A Florentine Death (18 page)

The voices were coming from inside the villa.

Valentina had decided not to ring at the door of his apartment, but to confront Mike directly. She had come through the garden and was now standing outside the French windows.

It was the first time she'd done this. And it would also be the first time she'd set foot in the part of the house where he lived.

He had never invited her.

She looked through the window and the white linen curtain. Mike was sitting comfortably in an armchair, his feet propped on a small, low marble table, in front of the television. The discussion she had heard was coming from the programme he was watching.

She knocked on the glass.

Surprised, Mike got up, came to the French windows and opened them.

'Hi,' he said. He seemed embarrassed. 'May I come in?' she asked.

'Sure, come in. You've never been in the lion's den before.' 'You've never asked me.' 'It didn't seem right.'

'Well, now I've summoned up the courage to do it myself. But I had to talk to you. We need to settle our accounts, it's been a month already'

'That's true. Sit down.' He switched off the TV with the remote control.

'What was that?' Valentina asked.

'A tape I recorded last year. A programme about the Monster of Florence.'

Are you still thinking of writing a book? Were they talking about black magic? It might be useful for my thesis.'

'If you like, I can switch it on again.'

'Maybe later. Let's talk first.'

'Okay. Can I fix you a drink?'

'No, thanks.'

'Coffee, tea?'

'No, really, I'm fine.'

Mike went to a low wooden cabinet with a beautiful inlaid surface and took out a bottle of whisky and a glass for himself.

The room was surprisingly spacious and luxurious. From the frescoed ceiling hung a huge crystal chandelier with at least two dozen drop-shaped bulbs. The walls and ceiling were decorated with elaborate stuccoes; large, valuable-looking paintings - landscapes and religious scenes - in elaborate gilded frames hung on the walls. The armchairs and sofas were beautifully upholstered, and the polished terracotta floor was strewn with large rugs. The dominant colours were red and yellow. To Valentina, it seemed like something out of a costume drama: a cardinal's drawing room, that kind of thing.

'Remarkable, isn't it?' Mike Ross said, as she looked around.

'Amazing. I thought it was just a big old house in the country originally, not a real villa.'

'Maybe it was. One of the previous owners was a famous antique dealer. He's the one who refurbished it.'

'He must have been very rich.'

'So they say'

'How did you get it?'

'Friends at the bank.'

'It must cost a fortune.'

'If you really want to know, the newspaper pays for it! Including your apartment. That's why I can't —' 'No, Mike, it's still not right.'

He pressed a button on the remote control and sat down next to her. 'You said you were interested in the tape, right? Let's have a look.' He started the programme again.

'That's Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Florence
Squadra Mobile,'
he explained, freezing the image on a close up of the policeman. 'An interesting guy. He's the one who reopened the case of the Monster of Florence after the killer had been arrested and everyone thought the case was closed. He actually tracked down two accomplices. Even the FBI had assumed the killer had acted on his own! Now he says there were other people behind him, paying him to carry out the murders. Look.'

The image jerked back into life. 'So, Chief Superintendent,' the host was saying, 'you believe that those who paid for the murders are still at large.' He turned to the criminologist. 'What do you think of that, professor?'

'It would be the first such case in history. Maniacs commit crimes, they don't commission them. Their pleasure lies in killing, cutting, disposing of the pieces
...
a serial killer obeying orders doesn't make sense to me.'

'But there is some evidence of Satanic rituals, isn't there, Chief Superintendent?'

'I'd like to stick with the facts. And it's a fact that during the trial of the Monster's accomplices, certain things emerged that. . . Here, let me read you what the judges said, and don't forget the appeal court upheld the judgement. I quote: "Clues have emerged which indicate that there may have been a third party financing the crimes we have considered in this trial."
Clues have emerged.
The implication is clear. We have to continue with our investigations. It's our duty'

The man was about fifty, spoke with a slight Sicilian accent, and looked pleasant and well groomed. He was wearing a dark grey suit, a sky-blue shirt and a blue tie. His hair long black hair, combed back and streaked with white at the sides - partly covered his ears. And his sideburns were white, in contrast with the thick black eyebrows which accentuated the shape of the eyes.

A cat's eyes,
Valentina thought.

He spoke calmly, quietly, measuring his words. She thought she detected a sly expression on his face as he spoke, almost as if to underline the feline effect of his eyes.

'We're going to show some file footage of Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Florence
Squadra Mobile,'
the host said, 'to give our viewers some background on the man leading the hunt for the Monster's paymasters - supposing there are any'

'Look at this,' Mike said, watching the screen with rapt attention.

The footage showed Ferrara, at least twenty years younger, in charge of a team that had surrounded a building. Beneath the image, the caption:
Reggio Calabria, August 1978.

Michele Ferrara, wearing a bulletproof vest, had climbed onto the roof of a police car and was firing a volley, one shot after the other, at one of the windows in the building. A group of men were seen backing away from the windows to avoid the bullets.

