The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (5 page)

He really loved Florence.

To him, it was the most beautiful city in the world. The only one apart from Paris that really stirred him. He had lived in Florence until he came of age and had many memories of those years, both pleasant and unpleasant. Every time he came back, he felt welcomed by these streets, so human in their scale, however anonymous.

He had lived the past week to the full. He had eaten lunch in the best restaurants, visited museums, and gone for long strolls in the evenings, especially around the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, one of his favourite spots. There, his gaze had lingered for a long time on the façade of the basilica until, his attention drawn by their voices, he had turned and looked at the large number of young people sitting on the grass and the benches, many of them drug addicts.

It was almost two in the afternoon. The city lay beneath a cloudless blue sky, and the roofs of the buildings glittered in the sun.

He was in the Piazzale Michelangelo, from where you could see the whole heart of Florence, from the Belvedere fortress to Santa Croce and beyond, by way of the riverbanks and bridges, the Ponte Vecchio in particular, as far as the outlines of the hills on the horizon. It was a wonderful view, reproduced on countless postcards.

Florence reminded him of Titian’s
Venus
in the Uffizi Gallery. A young woman, lying naked on a sofa, her two small but proud breasts like rosebuds, her languid gaze seeming to invite the observer to enjoy her, silently conveying a feeling of sensual anticipation.

He moved to the middle of the square to photograph the bronze copies of
David
and the four allegories, the originals of which were in the Medici Chapels at San Lorenzo.
How wonderful it would be to see the originals here
, he said to himself as he walked around the statues.

He was dressed anonymously in a pair of ripped jeans, a white T-shirt with an incomprehensible logo, and well-worn tennis shoes. A pair of dark glasses, not designer ones, hid the green of his eyes: a new colour, part of his collection of contact lenses. On his head was a scruffy baseball cap, from beneath which flowed a black ponytail. He had chosen the colour black specially for the occasion. He looked like a down-and-out, someone no one would pay any attention to. He knew how indifferent people were in a tourist city, and he was taking full advantage of that.

Having left his four-by-four in the pay and display car park near the Ponte Vecchio, he had walked through the medieval Porta San Nicolò then up the monumental steps, proceeding at a normal, relaxed pace. What did he have to be worried about, anyway? Hadn’t he taken great care to disguise himself?

He could surely have fooled anyone.

Along the way he had passed a group of French tourists and had eavesdropped on a young couple. She was a beautiful girl in shorts and a tight-fitting white T-shirt and he was tall and fair-haired. They were holding hands. He had heard them exchange words of love.

Poor fools, he had thought. All those illusions!

After taking a few photographs, he glanced at his watch, put his digital camera away in his black nylon backpack, and went down to the terrace below. He sat at one of the free tables, the one closest to the railings. He placed the backpack on a chair and took out
The Lonely Planet Guide to Tuscany and Umbria
, making sure it was clearly visible.

The only people about were tourists, mostly elderly.

The waitress, a blonde girl of about twenty, probably Russian, came slowly towards him. He gave her a knowing look.

‘What can I get you, signore?’ she asked with a smile.

He ordered an espresso with cream. ‘And extra cream on the side,’ he added. He felt like something sweet and he absolutely loved cream.

While he was waiting, he pretended to leaf through the guidebook.

‘Your coffee and cream, signore.’ The young waitress put his order on the table and moved away quickly. Other customers were waiting for her.

The cream was delicious.

He checked his watch again. He needed to make a phone call that he had been putting off for several days, more through ineptitude than anything else. She would already be awake and must have had breakfast by now, he thought. He took his mobile out of his jacket pocket and dialled an international number. He heard two rings, then her voice.

‘I can’t believe it, Daniel. Where are you calling from?’

‘I’m in Rome.’

‘How lovely. Rome’s wonderful. I haven’t been there for years.’

‘Why don’t you join me? What’s stopping you? I’ll book a flight for you.’

The woman at the other end did not reply immediately. ‘Do you need anything?’ she asked. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘No, I don’t need anything, thanks. But what about you? How are you?’

‘The usual ailments that come with age. You know. But I need to tell you something.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I want to fire the maid, that Romanian slut.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m missing some jewellery and I think she was the one who took it, but how am I supposed to prove it?’

‘You can’t prove it. Just fire her!’

