The Marshal at the Villa Torrini (10 page)

'Yes, yes. That's understood. May we get on?'

'No further questions.'

The Marshal was about to get to his feet but, after some whispered conversation, it seemed that Chiara Giorgetti was coming forward to speak for herself. Well, she could hardly do worse than her lawyer. As she seated herself on the red plastic chair she kept her eyes fixed on the judge. Two carabinieri positioned themselves behind her. Her black hair had grown long and straggly during her time in prison, but she certainly hadn't lost weight. She looked as bulky as ever under her red and green glittery wool sweater. She'd been wearing that when he arrested her, the Marshal remembered, or something very like it, dressed up for Christmas Eve.

'Giorgetti Chiara, what was your relationship with the deceased, Grazzini?'

It was the Prosecutor questioning her but she never looked at him, only at the judge.

'We weren't related . . . ' Her loud voice tailed off as she realized just how loud it was with the microphone which her raucous tones hardly required. She made as if to shift away from it but didn't dare.

'I understand that there was no blood relationship. I want to know how you knew her, what part she played in your life, what sort of terms you were on.'

'She was living with Antonio.'

It was easy to see that she wasn't interested in the Prosecutor's questions. She answered them with the air of one brushing away a fly. Probably she had expected to be able to plead with the judge directly, to ask him to let her out of prison because of the child.

'She was living with Pecchioli Antonio, your ex-husband, is that correct?'

'Yes.'

'Did you leave your husband because of his relationship with Grazzini?'

'What? No. How could I? He didn't know her then. He met her after.'

'After you had left your husband and moved in with Saverino Mario whom you later married?'

'Yes.'

'The custody of your child was given to your husband?'

'Objection!' The lawyer's face was redder than ever as he jumped to his feet but he was overruled. The Marshal looked around the overheated room, watching faces, not listening. There was little he didn't know about Chiara whose mother, now looking after the little girl, had come to him years ago when she found out that her daughter was addicted to heroin. Not that she had found out, precisely, since she knew nothing of such things.

'She told me, she screamed it in my face . . . I had nothing else
to give her and she was shaking me, hitting me. Look at my eye.
I'm ashamed to be seen in the shops and anyway, they won't give
me any more credit. I've only my pension, you see, and though she
goes missing for days at a time she's always there on pension day.
She's always there
. . .'

Even after that, the poor woman had come into his office to report that her flat had been broken into and the television stolen. He'd had the job of gently dissuading her from reporting the theft and of getting Chiara into a community and off heroin. She'd stayed off it, too, largely because she'd got pregnant by Pecchioli almost immediately after coming but. Pecchioli, half her height and a quarter of her weight, so reminiscent of the Marshal's poor little friend Vittorio! But he'd kept them going. He had a job and he cared about the child. They'd been doing all right, keeping their heads above water, and after eight years of marriage they'd even got as far as leaving her mother's place for their own flat. It was dark and poky and the rent was disgracefully high, but even so . . . And then along came Saverino and Chiara abandoned the kitchen sink and scraping along for a good time in the clubs and a few new clothes. She soon found herself back in the kitchen; this time with an occasional black eye to enliven the proceedings. The truth about the custody of the child was that the question had never legally come up. She stayed with her father because her mother had abandoned her, and her mother never gave the matter a thought until things started going badly, and she realized that she had nothing and no one. Saverino stayed around, provided she toed the line, but he was bored with her. It then occurred to Chiara that she missed her little Fiammetta who would at least have been company. Even then, she wasn't fool enough to apply for custody. Saverino had a record—not much of one, but a record nevertheless. Chiara had a history of drug abuse which her lawyer was now trying to prevent her revealing.

'Objection, Your Honour! Since the birth of this child ten years ago . . .'

'Sustained.'

'Will you tell the court how the quarrel resulting in the death of Grazzini Anna Maria broke out?'

'It was Christmas Eve. Antonio had promised I could have Fiammetta for Christmas. Mario and me went to get her.'

