The Marshal's Own Case (5 page)

‘Well, have you seen him with them or not?’

‘Sometimes at break. They play cards.’

‘Cards? Not for money?’

‘A hundred lire or something. I don’t know. I don’t go near them. Innocenti’s dad . . .’ Giovanni eyed his father sideways, reluctant to continue.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s in prison. At least, that’s what everybody says.’

The Marshal digested this piece of information in silence. He wondered how Teresa was getting on. He couldn’t hear a sound from the boys’ bedroom.

‘Can I go?’ Giovanni asked, ‘I’ve not finished my homework.’

‘No, wait. Do you think . . . do you think Totò’s unhappy?’

‘Unhappy? Why should he be? There’s nothing wrong with him.’

‘No, no . . . it was just something his teacher—no, of course there’s nothing wrong with him.’ He was well-dressed, well-fed and looked after. What could a teacher who only saw him for a couple of hours a day know about it? He had nothing in the world to complain of. The trouble was that kids never knew when they were well off. When he thought of his own childhood . . . He’d been luckier than most but so many children went without shoes and never got a square meal. He remembered all the money they’d spent at the beginning of term . . . and that little girl crying for a satchel. Perhaps the boys were spoilt and that was the problem. But there was plump, quiet Giovanni beside him, trying now to catch what was being said on the television, and he never got in trouble. He thought he might as well turn the sound up since they were sitting there saying nothing, but then Teresa came back so instead he said, ‘Go and finish your homework.’

Teresa took the boy’s place on the sofa.

‘What did he have to say for himself, then?’

‘Nothing much.’ Teresa looked unsatisfied. ‘I took the teacher’s advice and just told him his work was below standard and he’d have to stay in every afternoon and study. I didn’t mention the other business. Even so, there was no getting anything out of him. I tried asking if he was unhappy at school, if he felt his teacher didn’t like him, if he didn’t feel well and so on. He hadn’t a word to say—except, as usual, that we always pick on him and Giovanni’s always the favourite. He was just saying that for the sake of saying it. I have a feeling that teacher was right. There
is
something wrong but he’s hiding it.’

‘Well, there’s no point in sitting here all night trying to guess what it is. I suppose it’ll come out sooner or later.’

They watched television for a while, or pretended to. But the Marshal knew they were both more disturbed than they wanted to admit. It wasn’t long before they gave up the pretence and went early to bed where they lay side by side in sleepless silence until Teresa said, ‘You’re not worrying about him, are you? It’ll be something and nothing.’

‘Of course it will. I wasn’t worrying. I was just remembering I’ve got to go over to Borgo Ognissanti tomorrow first thing. The Captain wants to see me but in his message it didn’t say why. That’s what’s worrying me.’

It wasn’t, but once he’d produced it as an excuse it began to.

Three

C
aptain Maestrangelo was a serious man. The Marshal had only very rarely seen him smile, and when he did it was such a fleeting smile and so instantly replaced by utter solemnity that it was difficult to believe he’d not imagined it. He wasn’t showing any signs of smiling now, but what exactly he was showing signs of the Marshal couldn’t fathom. So he sat there in silence, his big hands on his knees, his big eyes watchful but fixed not on the Captain so much as on a gold-framed oil painting just behind his head.

‘I imagine you’ll need more men. I can spare you two on a regular basis—you’ve nobody off sick?’

‘No . . .’

‘Then put one of your own lads on the job as well and with my two you should be able to manage. Your brigadier’s capable of taking your place when necessary.’

The truth had dawned but the Marshal was having difficulty believing it.

The ‘pre-packed’ body, as Lorenzini had christened it, had been found on his territory by his men, but a case like that, needing a number of men and a lengthy investigation, would normally be dealt with from here at Headquarters, the Marshal himself giving any local assistance that might be called for. The Captain was within his rights to do what he was doing, but even so . . .

‘You want me to lead the investigation?’

‘Certainly. You’re more than capable of it.’

What the Marshal wanted to ask was ‘Why?’ but it wasn’t his place to ask that sort of question of his commanding officer so he said nothing. Nevertheless, his eyes, bulging rather more than usual, were eloquent with the unspoken question and the Captain avoided them. The answer was not long in presenting itself, anyway.

‘I had a call yesterday afternoon from Professor Forli.’

‘He’s already done an autopsy?’

‘Only the first stage. He can’t give me anything further on the cause of death yet as he hasn’t examined the internal organs. But what he did find out he thought he should communicate right away because it will affect the direction of our—your inquiry. He opened the thorax yesterday and got a surprise. To be more exact, he opened the left breast, then the other to make sure. He says he never would have believed it, he would have excluded the possibility from the size alone. However . . . the breast was a bag of silicone. So, there it is. Not the body of a young woman but of a young man. Obviously, this means the point of departure for your inquiry must be there. The transvestite prostitute contingent in the city is large, but closely knit and virtually closed to outsiders. They all know each other, so at least you’ll have no trouble working out which one is missing and getting this . . . creature identified.’

