A Florentine Death (4 page)

came to see him. We know the priest did. Why not some other special friends?'

'I'd say it's at least possible,' Rizzo agreed.

Which means the killer was someone he knew. He must have opened the door to him, and trusted him enough to happily turn his back on him. He had no idea what the man's real intentions were and was genuinely surprised when he stabbed him in the back.'

'Sounds right to me.'

'The blow kills him, he doesn't even have time to cry out. He falls to the floor and the killer carries on stabbing him even though he's dead. It's as if he was so angry at him, he wanted to wipe his body from the face of the earth. But why? Why did he hate him so much? Jealousy? A quarrel over money?'

'We'll have to look into his private life. That might not be so difficult. Greve's a small place. If we're lucky, the case can be contained within the town and sooner or later we'll find the culprit.'

'I hope it's sooner rather than later. Let's try and avoid the press turning this into a soap opera. The homosexual angle will be meat and drink to them, whether it's the right line of inquiry or not. But I appreciate your optimism and I wish you good luck, because I'd like you to be in charge of the investigation. What do you think of the priest?'

'There's something strange about him,' Rizzo replied, clearly pleased with the assignment. 'Why did he run to tell the people in the bar? And why did he spend nearly half an hour with the body before he told anyone? Doing what? He gave the impression he's someone who's more likely to run away than join the fray, don't you think?'

'Yes, I do. Unless, of course, he actually ran away as soon as the crime was committed, washed off the bloodstains, got rid of the weapon and
then,
feeling repentant or whatever, ran to the bar. But frankly I don't see it. He seems too timid for that. Keep an eye on him, though, but discreetly, please, we mustn't upset anyone. This is a sensitive area, and we'd like to avoid a scandal.

'Don't worry, chief, we'll wear kid gloves with the Church. But not blinkers.'

Ferrara smiled. 'Oh, and Francesco,' he added. 'You don't need to keep me informed of everything. Just the important things, anything significant you turn up. I want you to handle as much of the case yourself as you can. I have other things on my plate at the moment. And please, as far as the press is concerned, say as little as possible. If necessary, send them to me and I'll deal with them.'

Although Rizzo was trying hard not to let it show, he was clearly surprised to be delegated such a degree of responsibility. Ferrara caught a hint of alarm in his eyes, a slight tightening of the muscles in his face.

'Let's go,' he said. 'You have things to do, and I want to watch the evening news at home for once.'

7 p.m.: Verga bookshop, Via Tornabuoni

The shiny silver Porsche Carrera parked just outside the front door of the bookshop.
Bound to get a ticket,
Rita Senesi thought,
and it's sure to be a hefty fine.
But the driver seemed quite relaxed and unconcerned with the consequences of such a glaring infraction of the rules.

The richer they are, the stupider,
Rita thought.

From inside the shop, she couldn't see the occupants of the Porsche clearly but, from what she could see, the girl was certainly a looker and the driver a youngish man who, even at this hour, was still wearing sunglasses.

The girl got out - she had long, beautiful legs - and walked quickly to the front door.

Rita did not move. She had seen enough: the wisps of hair escaping from beneath her scarf, the pale freckles, the slightly upturned grey-green eyes. Customers like this girl were the exclusive reserve of her boss - who indeed, guided by his infallible antennae, had already materialised and was heading for the door, ready to hold it gallantly open for the girl.

'Please come in. It's the first time you've been here, isn't it? Are you a foreigner?'

'Yes, a foreigner from Bologna,' she replied, with a touch of sarcasm in her beautiful, silvery voice.

'You see? I've always said Florence was the wrong city. I should have opened my bookshop in Bologna!'

'Do you just flirt or do you also sell books?'

'It depends on what you're looking for. In my opinion, flirting has one advantage: it doesn't ruin the eyes.'

'I'm in a bit of a hurry' she replied, handing him a sheet of paper with a list of titles: history and theory of Renaissance theatre, aesthetics, art history.

'We must have some of these. Fabio!' he called.

One of the assistants came running and Rita's boss gave him the list.

'It'll take five or ten minutes. While we're waiting, if you'd like to follow me upstairs I might be able to suggest something equally useful.'

The girl glanced at her watch and then looked outside, to where the car was parked. It was empty. The ticket was clearly visible, tucked under the windscreen wiper.

'Don't worry about the fine. It's too late now.' 'It's just that I have a train to catch.' 'What time does it leave?' '8.13.'

'That gives us more than thirty minutes, plenty of time. Make the most of it, follow me. What exactly are you interested in?'

‘I’m studying arts, music and drama. I'm in my last year, preparing a thesis on banquets and theatrical performances at the time of Lorenzo de' Medici.'

'And can't you find those books in Bologna?'

'I imagine I can,' she said as they climbed the stairs. 'But I'm thinking of attending a course here in Florence and that's the reading list for it.'

