The Marshal's Own Case (8 page)

‘But you had this friendly arrangement.’ It was common enough anyway, no contract, no receipts, no rent control, no taxes, but the Lulu’s in the case, socially unacceptable and with money to spare, were perfect victims for such exploitation. He was convinced that Lulu had been paying rent in millions rather than hundreds to this highly respectable landlady but he also knew that he would never be able to prove it. And if she ‘didn’t know’ that Lulu was a transsexual, it went without saying that she would never have seen any clients going in or out. He saw her eyes wavering under his stare but he knew her sort. He was wasting his time. So all he said was, ‘We’ll need to keep the keys. The Public Prosecutor’s office will send someone to seal the entrance until further notice. Good evening, Signora.’

She watched him go without a word and he heard the door close quietly behind him as he stumped down the stairs.

‘I’ve found some good photographs,’ Ferrini announced as he saw the Marshal come in. The photographs were spread out on the bed. The television was still on but the tape, thank God, had run out.

‘Look at this one in the bathing suit. You have to admit he was better-looking than the real thing. Look at the thighs! And as for those eleven and a half ounces . . .’

The Marshal didn’t look. He went straight to the bathroom. The young technician was shutting his case.

‘I’ve finished if you want to look round.’

The Marshal said nothing, only gazed about him with troubled eyes. But as the young man started to push past him and leave he got hold of his arm.

‘The sink.’

‘What about it? It’s clean as a whistle.’

‘Pull it out.’

‘What?’

‘Pull it away from the wall.’

‘Well . . . If you think . . .’

‘Pull it out.’

‘All right—but shouldn’t we warn the owner?’

‘No.’

They weren’t equipped for a plumbing job but two of them managed to shift it, not very far but enough.

‘Ferrini!’ The Marshal called him without budging from his place just inside the door.

‘Well, well, well!’ said Ferrini. ‘Good for you!’

The technicians homed in on the spot, delighted and not at all resentful. ‘You learn a new one every day!’

The Marshal still didn’t budge. He didn’t say anything, either, only stared at the strip of tile that had been behind the sink. It was patterned with vertical trickles of red.

Five

W
hen they got outside a fine drizzle was falling in the dark street which looked oily in the yellow lamplight.

The Marshal said, ‘We should pick up anybody who said they knew Esposito had gone to Spain. You’ve got them listed from the other night?’

‘There were only a couple, Mimi and Peppina. He didn’t seem to have many friends.’

‘As long as you know who they are and where to find them . . .’

To him the other night was no more than a blur, the doll-like faces all the same, the names meaningless. Titi, Lulu, Mimi . . .

‘You want to pick them up tonight?’

‘Tonight, yes.’

Ferrini peered at his watch in the gloom. ‘It’s early yet. There’ll be nobody there until going on midnight. We might just catch a restaurant still open, what do you think?’

‘No . . . no, I think I’ll go home if you don’t mind.’

‘All right by me.’

‘My wife will be wondering . . .’

‘Ah. Mine expects me when she sees me.’

‘I’ll pick you up at Borgo Ognissanti.’

Whether or not Teresa would be wondering, the fact was he wanted to go home for the sake of being somewhere normal and familiar, to take the taste away . . .

It was Bruno who greeted him in the first place, not Teresa. He must have heard the car on the gravel and was hovering near the door.

‘There’s this urgent message, Marshal, at least . . .’

‘What is it? We’d better go into my office.’

‘I promised to tell you as soon as you came in, so—’

‘All right.’ He switched on the light and unbuttoned his damp overcoat. ‘What is it?’

‘This boy came looking for you. He’d been to Borgo Ognissanti and they’d sent him here because of your being in charge of the case—the pre-packed—’

‘Don’t you start calling it that, too.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘And don’t call me sir.’

‘Sorry, Marshal—only with not knowing the victim’s name . . .’

‘Esposito.’

‘You found out?’

‘Today. Who’s this boy?’

‘One of the ones we picked up the other night, or so he says, I mean he looks like a he and was dressed ordinarily, little thin kid.’

‘I remember. Well? What did he want?’

‘He seemed to be scared out of his wits for a start. I suppose it’s no wonder, is it, now it’s in all the papers about the pre—about this murder. Anyway, it seems that all the people who were picked up were told not to leave Florence without permission and what it amounts to is that he’s too scared to go out at night and—and work, and he has to, to live, I mean, so he wants to leave. He says if you let him go to Milan he’ll report his address, not disappear or anything—’

‘No, no, no.’

‘I suppose not. Can’t blame him for being scared. I bet they all are. The thing is, he says he’s not really one of them so it’s nothing to do with him. He said he told them that the other night. I think he thought that because he knew you you’d make an exception and—’

‘He doesn’t know me. I saw him for five minutes when they brought him in. Listen, I’m tired—’

‘But, Marshal, I wouldn’t have—I mean, I’d have sent him away without bothering you but he does know you. He said he used to live near you down in Sicily and that your wife knows his mother.’

‘I see. Is his name Luciano?’

‘That’s right. Enrico. You do know him, then?’

