The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (24 page)

As was to be expected, a crowd of curious bystanders had gathered outside the building behind the red and white tape put in place by two carabinieri to prevent people milling about the front door.

Some, horrified by the rumours that had immediately begun circulating, were discussing the incident in low voices. Others, more cynical, were declaring that the girl had had it coming. How had she ever thought she could avoid attracting attention, dressing so provocatively all the time?

Naturally, reporters from the newspapers and the local television stations were there, waiting impatiently for the marshal to come out so that they could bombard him with their questions. As soon as he stepped out of the front door, he started walking quickly, eyes fixed on the ground. That did not stop the more aggressive reporters from pushing past the tape and encircling him as if he were a hunted animal. Unfazed, he simply said, ‘No comment,’ and pushed away a microphone that had been thrust in his face. He had always been reluctant to release statements, preferring to respect the rule that it was the public relations office at Command Headquarters in Florence, under whose authority his barracks fell, which handled all that kind of thing.

‘Can you at least tell us her name?’ one of the reporters asked him. ‘Is it true she was Cuban?’

The marshal gave the victim’s name and age – Florinda Olivero, twenty – and confirmed her nationality.

Then he managed to force his way through the crowd, walked briskly to his car and got in. The driver set off at top speed.

Pontassieve would be on all the front pages the following day.

Meanwhile, Ferrara had been having a long conversation with Teresa about the break-in at her apartment.

Neither of them could find a plausible explanation for the theft of the photograph album, an object of merely sentimental value. For some reason, the burglar seemed to have wanted to target her soft spot: her memories. But why? More importantly, who?

Being the good observer that he was, Ferrara had noticed that, in spite of her efforts to hide her emotions, Teresa was tense and preoccupied.

‘From today,’ he ended by saying, ‘you’ll be accompanied by an officer wherever you go, at least until we have a clearer idea about this whole thing. And don’t worry, you’re not alone.’

By now it was almost two in the afternoon.

Ferrara lit the unlit cigar he had been clenching between his teeth – his second of the day – and waited for the two o’clock regional news.

Inevitably, the first item was the murder in Pontassieve. Equally inevitably, it emphasised the horrific state in which the body of the young Cuban had been found. It was clear that, in spite of the marshal’s reticence, certain details had leaked out to the media. The second item was a fatal collision between a heavy goods vehicle and two cars in a tunnel on that terrible stretch of the A1 between Florence and Bologna that crossed the Apennines.

Ferrara switched off the television, with the reporter’s conclusion to the first item echoing in his head: ‘An act of violence that threatens to plunge the whole province back into the nightmare of a homicidal maniac at large.’

Suddenly, he heard a commotion in the corridor. He leapt to his feet, rushed out of his office, and saw two uniformed officers struggling with a young, dark-skinned man in handcuffs who was trying to break free. They had caught him in the act of stealing a wallet from a tourist’s bag in the Piazza della Signoria. The city was full of these petty thieves.

‘We’re putting him in a cell,’ one of the officers said.

Ferrara nodded, while thinking it was probably a complete waste of time; within a few hours, or the next morning at the latest, the man would be sentenced but then be back out on the streets anyway.

He was about to go back into his office when he saw Rizzo, who had been to the Prosecutor’s Department, coming towards him with an envelope in his hand.

‘Let’s go to a bar and get a coffee, Francesco.’

He’d had a sudden desire to get away from the four walls of his office. He needed a coffee anyway, even if it was his fourth or fifth of the day. His cigar would taste better afterwards.

They left Headquarters. As they walked, Rizzo told him that Vinci had hesitated for a bit, then granted them authorisation to acquire copies of Presti’s telephone records.

‘Just for the last fortnight, though, Michele.’

‘What about the phone tap?’

‘He said he’d let me know. I suspect he’ll talk about it with his boss.’

‘When will we know for sure?’

‘I’ll call him tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes. You have to keep on at him, because with all his other commitments – tennis, jogging – he’ll never get back to you.’

‘We know what he’s like by now. I’ll actually go to his office at nine tomorrow morning.’

‘Better still.’

Then Rizzo told him about the results of the post-mortem on Beatrice Filangeri.

The pathologist’s report stated that the death had occurred between one and two in the morning. The cause was asphyxia. There was no indication of a struggle or anything else untoward.

‘Who performed the post-mortem?’ Ferrara asked.

‘Francesco Leone.’

By now they had reached the bar. They ordered a couple of tuna and tomato sandwiches and a weak coffee each for lunch. They wolfed down the lot and walked back to Headquarters.

There was work to be done.

He was on the A11 autostrada linking Florence and Livorno via Pisa. The traffic had suddenly come to a halt.

He felt his back growing increasingly sweaty against the seat.

The radio announced that there had been a collision between two cars. So it wasn’t a police road block.

Now a man came walking between the two lines of cars, looking from one to the other. When the man drew level with his car, he saw that he was wearing a bib with the word
Police
on it and seemed to be taking a close interest in him. Just as he was about to take his right hand off the wheel and slip it under the passenger seat, he realised that the policeman had moved on.

He gave a sigh of relief and rubbed his eyes. Gradually, everything came back to him.

He had slept for ages. The pills had worked.

Everything was going according to plan. Although it was possible he had made a mistake. His first one.

Had the images in his dream, which were becoming hazy now, been premonitions?

That bitch had turned out to be stronger and more cunning than he had anticipated. She had defended herself like a wild animal. And, once he had got back home, he had had to treat and bandage his right hand, which had been injured in the fight.

That Cuban whore hadn’t wanted to die.

But no one would ever pin the killing on him, he had told himself when he woke up. He was safe.

