The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (25 page)

It was five in the afternoon when Rizzo came into Ferrara’s office with the records for Cosimo Presti’s mobile. It was a TIM phone, and he had contacted the director’s executive secretary, who was a friend of his wife’s. Thanks to her, he had been able to jump the queue and obtain the data for the last fortnight.

‘Michele, there’s just one contact with Costanza,’ he said before he had even sat down. He leant across the desk and showed Ferrara. He had underlined the call with a yellow highlighter.

It was the call they had already noted on the evening of 28 August in the Bologna area, which also featured in the Senator’s telephone records. There could be no doubt it was the same one.

‘Then there are two calls to numbers in Rome,’ Rizzo went on.

‘Who to?’

‘It’s the switchboard number for the Ministry of the Interior.’

‘So we have no idea who he spoke to,’ Ferrara said.

‘Precisely! It’s a pity, it would have been interesting to know.’

‘Francesco, go back to Vinci tomorrow morning and urge him to give us authorisation to tap Presti’s phones. Try and convince him to fast-track it, the judge can validate it later.’

‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

They both knew that, in most investigations, only the first conversations, those recorded directly after the phone tap was set up, were of much use. Later, when the people under surveillance began to suspect their phones were being tapped, the content became increasingly incomprehensible, if not downright cryptic.

Be that as it may, Ferrara was convinced that the connection between Presti and Costanza could point them in the right direction, so it was essential to back it up with other evidence, and the only things that could provide that were phone taps and a thorough interrogation.

Ferrara suddenly had an idea. He summoned Fanti and told him to call a meeting of the local press for six-thirty.

It might turn out to be a fruitless endeavour, but it was worth a try. Nothing could be left to chance.

Gori had just finished reading the pathologist’s preliminary report.

No semen had been found on the oral, rectal or vaginal swabs. In addition, there were no signs of inflammation or lacerations. In other words, no evidence of rape.

Analysis of the stomach contents had yielded only a small quantity of brown liquid. Clearly, Florinda Olivero had not eaten for several hours.

According to the initial toxicological tests, there were no traces of pharmaceutical or recreational drugs.

The analysis of the wounds had shown that the killer had stabbed the victim with extraordinary ferocity. It was a kind of overkill, using excessive force and inflicting an excessive number of stab wounds, definitely more than were necessary to cause death.

But Gori found the most interesting result in the report’s conclusion.

The victim’s blood type was AB, which matched the blood samples collected from the body as well as various areas of the bedroom and the bathroom.

It was the rarest blood group, present in only five per cent of the population, as the pathologist noted.

The light brown hair found clutched in the woman’s hand, however, belonged to a person with blood type A. Furthermore, the tests had revealed that the hair had undergone cosmetic treatment and had been dyed. The presence of the bulb indicated that it had been pulled out by the root, and confirmed their hypothesis about the victim’s reaction, as demonstrated by the wounds on some of her fingers and her forearms.

Gori closed the report and picked up the phone to call his colleagues at the RIS, the Carabinieri’s forensics department, in Rome and request a DNA test, the only test that remained to be done.

Could this be the turning point?

‘We’re looking for this woman.’

Ferrara began with these words as he stood in front of the journalists in his office. Some of them were sitting with their notebooks on their laps, others were standing around the desk.

They all stared at the identikit, which Ferrara had had blown up. The cameras clicked rapidly. He had decided to release it in the hope that someone might see it on television or in the papers and recognise the woman.

‘She’s probably between thirty and forty years of age. Her hair is long, but’ – here he remembered young Kirsten Olsen’s statement – ‘may also be very short and reddish in colour. She drives a dark, possibly black, A-Class Mercedes.’

He had spoken slowly to give the journalists time to note down all the details. After a while, one of them raised a hand.

‘Questions at the end, please,’ Ferrara said.

The journalist apologised and Ferrara smiled. He had recognised him: he worked for the ANSA agency and Ferrara respected him for his decency and the accuracy of his articles. He had not seen him for a while and was happy he was there.

‘We believe this woman may have something to do with the double murder of Senator Costanza and his butler, Luis Rodriguez. I would ask anyone who may have information to contact my office or call 113, and I hope that this time
omertà
will not win.’

‘
Omertà
?’ came a chorus of voices.

‘Are you telling us, Chief Superintendent, that you believe there’s a code of silence in Florence, just like in Sicily?’ The question came from a woman journalist, as short and thin as a breadstick, who worked for a private radio station.

‘I’m only saying that anyone who knows anything needs to talk. And you all know that hasn’t always been the case in other investigations.’

‘Are you by any chance referring to the conspiracy theories surrounding the Monster of Florence case?’ the woman insisted.

‘Yes, of course. And now you’ll have to excuse me, I must go. Thank you.’

This abrupt conclusion triggered a reaction in the journalists, who raised their voices, firing a volley of questions at him. ‘Chief Superintendent!… I have a question, please… I must ask you…
Omertà
… conspiracy theories…’ Ferrara ignored them, thanked them once again, and asked them to leave him alone.

He had not even considered the possibility that he had just unwittingly lit the fuse of a truly enormous bomb.

He lay on the sofa, waiting for the local news. When the usual baby-faced newsreader, who always ended up doing the late night bulletin – he must be putting in the hours while his colleagues were at home with their families – appeared on the screen, he picked up the remote and turned up the volume.