‘I didn’t recognize him. I haven’t seen him since he was nine or ten.’

‘That explains it, because he didn’t recognize you either, perhaps because you weren’t in uniform, but when he went to Borgo Ognissanti today and they said that you—’

‘All right. I can’t do anything about it now. I’ll see tomorrow. But if he goes anywhere it won’t be to Milan. He can go home to his mother who’s looking for him.’

‘Did I do wrong, telling you?’ Bruno’s face was apprehensive.

‘No, no. Don’t worry about it.’

He left Bruno to switch out the lights and lock up and went through to his own quarters. He’d never had any time for the Luciano woman, but even so, to have to tell her that her son . . . Teresa might . . . but no, he couldn’t even see himself telling Teresa.

‘You haven’t eaten, have you?’ She was waiting for him in the kitchen, preparing something, perhaps for the next day.

‘No.’

‘Sit down, then. I fed the boys but I thought I’d wait for you. It’s miserable eating alone.’

Not that it turned out to be a cheery event eating together. He ate slowly, staring at his plate and never saying a word. Teresa looked at him, as apprehensive as Bruno had been. He was never a great talker but for him to be like this there had to be something really wrong.

More to provoke him into speaking than to know the answer she said, ‘Did I do wrong to wait for you? You look as if you want to be on your own.’

There was no telling whether the question had penetrated. He chewed thoughtfully, staring past her, and then said, ‘There’s something still cooking.’

She looked round. ‘What? Oh, that. It’s a sauce for tomorrow. I thought I’d make lasagne for lunch.’

‘Tomorrow? Why?’

‘It’s Sunday.’

‘Oh.’ But then it appeared that her question had sunk in because after a moment he added, ‘There’s not much point in waiting for me, not while this business is going on.’

It was the first time he had so much as mentioned ‘this business’. She knew all about it, of course, having taken a cake up to the boys’ kitchen and got it all out of young Bruno. After that she’d followed it up in the papers and read the Prosecutor’s comments. She made no attempt to question her husband now, knowing it was the sort of thing that embarrassed him, but still she was convinced that there was something in particular bothering him. Well, if he wouldn’t say, he wouldn’t, besides which, she had more important things on her mind. That was the real reason why she’d waited to eat alone with him and why she had to get his attention. Lasagne made as good an opening as any other.

‘I’ve got a nice roast as well and I thought in the afternoon . . . of course you might be busy. Salva?’

‘Mm.’

‘I can see you’ve got a lot on your mind but I have to talk to you. I’m so worried about that boy. He can’t go on—’

‘Who told you?’

‘Told me?’

‘About the boy. Was it Bruno?’ He was annoyed but relieved as well. After all, if she knew then perhaps she’d be willing to tell the mother. ‘It’s a bad business. A boy of that age and no future in front of him. No future at all. Bruno had no business . . . Still, what’s done is done and you had to know sometime.’

Teresa had no idea what he was talking about but was wise enough to keep quiet and let him get whatever it was off his chest. She’d catch on soon enough if he kept talking. She poured him a drop of wine. He kept talking.

‘Whatever you say, I blame the mother. He had no childhood. Out on the streets at eleven at night selling contraband cigarettes and already in the hands of the police at what age? Nine? Ten?’

‘Ten.’ She was with him now. But what on earth had the boy done? Surely he couldn’t be involved in ‘this business’?

‘Why do people have children in this day and age if they don’t want them? And if they have them they should be made to be responsible for them! If it wasn’t for Ferrini being the man he is he’d have put him inside the other night but he could see there was no point. He won’t live long as it is, that was Ferrini’s opinion and he’s right. It’s the parents who should be inside. How can anyone neglect a child to that extent? And now I’m the one who has to tell her that her son’s walking the streets of Florence dressed up like a dog’s dinner, his face plastered with make-up—and then I’ve no doubt she’ll start wailing and calling on the Madonna!’

Teresa was still silent but now it was from shock. She put her own problem aside. It would keep until tomorrow. The world was full of people so much worse off than yourself. Make-up . . . little Enrico . . . She’d seen them, of course. They were on the streets at lunchtime, not only at night, so you couldn’t avoid seeing them, but . . .
Enrico!

‘Well, she’ll have to be told.’ He got up from the table. Anger had got the better of embarrassment. He would talk to the woman himself.

‘Salva! Are you sure . . . ?’

But he was in the hall and shouting, ‘Where’s the number?’

‘On the pad—but are you sure you should . . .’ She gave it up, hearing him dial. She stood up herself and started moving plates about noisily, too agitated to want to hear how he broke the news. Despite her efforts a few words came through, enough to tell her that if his voice had been gruff with anger at the beginning of the conversation it was lowered in dismay by the end. He didn’t come back in immediately and when he did he was wearing civilian clothing and tucking a scarf into his overcoat.

‘I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.’ His face was very pale.

Ferrini got back in the parked car. Its engine was running.

‘Might as well leave it switched on. No point in freezing to death.’

‘No.’ The Marshal was hunched in the front passenger seat, his head sunk into his upturned collar as though he were indeed freezing.

