Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (42 page)

He flipped through the newspaper to see what was on the television, and stood up to switch to the National channel. He started watching the second instalment of
The Count of MonteCristo
, accompanying it with a glass of wine and a cigarette. He missed Eleonora, her smile, her scent … and everything else. It was better not to think about her. One needed patience with today’s girls.

When the episode ended, it was followed by a variety show featuring Orietta Berti. By the second song he had fallen asleep sitting up on the sofa and begun to snore, chin resting on his chest. He missed the goals in
This Sunday in Sports
, did not watch the late edition of the news, and did not hear the key turn in the front door. He didn’t even hear Eleonora approach and turn off the television. He didn’t know she was looking at him and could never have imagined what was going through the mind of the beautiful girl he had lost his head over. Had he known, he would have woken up and asked her to come and live with him.

Eleonora watched him with tenderness, thinking that the grumpy inspector was a wonderful man. She had to accept it: she was wild about him. But she didn’t want him to find out too soon, for fear of frightening him. At his age it was anybody’s guess how many women he’d been with, and he certainly wouldn’t want a clingy young girl beside him all the time. The evenings she hadn’t spent with him had cost her a great deal of effort. But she wanted to show him she was a mature woman, not an insecure teenager in need of constant reassurance. If their relationship continued, maybe they could try living together … Why not? It would be the first time for her, and the very idea gave her butterflies in her stomach. She sat down beside her man and caressed his brow. Bordelli woke up, but it took him a few seconds to realise he wasn’t dreaming.

‘I must’ve fallen asleep,’ he mumbled.

‘You mean you weren’t contemplating the universe?’ she said, laughing.

After a long kiss, Bordelli lay down and rested his head on her thighs.

‘I had a terrible day,’ he let slip.

‘Tell me …’ she said, stroking his cheek.

‘No, I beg you. I’m trying not to think about it.’

‘Was it really that bad?’ Eleonora insisted.

‘A lot worse than you can imagine. Let’s talk about something else … How’s your cellar coming along?’

‘I’ve almost finished. A handful of good-looking boys gave me a hand.’

‘Out of sheer altruism, I expect.’

‘You’re the only one who sees me as irresistible …’

‘Liar. Every man in the world fancies you and you know it.’

‘If that were true I wouldn’t be here with an ageing, melancholy cop.’

‘I’m not at all melancholy,’ Bordelli protested.

‘Then I stand corrected: an ageing cop.’

‘Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.’

‘I bet you’ve been with hundreds of women and probably can’t even remember all their names.’

‘That’s why I set up an archive.’

‘Really?’

‘Unfortunately it was destroyed by the flood. I kept it at the Biblioteca Nazionale. There were too many volumes for me to keep it at home.’

‘Come on, tell me the truth … How many women have you been with?’

‘Please don’t make me count them.’

‘Are there really so many?’ she asked, worked up.

‘One really has to be careful with you women. You’re all in love with Don Juan and Casanova, and at first you’re thrilled that your man is a skirt-chaser. Then as time goes by you’re liable to get jealous of a chicken … I mean the kind that cluck.’

‘I’m not jealous at all,’ said Eleonora, shrugging.

‘I wish you were, at least a little.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you …’

‘You mean I can sleep with all the women I want?’

‘Of course, but if you do I’ll chop off your head.’

‘That’s what I call consistency,’ said Bordelli. He was finally starting to relax.

‘Have you ever lived with a woman?’ she asked.

‘I’ve come close, but it’s never happened.’

‘Are you usually the one to cut and run, or is it the women who leave?’

‘It’s always the women who leave.’

‘Well, that’s something to think about.’

‘Ah, you mean women can think?’

‘Silly …’ said Eleonora, rubbing his face with her hand. He stuck his hand under her jersey to tickle her, and between the yelps and laughter the skirmish continued in bed. The air in the bedroom was hot and dry from the gas heater, but they didn’t even notice. In the half-light they indulged in a thousand different games, whispering sweet nothings and obscenities to each other. They felt free, they could do whatever they liked …

When Bordelli got to the office, Signorini’s cleaning lady had phoned just a few minutes before. Tapinassi and Rinaldi had gone to the villa, and Diotivede had already been alerted. The inspector got back into the 1100 together with Piras and calmly drove off. He didn’t tell his young assistant about his pleasant visit to Monsignor Sercambi or his intention to pay a call on the other two as well. For the moment he preferred to set out alone on this desperate and perhaps pointless adventure.

