The Monster of Florence (37 page)

“I suppose not. Well, even so, the rumour you heard was true.”

“The spare-part story? That’s not the way it’s being told now. Anyway, if I haven’t spoken to you before, it was because nobody was too sure where you stood.”

“And now you are. So what are you going to do next?”

“I’ll tell you straight. Publicly, I can’t do anything.”

Did that mean he wouldn’t be transferred? Was that what he would consider public? Could it be he’d get away with a reprimand and being taken off the case? If that were all there was nothing he would like better.

“I got into bad trouble once. You know the sort of thing—I won’t go into details. Stuck my neck out, the way you do when you’re young and don’t think. Anyway, some very important
people in this town were after my hide and they’d have got it. He stood by me, saved my skin. So you see, I can’t work against him. All I can do is offer you anything you might need. I worked on this case in the days when it was a serious investigation. Anything you need to find out you can find out from me. That’s as much as I can do. He made a point of having me on the squad. You can imagine how it would have looked if nobody at all from the Romola days was with him. I couldn’t say no, but I’ve no liking for what’s going on. No liking at all. Anyway, there you are. My cards are on the table.”

The Marshal, too stunned to speak, stared at him with bulging eyes. Yet even in his astonishment one thing rang false. “He stood by you …? Simonetti?”

“Good God, no. The Chief Proc. Simonetti …” The way he spoke the name left no room for further comment. “You people don’t like the Chief, I know, and it’s pretty much reciprocal. Even so, however difficult a character he may be, however much of a steamroller in his tactics, in my case, he showed generosity and courage without gaining anything in return.”

The Marshal didn’t answer. Having got over his first shock he was able to register both that the Chief was being paid back with interest now by at least appearing to have this much-respected investigator on his side, and also that he would be foolish to say so.

“How far have you got?” Di Maira asked.

“I’ve read Romola’s acquittal.”

“Then you know it’s Vargius, Silvano.”

“I … It was certainly him in sixty-eight. I haven’t got a lot further than that …”

“It’s him, it’s him.”

Again, the Marshal kept his counsel. The last thing he should do now was alienate this man who, whatever his opinions, must have so much information that he needed.

“What a brute. I’ve come across some characters in my time, but Silvano, my God … We followed him, you know. Followed him for months in eighty-five but he was as cunning as a fox. He knew, of
course, that was the thing. His favourite trick was to slow to almost a stop approaching traffic lights on green, getting everybody in a rage behind him. Then the minute they turned red, he’d shoot across the junction and we’d lost him. Same with his phone. We had a tap on it for weeks before he found out and if you heard the conversations. Sex, never anything but sex, and always men—though for some reason he insisted on having women performing on the side for him. I don’t profess to understand that. Anyway, once he’d cottoned on that we were listening in he’d play every trick in the book on us, especially dialling some non-answering number to set our machine going and then leaving his phone off the hook till our bobbin ran out. We tore his house apart, too, after two of the murders, but we never found anything except that rag and that was whipped away from Romola pretty smartly. I tell you, in all my career I’ve never known a villain who had Silvano’s luck.”

“From what you say, it wasn’t entirely luck.”

“No, he was a clever bastard, too, but he had luck all right. Getting away with the murder of his first wife, for a start, not only once but twice. I’ve brought you what I could on that.” He pulled a batch of papers from his raincoat pocket. They were rolled up and secured with a rubber band.

“The full report’s in the archives but …”

“No, I don’t want to involve anyone. I’ll be glad to see anything you’ve got.”

“I didn’t bring the search reports since we found nothing useful—though I can tell you there was a moment—it was the gun we were after, of course, but the morning after a murder you can imagine that we might have found the bits he took away, you know what I mean. We were searching his workshop opposite the house and one of your men noticed an old fridge in the corner, not plugged in, just being used as a store cupboard. He opened it and, Jesus, a damn great cloud of iridescent flies flew out at him. We thought this is it. It wasn’t, though. They were feeding on meat all right, but it was animal meat. Then we found a plastic bag full of their larvae. He was breeding them for fishing. I don’t know
whether we were more disappointed or relieved. We should have known better than to have any hopes of finding anything. He was always one step ahead of us.”

“Except with the rag. Funny …”

“I know. Still, water under the bridge. We’ll never find out the truth about that. I ought to be off—unless there’s anything else I can tell you.”