'What time was this?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know!'

There he went again. In this case, at least, there was some justification because she was lying, as the other two had, about what time the quarrel had broken out. The Prosecutor was right in assuming that they'd hardly have gone to pick the child up at midnight. Yet the woman had been dumped in the street in the early hours of the morning. The only reasonable conclusion was that they had waited hours before deciding they'd have to get rid of her. Hours when they knew how bad she was, otherwise they'd have gone about their business. But they didn't go, they stayed there, the three of them, with a woman bleeding to death on their hands, and the child . . . Hours of panic when, instead of sitting there paralysed, they could have saved her life and saved themselves from what was happening to them now. Why? Self-preservation, of course, was at the root of it, and had, in the end, been their undoing. If they hadn't tried to be clever . . .

And Forbes? He, too, had sat there, after whatever happened had happened, thinking, and as he thought he drank, to give himself courage. That had been his undoing. He'd drunk himself into a stupor.

'I'd done everything. I bought a crib and a tree with lights. Presents . . . ' Chiara's voice broke and she was crying more than speaking when she said, 'I wanted my little girl! It was Christmas and I wanted . . . ' She dashed the tears from her face and sniffed loudly, making the microphone splutter. 'I've no hanky . . .'

The little girl, Fiammetta, was the only one who might have told them what time her mother arrived with Saverino. But she hadn't told.

'/
can't remember. I think it was late.'

And her eyes, in a face too old for her tiny body, had pleaded with the Marshal not to make her tell.

'Do you want to live with your mum again?'

'Yes.'

'Aren't you happy living with your granny?'

'Yes.'

'And don't you want to stay with her?'

'Yes, but I can't.'

'You can if you say you want to.'

'I can't. My mum said.'

'Why? Did she tell you why?'

'Because she's very old and she's going to die like Bobo.'

'Who's Bobo?'

'My granny's cat and he died because he was very old and he got
run over, as welt, and they put you in a box when you die and you
can't come out because you have to stay at the cemetery so I have to
live with my mum.'

Though her small face looked so old and drawn with misery, her mind was as underdeveloped as her body. When the Marshal had asked her if she could tell him about what happened she had drawn him a picture which, though she identified the stick figures for him, he didn't understand.

Later, a child psychiatrist had examined the drawing and the child, and recommended that she should not be subjected to the court hearing.

'Have you put my dad in prison or is he on his holidays?'

He hadn't been able to answer her but, in return for his having let her off, she let him off.

'Was Grazzini already drunk when you arrived—at whatever time it was?'

'She was already drunk and already making a scene.'

'Did she often do that?'

'Not all the time, but when she did she went crazy. Antonio tried to make her go to the doctor's but she wouldn't.'

'Why to a doctor? Because she was an alcoholic?'

'She wasn't an alcoholic, she was crackers. The drink always started her off but she was crackers and Antonio thought it was the accident. She got knocked off her moped by a fellow in a van and split her head open. It was after that that she started. She'd go to that piano bar in the piazza where they sing, and sooner or later she'd start quarrelling with somebody. If they threw her out she'd threaten to smash their windows and stuff like that. She'd scream abuse for hours and then start crying. They used to have to go for Antonio to come for her and he'd have such a time getting her home he'd be black and blue. She wasn't like that before the accident, but she wouldn't go to the doctor's anyway.'

'On the evening in question was she abusive or had she reached the crying stage?'

'She was screaming.'

'So she was abusive?'

'She was screaming and kicking out at Antonio. She didn't want him to let us take Fiammetta.'

'Did she say why?'

'She said the kid could stay in her own home for Christmas if it was good enough for the rest of the year.'

'And that was considered reason enough to start beating her?'

'Nobody started beating her! She was the one hitting out—and so that we couldn't take Fiammetta she'd hidden her clothes.'

'All her clothes?'

