Broken Chord (10 page)

Dragonetti had gone to bed very late, after a good meal, a delightful concert and a long drive home. Vanessa had enjoyed it so much he was considering doing the same again in a few days’ time. He was studying the Opera Barga programme when the phone rang. He picked it up immediately, “Dragonetti speaking.”

He listened carefully and a smile broke over his face. He suppressed it and assured the Chief Prosecutor that he understood the need for absolute discretion. This was a VIP murder. He wanted the family handled with kid gloves, they were aristocrats and that still counted for something in this country which had put the royal family into exile in 1947 when Italy became a republic. Although they had been allowed back into the country in 2002, their titles were no longer valid. Jacopo sighed. Kid gloves indeed! It seemed he had been chosen for the job because he was an aristocrat himself. Also the Chief Prosecutor, officially on holiday, was already embroiled in a huge corruption case. He named a senator, member of the present majority, who was related to the von Bachmann family. Drago smiled at the words, ‘you know what these people are like’. Yes he did, but it made no difference to him whatsoever. He’d be careful, but he would do exactly what the job required, senators and aristocrats notwithstanding. He put the phone down and left the room with an almost jaunty step.

Marta and Tebaldo sat quietly in the hall waiting for what seemed an interminable length of time. Most of the time Teo kept his eyes
closed while Marta found that hers constantly filled with tears. Neither had the slightest inclination to move or communicate with anyone in any way. Both had sunk into a state of shock and were trying to cope with the flashbacks that were tormenting them. Occasionally, a soft moan would escape from Teo and Marta would raise her red-rimmed eyes to his face. The police surgeon had arrived with a team of men who came bustling in, ignoring them. Now it would begin. Teo tried not to think about what was happening upstairs. The Maresciallo who had already seen the body, after accompanying the crime scene officers to Ursula’s room, had opted to go downstairs to the kitchen.

They heard another car draw up, the car doors slam and approaching steps, and mentally braced themselves. They both stood up as a handsome dark-haired man wearing a white linen shirt under a navy linen suit, and an air of authority, entered the dark hall. He was accompanied by a uniformed police officer. He stood for moment glancing around him before taking off his sunglasses to reveal very large green eyes. He dropped his briefcase on a chair, slotted his glasses in his shirt and looked sharply at the two immobile figures: a tall handsome man with a pale face, very blue eyes and medium-length well-cut light brown hair and a very neat, middle-aged woman who looked as though she had been crying. He’d already been briefed on their identity.

“I am the Prosecutor in charge of the investigation. My name is Dragonetti. I understand you found the body.”

“I did,” said Marta. “Then Teo came in and… I locked the door and called the police.”

“Excellent. You did well. I’ll speak to you both later. Please stay here for now.” He turned and said, “I’ll see the crime scene now.”

“But the Maresciallo…” objected the policeman.

“Later.”

He followed the uniformed policeman up the stairs and entered the room of death. His brief stay in this chamber of horrors was marked by an increasing sense of uneasiness. He felt physically quite ill and was glad when, duty done, he finally felt
he could leave and get on with the job. His hair was plastered to his neck from the heat and he took a deep breath of fresh air as soon as he left the room. He closed the door behind him and went back downstairs, walking past Tebaldo and Marta, who avoided looking at him, as he followed the young policeman down more stairs. Brushing past the man he entered the kitchen quietly, his eyes carefully taking in the scene. He observed every detail: the thin, pale, rather effeminate young man with tousled, dyed, blond hair; an older woman wearing an apron and a white cap over her hair; another woman, also wearing an apron; and a middle-aged man who was sitting beside the Maresciallo. A police officer was also at the table; a coffee pot and three cups told him the rest of the story. The senior policeman shot to his feet, knocked over a coffee cup and advanced smartly towards him. “Maresciallo Spadaccia, at your service, sir,” he said crisply.

“Dottor Jacopo Dragonetti.” His eyes raked the other occupants of this overcrowded kitchen. “I’m heading the preliminary investigation into the murder of Ursula von Bachmann. Please remain where you are. An officer will stay with you.” He turned round sharply and left the room. The Maresciallo hastened after him.

As soon as he’d gone, Piero got up and mopped up the spilt coffee, taking the coffee cups to the work surface. Jean Pierre looked at his watch and pursed his lips. “I think I’ll have to go and explain that I only got here this morning. They can’t want to make me stay here. I’ve got another appointment before lunch and then I’m in the salon all afternoon.”