“There is. This Suspect. Oh, I suppose it’s irrelevant now but I’d just like to understand. Why him?” Hadn’t they both been in the same boat, the Suspect and the Marshal?

“I’m not the one you want! Why me?”

Di Maira shrugged. “I’m not privy to all their little secrets. Esposito was in on it, but he’ll say nothing. I only know they needed somebody with a previous conviction for murder, or GBH at least and he had to be a Peeping Tom. Once they’d discounted the real culprit, who’d left the country, anyway, there wouldn’t have been much of a choice. I’m only guessing here but you can be sure they’d pick somebody poor and helpless who couldn’t afford a fleet of fancy lawyers. The real piece of luck, though, was the daughter. Everybody in the village knew he was having it off with her and that she wasn’t right in the head. All they had to do was convince her to sign a report and they were ready to announce him as the Monster. Joe Public won’t make the connection, if you ask me. Incest’s too tricky a subject.”

“It can’t have been easy, though.”

“I don’t see why. It was probably the first thing that came to light when they started checking him.”

“No, no … I mean getting her to sign. Convincing her to go into court. She seemed so terrified, so ashamed.”

“She was. Terrified and ashamed. It was a dirty trick—even Esposito, who wrote the report they made her sign, thought it was a bit much. They hauled the girl into Police Headquarters, asked her if it was true what they’d heard about her father touching her and so on and then said sign here. If she’d refused they could have accused her of calumny. So whether she wanted to or not …”

“That’s what I thought.” The Marshal thought this over, remembered the videos and added, “She didn’t object to her father’s buying her a flat.”

“No. Even so, it’s about the only intelligent move Simonetti’s made, because nobody, not even his lawyer, will dare touch the subject, and you mark my words, he’ll be done for the Monster’s crimes because of it. Everybody and his dog will know Simonetti’s case against him doesn’t hold water, but nobody will defend him because of this incest business. That’s what settled their choice and he’ll be tried for that again because it’s all they’ve really got. Oh, by the way, if you do want those search reports I mentioned you can have them, you know. I’m not keeping anything back. I just thought—”

“No, no … If you found nothing, there’s no need. But maybe … I was wondering if these three …” How to put it? “If these three had anything to contribute, or even if you thought they might be in any way involved …”

Di Maira frowned at the three names on the paper the Marshal pushed across the desk.

“Ha, yes, well, they’ve all given us a hand in one way or another, but I imagine anything they’ve told us will be in Romola’s acquittal.”

“You haven’t read it yourself?”

“No, of course not. I was part of it, if you like. Who reads those things? Last year’s weather forecast, a bureaucratic formality.”

“I know … normally. Well, all three are mentioned here and there but I’m not too clear … This Salvatore Angius, for instance?”

“One of Silvano’s boyfriends passed him on later to Flavio but stayed in contact with him. He was generally regarded as an adopted son of Silvano’s, and they were related—he came here from Sardinia when he was orphaned as a kid. Worked a bit as a shepherd boy and I reckon was pretty well starving as well as homeless when Silvano picked him up—he was his alibi in sixty-eight, that must have been in the report.”

“Yes, it was. There was also a mention of his living near the Rossini house and I did wonder whether he might actually have been at the scene of the crime.”

“If he was, we’ll never prove it now. He has a record, though, so if you want to know more you can check him out. He was presumably disillusioned with Silvano in the end because he withdrew his alibi when we went over it all in the eighties.”

“He collaborated against Silvano?”

“Up to a point. Then he stuck. If I remember rightly we did him for reticence somewhere along the way. Searched his house, too, just in case he’d got hold of the famous pistol, but we didn’t find it. If you’re thinking of any of these as a suspect I might as well tell you we’ve checked them all.”

“I’m sure you would have. No, I just like to know all about the people involved … For instance, are they reliable as far as their evidence goes—I mean, what sort of life do they lead—drugs, prostitutes?”

“Drugs, all three of them, of course—not addicts, though, the type that takes anything that’s available to get high, you know the sort of thing. Prostitutes—same thing, they all pick up what’s available—Angius, though, I’m not sure about. Couldn’t make out whether he really was homosexual or just dragged into it by Silvano. If he really was, well—you know the way it goes with that sort. They manage to be more or less kept until a certain age and then they wake up one morning and
zak
! It’s over, and they’re having to pay for it. Nicolino, now, he really was Silvano’s son, as far as can be made out. You knew that?”

