Death in Tuscany

by Michele Giuttari

  'Who are you then?'

  He did not reply immediately. Was it better to identify himself, or pretend to be someone else? He could say he was an estate agent interested in Simonetta Palladiani's villa, or a holidaymaker looking for a housekeeper, or else . . .

  The man did not leave him time to decide. 'Who are you? Are you still there?'

  'Yes, I'm still here.'

  'What do you want? Leave us alone.'

  ‘I’m a police officer,' he said quickly before the man could continue.

  'What do you want?'

  'I need to talk to Signora Grazia Barberi.'

  'My wife spent two whole days with the Carabinieri . . . What do you want now?'

  'Perhaps you could open the door, and then I'll explain.'

  Wait. . . I'll come down.'

  Ferrara was afraid the man would take the time to phone the Carabinieri and find out who this visitor was, but he soon heard the click of the lock and the door opened.

  'Signor Barberi?'

  'Yes,' he said. He was an elderly man, short and slight, with white hair and a thin moustache, also completely white. Tm Chief Superintendent Ferrara.'

  The man looked him up and down. 'I've read about you in the papers,' he said at last, almost disappointed. 'I imagined you differently'

  'In what way?'

  'Bigger . . . taller ..."

  It wasn't the first time he had heard this. It was as if his media fame had made people think he was larger than he really was.

  'Please come in,' the man said.

  They climbed to the first floor.

  Grazia Barberi was waiting at the door of the apartment. She was shorter, stockier and younger than her husband. Ferrara introduced himself.

  'I was just making some coffee. Would you like a cup?'

  'Yes, please.'

  They sat down around the Formica table in the kitchen, which was modest but pleasant and very tidy. The wide-open French window looked out onto a small balcony full of flowers and aromatic herbs and let in just enough air to cool the room.

  Grazia lit the stove beneath the Neapolitan coffee maker.

  'It's an honour for us to have you in our home, Chief Superintendent,' the husband said. 'To what do we owe this visit?'

  'As I'm sure you've guessed, it's because of what happened in Simonetta Palladiani's villa.'

  A terrible thing . . . We've been living here for more than twenty years and nothing like this has ever happened before. This is a quiet place, a holiday destination . . . People come here to enjoy themselves.'

  'That's why we'd like to clear this up.'

  And you've come all the way from Florence,' the man commented, not knowing whether to feel flattered or surprised. 'But my wife already told the Carabinieri everything. Aren't they good at their jobs?'

  'Oh, no, they're very good. It's just that—'

  'Have your coffee,' Grazia Barberi interrupted, saving him from embarrassment. She handed him the sugar bowl and a steaming cup. She gave one to her husband, too, and sat down at the table with her own.

  'Well, if you're taking an interest,' the man said, 'the case is sure to be solved soon. I know you're better than—'

  His wife silenced him with a nasty look.

  'Signora Barberi, I realise you've already been interviewed by the Carabinieri . . .'

  'Two days running, endlessly going over the same things. I told them everything I could, didn't they say? Maybe not, or you wouldn't be here.'

  'I prefer to hear it from you, signora. Perhaps now, talking to me, you . . .'

  'Yes,' the woman said, looking closely at him.

  'Are you willing to help? You'd be doing me a great favour.'

  For a few seconds more, Grazia Barberi kept her eyes fixed on his. Then, as if satisfied with what she saw, she said, 'If I can.'

  'Thank you. Would you mind if I took a few notes?'

  'Not at all. It's your job.'

  'Good

  Grazia Barberi began her story with Ugo Palladiani's arrival at the villa halfway through Saturday morning. She had only seen him a few times before in the five years she'd been working for Simonetta.

  'He arrived unexpectedly. She wasn't pleased.'

  'Why? What did they say to each other?'

  'They immediately started quarrelling. I didn't catch more than a few words, because at that moment I went into another room ... I heard them shouting. Simonetta was having a go at him for arriving like that without telling her first.'

  And what did he say?'

  'He started shouting, too

  'Did you hear what he was saying?'

  'Not much . . . just a few words.'

  'What were they?'

  "I’m staying here tonight, I'm at the end of my tether . . . Go ahead and have a good time with your latest boyfriend, do whatever the hell you like, but I'm sleeping here, then tomorrow I'll piss off . . ." Something like that, I'm sorry but that's the way they speak. That was the gist of it.'

  'Does the signora have many lovers?'

  'No . . . well . . . not all at the same time. I mean, what can I say? She's had a few men in the past few years, yes . . . but

  it's normal, I think. A beautiful woman like that. She was practically separated from her husband, you know. They hadn't lived together for years.'

  'I understand. What happened then?'

  'Nothing. She slammed the door and went out, and he put his bags in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs.'

  'You say she went out? Did she leave the house?'

  'In a way . . .' she said, somewhat reticently.

  'Would you mind being a little clearer?'

  'Well... I told the Carabinieri this, but not the journalists. You know ... I didn't want them to think

  'I don't understand, signora.'