When they arrived at Via Bolognese, the gate was open wide. They pulled up in front of the entrance staircase, alongside the run-down Fiat 600. As soon as they got out of the car, Tapinassi popped out from behind a corner of the villa.

‘It’s the guy we were tailing, sir,’ he said. Piras and Bordelli exchanged a fleeting glance of understanding.

‘Have you already searched the house?’ Bordelli asked.

‘Yes, sir. The cleaning lady let us in. And in the victim’s study we found a nine-calibre Beretta, a syringe and a few grams of morphine,’ said Tapinassi, leading them to the corpse.

‘Any signs of a break-in?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Can you tell what window he threw himself out of?’

‘From his bedroom, Inspector.’

‘Any signs of a struggle?’ Bordelli asked, pretending to assess the possibility of murder.

‘At a glance, I’d say no, Inspector.’

They went round to the back of the villa and stopped near the body. Signorini was in the same position in which Bordelli had left him, looking as if he were executing a dance step. The puddle of blood had dried, the facial colour was tending towards grey, and the blackened tip of the tongue was sticking slightly out of the half-open mouth. Bordelli looked up at the fatal window, feigning thoughtfulness.

‘Where’s the cleaning lady?’

‘Inside with Rinaldi.’

‘I’m going to go and talk to her.’

He went into the house with Piras at his side. They found the woman in the study, talking to Rinaldi. She was frightened and sorrowful over the young man’s death, and had clearly been crying. Bordelli asked her a few questions. Using roundabout turns of phrase and vague hints, he tried to find out whether the woman knew about Signorini’s drug abuse and sexual habits, but she genuinely seemed to know nothing.

‘He was always so sad … It was almost to be expected … Poor boy …’

‘For the moment I have nothing more to ask you, signora.’

Bordelli told Rinaldi to accompany the lady to headquarters for her witness statement, then went up to the second floor with Piras. Now they were alone.

‘I’ve got half a mind to fabricate evidence to implicate his friends in throwing him out of the window,’ Bordelli whispered.

‘I’m with you,’ said Piras.

‘It’s not so easy, unfortunately. Just write a report declaring it a suicide and let’s close the book.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As they were going out of the house they saw Diotivede’s 1100 coming down the driveway towards them. The doctor parked alongside the department’s 1100 and got out with his inevitable black leather bag.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a new car,’ he said.

‘The farthest thing from my mind. That’s a squad car. It’s only useful ’cause it’s got a radio.’

‘You could have a radio installed in the Volkswagen.’

‘Sooner or later I will.’

‘Where’s my client?’

‘Behind the villa. No need to waste much time on the post-mortem. It’s a suicide.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I’ll tell you another time. I have to go now. Give my regards to your girlfriend.’

‘Did you know that Marianna said you were handsome?’ said the doctor, perplexed.

‘I guess she knows men.’

‘I was thinking she should probably see a psychiatrist.’

‘Your sensitivity is touching.’

‘Oh, sorry … Maybe she only needs a pair of glasses,’ said Diotivede with a sly smile, before walking away whistling.

‘He’s not being mean. That’s just the way he is,’ Bordelli said to Piras as they were getting in the car. They didn’t say a word the whole way back to the station.

The inspector went up to his office and opened the Pellissari file. On a sheet of paper he wrote down Beccaroni’s two addresses, the lawyer’s office and home. He picked out a few photos of Giacomo Pellissari’s dead body, put them in his coat pocket, and drove off again. The moment had come to pay a little visit to the other two. Surely the monsignor had already alerted them, and surely they must be alarmed.