'So we'll be seeing you again. Florence isn't so bad after all . . .'

'I didn't say I'd made up my mind.' She smiled: the smile of a young woman keeping an older man at arm's length.

While the two hobnobbed upstairs, Rita Senesi, who had looked on in amusement as the traffic wardens had swooped on the Porsche, was now watching the young man: he had first gone into the bar-tobacconist's next door, then had come out and was pacing in front of the windows, smoking nervously.

He was really good-looking, too, and very young. Nearly six feet tall, fair-haired, slim, well dressed - though she thought the expensive buckskin jacket a trifle premature after the merest hint of autumn that had brought the city to life today. Suddenly, he seemed to tire of walking up and down. He threw away his cigarette and came in.

Rita was about to point him upstairs, but before she could he said, 'I need a pen.'

'Ball point or fountain pen?' she almost stammered.

'A fountain pen, a good one.'

The accent was not Florentine. Rita thought she detected a slight American inflection.

She led him over to the display cabinet where they kept the expensive pens, took out two trays showing different brands, and placed them on top of the glass.

'These are the latest Auroras, these are Cross, Parker and
..."

With a determined, almost brusque gesture, the young man separated the two trays which were blocking his view of the pens inside the cabinet, and pointed. 'That one.'

It was a Montblanc Meisterstuck, one of the most expensive pens they had.

An excellent choice. Would you like it gift-wrapped?'

'It's for me. Just fill it for me, please.'

'Of course. That way you can try it.'

While Rita was inserting the cartridge, the young man took off his sunglasses. She handed him the pen and as she did so she looked him in the face. It made her shudder slightly. He had very clear grey eyes; cold eyes. As cold as ice.

The young man doodled a little on the notepad provided. 'It's fine.'

'It's better if you write something, your name, whatever . . .'

'I said it's fine. I'll take it.'

He hadn't even asked the price.

Rita made out a receipt. The young man paid the money without demur and she handed him the pen. He left the shop.

'. . . and if you don't mind me giving you a piece of advice,' Massimo was saying, 'you shouldn't neglect the pagan aspect of those banquets and theatrical performances, the element of ritual and magic. The combination of the Dionysian and the sacred in Florentine culture in the sixteenth century is a constant source of surprise. Especially in popular entertainments, but not exclusively. Think of Machiavelli and his
Mandragola,
with a plot based on the idea of gullibility: the husband deceived thanks to the supposed miraculous properties of a herb!'

'It's true, I hadn't thought of that.'

'If you're interested, I might be able to make a small contribution to your thesis. Come.' He led her to the section where the antiquarian and second-hand books were kept.

'Have a look at this,' he said, taking a volume half-bound in leather from one of the shelves. The title was printed in gold:
Common Book
of
the Dead and
of
Things Believed Lost.
'We can't be sure, but many people think it's the only existing Italian version, translated by Giulio Delmino in Paris in 1530, of the infamous
Necronomicon.
You know what the
Necronomicon
is, don't you?'

'No.'

'It's the oldest known treatise on black magic, written by an Arab named Abdul Alhazred. Here, take it.'

'No, I couldn't do that. I could never afford it. I told you, I'm only a student.'

'Don't worry, it's not old, it's just a photostat. Not worth much, but the contents are fine. And besides, you don't have to buy it. Just promise to bring it back, that's all I ask. I insist, and when a Sicilian insists
..."

The girl hesitated, but took the book in the end. 'You're quite something, you know? That thing about magic is a great idea — none of my teachers said anything about it.'

'Welcome to Florence,
signorina,'
he said, amused.

*

Once he got back in the car, the young man wrote a few words in block capitals on the sheet of writing paper he had bought, along with a ready-stamped envelope, from the tobacconist's:

i
saw you today in greve.
i
know where to find you, you won't get away with it. whoever has inflicted torture deserves only torture in return. an eye for an eye: that is the true law of the Lord. I'll come and find you. Don't try and escape.
i
'll still find you.

And on the envelope he wrote:

Father
S
ergio Rotondi Parish
C
hurch of
S
anta
C
roce Greve in
C
hianti
(FI)

By the time the girl got back in the Porsche, he had already put everything in his pocket.

'How come it took you so long?' he asked gently.

'They couldn't find the books, they're not very organised. I only got three, in the end. But the owner's very nice, he even lent me a book.'

'Shall we go, then? It's nearly eight.'

All right, step on it!'

He didn't need to be asked twice. He set off with a squeal of tyres. After dropping the girl he returned home, undecided whether or not to send the letter.

'Pretty girl, wasn't she?' Massimo Verga remarked. 'Don't even think about it!'

'Come on now, you're not going to tell me she's too young for me!'

'That as well, if you want me to. But what I was thinking was, she's already taken. You saw him.'