The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (22 page)

It was no longer a matter of an isolated case.

Ferrara took a piece of paper and wrote:

He went through each death one by one, noting down significant details, a method he had often found useful. He would come back to these notes when necessary.

Once again, though, he was unable to establish a definite link between these events and ended up wondering whether it could all be coincidence. No, there were too many of them and they had happened within too short a period of time to be coincidental. And what about the Black Rose: that, surely, was a common denominator? The only difference between these deaths was the manner in which they had happened.

Costanza and Rodriguez had been murdered by a ruthless professional killer who had planned the crime in detail, without leaving the smallest clue behind, whereas in the case of Sergi, the murder did not seem to have been premeditated.

Filangeri’s suicide was extremely suspicious. Beatrice had been Leonardo Berghoff’s partner and had killed Madalena with him and other, as yet unknown, accomplices.

He kept scribbling on the sheet of paper, trying to see his way through the tangle of thoughts in his head. Why had his visit to the prison not been kept a secret as he had requested? Who had spilled the beans to the Commissioner? Who had wanted to keep Beatrice Filangeri quiet?

Regarding Sergi’s murder, he wondered how the fracture of the cartilage to the left of the hyoid bone could be explained, given how well-built the man had been. Maybe they’d dragged him by the neck when they pulled him out of the water.

He could not help thinking about an old case: the death of a well-known businessman in another lake. No post-mortem had been performed, and the death had been classified as either an accident or suicide. It was only many years later, when the body was exhumed, that it was discovered, precisely because of a hyoid bone, that the man had been murdered.

He re-read the relevant section of the pathologist’s report that had been faxed to him from Rome:
The objective fracture in the upper left cartilage, which is believed to have occurred while the subject was still alive, makes it highly probable that the cause of death was violent mechanical asphyxiation produced by constriction of the neck (either manual strangulation or strangulation by ligature) carried out with murderous intent
.

He underlined ‘murderous intent’ several times, thinking as he did so that it must have taken more than one person, at least two or three, to overpower a man of Sergi’s physique.

He thought again about the Commissioner’s suggestions:
Forget about the Freemasons. Don’t go chasing ghosts. Stop questioning Enrico Costanza’s friends. Focus on your career. Make sure you’re on the right team!

He remembered the sight of Guaschelli deep in conversation at the crime scene at Lake Bracciano, and his presence there now seemed even more suspicious. That dwarf had been putting a spanner in the works for some time now, he was sure of it. It was just a feeling, but his instinct told him to proceed with caution.

The investigation into the deaths of Costanza and his butler had not made much progress. There were still no leads, not even from that identikit of the woman driving the Mercedes, assuming she had even been involved in the crime.

Could he actually be dealing with a perfect murder? No, he found that hard to believe. In reality, the perfect murder didn’t exist. What did exist, on the other hand, were imperfect investigations, either where an important detail had been overlooked or misunderstood, or where the investigators were unaware of possible mistakes made by the killer.

He thought about Enrico Costanza’s final telephone call to Cosimo Presti. What was the nature of Presti’s relationship with the senator?

Maybe
that
had been the mistake.

Ferrara looked up from the sheet of paper on which he had been scribbling, and let his gaze wander round the room. He couldn’t get Berghoff’s letter out of his mind. The same question kept recurring: should he tell the Prosecutor’s Department everything or continue to keep quiet?

The first option would, in all probability, have immediate consequences for his career. He might even have to face disciplinary proceedings. They could reasonably accuse him of failing in his duties as an official of the State Police, let alone as head of the most important criminal investigation department in the whole province.

But if he chose the second option, he would still have to square things with his own conscience. As a man first, as a police officer second.

He couldn’t even think of a third option.

It was a real mess, but he had dug himself into this hole with his own hands, and nobody else could help him get out of it.

Perhaps the moment had finally come to write a full report and attach Berghoff’s letter to it. If he had done that straight away, it would have been easier to obtain authorisation from the Prosecutor’s Department to speed up the inquiries into foreign nationals and continue with the questioning of the victim’s friends.

He decided to sleep on it.

Just then, the telephone rang, dragging him from his thoughts. It was Fanti, telling him that there was an international call for him.

Could it be Interpol?

No, it wasn’t Interpol. It was the last person Ferrara would have expected to hear from at that moment: his opposite number, Markus Glock, head of the Criminal Investigation Department in Munich. They had met at the beginning of July, when Leonardo Berghoff had fled to Germany.

‘What a pleasure to hear from you, Markus,’ Ferrara said as soon as he recognised his voice.

