The Innocent (11 page)

He scanned Peruzzi’s face. His colour seemed slightly better. ‘How are you feeling? This has been a shock, I know, and you have to be careful.’

Try as he might, he just couldn’t see it. But who paid for the clothes if not Peruzzi? Who? Why not just ask him?

‘Peruzzi? You’ve said she was a pretty young woman and I hear from your neighbours around here—who seemed to be fond of her—that she liked to dress well.’

‘She has taste, very refined …’

‘Yes, but fine clothes are expensive and I gather she had very little money so I can’t help asking who paid for them.’

‘She buys them herself. Her family has money—he probably told you that—but she won’t ask them for anything, anything at all.’

So, the only thing Lapo hadn’t gossiped about was her death—and that was probably only out of fear for Peruzzi’s damaged heart. Blast the man. He wouldn’t have believed it of him.

Peruzzi breathed a deep, shaky sigh. He set the shoe down on the carpeted floor. ‘I thought the baby would settle it, I really did. I could have done a lot for them. We had plans. Did he tell you about that?’

‘About her taking over here, one day? Yes.’

‘Who would have thought when she trotted off that sunny morning … she was so alive …’

In relinquishing the small shoe he had let go of its owner. That was the first time he had recognised that she was gone, used the past tense.

‘I could have done so much … No more than she deserved, mind you. She had talent and she had character.

It was a privilege to have taught her. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you.’

‘It does, yes. Anyone with a skill like yours would want to pass it on. It’s only natural. And I gather your own son’s talents lie in another direction.’

Just as Lapo had said, Peruzzi’s face flushed with pleasure. He didn’t actually smile but his eyes lit up. ‘My son went to university and studied Economics and Commerce. He’s an accountant.’

‘So I heard, and a successful one, too, I gather.’

‘He’s doing very well.’ Thank heaven, he was looking better. The blueness round his lips had faded. His son had to be more important, surely. He would survive this. He was beginning to look almost normal. ‘I never have to fill in a tax form or worry about a thing. It’s a godsend. He’s been very good to me, especially since his mother died.’

‘You’re very lucky. I hate all that sort of thing myself. Listen, Peruzzi’—he looked so much better that the marshal decided to risk it—‘I’ve kept you from your work and, sorry as I am to have been the one to bring you bad news, I need your help. I’m pretty sure that her death … that it wasn’t an accident. I have to find out what happened and before that I need to identify her beyond doubt. I need the address of her flat and her parents’ address, too.’

Peruzzi turned his head and focused on the marshal’s face, sharp eyes glittering, himself again. ‘Not an accident. So that’s the way the wind blows, is it? Well, you’ve a job on your hands and it’s not going to be easy, I appreciate that. All I’ll say is this: nothing can bring her back—I don’t understand why it had to end up like this but nothing can bring her back. So any journalists who show their faces around here will wish they hadn’t! I, for one, shan’t be saying another word.’

He got to his feet and went over to a corner where, from a desk cluttered with receipts and notes, he produced a visiting card. ‘This is her parents’ address—oh, don’t worry, it’s in normal writing on the back. Her flat’s in via del Leone near the corner of the piazza there, second floor. I’ll write it down for you.’

As he handed over a scrap of paper and the Japanese visiting card, Issino appeared from a door behind him. He was carrying a stack of shoeboxes. ‘Everything OK …’ he began, then stopped, looking from the marshal to Peruzzi, alarmed.

The marshal stood up and put a big hand on the apprentice’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right. You’re not in any trouble. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ But his gaze was fixed on Peruzzi. Well, Peruzzi’s arrangements with his apprentice, like his DNA, must wait for another day. He wasn’t going anywhere. Another heart attack was the last thing anybody needed.

As he opened the door for the marshal, Peruzzi said, ‘You know, you’ll say I’m past it and I’d be the first to admit I’m not the romantic sort, but I’d have sworn she was in love. Not that she ever said much but she wasn’t herself those last few days. I caught her crying, once, while she worked. Not a sound, just a tear fell on her hand. When somebody doesn’t talk, you can’t help them. No use insisting, might make it worse. Oh, to hell with it! Whether I’m past it or not, I can see what’s in front of my eyes. She was in love. And you see, if it happened like you say then I’m right, aren’t I? She didn’t just walk out. The baby would have kept her, like I said.’