‘There are new developments in the investigation into the murder of Senator Enrico Costanza,’ the newsreader began, while the now-familiar image of the villa in Fiesole appeared in the background.

He sat up. What were these new developments?

‘Thanks to a witness, the police have put together this identikit of a woman seen at the wheel of a dark, perhaps black, A-Class Mercedes in the area where the crime was committed.’

On the screen, the image of the villa was replaced by a drawing that could almost have been a photograph.

‘The police are looking for this woman and are asking the public for their help. Anyone who recognises her or can provide further information is asked to call 113 or make use of the contact details below.’

A telephone number and email address scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

‘One further detail,’ the newsreader added before moving on to the next item. ‘The woman may have very short, reddish hair, rather than long hair as shown in the picture.’

Angrily, he pressed the
OFF
button on the remote. He was no longer interested in hearing what they said about the murder in Pontassieve.

She couldn’t have seen the news bulletin; she was keeping watch in San Gimignano. Damn it, he had warned her to be careful, not to make mistakes. She’d really blown it, thanks to that fucking ex-convict!

He had to make a move. His plan needed to be modified. And from now on, he would have to act alone.

That evening, Ferrara received a visit from his friend Massimo Verga.

They sat opposite one another on the terrace, enjoying the breeze. It was the first time his friend had come to see them since their return from Germany.

Petra poured them each a small glass of Slyrs, a whisky they had been given by a good friend from Germany. It was a Bavarian speciality and Michele only drank it on special occasions.

‘Excellent!’ Massimo exclaimed after the first sip. He lit his pipe and Ferrara lit his cigar. Each of them maintained that his form of smoking was the nobler: it was one of the few subjects on which they did not see eye to eye. They enjoyed the first puffs in total silence, looking up at the glorious star-filled sky.

Massimo was the first to speak. ‘Who would ever have thought that one day we would find ourselves up here smoking and drinking whisky?’

On the rare occasions when they managed to meet up, the two old friends always ended up reminiscing over their high school days. After school, Massimo had chosen to study Philosophy and Ferrara did Law. He had wanted to become a police superintendent and he had done so. Meanwhile, his friend had opened a bookshop in the Via Tornabuoni that in the space of just a few years had become a focal point for cultured Florentines. They had lost touch, as often happens when friends go their own ways, far from their home town, but had met up again by chance right here in this city: a gift of fate.

Ferrara knew that his friend might help him understand the various meanings of the word
Genius
. When he heard the question, Massimo could not help laughing loudly. He was convinced that, while rising through the ranks of the police, Michele had fallen into an abyss of ignorance.

‘What are you laughing about, Massimo? I need to find out why a killer might have used that word to sign his message.’

Massimo immediately turned serious and nodded. He launched into an explanation, although he took a roundabout approach. ‘Well, you know that Latin was always my strongest subject. The word derives from
gignere
, which means to generate or create, and was given to the deity that represented man’s creative spirit…’

In the Roman religion, he went on to explain, the
dies natalis
was dedicated to Genius, while for the Greeks he was the
daimon
, a divine being inferior to the gods, but superior to mankind.

He stopped to take another sip of Slyrs. Ferrara did the same, then took a few more large puffs on his cigar, which was going out.

‘This whisky really is very good, Michele,’ Massimo said.

Below them was the gentle glow of the lights on the Ponte Vecchio. It was a priceless view.

‘Moving to the present day,’ Massimo went on, ‘and in a more down to earth sense, a genius is of course a special being, someone with exceptional gifts, like Dante, Leonardo da Vinci, Einstein. But in this case it could be what’s called an “Evil Genius”.’

All this was what Ferrara had expected to hear. But he had thought it was worth a try, in case the word hid some other secret meaning, one which might have a significance for Satanists, whom he had encountered in recent investigations, or for Freemasons – another world that remained something of a mystery to him. No, the killer probably just thought of himself as a criminal mastermind, an evil genius. That had to be the meaning of the two letters written on the base of the statue of Perseus.

Now it was his turn to explain the mystery. He took a deep drag on his cigar, and at that moment felt a surge of confidence. A confidence that came from the presence of a true friend he could always rely on.

It was almost midnight.

The ground floor rooms were all lit up as if it were day. And the lamps along the tree-lined avenue that led to Sir George’s villa had not been switched off yet.

Everything looked as if an all-night party that would finish in the first light of dawn must be in full swing. But such was not the case. There were only two people in the house: Sir George and his guest, Richard, sitting in comfortable armchairs, sipping a highly refined grappa, Riserva da Vinacce di Chianti.

Far from prying eyes and ears, the two men were weighing up the pros and cons of a decision that should resolve the situation in Florence forever.

Richard had already informed Sir George that the contents of Costanza’s safe-deposit box in Lugarno had been confiscated by the police.

‘I’ll get our Brother, the “fake beard”, involved,’ Sir George said. ‘He knows how to deal with such things.’

Richard did not object. He was in no position to do so. It was up to Sir George to make the final decisions. That was how it had always been, and how it would be in the future.

It was after two by the time all the lights were switched off, but no car left the villa.

Clearly the guest was sleeping there tonight.

It was an unfortunate inconvenience.