“He said to stay here.” Piero looked sternly at him.

The young policeman coughed and said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay for now, sir.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know who I am.”

“Well, they’ll be back to get your names and you can tell them all about it then.”

Paola, the cook, clamped her lips together and silently continued her work. Her deft fingers floured lumps of chicken and threw them into boiling fat. The other woman, Franca, her helper,
grabbed a mop and bucket and went through to the scullery. When she came back Piero indicated the coffee cups and she rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. Jean Pierre leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. Piero sat down again, grabbed the newspaper and began to read it. The policeman leant against the wall keeping an eye on them all.

There was total silence in the room apart from the sounds of frying chicken. Franca went out again and when she came back brought with her a large bag of lettuce and began to fill one of the sinks to wash it. Work for lunch was under way, police or no police, was what their actions proclaimed. This artificially quiet scene was suddenly broken into by the harsh shouting of Lapo who had obviously just got up and stumbled upon policemen as he came downstairs.

Marta started up from her chair in the hall and rushed forward towards them before the policeman could stop her. Lapo was standing in front of Dragonetti and the Maresciallo and yelling, “What do you mean you can’t tell me why you’re here? What rubbish! I demand to know why the police have apparently taken over the house.”

“What’s your name?” asked Dragonetti mildly.

“No, you tell me yours first. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Marta burst in on them, “Lapo, something terrible has happened.”

Dragonetti whipped round and silenced her. “Please go back to the hall. I want to speak to this man alone.” He nodded at the Maresciallo who took her arm and began to escort her back. “Why don’t you let me tell him,” she wailed.

“Tell me what?” asked Lapo.

Dragonetti stepped forward and took the young man’s arm. “Come with me.” He gently guided him past the indignant Marta and after a glance at Maresciallo Spadaccia, who imperceptibly nodded, ushered him into the drawing room.

“Sit down.”

Lapo obeyed as though mesmerised.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you or do you perhaps already know?”

“Know what? I don’t know anything. Tell me what’s going on, for God’s sake.”

“It’s your mother.”

“Has she had an accident?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Can’t you speak normally? Tell me what’s happened.”

“I think you understand what I’m trying to tell you.”

“You don’t mean… she’s dead.” He paled and began breathing very fast. A wheezing sound started in his lungs and became louder. Then his face became red as he breathed with evident difficulty. His hand reached convulsively into his pocket. He pulled out the bronchodilator spray and puffed twice into his open mouth. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing and speech was impossible.

“Do you need a doctor?” Dragonetti asked kindly.

Lapo shook his head, took another puff from the spray and sat back waiting for his lungs to allow enough air in for normal breathing.

“What happened? Was it a car accident?” he finally asked, breathlessly.

“I’m afraid she was murdered.”

“Murdered!”

Dragonetti reflected how often people repeated this communication in the same incredulous tone. “Yes.”

“Where, when? Now, this morning?” Lapo sounded bewildered.

“No, probably at some time during the night. The pathologist is with her now.”

“The pathologist? Oh God, but where? She didn’t go out, did she? I mean Jean Pierre’s coming today.”

“No. She didn’t go out.”

“What! You’re saying she was killed in the house?”

“Yes.”

“For God’s sake, just tell me.”

“She was murdered in her bedroom.”

“Murdered how? I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that for the moment. Were you in the house last night?”

“Well, not all night. I came in at about four.”

“Did you hear any noise, see anyone?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did you see any member of your family?”

“No.”

“Alright. I’d like you to stay in this room for now. I’m leaving a man here to make sure that you do.”

“My sister will be down shortly.”

“Your sister?”

“Marianna. She’s up. I heard her taking a shower.”

“How old is she?”

“Nearly eighteen.”

“Alright. Do you want some coffee sent in?”

“Please.”

“Are you alright?” Jacopo still felt quite concerned about his breathing.

“My wheezing, you mean. Yes, but no, I’m not at all alright. How do think I feel? You’ve just told me my mother has been murdered in her bed. I actually feel as though I’ve been kicked in the chest.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Dottor Jacopo Dragonetti.”

“Any relation to the judge?” Lapo eyed Dragonetti in a totally different and interested way. Everyone knew that Judge Dragonetti had been the victim of a car bomb many years earlier. It had been an event of national importance and relevance, a warning to other judges.