The marshal left.

Six

S
tanding at the window in the tiny flat next morning, the marshal felt that all too familiar toad of anxiety squatting in his stomach and there was no dislodging it. The technician from the police lab had left, having lifted fingerprints and collected the contents of the bathroom wastebin with which he had seemed well satisfied. Nail clippings, used tissues, two hairs with root bulbs and a small sticking plaster with blood on it. There might well be evidence of a man’s presence. And if it turned out to be Peruzzi? He was very put out but, as often happens, he couldn’t put his finger on the root cause. So he stood there, staring out at the rain-washed morning street. The excessive heat had culminated in a heavy rainstorm during the night, which had cleared the air if not the marshal’s head. He was trying to remember the name of the people in the flat opposite, a very few metres away. He couldn’t. He might be no great thinker, but his memory usually served him pretty well and this failure added irritation to his discomfort. A good many years had passed, of course, but in an old-fashioned corner like this one, things don’t change that fast so, when he’d looked at the Japanese girl’s address, scribbled on bit of paper by Peruzzi, he’d been pleased. He was at home around here with Nardi and his two women and the butcher’s shop where they had fought. And though Franco was gone, which was a great pity, the butcher with the shiny pink face would surely tell him something.

The fancied-up bar would be a waste of time, he’d known that, but you have to be thorough so he’d gone in anyway, and asked if they knew the Japanese girl.

—Have you got a photo of her?

—No. She lived right there.

—I haven’t been working here long but I don’t think she ever came in …

I’m not surprised, the marshal had thought, with a black look at the dishes of congealed lasagne waiting to be heated up. In the old days he’d have had a coffee with Franco, who would have known every move she had ever made whether she went in or not.

The butcher, pink and smiling as ever, did know her:

—Very precise. Likes to cook pork but always has it minced. Not keen on beal.

—Beal?

—Couldn’t say her ‘v’s.

—What about a man in her life?

—Definitely. Italian, too, but likes his Japanese food, or so she says. No, we’ve never seen him, but then he probably comes round in the evenings or on the weekends and we live out in the country, so … We haven’t seen her in a week or two—I hope she’s not in trouble? She’s not here illegally, is she? I can’t believe that. I mean, she’s so precise and organised.

—Yes.

So this little flat was no surprise, as far as the way she kept it was concerned. Simple, clean and neat. A pale-blue silk counterpane on a single bed, one plant, dead now, white shelves with art books, a white table and chair.

The flat itself, though … It must be five, six years since he’d last set foot there. It was impossible to connect this freshly painted space with the dark hole without heating or sanitation in which Clementina had died. The old lavatory out on the staircase was now a storage cupboard full of spare tiles and cans of paint. He eventually worked out that what had been a very small kitchen with a tiny high window was now a cooking alcove and a tiny bathroom. There were radiators. He was willing to bet that the rent was extremely high. Franco would have known. The butcher didn’t, but he did say that the place had stood empty for years because the woman who inherited it was bankrupt—couldn’t sell and no money to do it up—but it must have changed hands recently and now Akiko was the first tenant. He also said that if things went on like this there wouldn’t be a Florentine left in the area.

If he were to be absolutely honest, the marshal would have to admit that he chose that moment to distract him from a Lapo-style political diatribe to tell him what had happened to the Japanese girl:

—No!

—I’m afraid so. You’re sure you never saw her with anybody?

—No, never. She was always so lively and busy—she never walked anywhere, always trotted … pretty, too. Very pretty. She was learning to make shoes, you know. I remember her showing the wife—wait a minute—Lucia!

—What’s to do?

—Come out here a minute!

—What’s the matter? I’ve these five chickens to dress before … Oh, Marshal! Let me wipe my hands. How are you? And your wife? Did she ever learn to drive?

—Yes, she did. Not from me, though.

—Lucia, listen: the marshal’s here about Akiko. She’s dead and he thinks she was murdered.