Inside, he was overjoyed. He was the one who’d been pilfering the jewellery, little by little, and selling it. He needed money. Lots of it.

‘And how’s your business going, Daniel?’

‘Very well. I’m about to seal a very interesting deal.’

‘Will you be in Rome much longer?’

‘Just a few weeks.’

‘Tell me all about it.’

‘Another time. I’ve got an important meeting this evening, with the director of a big IT company. I’d better say goodbye now.’

His mobile was indicating that he had a call waiting and he had realised who it was.

‘All right, but try to phone me more often. You know how anxious I get when you’re away. I’m stuck indoors here, and when I hear about all the things that are going on I start worrying.’

‘There’s no need. I’m not a little boy any more. I’ll call you soon. Bye.’

He ended the call abruptly and answered the other call just before it went to voicemail. ‘Hello?’

He listened patiently.

‘OK,’ he replied, and hung up.

There had been a change: it wouldn’t hinder his plan, but it was annoying all the same.

He needed to go to the Piazza San Marco.

He got up abruptly, paid the bill, giving the waitress a wicked smile as he did so, and went back down the way he had come.

‘The Commissioner’s expecting you. Go straight in, Chief Superintendent.’

The secretary, no longer young but well groomed, was standing in the corridor, apparently waiting anxiously for him. As soon as she saw him, her face seemed to relax. She went back to her desk, pressed a button and announced Ferrara’s arrival.

The Commissioner had called him a couple of times in the course of the morning for updates. He had sounded quite tense, which was understandable given the seriousness of the double murder.

Filippo Adinolfi had only been in Florence for a short time, following a career largely spent in the offices of the Ministry of the Interior in Rome. Like many officials, he had built his career behind a desk, writing reports, notes and proposals. He had absolutely no experience in the field, and had no idea what it meant to risk your life. He had progressed as far as he had by sucking up to each of his superiors as they came and went. How could he understand what real police officers faced on a daily basis? He wasn’t someone Ferrara found easy to talk to about detective work.

Adinolfi, who was even redder in the face than usual, motioned him to the visitor’s armchair as soon as he saw him come in. As Ferrara took his seat, Adinolfi put the folder he had been holding down on the desk, folded his arms, and assumed a serious expression. Ferrara wondered what his blood pressure level must be right now.

Adinolfi went straight on the attack: ‘Chief Superintendent, you and your men need to make this case your top priority. The phone’s ringing off the hook here. Radio stations, television channels, newspapers. As if that weren’t enough, the Ministry’s press office keeps hassling me for constant updates, as if we’re supposed to provide some kind of minute-by-minute sports commentary. Now they’re asking for a detailed official report. You can speak to the press, I’ll say a few words to the TV people later if they insist. But I warn you, none of your men should talk to the media, do you understand? If there are any leaks, I’ll hold you personally responsible.’

He grabbed the telephone receiver and put it down on the desk.

It was clear he had no intention of answering lots of questions from journalists. In fact, the powers that be preferred to avoid that: before making any kind of public statement, a commissioner was expected to ask permission from the Head of the State Police, through his own press officer – another official who had forged his career in the shadow of Rome.

Ferrara agreed.

‘All right,’ Adinolfi said, in a calmer voice. ‘What can you tell me?’

Ferrara began a detailed summary but was soon interrupted.

‘Chief Superintendent, is there any chance that this was a robbery that went wrong?’

‘No, I’ve already ruled that out. We’ve found a wallet with cash and credit cards, and an expensive watch, a Rolex Daytona. Plus…’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s something else you need to know.’

‘What is it?’

‘His eyes were gouged out.’

The Commissioner looked at him, stunned, and a grimace of disgust crossed his face. He shuffled some random papers on his desk, perhaps to hide his horror. ‘His eyes?’ he echoed, almost as if wanting confirmation.

‘Yes, that’s right. The murder was carried out in a highly professional manner. At the moment that’s the only thing we’re sure about.’

‘If that’s the case,’ Adinolfi said, leaning back in his chair, ‘you’re right to rule out robbery.’

His expression was a mixture of disappointment and anxiety. It couldn’t be doing his ulcer any good, Ferrara thought.

Adinolfi leant forward slightly, placed both his hands on the desk, and spoke in a low voice, as if afraid of being overheard. ‘But don’t rule out anything else. Follow every possible lead. This thing with the eyes might be a red herring.’