‘Mimi saw him go off in a car with a client about ten minutes ago. Bit of a nuisance but it’s not the end of the world. He’ll be back. Mimi’s own alibi’s as sound as a bell. Came out of the clinic himself the day Lulu was expected. That’s how he knew.’

‘Yes.’ He stared out along the dark avenue where the globular white lights were blurred by raindrops.

Ferrini flicked a switch and cleared the windscreen. Another black car was parked in front of their own. Each time a crawling vehicle with its solitary prowler went by the Marshal saw the silhouette of Bruno conversing earnestly with the man Ferrini had brought along. Then the headlights would sweep on their way and the silhouettes dissolve into trickling blackness. Ferrini flicked the wipers on again. Much further along the avenue a pale figure stepped out from the shelter of the trees, bent towards a car window and almost at once straightened up and retreated from sight.

‘Filthy night,’ commented Ferrini, to fill the silence.

‘Yes.’

‘But business as usual. What a way to make a living. Out half naked on a night like this. Makes you think.’

‘Yes.’

‘You got something on your mind?’

‘No, no . . .’

‘You’re surely not still brooding about that kid? There are hundreds like him.’

‘Yes. I wasn’t . . . It’s the mother. I’d never have expected—’

‘What else could you expect? If things had been any different the kid wouldn’t be what he is.’

‘No. You’re right, of course.’

And he was right. You only had to stop and think for a minute to realize that. Only, he hadn’t stopped to think. He’d picked up the phone full of self-righteous anger which was soon doused by the woman’s cold fury. There’d been only a quick intake of breath followed by a second or so of silence after his announcement. Then the spitting abuse.

‘The little bastard! That sodding little—he’s coining it in! That’s why he thinks fit to keep clear of his family! He’s coining it in and don’t tell me otherwise because I know what they make here, never mind a place like Florence. And the little shit hasn’t coughed up so much as a penny to his mother. Well, am I his mother or am I not? It’s unnatural! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the thanks you get for bringing kids into the world! If I had my time over again . . .’

‘The worst of it is, it’s probably true . . .’

‘What’s that?’

‘That the boy’s been hiding what he was doing so that she wouldn’t get at his money, not because he was ashamed.’

‘Likely enough. Didn’t you say his mother was a prostitute? I doubt if he feels he was destined for a finer life.’

The Marshal hunched deeper into his overcoat in silence and they waited.

It wasn’t a long wait. A quarter of an hour at the most and then a white car pulled over on the opposite side of the avenue, slowing just enough to let the fur-clad passenger out and swinging out and away at speed.

It might have gone very differently if it hadn’t been for the other client who must have been parked somewhere behind them out of sight. He, too, had been waiting for Peppina and the minute the white car pulled away he slid forward, obscuring Peppina from their view. If he hadn’t done that, if they hadn’t been afraid of his being whisked away from them again, they wouldn’t all four have jumped from their cars and started running across the road and Ferrini wouldn’t have thought it necessary to shout.

The client panicked first, roaring away in a cloud of exhaust fumes and winging one of the crawling cars that he overtook with his passenger door which was swinging open. Peppina hesitated but not for long. By the time they reached the other side of the road he was fleeing between the trees with his fur coat swinging out behind him and Bruno and his mate on his heels. The Marshal, past all that sort of thing and always too heavy to be much of a runner, stood still on the grass verge. Ferrini plunged forward and followed the others. He was younger and thinner than the Marshal but he was surely impelled more by enthusiasm than serious intent. However that was, the Marshal was left alone. The little episode, over almost before it began, seemed to have had no effect on business. The man whose car had been winged leaned out to swear and make a rude gesture but nobody else gave any sign of having noticed anything.

The Marshal peered through the drizzly blackness but could make out nothing. Beyond the trees, if he remembered rightly, there was another, narrower road with a cycle path running on the other side of it. Then a grassy bank dropping steeply down to the river. But nothing was visible beyond the trees immediately in front of him. He felt his way forward cautiously, holding one hand up near his face to protect it from invisible branches. At first he could hear only the slowly turning car engines on the avenue behind him, the occasional hoot of a horn. Of the chase no sound reached him. As he left the avenue further behind he began to be conscious of the sound of his own soft footfall in the wet grass and of his slow breathing. The rain drizzled in silence, enveloping him in wetness like a black mist. He started to wonder if he should have stayed where he was in case their quarry turned back to make for the road, but it was too late now since he wasn’t at all sure where he was. He felt about him. He seemed to be in some sort of clearing. Something scurried away from his feet, perhaps a rat or a squirrel, disturbed by his passage. Then he heard a shout. That was surely Bruno’s voice. No answering shout came, only another long silence. He really wished now that he’d stayed where he was—or at least, if he had to go bumbling around in the dark he might have thought to get a torch from the car. It had all happened too quickly for him. He stuffed his big hands in his pockets and stood as still as the trees around him, thankful, as usual, that Ferrini was there. At least he knew who it was they were chasing. Somebody by the name of Peppina, he’d said. One of the ones they’d picked up the other night, but the Marshal couldn’t for the life of him put a face to the name.