Reaching the end of Viale dei Mille, he parked in front of the butcher’s shop and noticed a few customers queuing up. Around the stadium there was the usual bustle of people and army vehicles, but at that moment his thoughts were elsewhere. He went into the shop and greeted Panerai with a friendly smile. The butcher returned the smile, but it was clear he was anything but cheerful. While serving the customers he eyed Bordelli suspiciously. He was almost certainly asking himself:
Is he the police inspector who paid a visit to the Giraffe? This likeable gentleman who is loyal to the Duce and likes his steaks four fingers thick? Is it possible? And yet he fits Gualtiero’s description …

Bordelli strolled about the shop while awaiting his turn, humming a tune. He noticed a small frame hanging in a corner. Printed on tricolour paper were three lines of verse that aped a tercet of the
Inferno
:

By the true light do we still abide,

the same that shone across our land:

so bright still shines our supreme Guide
.
⁵¹

It must have been a nice little souvenir of Predappio, like the bust of Mussolini in the cellar on Via Luna. He waited patiently for the last customer to leave, then approached the counter with a jovial air.

‘Now, to us …’

‘What can I get for you?’ Panerai asked guardedly, knife in hand.

‘I’d like a nice leg of little boy,’ Bordelli said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘Whaa …?’ said the butcher, open-mouthed, a thick furrow across his brow. It was finally clear to him that the ball-busting police inspector was indeed the steak man, and he realised he’d been under surveillance for quite some time. Bordelli pulled out one of the photos of Giacomo’s dead body and thrust it under his nose.

‘Young meat is always more tender, wouldn’t you say?’

‘What the hell is this?’ Panerai muttered, turning pale. Bordelli put the photograph back in his pocket.

‘Who knows what your beloved Fathead would think of you and your friends? At least he bragged about fucking women, not little children.’

‘Who are you, anyway? What the hell do you want from me?’ the butcher spat out, terrified.

‘Come on, Piglet, you don’t expect me to believe that the monsignor didn’t forewarn you, do you?’

‘You’re mad.’

‘I may well be, but soon I’ll have proof that you raped and killed that boy,’ Bordelli lied, knowing the butcher wouldn’t believe him. But that sort of statement always had an effect.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Panerai, squeezing the handle of the knife.

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Tell Penguin the lawyer that I’m on my way to see him, maybe he’ll get in some pastries.’

He walked away whistling, and when he got back in the car he shot a glance at the butcher’s counter. Panerai was gone, probably already phoning Beccaroni.

He drove back downtown to continue his work. The three friends must certainly have gone looking for Signorini, and when they couldn’t find him they’d grown suspicious. They were probably wondering whether it wasn’t indeed the rich young fool who’d snitched on them. Before long, however, they would hear the news of his suicide on the radio or television, and they would breathe a sigh of relief. So the question on Bordelli’s mind was now: with Signorini dead, which of the three left was the weakest link? Certainly not the prelate. Perhaps it was Panerai, with his tough-guy façade …

He felt as if he had set out on a path of no return, as in certain wartime operations. He had no hope of gaining anything, other than the fact that the three killers now knew that he knew. A miserable consolation. But what else could he do? Take revenge? He imagined himself lurking in the bushes in front of Monsignor Sercambi’s villa, with a precision rifle with a silencer on it. Head in the cross-hairs … Zap! … Meet your maker, Monsignor. The lawyer he would wake up in the middle of the night, make him get down on all fours, and then slit his throat. For the butcher, special treatment: a big stick up the arse and wire round the neck. Amen.

He stopped the car in Piazza Santissima Annunziata in front of Palazzo Budini Gattai and continued on foot. A breakdown lorry was removing the last wrecked cars from the square, and here and there could be seen the usual little mounds of debris gathered together by the bulldozers. Turning the corner of Via dei Servi, he stopped in front of number 50. He rang the buzzer for the Beccaroni law offices, but nobody replied. He tried again twice, then went back to the car.

He took the Viali to the end, then crossed the Arno and went as far as Porta Romana. Turning up Via Ugo Foscolo, he continued on to Via di Marignolle … 4 … 18 … 36 … 62 … 80 … 92 … 94 … 96 … 96A … He pulled up in front of 96B and got out. A high stone wall, a closed gate, a villa immersed in greenery. He stuck his head through the bars to have a look at the garden. Two large dobermans trotted over and, growling softly, they sat down one beside the other a few yards from the gate. He heard some cautious steps in the gravel and Beccaroni appeared, in gardener’s overalls and holding shears. He stopped at a distance from the gate. He was frightened, but forced himself to appear composed.