“He was my father.” Jacopo replied shortly and swiftly left the room. Any mention of his father always reopened the wound left by his tragic death which had had such an enormous impact on his own life and that of his family. He was an only child who had
adored his father. After his father’s death, he and his family had lived a cloistered life, guarded at all times. His mother had been devastated and Jacopo had always believed that the cancer that killed her ten years later had been caused by this irreparable loss. He shook the memory off and concentrated on the job at hand.

The crime scene officers were working on the room now and before long the body would be moved. After viewing the body Jacopo felt certain this was a crime of hatred, or vendetta, probably committed by someone who knew her, possibly one of the members of her own family. Crimes that took place in the victim’s home were often committed by a relative or someone very close to the victim. There was sometimes a cover up attempt to make it look as though someone from outside had done it, but with modern forensics these pathetic efforts were usually quite quickly uncovered.

He went into the hall and told Marta and Teo to go down to the kitchen. “A policeman will be with you. I know you’ve seen the body. You’re not to talk about the manner of her death with anyone.”

Teo shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. They got up from their chairs and Marta tottered for a moment. Teo took her arm and held onto it as they went down the stairs. As soon as they reached the kitchen, Marta threw herself at Piero and sobbed against his chest, “She’s dead, she’s dead. They’ve murdered her!”

Dragonetti was waiting for Marianna to come down. She would be his next ‘victim’. He wanted to see everyone who lived in the house before starting formal interviews. The others could wait until he was ready. He was trying to get a picture of this family as a whole for now. Later he would try to work out the dynamics within the group. He was willing to bet that one of them had killed Ursula von Bachmann. Everything about this crime told him that the motive was very personal.

Outside the villa, crime scene officers investigated access to the balcony at the side of the house that led into Ursula’s bedroom. Entry to the house would have been relatively simple. The huge gnarled trunk of an ancient and massive wisteria wound its contorted way up the wall before deviating and covering an ample pergola with the fragrant, heavy, lilac blossoms. It would have been child’s play to climb up the trunk and swing onto the balcony. With the shutters open, the bedroom was immediately accessible. The ground beneath was hard and dry, and no footprints were discernible. Nothing could be found on the trunk, a gnarled, irregular and peeling surface which gave no chance of fingerprints. There were no tell-tale threads of clothing, nothing to show that anyone had in fact entered the bedroom that way. However, it could have been the means of both entry and exit. Perhaps the victim had opened the shutters herself, either for air, or to allow someone to enter. Maresciallo Spadaccia puzzled over this. He had a clear memory of Piero telling him about the threatening anonymous letters and had been expecting Signora Ursula von Bachmann to come to the police station in person today. Could she have been killed by the writer of the letters who’d decided to make good his threat, gained access to the house, and left via the balcony?

He jotted down a few notes for the magistrate heading the investigation. He didn’t know him personally, but he knew of him. Everyone did. He was a Florentine, with a famous father,
whose death had shocked the whole of Italy. Spadaccia knew he had recently been temporarily transferred from an industrial town near Florence, to the
Procura
at Lucca. He looked to be in his late forties and Spadaccia personally thought his hair was too long, but then he preferred a very military haircut and had a great aversion to hair that touched the collar. He knew the man famously wore a black leather jacket in the winter which caused many comments among his colleagues who tended to favour camel hair coats. Also, unlike most of his colleagues who preferred to keep a distant and authoritative control over an investigation, Dragonetti was known for his hands-on approach. Despite these eccentricities the thing that was quite evident was the man’s standing, social and through birth. Spadaccia, who hailed from a small town in Calabria, recognised an aristocrat when he saw one and automatically gave his respect to them.

He walked round from the back of the house and as he rounded the corner saw a plump blonde woman getting out of a car. He guessed this was Isabella, Tebaldo’s wife, with their two children who were still strapped into their car seats in the back of the car. He hurried up to greet her. She was staring with evident surprise at all the police vehicles in the drive and the uniformed officer on duty outside the front door.

“Has something happened?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“I’m afraid an investigation is taking place.”

“In our house?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Is it Teo? Is he alright?”

“Yes. If you’ll come inside Dottor Dragonetti will explain things to you.”

“Who?”

“He’s heading the investigation.”

“I see, well that is, actually I don’t. What investigation?”

“He’ll explain everything, if you’ll come with me.”