And there it was, the reason. What was veiling the Captain’s dark and solemn eyes was distaste. No doubt it was reflected in the Marshal’s own face as he began, ‘I don’t know much about—’

The Captain rose at once and took a small stack of files from a cupboard. He placed these on the desk between them and sat down again. There was nothing else on the broad polished surface of the desk except an unused blotter in a leather case and a heavy glass ashtray, also unused. The Captain was a fastidious man. In the Marshal’s private opinion he ought to marry, have children, allow a bit of human disorder into his life, but his face was expressionless as ever as he listened to what he was being told.

‘These are the files on all the transvestite murders in the city, or to be more precise, murders committed in and around their world. In some cases the prostitute himself is the victim. Others were probable clients, others again Peeping Toms who may have been seen as a threat by some client who didn’t want to risk being discovered because of having a wife and children or a respectable job. A number of them occurred in the Cascine as that’s the park where there’s most transvestite traffic. As you’ll see, all the victims were either battered to death with a handy stone or stabbed with common or garden kitchen knives. There’s never been a case like the one you’re handling, where the body was cut up and concealed, and before you can find out where the killing took place you’ll need to identify the victim so as to know where he operated, whether in the Cascine or at home.’

The Marshal stared at the files one by one. He was dismayed, not by their contents but by their covers, each of which had one word written large in red: UNSOLVED.

The globular white lights along the length of the avenue barely lit the road they were cruising along. They seemed rather to emphasize the blackness beyond it on either side. Every so often a ghostly figure appeared near a tree or a bench, then dissolved into darkness again as they passed by. Some of the figures moved slightly, thrusting themselves into visibility or turning their heads slightly, but the effect was still that of statues placed at intervals. The slow-moving cars which passed in an endless stream, sometimes settling into a queue in front of one of the pale figures, added to the sense of being in some crazy museum without a catalogue and little more than a torch to find your way about.

The Marshal, hunched silently in the civilian car, found it claustrophobic. So much activity taking place with so little light and all of it confusing. Ferrini, the Captain’s man, was driving and he, thank God, knew his way about. Even so, it was bizarre and not at all what he had expected. When the Public Prosecutor had directed them to sift through the transsexual population, the Marshal had imagined a road block, lights, uniformed men, anything but this creeping around in civvies at three in the morning, one more kerb-crawling car among the hundreds of others. Where did they all come from? Out of town, a lot of them, to judge by the number plates, but there were plenty of Florentines, too. There must have been more traffic than there ever was in the daytime.

Ferrini slowed and wound down his window. A white figure standing beneath a tree came to life and glided forward. The Marshal caught a glimpse of long pale thighs, white lace barely covering a thrusting pair of breasts. Then a white fur swept down over it all and a face appeared. A man’s voice murmured gruffly, ‘It’s you . . . I didn’t recognize you.’

‘You weren’t meant to,’ Ferrini said. ‘We don’t want to frighten your customers away.’

‘What’s up, then?’

‘Plenty. Listen, is anybody missing off this patch that you know of? That tall one, for instance, the one who’s usually over there by the railings?’

‘Carla? She’s got the ’flu.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. She’s a friend of mine and anyway we ate together this evening. She could hardly eat a thing she had such a temperature.’

‘Anybody else?’

‘Missing? Not that I know of, but I keep myself to myself so any number of people could be missing for all I know. You get some funny people on this game, I can tell you. I just stick with my own few friends. You know what I mean?’

‘Well, take my advice. Stick even closer to your friends than usual. Pair off with somebody. Take precautions, you know how.’

‘Has somebody been attacked?’

‘Murdered. And nastily. Read the paper. And in the meantime, take precautions. Think on.’

They moved away. The Marshal turned to look out of the back window and saw the white figure staring after them uncertainly.

‘You think he’ll take your advice?’ he asked Ferrini.

‘Oh yes, at least for a week or so. They always do. Work in pairs so one can take the number of the car the other gets into, that sort of thing. Soon wears off though, since they know well enough what a risky job they’re in. Mind you, a body chopped up like that’ll give them something to think about . . . Let’s hear what Titi has to say.’

He braked and poked his head out the window.

‘Fish not biting tonight, Titi?’

More thighs, this time with black suspenders, and all the Marshal could think of was how cold they must be. For goodness’ sake, it was two in the morning and he was in a car with an overcoat and scarf on and the heating turned on full. But each time Ferrini wound the window down he felt the cold. All these people were practically naked!

Titi’s head was dark and curly, his lips full and red, a black choker encircled a thick neck.

‘After all these years,’ he said, wafting heavy perfume in through the car window, ‘I knew you’d fall for me in the end.’

‘If I ever get the urge,’ Ferrini said, ‘you’ll be first on my list.’

‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I suppose something’s up or you wouldn’t be here.’

‘Where did you get that ring, for a start?’ Ferrini asked, glancing at the hand clutching the lowered glass. The hand with its long, varnished nails had three or four rings on it, but one was a very large cluster of what looked like real diamonds.