  'She went to the guest flat, behind the house, next to the garage, which was rented all summer to a man.' 'Her lover?' 'Do I have to say . . .?'

  'Yes, signora, if you want to help them. You were right not to tell the journalists, but you have to tell me. The man's name is Massimo Verga, isn't it?'

  'How do you know that?'

  'Because he's a friend of mine,' he said, looking her straight in the eyes as she had looked into his. A very dear friend of mine.'

  The revelation had a strange effect on Grazia Barberi. She seemed almost relieved, as if something she had previously only sensed had suddenly become clear. 'So that's why you're interested. The Carabinieri don't even know . . .'

  'That's right. And I have to ask you a great favour.'

  The husband looked puzzled. He didn't quite understand what was happening.

  'Go on.'

  'If possible, I'd prefer it if they didn't find out I was here.' Husband and wife looked at each other in silence.

  'All right,' she said finally. 'If they don't ask us, we won't tell them.'

  Ferrara heaved a sigh of relief. He liked this woman, who seemed to go straight to the heart of things. 'Thank you. Can we go on?'

  'That's all I know about that day. On Saturdays, I finish at one, so I left.'

  She had returned to the villa on Monday at about nine in the morning. She had found the door locked as normal. She had opened it and gone in. Everything was dark inside, and she had assumed that the signora was still asleep.

  She had opened the windows in the hall and had gone into the kitchen, which she had found more or less as tidy as she had left it. As she usually did, she had made coffee and taken it up to the signora in her room, intending to wake her up. But the signora wasn't there; the bed was made and the room was tidy.

  Not knowing what to do at first, she had finally made up her mind to go and see if Ugo Palladiani was still there - she had noticed his car when she arrived, and when someone was in the state he had been in, you never knew. If he was awake, she would give him the coffee she had made for Simonetta.

  The bedroom was in the other wing of the house. The door was open and the light was on. She had gone in. The room was in a mess, more
even than you'd see in a bachelor flat, but Simonetta's husband wasn't there.

  That was when she had started to be afraid. The house was too big, too empty and silent: something strange was going on. She had thought of calling her husband, but had decided against it. He would only make fun of her.

  Summoning up all her courage, she had gone as far as the main staircase which led to the living room on the ground floor, switching on the lights as she advanced. From the top of the stairs, she had turned on the big chandelier. That was when she had seen Ugo Palladiani, lying on the floor in an unnatural position, his face purple, his eyes wide open and glassy. She had fainted.

  'When I came to, he was still there,' Grazia went on, 'and I realised it wasn't just a bad dream.'

  'What did he look like? Were there any bloodstains? Anything that suggested that something violent had happened, that he'd been attacked?'

  She closed her eyes as if she wanted to blot out the memory. 'I don't know . . . All I remember is the eyes ..."

  All right. What did you do when you got over that first shock?'

  'I cried for help . . . but no one came. I was scared.'

  'No one heard you? A neighbour, a passer-by?'

  'You don't know the place! The villa's so large ..."

  'I understand,' Ferrara said. At that hour and with all the traffic, he thought, it would have been difficult for cries from inside the villa to filter beyond the garden and the perimeter wall. But if Simonetta and Massimo had been in the guest flat, they should have heard her. He did not say that. 'And then?'

  That was when she had phoned her husband, who was retired and was at home at the time, and told him to call the Carabinieri and then come over to the villa immediately. By the time he arrived, the Carabinieri were already there.

  'Did they check the guest apartment?' he asked.

  'Yes, of course,' the husband replied.

  And Signora Simonetta and Massimo Verga weren't there?'

  'No, they weren't anywhere,' she said, disconsolately.

  'You told me you've been working for the signora for five years, is that right?'

  'Yes, ever since she moved to Marina di Pietrasanta . . .

  That was in 1996. I remember that because it was the year our daughter graduated.' 'So you know her well.'

  'I don't want to boast, but she really trusts me. She treats me like one of the family. But I suppose what you're trying to ask is if I think she's capable of killing someone?'

  Ferrara had to admire her again. The woman was intelligent.

  'Grazia,' her husband said, 'the superintendent has to do his job.'

  'Of course . . . everyone's doing their job. But I can assure you, Superintendent, Signora Simonetta wouldn't hurt a fly. She's too good!'

  'How do you account for the fact she's missing?'

  'I don't know what to say. I'm sure she didn't kill Signor Ugo and then run away. That's what the Carabinieri think. They questioned me about that for hours and hours.'

  'Does Signora Simonetta have any business interests in the area?' He looked at both of them as he asked the question, as if to make it clear that he was expecting an answer from both.

  It was the husband who replied.

  Ferrara already knew part of the answer. Simonetta Palladiani was interested in art and owned a gallery in Forte dei Marmi, where she often, especially in summer, organised exhibitions of paintings and sculptures by a mixture of local artists and those from further afield. Grazia's husband also told him that Simonetta's parents, who had died some years earlier, had held the lease on a number of marble quarries and that the lease had passed to her, but she had never been directly involved with the business.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, they were practically abandoned. I don't think they produced anything.'