After the pleasantries, Glock asked him, in his hesitant Italian, about the latest events in Florence. ‘Are all these murders still linked to Berghoff? I read about them in the
Münchner Merkur
and the
Süddeutsche Zeitung
.’

‘We still don’t know. They could be.’

‘If I can help by checking out anything here in Germany, just let me know, Michele.’

‘
Vielen dank
, Markus.’ Then he had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Actually, there is something you can do for me.’

‘What?’

‘Email or fax me a report, if you have one, of the investigation so far into whoever killed Berghoff. I’m right in thinking you haven’t caught them yet, aren’t I?’

‘Yes. And there is a report, which we wrote for the Prosecutor’s Department.’

‘Could you send me a copy?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Thanks, Markus.’

‘Say hello to Francesco for me, Michele.’

‘I will.’

Ferrara sat there with the receiver in his hand for a while. What a pity, he thought, that there wasn’t another Markus in London. He still had vivid memories of how helpful his colleague had been, the way they had worked together to track down Leonardo Berghoff, the night the shootout had taken place, the daily visits as he was recovering in the hospital at Füssen…

They had developed a good relationship, which was fundamental when circumstances required cooperation between police forces, especially across borders. And now this telephone call was like an act of divine providence.

While speaking to Markus Glock, he had suddenly realised how to solve the problem of the letter. He added it now to his list of things to be checked out.

Luck was finally on his side.

He came out of the bedroom.

Angelica was sitting on the living room sofa with several newspapers resting on her lap.

He went over and stroked her hair. She stood up, put her arms round him, and kissed him on the lips. She loved kissing him. As cold as ever, he did not respond but slipped out of her embrace as soon as he could. He was too focused on what he had to say to her, and he wanted to say it as soon as possible. He did not care how she reacted. His mind was made up.

‘You could have slept a bit longer,’ she said. ‘I brought you the papers. You would have found them here.’

‘I’d have been late. You know I have to go and see someone. Tell me…’ He broke off, turned and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water: his throat felt terribly dry. He had slept on and off for four hours, three of which had been hellish. More nightmares. They had even made his bones ache, as if someone had taken him and given him a beating. No, it wasn’t possible, he told himself. Those things were a long way in the past.

He walked slowly back to her.

‘What did you want me to tell you?’ she asked.

‘Who’s that friend who lives in your house?’

She wondered how he could have known. She waited a moment, then said, ‘She’s the same one you saw me with in the Piazza San Marco on Sunday. I’m helping her out.’

‘Just a friend?’

‘Yes. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’

‘Who’s jealous?’ he retorted, raising his voice. ‘You don’t understand a fucking thing. You should stay well away from that girl. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’

He was really starting to lose his temper. He could feel his rage building inside him, and he had to make a considerable effort to control it.

‘She’s only staying with me for a while, just a few days, a week or so at the most. She’s looking for somewhere to live in Florence, and you know how hard that can be. The rents are ridiculous.’

‘Our business is ours alone. I’m not going to tell you again.’

‘But —’

‘No buts. I don’t give a fuck about your
friend
’s problems. You should be more careful. Especially now.’

He started back towards the kitchen. It was whisky he needed now.

She cut in ahead of him and barred the doorway. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

‘I’ve got nothing more to say, Angelica, so just fuck off.’

She went out, slamming the door behind her. She was furious.

She wasn’t going to let anyone control her life like that! Not now that she had found someone she really liked. No, there had to be a solution, she needed to make him see that they weren’t kids any more, that behaving the way he did jeopardised their relationship. If he didn’t change, their ways would part forever.

She got in her car and set off with a screech of tyres. Guendalina was waiting for her at home.

Gradually, the further she got from him, and the more she thought about Guendalina, the more she realised that the situation was becoming untenable. This double life couldn’t continue. She had to stop pretending. Sooner or later, the woman she loved would realise she was hiding something from her. And she did not want to lose her.

‘He can fuck off,’ she murmured as she turned on the radio. She immediately recognised Amy Winehouse’s voice singing ‘Stronger Than Me’. She turned up the volume and started to sing along. She knew every word by heart.

In the meantime, he was thinking it was time to put another piece of the jigsaw in place. A new one, not part of his initial plan.

He didn’t need her. He could get everything he wanted through his own efforts. He had no limits. He could find a solution to every problem, like the mathematical genius he was.

He would make her pay dearly.

But he had to hurry.

By Sunday, or Monday at the latest, he would have to leave Florence.

Maybe forever.

‘Any news, Francesco?’