He had drunk a large glass of cold milk in the kitchen, then gone down to his big underground room.

It was time to add another piece to the jigsaw.

Angelica had become a loose cannon. He had tailed her and her lover; he had spied on them constantly, even when they were having sex, listening to the words they used, their moans of pleasure.

Hiding two miniature cameras in that house had been child’s play. He had planted one in the bedroom and the other in the living room. He knew everything, including the fact that that slut of an ex-convict had secretly checked Angelica’s mobile.

An act that would cost her dear.

He had to do something.

He sent a text, a code word they had agreed on which meant that he expected Angelica to keep watch in San Gimignano by herself tonight. They needed to find out if that Englishman who was travelling in a rented car was still there as a guest of Sir George, or if he had finally left. It was something he absolutely had to know if he was going to put the final piece of the jigsaw in place.

Then he’d be able to forget about Florence – the Florence he loved so much – for a good long time.

‘A homicidal maniac!’

Marshal Eduardo Gori, commanding officer of the Carabinieri’s Criminal Investigation Squad in Florence, had just finished informing the colonel. He was forty-one, tall and thin, with prominent cheekbones and thick dark hair, greying at the temples. He was a man of great experience.

His colleague in Pontassieve had sent him a report with all the essential details and Gori had immediately called him to assure him that the team in Florence would do everything they could to help. It was a courtesy call, not strictly necessary, since the area covered by his squad included the whole of the province anyway.

‘This was all we needed,’ Colonel Arturo Parisi went on, his medals on prominent display on his impeccable uniform. ‘What do you think, Marshal? Are we dealing with a serial killer?’

Gori shook his head. ‘It’s a bit early to say that after only one murder, sir.’

‘But there have been similar murders in this very province in the past. Don’t you remember the cases of the courting couples and the prostitutes?’

‘Yes, sir, but those are old cases.’

‘Well, it’s best not to rule out anything, especially at the start. Make sure your colleague Moretta is aware of that. In fact, you know what I think? Send a team to back them up, I think they’re going to need one.’

‘Absolutely, sir, I’d already thought of it and told Moretta. I’ll send Sergeant Surace and some other men immediately.’

‘Perfect. And make sure you solve this case as soon as possible.’

Gori nodded, gave the ritual military salute and click of the heels, and hurried out.

Surace was standing in the outer office, waiting for him. He was only young but already weighed over fifteen stone. In his hand he held some papers that had just been faxed from Pontassieve.

It was the statement made by Florinda Olivero’s sister.

‘Come into my office, Domenico!’

They sat down opposite each other and Surace handed him the statement. The marshal took it and started to read it carefully. They both had the same feeling: in the end, the case would be dumped on their shoulders.

The young woman’s name was Alicia Olivero. She was twenty-two and worked at a bar in the central square in Pontassieve. Every day, before and after work, she would spend a few hours with her sister. She lived in a small apartment in the same area with her boyfriend, who worked in the same bar.

That morning, she had arrived at her sister’s just before eight and, having rung the bell a few times and got no response, had run home to get her copy of the key. She was very worried because her sister lived alone and she was afraid something serious might have happened to her. She had called her name several times as she walked down the corridor, then had gone into the bedroom and seen her. She had started screaming. A neighbour, alerted by her screams, had come running, and she had asked her to call the Carabinieri. In the meantime, she had called her boyfriend on her mobile and he had come as quickly as he could.

This was followed by some more specific questions.

Had her sister told her about anyone who’d been causing her trouble? Any incidents in the past few days that had scared her?

Was her sister seeing anyone? Did she have a boyfriend?

All the answers were negative.

With regard to Florinda’s work, her sister said she had been trying to get a foothold in the fashion world. It was her great passion. In fact, a few days earlier she had told Alicia that she had met a film producer who had said he would help her out.

Gori raised his eyes from the statement and looked towards the window. He was thinking. In his phone call, Moretta had told him that the young woman was very beautiful and that they had found several photographs of her on the catwalk. Clearly someone capable of turning men’s heads. God alone knew how many of them had tried to get her into bed with promises of giving her a job, or helping her find one. And God alone knew how many times the poor girl had had to give in to a man’s advances in the hope of fulfilling her dream!

Gori wondered who this film producer might be. Could he be the killer?

‘Domenico, take a team to Pontassieve and work with Moretta’s men. Question Alicia Olivero again. We need to find out more about this film person. If he’s from Florence, we should be able to track him down. There aren’t that many film producers here.’

‘Providing the information’s correct, Marshal.’

‘Of course. In any case, it’s worth a try. Is there anything else in those papers, Domenico?’

‘Nothing. Just a brief report by Moretta on the action they took after the neighbour called 112. He also asks if someone from our office could attend the post-mortem. He doesn’t have many men and he’s very busy.’

Just as Gori had imagined.

‘We’ll send one of our men along. The colonel ordered me to give them our full cooperation. He’s worried about this murder. He mentioned the killings of the courting couples and the prostitutes. Do you remember them?’

Surace nodded. ‘How could I forget them, Marshal?’

They were quiet for a while.

‘The victim’s telephone records could be useful,’ Gori suggested.

‘If Moretta hasn’t already made the request, I’ll do it,’ Surace replied before leaving the room.

Gori picked up his pen and a piece of paper and started writing notes. He jotted down the words
serial killer
, followed by a question mark. In the last few years, several cases of serial killers had been recorded in Italy. At the start of 2000, for example, there had been the playing-card killer in the Veneto, a man named Michele Profeta who had spread an enormous amount of terror before he was captured. There had also been the man who had killed prostitutes in the Prato area.

And anyway, in Florence anything was possible.