“Yes. But did they keep in touch?”

“Couldn’t say. I can’t imagine the kid would want much to do with his mother’s murderer, would you? Mind you, with that band you never know. I had the feeling he was frightened of Silvano, myself, as well he might be. A castrator of sons, if there ever was one.”

“That’s something …” The Marshal paused, turning this idea over.

“What?”

“It’s just that … it’s something they tend to say about mothers.”

“You’re right. It is. But apart from the fact that the poor sod
didn’t have a mother for long enough, Silvano wanted all the sex that was going for himself, men and women. He didn’t want any competition. Nicolino never mentions him any more and I’m convinced it’s fear. He saw Silvano that night, or sensed him, standing in the reeds.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“You do? Well,
he
doesn’t, not any more, or so he says. We took him back there, you know, in the eighties. I suppose he’d have been about twenty. It was a warm day and we were standing right there where it happened, waiting to hear what he’d have to say, dying to give him a prod but not daring to.

“He stood there a long time, then he shook his head.

“ ‘I don’t know … it’s all gone …’

“He was staring straight ahead in the direction of the Pistoia road. We’d no way of knowing whether he really didn’t remember or whether he’d decided not to talk. He’s pretty backward, you know, and they’re the hardest type to judge. Just then, a bit of a breeze got up and the reeds moved. They were dry and they made a rustling noise.

“ ‘I touched her hand.’

“It was as if he’d been switched on. I thought right away it was the reeds and I was right. He said as much afterwards.

“ ‘I touched her hand and it fell down in between the two seats. The back window was open and I climbed out and started running. I was screaming and screaming and then there was a voice in the reeds … Somebody … Then we were going away and they kept telling me: Remember to say your dad’s ill in bed. Remember  … I don’t know where they left me. I only remember running across the main road because I was so glad to see the big light.
’

“That’s as much as he was able to tell us, but I think he was doing his best to help, and God knows he’d had enough of it when he was a kid. Nobody wanted him, you know, in the family, any more than they wanted Sergio when he was released from prison. I reckon what they really didn’t want was any more trouble with Silvano. They knew the kid was his, and they didn’t want the truth
about the real relationship between Sergio and Silvano coming out. So Nicolino grew up a mess, unwanted, and Sergio died in the ex-prisoners’ home.”

“He what?”

“Oh yes, he’s dead. You’ll hear nothing about it until our case is further along. Nobody wants the Vargius story resurrecting just now. What do you expect? Who’s this third one, then? Ah, Amelio. He was more of a help, but then he knew more. And he told us about the orgies going on in that flat when he was a kid—the ex-wife confirms it all, too. She’d wake up in the night and find two men in bed with her, Silvano plus his latest boyfriend. Then it got to Silvano plus boyfriend plus boyfriend’s wife, and if she protested he’d beat the living daylights out of her. The kid tried to defend her a time or two but all that meant was that he got the same treatment.”

“Why didn’t she leave him?” The Marshal was always a bit dubious about this sort of story from women who’d tolerated the same treatment for years.

“She tried. Went back to Sardinia to her parents in seventy-four, but there was nothing but poverty and unemployment and they packed her back off to her husband. You made your bed, you lie on it, style of thing. She did leave him for good in the end in nineteen eighty, though she moved back into the flat when he was arrested for his first wife’s murder. Our theory is that it was being abandoned by her that set him off in seventy-four and then again in the eighties. Not to mention the son leaving him, too, in seventy-five. He went to live with Flavio and that didn’t go down well at all. The brothers fought like cat and dog about that, and I suppose that’s why the kid got away altogether then and went up north to his own mother’s sister for a few years. A shame, really, since his stepmother had tried to be a mother to him, but life with Silvano must have been an inferno.” Di Maira pushed the sheet of paper back across the desk. “By God, I wish I could have done him for it. We didn’t even manage to send him down for doing in his first wife. Not that there wasn’t evidence, witnesses too, even after twenty-seven years. The trouble was there’d been no autopsy. No
photographs, either. It had been set up to look like suicide and nobody,
nobody
lifted a finger to show that it wasn’t.”