—No! Our little Akiko? No! Whoever would want to do a thing like that?

—That’s what he’s trying to find out. They found her in the Boboli Gardens, can you imagine? You talked to her more than I did. You remember those shoes?

—Her patchwork shoes! She was so proud of them, patchy or not, and she dressed really well. Such a trim little figure. If only I had that tiny waistline but I’ve been like this ever since I had my third.

But she’d never seen Akiko with a man and didn’t know who paid for the fine clothes.

—I do know she always had to be very careful with her money, though. She said so. That tiny old flat of Clementina’s was the cheapest she could find but it was expensive, she said, for what it was.

—She didn’t say how much?

—No. Only that it was more than she could really afford. Before he’d left the brightly lit butcher’s shop, where he couldn’t help noticing that a hanging side of beef was dripping blood on to pink marbled tiles, Nardi’s name had come up:

—My man Lorenzini’s trying to talk some sense into Monica, get her to drop the case.

—He’d better go to the club on the twenty-third, then.

—Why’s that?

—Nardi’s singing. It’s a special party. Night before San Giovanni. Monica’s intending to be there and so is Costanza. They say it’ll end in bloodshed.

—Oh, Lord …

Now, what the devil was the name of the chap on the first floor opposite? Beppe … Peppe—Pippo! That was it.

A scrap of satisfaction on a day that seemed to be falling apart. Every time he thought he had a hold of something in this case, it slipped through his fingers. Starting with that awful woman who’d left her handbag by the pool. The dress shop, too, where that expensive sweater had come from. He should have insisted, sent someone to go through the books in case of a credit card payment, whether the woman was in a crisis or not. This was a murder, for heaven’s sake. But you can’t force people to help you … the poor woman wasn’t a suspect so what was he supposed to do? Get a warrant? No, no … that sort of thing didn’t do any good. People had to want to help, otherwise … he was sure she’d been concerned …

And what about that missing second shoe? He’d had two men search for it, especially in the wooded patch over the wall where they’d run the pool water, since you can’t hide much in a small formal garden. They’d found nothing, anyway. And it wasn’t in the water. Nobody would go trailing through the gardens carrying the shoe of a murder victim, would they? A dog might run off with it, but dogs weren’t allowed in.

And yesterday? There was no avoiding it: yesterday, he should have questioned Issino before talking to Peruzzi. Follow your instinct was very fine advice but things have to be done in the proper way, even so. The proper way was not to let two possible suspects … no. Yes! To let two possible suspects talk things over and agree on a story. You separate them until they’ve both told their version. Instinct or no instinct, that was what had to be done …

The window where the marshal stood staring out was a small french window with no balcony outside but with a low railing to prevent anyone falling to the narrow paved street below. Clementina had stood here, practically naked, ranting at Pippo’s wife over there and cursing the crowd below. What a scene …

He let his mind drift back to that stifling August day, knowing he was avoiding facing up to the one thing about yesterday’s mess that was gnawing at him.

If only he’d come away right after talking to Peruzzi, given himself time to think, work things out. It was his annoyance that had led him to mess things up, but Lapo had promised to say nothing and went on swearing he had said nothing in the face of an obvious contradiction:

—Oh, Marshal! When I say a thing I mean it, don’t make any mistake about that! Good God, if I’d gossiped about what I know—a story like that would have been on the front page of
La Nazione
! And you think I’d have risked giving Peruzzi another heart attack?

—I realise that. I’m not saying that, but he knew—

—If he knew she was dead, it wasn’t from me—

—Will you listen to me for a minute? All I’m saying was that he was expecting me and he knew what I was there for. He said so in as many words!

—Well, of course he knew! That wouldn’t take much working out. He hasn’t heard a word for days!

—All right, we’ll leave it at that. But while we’re on the subject, why don’t you tell me, here and now, what was going on with Peruzzi and the Japanese girl. Come on. An indiscretion for an indiscretion. You owe me that.

—There was no indiscretion! All I said was that you’d be coming to see him and that he should be careful. And I was right about that, wasn’t I? I’ve known you for a long time and when I said I was sure you’d do your duty, I meant it.

—So, help me.