‘Oh God! Not that old story.’

‘You tell me. Got a receipt for it?’

‘Have I hell got a receipt for it! Do you keep receipts for every piddling thing you buy?’

‘I can’t afford piddling diamond rings.’

‘Change your job, then.’

‘Get in.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Get in. And think yourself lucky. Worse could happen to you if we leave you here.’

It was as if he’d touched off a fuse. He got into the car all right but spitting with fury. Both the abuse and the perfume hitting them from the back seat were overpowering.

‘Shut up, Titi,’ Ferrini suggested, ‘or you’ll be done for abuse to a public official, you know that.’

‘I’ve no right to call a shit a shit, have I, not being a human being like you! Why don’t you take a walk up the Via Tornabuoni and stop one of those rich bitches on her way into Gucci’s. Ask her for the receipt of all the jewellery she’s wearing and see what happens. I work for my money, you know that?
Work!
’

‘Shut up, Titi,’ repeated Ferrini mildly, ‘there’s worse things happening in the world. One of your little band’s been murdered, chopped up in little pieces all neatly packed in plastic bags. You’re safer with us tonight than out working.’

‘You’re making it up.’

‘Not me. You ask the Marshal here.’

Titi didn’t, which was just as well. The Marshal, never loquacious, was totally out of his depth and struck dumb.

‘So,’ Ferrini went on, ‘any of your little friends missing?’

‘I don’t think so . . .’ The fury, so suddenly ignited, had evaporated on the instant. He seemed as easily distracted as a fractious baby.

‘Anybody at all who’s not been around for a day or two, whatever the reason?’

‘You expect me to help you? In spite of—’

‘That’s right. Help yourself more likely, unless you fancy ending up in pieces in a plastic bag yourself. Could have been one of your clients and your turn next. Now, come on, let’s hear it.’

Titi gave a little grunt of disgust. When the Marshal turned to look he was gazing out of the window as if thinking of something else but he suddenly leaned forward and tapped Ferrini on the shoulder.

‘Gigi’s not there, she should be by that bench.’

They drove on slowly and another figure glided forward, sliding a bare leg out from under fur wraps for their inspection.

This time it was Titi who opened his window, calling in a low, drawling voice, ‘Hey . . . Mimi, come here a minute . . .’

Mimi, recognizing Ferrini, muttered, ‘Oh hell!’ and covered the bare leg.

‘There’s been this dreadful murder,’ Titi warned sententiously, ‘and Gigi’s not at her place.’

‘So what? She went to Spain with that bitch Lulu. They were both booked in at the clinic three days ago.’

‘Anybody else missing?’ put in Ferrini.

‘I don’t know . . . Paoletta, but she went down to Sicily, her grandmother died.’

‘Nobody else?’

Nobody else. They drove on, repeating their question, sometimes forced to queue for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour behind a line of cars while their quarry emerged and retreated, argued, cajoled, and more often than not ended with a shake of the head, sending a car on its way and letting the next one approach. They seemed to turn down nine offers out of ten and only once, after waiting what seemed an age, did a half-naked figure climb into one of the cars to be driven away just as they got near the front of the queue.

‘Damn . . .’ Ferrini drove on along with the other disappointed clients. ‘Well, we’ll pick him up tomorrow morning along with anyone else who hasn’t shown up tonight. We’ve got them all listed.’

‘That’s right! Like we were criminals! Listen, I’ve never had the slightest brush with the law—’

‘Me neither. And what we do’s not against the law, is it? Well, is it? Some of my best clients are lawyers—and some of them are cops, too!’

For they now had two passengers filling the small car with two conflicting perfumes and two intermingled streams of abuse. They didn’t get back to Borgo Ognissanti too soon for the Marshal. The other two cars on the job had got in before theirs and deposited their haul in one of the larger offices. Ferrini added their two. The noise was deafening. The Marshal hung around near the door feeling useless and deeply embarrassed. It was his habit, when not doing anything in particular, to stand stock still, with his bulging expressionless eyes fixed on some undefined point in the middle distance. It wouldn’t do here. No matter where his gaze rested it was bound to be met by some of that bare ambiguous flesh, its femininity so brusquely contradicted by quarrelsome male voices, one of which suddenly addressed him.

‘Is looking enough or you want to touch?’

‘Keep your mouth shut,’ warned his nearest neighbour. ‘What’s the use of getting yourself into trouble for no reason?’

‘I’ll say what I feel like! Just because we’ve been dragged in here like a bunch of crooks doesn’t mean I’ve no right to speak. Hey! Ferrini! If a nun gets murdered I suppose you break into the convent at three in the morning and drag the other nuns round here for a going-over, right?’

Ferrini looked up from his desk where he was going through the papers of a huge, silent blond.

‘Shut up, or you’ll wait till the last if not longer.’ He lit a cigarette and carried on quietly, showing no sign of ill humour, only rubbing occasionally at his weary eyes.

‘Name.’

‘Giulietta.’

‘Your real name.’

‘Fabiano, Giulio.’