“What about the children?”

“I’ll have one of my men take care of them for now. If you’ll just come this way, madam.” He said to officer Tardelli, “Keep an
eye on the kids. They mustn’t come into the house.” Tardelli, a big comfortable man, father of two, nodded and moved towards the car.

Isabella went into the house and, as instructed, sat on a chair in the hall. She felt very apprehensive. What kind of investigation was going on? The house was silent. Where was Teo? Then she was called up to the study, which Dragonetti, after a quick look at the house, had decided was the perfect room for interviewing family members. It was strange for her to see him at her mother-in-law’s desk. He rose as she came in, introduced himself and asked her to be seated. It all felt as though it was the wrong way round. Surely, he was the guest here.

“What’s happened?” She asked with a terrible feeling of dread. “Is it my husband? Has something happened to him?”

“No, your husband is quite well. I’m afraid it’s your mother-in-law.” He observed her closely.

“Ursula!” Images flitted through her mind, a car crash? “But her car’s in the drive.”

“I’m sorry?” He couldn’t follow her train of thought.

“She can’t have had an accident. Her car’s still in the drive.” Her logic seemed quite reasonable to her.

“No, she hasn’t had a car accident.”

“Then what’s happened to her?”

“I’m afraid she’s dead.”

“Dead! Ursula! But why are you here?”

“Because she was murdered.” He stared keenly at her.

She digested this in silence for a moment, her face quite devoid of expression before saying firmly, “If she was murdered then Guido did it.”

“Guido? Is he a family member?”

“In a manner of speaking. Guido was her toy boy. She was going to marry him.”

“Does he live in the house?”

“Well, he did until yesterday. They had a colossal row and she threw him out.”

“When was this exactly?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I was out, but Teo told me about it. She’d just come back from the Rossi’s, that’s the tenant farmers, they live over there.” She waved a plump hand towards the back of the house where the giant oleanders screened everything from view. “Anyway, Teo said they were screaming at each other like fish-wives. After that she stayed in her room with a migraine, but later she came down to dinner. No one mentioned it. It was really weird.”

“Did she say she’d thrown him out?”

“No, not a word, and no one dared to ask her.”

“Were you in the house last night?”

“Of course I was, in bed with my husband. Where else would I be? I’ve got two children, and the au pair’s off on holiday.”

“Did you see or hear anything during the night?”

“I heard Lapo come in at about four. I’d got up to go to the bathroom.”

“Did you see him?”

“No, but I heard him going upstairs and I heard his bedroom door close.”

“Did you like your mother-in-law?”

“I suppose it would be wiser to say that I did, but no, I didn’t and she didn’t like me. No one here likes me. They all think Teo made a big mistake marrying me.” He looked at her objectively. Her summer dress was too tight for her plump body. Her clothes were expensive but a little gaudy. Floral frills crossed over her ample bosom, revealing too much of it. Her hair was a very brassy blonde and she was wearing a lot of make-up, far too much.

“What do you think?,” he asked kindly.

“I expect he did. I’m not an aristocrat like them, and they let you know that, frequently,” she said bitterly. “They’re all such snobs.”

He felt sorry for her then. He could just imagine the slights and snubs she had endured. “And they made you very aware of what they felt.”

“Yes, very.”

“Tell me about Guido. You called him a toy boy.”

“Well, I said that because he’s so much younger than Ursula. I thought it was a bit obscene really.”

“What does he do in life, apart from being a toy boy?”

“Guido deals in antique furniture, well, antiques of every kind, I suppose. He says he comes from an aristocratic family that lost its money, you know, came down in the world. He helped Ursula do up this place. He’s very knowledgeable about furnishing and decorating, and he’s attractive, if you like that sort of thing, and Ursula fell for him big-time. Well, I suppose she must have done. They were going to get married next month. Can you believe it? I mean he’s at least fifteen years younger than her. Personally, I thought the whole thing was quite disgusting. I thought Ursula was a fool and that he was out for what he could get.”

“Do you have any idea what they argued about?”

“No. Nobody does. One minute they were all lovey-dovey and the next they were having a screaming match and then he was gone. Maybe it was nothing much, because a huge bouquet of red roses arrived this morning and they had to be from him.”

“Why did you say he might have killed her?”

“I suppose I thought that if it was a serious break up then he might have been so angry he killed her. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that I can’t think of anyone else who would want to kill her.”

