The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (26 page)

Guendalina was half asleep.

She thought it had been Angelica waking her. Then she remembered that Angelica was in the Siena area on business – dinner with an aristocratic lady who was thinking of commissioning a portrait from her – and would be back late.

And anyway, Angelica was usually very careful not to wake her.

For a few moments that seemed like hours, she lay there motionless, holding her breath, her heart pounding fit to burst. She looked at the window. The moonlight cast disturbing shadows into the room.

She listened carefully.

Nothing.

But she was still sure she had heard something. A noise, a slight rustle.

Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion, fuelled by the news she had heard on the radio: a young Cuban woman had been brutally murdered in her apartment in Pontassieve, probably by a maniac.

She raised herself to a sitting position.

Could it have been an animal?

She steeled herself: maybe it would be best to go and check all the windows and the front door. It was only now that she realised how much she missed Angelica. She would have felt safe with her. She reached out a hand to switch on the bedside lamp. But the light did not come on.

She got up silently, put her feet on the floor and groped her way to the switch for the overhead light. But that did not come on either. A shiver ran down her spine. Her fear turned to terror.

At that moment a gloved hand covered her mouth and nose, and a tall figure grabbed her and threw her to the floor. She tried not to lose control, but felt as if she could not breathe. She was afraid she was going to pass out.

She made a quick movement to the side and managed to break free and stand up.

‘That wasn’t a good idea, Guendalina.’

It was a man’s voice, hard and cold. A man who knew her name.

‘Don’t try and resist, it’ll only make things worse.’

She started to kick out at him. But her attacker managed to dodge her kicks. Then he was on top of her again, holding her still with his hands. He slapped her hard across the face, making her stagger.

‘Help!’ she cried, with all the breath she could muster. But no sooner was the word out than she realised that nobody could hear her. She was alone in the middle of the countryside.

‘Don’t h-hurt… me… I… b-beg… you,’ she stammered.

She jerked free again and ran down the narrow corridor to the living room. Everything was dark here too. No glimmer of light came in through the blinds, which, unusually, were closed. He must have closed them himself: it was now clear that he had planned it all. She staggered, lifting a hand to her face. Her cheek seemed to be burning from the impact of his slap. She remembered that poor Cuban girl. She must find a way out at all costs. But a cabinet had been pushed against the front door. In a fit of desperation, she shouted Angelica’s name.

‘Quiet, Guendalina. Nobody can hear you.’ The voice was calm now, as if trying to reassure her.

Next, she tried to get into the kitchen, but slipped. Her strength was fading, she could not feel the ground beneath her feet. She swayed and almost fell.

The man laughed. ‘Can’t you see it’s useless? Why don’t you give up?’

She spun round. ‘Who are you?’ she cried.

At that moment she was dazzled by the light of a torch. She blinked. He was six feet tall, and he was right in front of her. He was wearing a balaclava. Then she saw the gun in his hand.

‘Noooo!’ she screamed with all her remaining strength.

‘Sit down!’

She obeyed.

‘Now write!’ He took a pen and a piece of paper from his pocket, put them in front of her on the table and dictated a few sentences to her, which she wrote with a trembling hand by the light of the torch.

He ordered her to stand up.

As she did so, he shot her in the chest.

Angelica was driving along the Siena–Florence road.

It was an isolated stretch, and she could put on as much speed as she wanted. She was in a crazy rush to get home to Guendalina. She would look in on her quickly, then sleep on the sofa so as not to wake her.

After the Certosa tollbooth, she took the A1. That way she could avoid having to drive through the city. Her itinerary was: Florence South exit, Bagno a Ripoli, Pontassieve, Dicomano, and home.

She had no idea of the surprise that awaited her.

It was three twenty-five in the morning and Angelica, head bowed, eyes swollen with tears, was clutching Guendalina’s note, which she had found on the bedside table.

It wasn’t possible, she kept repeating to herself, shaking her head. It wasn’t possible that Guendalina could have just gone like that!

She looked at the piece of paper again. It was definitely Guendalina’s handwriting, even though it looked a little shaky in places.

There couldn’t be any doubt about it. Some of her clothes were missing from the wardrobe, and her make-up was gone from the bathroom. Her suitcase was gone too.

Why had she done it? Angelica wondered. Surely it couldn’t have been jealousy…

She realised that she had thought she knew her well, but she really didn’t. They had met in prison. How could she have known what kind of person Guendalina would be once she was released?

For the moment, she told herself, it might be best to wait.

In her heart, she hoped that the door would suddenly open and reveal her Guendi.

That was all she had: hope.

SUPERCOP
MICHELE
FERRARA
ACCUSES
FLORENCE
OF
OMERTÀ
was the headline in
La Nazione
that morning.

Ferrara closed the newspaper. Someone, he thought, had wanted to create a fuss by twisting the words he had spoken during the press conference. But who?

It was the same old story! There was always somebody pulling strings from behind the scenes.

The day had certainly got off to a bad start.

He imagined the reactions of the Commissioner and the Prefect. He probably would not have to wait long to hear from the Head of the State Police in Rome.

Luigi Vinci’s meeting with Francesco Rizzo had been arranged for nine o’clock on the dot.

While he waited, he re-read the words Chief Prosecutor Luca Fiore had written in his own hand in the right-hand margin of the
Squadra Mobile
’s report: ‘Don’t do anything, this is just speculation!!!’

It was a real mess. How could he explain away the fact that the previous day he had given Ferrara’s deputy an emergency warrant to acquire Cosimo Presti’s phone records? He wished now that he hadn’t.

He looked at his watch. It was just after nine and Rizzo had still not appeared. Then, at last, he heard a knock at the door.

‘Come in!’ he yelled.

The door opened and Rizzo came in.

‘Good morning, Deputy Prosecutor.’

‘Take a seat.’

Rizzo moved some sheets of paper off a chair and sat down in front of the desk.

Looking at Vinci, you would never have guessed that he was so fond of physical exercise. Every one of his fifty years showed on his face: he looked tired, his eyes pensive, almost dejected.

‘Superintendent Rizzo,’ he said, ‘I’d like you to give me back the warrant I issued yesterday.’

‘What!’

‘Yes, you heard what I said. It’s quite unnecessary.’

‘But I’ve already informed the legal department at the telephone company. It’s too late now.’

‘I want you to get that warrant back immediately.’

‘That’s not possible now.’

‘You’re putting me in a difficult position…’

‘Me?’ Rizzo stared at him in astonishment. In the
Squadra Mobile
, they called Vinci ‘No Balls’. Right now he was in a real panic.

‘If you don’t get it back, you’re going to cause me a huge problem!’ he yelled, losing control completely. He grabbed the papers Rizzo had given him the previous day. ‘As for your other requests – phone taps, interrogations – you can forget all about them!’

‘Why?’

‘Orders from above. There’s not a scrap of evidence. To tap a journalist’s phone, you need a bit more than a call in a victim’s phone records and a dinner with the victim. Best case scenario, we have the media on our backs. Worst case scenario, they could actually take us to court. I don’t need to tell you where that could lead.’

‘But with a phone tap we could —’

‘I’ve said no. Now go and get that warrant back. I don’t want to hear anything more about those phone records.’

Rizzo took care not to reveal that he had already obtained them. It could get his wife’s friend in trouble. He stood up, said a curt goodbye and left the room.

Orders from above!
As he went down the stairs, he kept repeating those three words to himself. As he reached the ground floor, he saw Chief Prosecutor Luca Fiore come in through the front entrance and make straight for the lifts, looking as arrogant as ever.

Fucking Freemasons!
he said to himself.