Ferrara merely nodded.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door and the secretary peered round it nervously.

‘I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed!’ Adinolfi cried. ‘What is it?’

‘But, Commissioner,’ the woman said, her voice trembling, ‘it’s the Ministry on the line and I haven’t been able to put the call through. The Head of the State Police wants to speak to you in person.’

Adinolfi put the receiver straight back on its cradle and assumed an air of perfect composure, adjusting the knot of his tie, almost as if wanting to make himself more presentable to the person on the other end of the phone.

‘Are you still here? Put him through straight away!’

‘We’re very worried here in Rome.’ These were the first words spoken by the Head of the State Police. ‘The minister and myself are both quite unhappy with the way public order and security are being handled in Florence.’

Adinolfi flushed. He leant forward abruptly, as if about to reply, but a moment later he sat back in his original position. There was nothing he could do but submit in silence, which was what he was accustomed to doing. There was no doubt that not contradicting his superiors was a stance that had served him well as he’d climbed the professional ladder. It was not for nothing that he now found himself in charge of Police Headquarters in Florence, one of the most important and sought-after postings for a man in his position.

‘It’s obvious you aren’t in control of things up there,’ the Head of the State Police ranted.

‘As you know, sir, I haven’t been in Florence long —’ Adinolfi began in self-justification, but he was immediately interrupted.

‘I expect you in my office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, on the dot. Bring me a detailed report on the latest incidents, in particular what happened last night. Have I made myself clear?’

‘But…’

The sentence was left hanging in the air. There was no longer anyone at the other end of the line.

The bastard! Adinolfi thought. The man didn’t have the faintest idea of the kind of state he’d found this fucking Headquarters in. Catastrophic didn’t even begin to describe it.

That was the way it had always been. Each new commissioner criticised his predecessor, more or less vehemently, for doing little or nothing to solve the problems of public order or improve the working conditions of the staff.

Complete silence had fallen in the room. Trying to conceal his anger, Adinolfi resumed his conversation with Ferrara, asking him if anything useful had been found during the search of the villa.

The officers were still hard at work, Ferrara replied, but he had been told that they had found about two hundred grams of cocaine, too much for purely personal use.

Silence fell once more.

The Commissioner started to fidget in his chair and his gaze wandered, as if he were searching for something. When he looked again at Ferrara, there was genuine dismay in the Commissioner’s eyes. The thought of a scandal that might destroy the city’s upper classes terrified Adinolfi. Not drugs: that was all he needed. It would open a whole new can of worms, especially as it was already rumoured that illegal narcotics were in circulation in certain circles.

‘Let’s keep that discovery quiet,’ he said. ‘Make sure your men are aware. I don’t want this place leaking like a sieve. We must avoid journalists creating their own unfounded hypotheses, spicing up the murders with sordid details. Have I made myself clear? I repeat: have I made myself clear?’

On this point, Ferrara was in total agreement with the Commissioner: if the media got wind of these details, they would make their reports even more salacious, and hide behind the constitutional right to information if any complaints were brought against them. Just as they had recently done in defending themselves from accusations of having revealed the contents of intercepted telephone calls – conversations about the private lives of politicians and celebrities – which had been recorded in the context of police investigations.

‘Absolutely, Commissioner,’ Ferrara assured him. ‘I’ll make sure nothing gets out.’

‘Proceed with caution, then. I don’t think I need to remind you that Senator Enrico Costanza was a very important figure here in Florence. I don’t want this case blowing up in our faces.’

Adinolfi picked up the sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him and started writing, as if Ferrara had already left the office. On raising his eyes after a few moments, he was surprised to see him still sitting on the other side of the desk, watching him quietly.

‘Do you have something else to say to me?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘In that case you can go, and try not to exceed the overtime budget.’

Ferrara got up and went out, these last words echoing in his head. They had to investigate a double murder while being careful not to exceed the monthly limit of thirty-five hours overtime to which each of his detectives was entitled. How on earth anyone was supposed to work with that sword of Damocles hanging over them, Ferrara did not know.

Before he continued writing the report for the following morning, Ferrara extracted two painkillers from a blister pack, held them in his left hand for a moment, then swallowed them down with a glass of water.

Getting away from his office, leaving all this behind him, were just dreams to him now. He had another thirteen months to go before he was eligible for a pension. Thirteen damn months before he might at last be a free man.