“What about you?”

She smiled wryly, “Oh yes, there have been moments when I’ve felt positively murderous, but no, I didn’t kill her.”

“Alright, would you like to wait in the garden with the children?”

“Can’t I be with my husband?”

“Not for the moment.”

“I see.” She got up slowly. “How is Teo?”

“Upset.”

“Well, of course he would be. That was a silly question. Sorry.”

After she’d gone, Dragonetti ran through the initial notes the Maresciallo had given him and scribbled down a few more before
going to the door. He was waiting for Marianna, who seemed to be taking an interminable time over her toilet. She must have heard Lapo shouting, or maybe not if she was under the shower, and what time of day was this to be getting up, anyway, he asked himself. If she didn’t come down soon he would go upstairs and get her. Meanwhile, he needed this Guido to be found. He cursed, he hadn’t asked Isabella the man’s surname. Perhaps the Maresciallo, who was local, might know.

Downstairs the Maresciallo was just coming back with a notebook in one hand. They conferred briefly and Dragonetti was assured that Guido della Rocca would be found and brought to the villa as soon as possible. Meanwhile, the problem of the hairdresser had to be solved. Dragonetti had him brought up and he was briefly questioned. He’d arrived after the police so it looked as though he was out of it. After checking his ID card and taking down all relevant particulars he decided to let him go. Jean Pierre, whose real name was Giovanni Esposito, was suitably pleased.

“I’m ever so sorry about Madam, but you see with all my appointments I really need to go.”

“Off you go.” He knew it was useless asking the man to keep quiet. No doubt all his clients that day would be regaled with the story, not that he knew much. Apart from Marta and Tebaldo, no one knew about the desecration of Ursula’s body and that was the way he wanted it.

“Sir…” called the officer he had left outside the door.

“What’s going on?” He walked towards the door.

The man indicated the stairs with his hand. He looked up and saw Marianna coming down the stairs. She wore a white linen dress and white sandals. Her freshly washed hair hung like a golden cape down to her waist. She was tall and slender, tanned and beautiful. It was an amazing vision of loveliness. She looked like a vestal virgin. Her eyes went calmly from the uniformed officer to himself.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And what are you doing here?”

“Are you Marianna von Bachmann?

“No, I’m Marianna Ghiberti.”

“I see.”

“I don’t understand. Who are you and why is there a policeman in the house?” she sounded frightened. “Has something happened?”

“I’m Dottor Jacopo Dragonetti from the
Procura
at Lucca.”

“The
Procura
? I don’t understand,” she repeated.

“Please come into the study and I’ll explain.”

She followed him hesitantly and sat down at his request.

“Are you going to tell me something terrible?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

She took a deep breath. “Just tell me.”

“It’s your mother.”

“Mamma! What’s happened? She’s not…” She couldn’t say the word and her eyes seemed to implore him not to.

“Yes, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your mother is dead.” He felt like a pompous oaf as he repeated the formulaic sentence, but there was no easy way to say it.

“But she can’t be. I don’t understand. Why are you here? Was there an accident?”

“Not exactly. Your mother was murdered.”

“What!”

They remained silent for a moment.

“Who did it? Who killed her? Who would do that?” She sounded bewildered.

“We don’t know. That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“How did she die? Was it a mugger or something?”

“No.”

“Well then, what happened?” Her voice rose.

“I can’t discuss that with you at the moment.”

“You what! Why can’t you? I want to know everything. My mother’s dead. Someone killed her! I can’t believe it. Where is she?”

“In her bedroom.”

“That’s where she was killed, in her bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was one of us.”

“You think so?”

“This place is like Fort Knox. Who could come in and kill her?”

“Her balcony door was open.”

“Never. It was always locked. She was terrified of burglars. There are a lot of very valuable things in the house.”

“I’ll be asking all the members of the family if anything is missing.”

“Where are all the others?”

“In the house. I’m keeping you all separate for the moment, until we’ve searched the house.”

“What are you looking for, the murder weapon?”

“Perhaps.”

“So you do think it was one of us.”

“Did you kill your mother?”

“No, of course I didn’t.”

“Please wait in the hall for now. I’ll have coffee sent up to you if you like.”

“Thank you.”

“One more thing. Were you very close to your mother?”

“Not very.”

“I thought not. You haven’t shed a tear.”

She gave a bitter smile. “I stopped crying a long time ago.”