As soon as Ferrara, who was trying to get to grips with Sergi’s papers, saw his deputy come in, he set them aside and motioned him to sit down. He looked at his watch. It was five past two in the afternoon.

Rizzo told him about his conversation with the director of Sollicciano Prison. An external examination of Beatrice Filangeri’s body had not revealed any signs of violence. And there had been no traces of poisonous substances or barbiturates in her blood.

‘Did he tell you whether she happened to leave a note?’

‘No, Michele.’

‘What about the post-mortem?’

‘They’re doing it later.’

‘How did it go at the Hotel Villa Medici?’

‘Fine.’

‘Were they able to tell you whether the person with Costanza that evening was Cosimo Presti?’

‘Yes, it was.’

Piero, the barman, had been in no doubt. The man with Costanza had indeed been Cosimo Presti. The maître d’ had confirmed it. Costanza and Presti had dined in one of the hotel’s two restaurants, the Lorenzo de’ Medici.

That left them with several options. Should they question Presti straight away? Or would it be better to wait and keep him under surveillance for a few days? Should they acquire his telephone records? Tap his phone? Get a warrant to search his home?

It was a difficult choice to make, and they had to trust their intuition. But whatever they decided, they needed to keep one important thing in mind: Presti was a journalist, and they all knew that, when it came to the media, the Prosecutor’s Department acted with extreme caution.

‘Michele, do you think they’ll authorise us to get hold of his telephone records and tap his phones?’

‘We’d have to really justify our request, and even then I have my doubts. Unless…’ He broke off for a moment and when he resumed he told Rizzo about the telephone call from Glock.

In the end, they decided to send Deputy Prosecutor Vinci a detailed report, attaching to it Leonardo Berghoff’s letter along with the other documents sent by their German colleague.

They could well be coming to a decisive moment. One that might also clarify the position of the Prosecutor’s Department.

‘Where were you? You have to tell me where you were!’

Angelica had got home to find Guendalina sitting on the sofa, grim-faced, her hair tangled. In her hand she was clutching a half-empty glass of cognac.

‘And you have to tell me why you haven’t replied to my text messages!’

As Guendalina spoke, she continued to stare at Angelica, her big black eyes now swollen and brimming with tears. She had been lying on the sofa for a long time, brooding over some imagined betrayal.

‘Calm down, darling,’ Angelica said, dismissing her anger. ‘Have a glass of water, instead of this stuff.’ She picked up the almost empty bottle from the coffee table and took it into the kitchen. Then she tossed her handbag onto an armchair and headed straight for the bathroom. She did not feel like answering, at least not straight away. There would be time. In the meantime she would try to think of what she was going to say.

She could tell her she’d gone for a drink with colleagues after work. Or been to a meeting about the planned exhibition. Both were plausible excuses, but she knew that Guendalina would not believe either of them. She was too sensitive. Angelica realised that she could not continue lying to her. For now, she would hold her tight in her arms, caress her and kiss her. Just as she had done the previous evening when she had come home and found Guendalina sulking and ready to accuse her of being unfaithful. She had sworn to her over and over again that she didn’t have anyone else. Later, in bed, they had kissed and caressed and made up. And Guendalina had pretended to believe that her friend had really been somewhere near Siena, working on a painting project.

Meanwhile, Guendalina had stood up, grabbed Angelica’s handbag, and taken her mobile out of the outside pocket. Her fingers moved quickly. She pressed the button for recent calls, and the one for text messages. She saw the usual numbers, which were familiar to her. Among the texts she saw the ones she herself had sent which had gone unanswered. There were also a couple that struck her, though. Short, almost telegraphic messages. They had come from a number that hadn’t been saved in the contact list, a number that was completely unknown to her.

Another thing she found in the handbag, wrapped in a paper tissue, was a small quantity of marijuana.

These two discoveries hurt her: she had believed that Angelica had no secrets from her and that she had been sincere when they had promised not to lie to each other.

She would have liked to ask her immediately, about both the texts and the grass, to confront her, to make a scene. But she reined in the impulse. A little voice inside her, a voice of caution, told her to pretend that nothing had happened, to feign indifference.

She put the mobile back in place and stretched out again on the sofa.

She told herself to relax when she saw Angelica come back into the room.

She pressed the button of the CD player on the sideboard next to the TV and the room was filled with Ricky Martin singing ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’.

Angelica sat down next to her on the sofa, took her hand, and held it tight. Sobbing, Guendalina threw herself into her arms. She needed to be held. She dismissed her fears and suspicions and started to take her clothes off.