you've wasted so far!'

  The captain had turned purple. 'I won't stand for this, Chief Superintendent!' he retorted.

  'This conversation is over. Don't think I'll hesitate to complain to the Director of Public Prosecutions, if necessary.'

  'That'll make two of us, then.'

  'Let the best man win!'

  'Go all the way along the Via Roma and stop when you see the Carabinieri,' Ferrara said to the driver. He was still furious.

  The villa was not hard to spot. The Carabinieri were guarding it, as he had expected. But there was no point stopping.

  Above the high perimeter wall rose a canvas barrier stretched over steel scaffolding, which completely blocked the view. He decided he would have to come back.

  11

  Despite flashing his light and sounding the siren, it took Ferrara more than an hour and a half to get back to Headquarters. On the way, he received two phone calls. One was from Petra, whom he told everything. The other was from Rita Senesi, and he told her he hadn't heard from Massimo either, but he was looking into it and she shouldn't worry. As a piece of advice it was as stupid as it was pointless, but he did not yet feel like filling her in on what had happened, communicating his own anxiety to her, when she was already anxious enough.

  He himself had called Fanti, but he wasn't in. He had then asked the switchboard operator to get him the phone number of Il Tirreno. He spoke first to the local news editor, without much success, then to the chief editor, who confirmed that OP did inde
ed stand for Claudia Pizzi. But she was out on a job that day. He finally managed to obtain her mobile and home numbers. She lived in Carrara. The mobile seemed to be switched off, and when he tried her home number all he got was an answering machine. He left a message, asking her to call him back.

  He was still beside himself when they finally got to Headquarters. He hurried along the corridors like a cyclone, screaming 'Fanti!' before he had even crossed the threshold of his office.

  No reply from the sergeant.

  'Fanti!' he repeated, entering the office and walking to his desk. 'Where the hell is he hiding himself?'

  It was clear that the sergeant wasn't in his office. What Ferrara found instead was a note telling him that he would be away all morning checking various things - It's almost three in the afternoon! he thought - and that Dr Francesco Leone had called twice.

  'Of course!' he said to himself in a low voice. 'Operation Stella.' He had forgotten all about the dead girl. But he called Leone, perhaps in the secret hope that he had discovered something which would miraculously solve the case, leaving him free to devote himself to his missing friend.

  'Thanks for the report, Doctor. It's been very useful.'

  'Don't mention it. And I have something else to tell you about the girl.'

  'Stella,' Ferrara said.

  Ah, was that her name?'

  At that moment, Fanti returned, waved to him in greeting, and went into his room to switch on the computer.

  'No. I don't know. That's what we decided to call her.'

  'Good for you! Well, Stella wasn't an addict, that's definite.'

  'How do you know?'

  'From the analysis of the hair and the toxicology tests, which we've just finished. In habitual drug users the drug leaves a deposit on the hair; hers was as pure as an angel's. Same thing when we tested the bile and liver samples, neither of which showed any trace of addiction. She was clean, Chief Superintendent. But the bile and liver did show the presence, although in minimal traces, of benzoylecgonine, the metabolite of cocaine - which indicates that at about the same time she consumed opiates, the girl . . . what did you call her?' 'Stella.'