'The clothes she was supposed to wear. Stuff I'd bought her, a pink tracksuit that she'd set her heart on. It was supposed to be for Christmas, but I'd given it to Antonio so she could wear it to come out with us. That bitch had hidden it—or thrown it away. Anyway, we never found it.'

'Did you consider it unreasonable that after looking after your daughter all year, as indeed she had, there was some friction over her going to you at Christmas?'

'Christmas? What sort of Christmas was she going to get? There wasn't a card or a bit of tinsel up. The place was filthy and she hadn't even bought any food. That's why Antonio was on our side. How could he keep her there!'

Nevertheless, I understand that these scenes which occurred were not frequent and the fact remains that she did look after your daughter.'

'Look after her? Christ almighty, it was nine o'clock at night and the kid hadn't even had a meal!'

The Prosecutor relaxed and stood there in silence, letting it sink in. At first, it seemed as though Chiara was the only person in the room not to realize what she'd done. Then Saverino's voice hissed at her from behind the bars of his cage.

'Stupid cow!'

She whipped her head round in panic then, and seeing the Prosecutor's triumphant stance her face crumpled and she gave out a wail of fear.

Her lawyer, redder and more dishevelled than ever, requested permission to consult with his client and was granted it.

During the ensuing pause, the Marshal heard somebody come in and take a seat among the press. Galli from the
Nazione.
Not his style, this case, he usually went for bigger stuff. In fact there was already a
Nazione
reporter there, a much younger man. Galli was removing a long green loden overcoat. As always, he was immaculately dressed, and looked as though he'd just come from the hairdresser's. Quite possibly he had. Now what? He was making signs across the room, but there was no time to work out why because at that moment the Marshal was called.

He felt no apprehension as he seated himself in the red chair that was too small for him. The Prosecutor would no doubt delude himself into thinking, after the fact, that he had tricked that admission about the time out of Chiara when, in fact, his only intention had been to show her up as a bad mother and so remove any reason to deal lightly with her so as to reunite her with the child. The revelation had been entirely gratuitous and owed more to Chiara's bad temper than the Prosecutor's skill. As for the defence . . . The Marshal, despite a slight, scratchy-eyed vagueness after his sleepless night, felt his strength, felt conscious of knowing all about Chiara and her family when the others had trouble remembering their names. He felt himself again. What's more, having put a stop to his diet by force after the sausage episode, Teresa had supervised his breakfast. If there was a connection between these facts, the Marshal was not conscious of it. He just felt better.

'Marshal, were you aware, before the events occurring on Christmas Eve, of the problems Pecchioli Antonio was having with Grazzini?'

'Yes. I'd been called out by the proprietors of the café she frequented.'

'Can you describe to the court what happened on that occasion?'

'Pozzi, the owner of the bar known as the Piano Bar in Piazza dei Cardatori number ten, telephoned to the Pitti station at seven twenty-five in the evening to report a disturbance. I went to the scene myself with carabiniere Di Nuccio and found Grazzini Anna Maria seated on the pavement outside the bar. A group of local people were standing around her, apparently trying to persuade her to go home.

'Was she behaving in an aggressive manner?'

'Not when we arrived. She had broken a number of glasses and a chair inside the bar, but when we arrived she was crying loudly and accusing everyone of ill-treating her.'

'So in fact you never witnessed any violence on her part?'

'Oh yes. She gave carabiniere Di Nuccio a black eye and a number of bad scratches when he tried to pick her up.'

'And in your opinion, Marshal, can this truly be defined as aggressive behaviour or should it be more properly considered as the exuberance of a glass of wine too many?'

'It was neither.' He wouldn't be able to help it now.

'Neither?'

There he went! The Marshal's face didn't flicker.

'I understood from Pozzi that she arrived there perfectly sober and that he had only served her two drinks. Her behaviour was extremely bizarre and several witnesses testified to the fact that it dated back to the moped accident.'

'I see. However, you saw Grazzini, for whatever reason, behaving in a violent manner and were able to restrain her—the two of you, or just your carabiniere?'