  *

  It was almost two by the time he got back to the hotel.

  He found Petra in a little room next to the foyer, in front of the TV, and he felt a pang in his heart. Petra hated television, and now here she was, spending hours watching shows that did not interest her in the least, as if she was trying to send herself into a state of oblivion, or as if she was expecting some news which would free her from the nightmare into which they had both been plunged.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,' he said, and from his tone of voice she knew that there was nothing new to report.

  The local TV news was just coming on, and Ferrara sat down next to Petra to watch it.

  The summary began with the local political news. But then the next item was a report on a brilliant operation by the Florence Squadra Mobile, which described in great detail the various phases of the capture of two Albanians and an Italian, who had been found in possession of ten kilos of heroin, hidden inside the spare tyre of the car belonging to the Italian, one Emilio Zancarotti.

  'The operation,' the newsreader said, over images of Ciuffi holding up the ten bags they had seized, 'was carried out by the Narcotics Division under the command of the head of the Squadra Mobile, Michele Ferrara, and is believed to be among the largest seizures of heroin recorded in Tuscany in the past few years. Florence Police Commissioner Riccardo Lepri has been congratulated by the Minister of the Interior and the Head of the State Police and has himself congratulated Superintendent Francesco Rizzo, deputising for Michele Ferrara who is currently on holiday'

  Ferrara smiled bitterly. Obviously Lepri wasn't going to congratulate him personally. But he hoped that at least the Commissioner would ask the minister to award a commendation to Luigi Ciuffi, and perhaps to Rizzo, too. He probably would - that way he could clear the way for Rizzo becoming Ferrara's successor!

  Deep down, he wouldn't mind. Rizzo deserved it, and besides, perhaps the time had come for Ferrara to take early retirement and enjoy life with Petra. There were so many places around the world he'd always dreamed of visiting . . .

  Not before finding Massimo, though.

  They were about to get up and go to the hotel restaurant for lunch, even though neither of them was hungry, when the head receptionist came up to them.

  'Telephone, Chief Superintendent. They're asking for you.'

  'Do you know who?'

  'Brizzi, Pizzi... I didn't quite catch it.'

  At last! he thought.

  'Hello?'

  'Is that Chief Superintendent Ferrara?'

  But it wasn't the young, self-confident voice he knew.

  It was a man's voice.

  15

  Claudia's father, Amilcare Pizzi, had tried to reach her several times by phone. Worried, he had finally made up his mind to go and see her in the small apartment in Carrara where she lived alone. He had a set of keys in case of emergency. He had rung the bell several times, but receiving no reply, had gone in. Everything in the place was neat and tidy, but Claudia wasn't there. He had walked around for a while without knowing what to do until he had noticed a red light flashing on the ancient answering machine. There must be some recorded messages.

  He wasn't sure at first if he should listen to them. He had no wish to spy on his daughter's private life. But then he had convinced himself that this was an emergency. There were several messages: from her boyfriend, from a girl friend, from colleagues at the paper, from her editor who was waiting for her, and one which had particularly struck him and increased his anxiety - from Chief Superintendent Ferrara.

  That was why he was calling him now.

  'Do you know where she is, Chief Superintendent?'

  'No, I'm looking for her, too.'

  'Is she in any trouble?'

  'Not as far as I know. We were supposed to meet last night in Marina di Pietrasanta to discuss an article she told me she'd written.'

  'And she didn't show up?'

  'No . . .'

  And she didn't even let you know?' 'No, that's why I called her.' There was a pause.

  'It's not like her. Just as it's not like her to vanish without telling me ... I'm afraid ..."

  Ferrara was starting to be afraid, to
o. 'Try not to worry . . . Listen, are you still at your daughter's apartment?'

  'Yes, I'm calling on her phone.'

  'Can you wait for me?'

  'If you like.'

  'Just stay calm, and I'll be there as soon as possible. Give me the address.'

  He hung up, threw his wife a kiss, and left the hotel. Petra went back to the television room.

  He pushed the Mercedes to the limit on the autostrada between the coast and Carrara. The car responded as efficiently as ever, but to him each mile seemed endless and he hooted his horn loudly trying to get into the fast lane. Big cranes sped past on his right, moving the huge square blocks of marble to the depots. In the distance he could see the mountains, the quarries excavated over the centuries looking like layers of fake snow laid over the wounds in the exposed stone.

  From time to time, he tried Claudia's mobile again, but there was still no reply. He imagined her father was doing the same thing.

  At the Carrara exit, he hesitated for a moment, then decided to turn left and climb towards the town. He found the address the man had told him, in the Via Verdi, left the Mercedes double parked, unlocked and with the keys inside, hurried to the apartment building and ran up the stairs.