One of the men looked as if he had been hit and fell to the floor, but it was hard to be sure. The image was blurred: the footage may have been shot by an amateur or off the cuff by one of the police officers.

'He killed that one,' Mike said.

Maybe not,' Valentina replied, curiously involved in these images even though they were of no great interest to her.

'He did,' Mike insisted, almost irritably. 'He killed him.'

'But they were gangsters, weren't they? I don't suppose you Americans treat gangsters with kid gloves, either.'

Mike said nothing. He was following the action as if hypnotised.

The men inside the building tried to escape through the back door, but Ferrara's men were waiting for them in large numbers. The last image was of the gangsters being led in handcuffs to the police cars and vans.

Among them was a woman.

Mike pressed a button on the remote, and the screen went black.

And the bit about magic?' Valentina asked.

'Some other time. I've had enough for today'

He did seem tired. Valentina didn't insist. Instead, she took out her chequebook.

Mike looked at her in surprise. 'Listen, kid. Maybe I haven't made myself clear. I didn't ask you to stay here to make money on something that's already paid for by my newspaper.'

'So why
did
you ask me to stay here?'

'Because you remind me of Lippi's Madonna? I don't know. You're the only woman I've ever felt at ease with. The only one I've ever really liked.'

It sounded as if it hadn't been easy for him to say these words, and she thought it was sweet of him.

'If you want to stay, I'll be very pleased,' he said. 'If you want to pay, find a hotel.'

'I'll stay. But on one condition.'

'What's that?' he asked, smiling.

'You tell me what's on the first floor.'

Mike hesitated. 'You mean
...
up there?'

'That's right. Just below my apartment.'

'There's nothing there! Only ashes and rubble. It was almost completely destroyed in a fire when the antique dealer still lived here. The second floor was saved by a miracle. And also one bedroom on the first floor, it must have been their son's. He was a teenager at the time. The new owners never touched it. It's awful up there, dark, walls blackened by smoke, completely empty. They put new window panes in to make the front of the house look presentable, that's all.' 'And no one lives there?'

He laughed. 'How could they? There's nothing there, like I said. Apart from the one bedroom. I go in there sometimes, when I feel stressed out. For some reason, it relaxes me

'Were you in there last night?'

Mike's face seemed to harden. 'Last night?' he replied curtly. Absolutely not.' 'But I heard —' 'You must have imagined it.'

'It really sounded like footsteps. And someone sighing, as if they were very unhappy . . .'

Mike frowned. He seemed troubled, his thoughts in turmoil. 'I understand,' he said after a long pause. 'This house is quite isolated. It can be scary . . . I'll try to make sure you're not left alone at night any more. It's a good thing you don't have anything to fear from someone like me. You're a beautiful girl, anyone else would find the temptation too great.'

'You haven't yet explained what "someone like you" means,' she said, in a conciliatory tone.

'I don't know myself. You asked me if I'm gay. I don't know. I've had experiences with men . . . Let's go outside, I don't like talking in here.'

It was an unusually mild day, the first small sign that spring was on its way. The sun cast a soft, pale light on the garden paths. The grounds of the villa were well tended: Valentina had occasionally caught a glimpse of a gardener.

'Do I like going with men?' he said as they walked towards the far end of the grounds, between rows of vines and olives. 'I don't think so. But it's like a curse. Every now and again, it takes me over and then it's as if I can't resist. I go looking for them. I absolutely have to find an outlet for these feelings. I think basically homosexuals disgust me. But at the same time they attract me — I don't know how to explain it, I told you, it's a curse.'

Valentina was stunned. She wondered if she too, deep down, really only wanted other women. Ginzia had cast a spell on her. Ever since they were children. But what if there was someone else besides Cinzia? What if there was a man like this, who had the same problem as hers?

'Do you have a boyfriend?'

'No. Never. It would be like admitting I'm gay, and I refuse to do that.'

She was about to say something about herself, but decided not to. Right now, Cinzia was with Chiara . . . 'So . . . what do you do?'

'To find an outlet for my feelings, you mean? I go looking for men, at night. There are plenty around. I use them, I pay them, and that's the end of it.'

'How about with a woman . . . have you ever tried?' It had come out naturally, spontaneously.

He stopped, looked her in the eyes and put a hand on her shoulder.

Valentina was moved. She felt a bond between them.

'No woman is worth the effort, Valentina. Sex is a struggle, a combat. It's like some kind of Greco-Roman wrestling contest, you know what I mean? Bodies clinging and writhing, teeth grinding, heavy breathing, the stench of sweat. It's a man's sport.'

'Only if there's no love.' She said it without thinking, and surprised even herself.

Mike's hand was touching her, and Valentina was tempted to lay her head on his strong shoulder.

The sun was setting, and they started back.

'Maybe,' he said. 'But I've never known what love is.'

What about her? Was it true love that had bound her to another woman? Suddenly she felt impoverished, as if she'd been cheated of an important part of life.