The Marshal's Own Case (10 page)

Although he didn’t want to read it, he took the newspaper for camouflage and sat himself in the living-room, staring at the front page without reading a word. Within half an hour the three of them presented themselves, Teresa in a fur coat, the boys in anoraks with scarves tied tightly at their necks.

‘We’re off,’ she said.

He got up.

‘Are you going to have a nap?’

He got his coat on. ‘Where are my sheepskin gloves?’

‘In the drawer where they always are.’

‘Hmph.’

‘Put a scarf on, there’s a cold wind.’

And they all set off.

Despite the cold wind, there were plenty of people in the park. The roundabout was going near the entrance and in the first little piazza there was a van selling slices from a whole roast pig on chunky sandwiches. They joined the families strolling down the pedestrian road running by the river and the boys took off at speed, racing each other along the cycle path. The smallest children on tricycles, plastic horses and pedal cars wound slowly in and out among the groups of strolling adults, calling to each other and their parents for attention. On the benches set along the road sat escaped husbands listening in peace to the football match, their little radios glued to their ears, their collars turned up against the wind.

‘Are you feeling better?’ Teresa asked, linking her arm through his.

‘I’m all right.’ After all, it was a different world here on a bright and windy Sunday afternoon. So far away from the world of last night. And yet his glance sometimes strayed to the right where untended brush grew in a tangle below the trees. Somewhere in there lay Peppina’s sodden fur, if someone hadn’t already found and made off with it. He wasn’t sure where it had all happened, having bumbled around so much in the dark. A bit further down, maybe . . .

‘They ought to do something about all that mess. Just look at it.’ Teresa was pointing in the opposite direction, to the far bank of the river where the Arno in flood had left its detritus dangling from the branches of trees overhanging the water. ‘All those plastic bags and all that filthy rubbish just left there. It could be so nice along here.’

The boys came racing back, Totò well in the lead, his face red and his eyes glittering as he pedalled furiously. He always overdid everything.

‘Mum! Can we go as far as the Indian?’

‘If you like—don’t shout so much and slow down or you’ll exhaust yourself.’ But he was off again, almost crashing into Giovanni who had started to turn round slowly. ‘Race you to the Indian and back!’ They were soon out of sight.

The two of them walked on at the same sedate pace as everyone else, pursued by the football commentary that occasionally broke into a roar of excitement or dismay.

‘We may as well walk as far as the Indian ourselves,’ Teresa suggested.

‘If you like.’

But they hadn’t got there before a woman a little way in front of them gave an irritated shout and just managed to dodge Totò’s bicycle as the boys came racing back along the tarmac.

‘Beat you!’ yelled Totò. ‘That’s twice I’ve beaten you!’

‘Totò’ cried both his parents together. ‘What are you trying to do, kill somebody? Get back on the cycle path. What do you think it’s there for?’

‘But, Dad, you can’t go as fast as on the tarmac, it’s too cindery!’

‘Can’t you see there are people walking here, small children, too? Now do as you’re told.’

‘But everybody else goes on the tarmac! There’s nobody on that stupid cycle path except for us. It’s so slow, it’s all cindery. Everybody else—’

‘Do as your father tells you,’ interrupted Teresa, ‘or we go straight home.’

Giovanni was already pushing his bike back through a gap in the low hedge. Totò got off and followed him, but when Giovanni mounted again and pedalled on, he carried on pushing his bike with exaggerated slowness to show how bad the path was, his reddened face sullen. He was the last to arrive in the circular piazza, where he went on pushing his bike in wide circles around the baldaquin-like monument sheltering the bust of a dead Indian prince.

It was Teresa who suggested they sit down for a moment. As they settled on a bench she watched Totò unhappily.

‘I’m worried about him, Salva.’

‘He’ll be all right. He’s just sulking.’

‘It’s not that. I’ve been worried for a while now. I wanted to tell you last night but . . . I don’t know whether we did the right thing, following the teacher’s advice. Keeping him in all the time, I mean.’

Giovanni was riding round in figures of eight. When Totò pushed by him he said, ‘Why don’t you get on your bike?’

‘I don’t feel like it.’ His face was still red and angry.

‘They’ve never quarrelled so much as they have in this last few weeks. Giovanni and his friend like to do their homework together in the boys’ room and they don’t want him. There’s a scene nearly every afternoon. I don’t know what you think, but my feeling is we’ve tried what she suggested and it’s only made him worse. I can force him to stay in but I can’t force him to study. He pretends to, but he’s just messing about. He only got five in Italian last week—and besides, he’s unhappy, you can see that. Maybe if we let him play out in the afternoons—’

‘No.’

‘Just for an hour to see if—’

‘No,’ he repeated, staring not at the child but at the sluggish brown river flowing past, ‘keep him at home where he’s safe.’

Six

C
aptain Maestrangelo put his head round the door just in time to see the Marshal coming along the corridor.

‘Ah. I was about to send someone to look for you. I have to go out shortly. Come in.’

The Marshal obeyed.

‘Take a seat. I got your message first thing this morning—I imagine you’ve been pretty busy since then. I saw the Prosecutor just now as he was leaving. He was very complimentary about you.’

‘Me?’

‘Certainly. You’ve seen the files of the other cases of this sort. Nobody was hopeful about clearing this one up at all, let alone in a matter of days.’

‘Ah . . .’ Why had he gone and made this appointment first thing? He should have waited, at least until after this morning’s interrogation . . . He pulled himself together and said, ‘The credit should go to Ferrini. I’d have been lost without him. He found Peppina.’

‘Peppina? Is that . . .’

‘Giuseppe Bianco. He calls himself Peppina.’

Thank God somebody had found him an old track suit to wear for his interview with the Prosecutor. The lawyer had done all the talking, Peppina neither confirming nor denying without looking at him first. He had been trembling the whole time and on the verge of tears. The Prosecutor had regarded him throughout with undisguised disgust. The Captain was wearing a similar expression now as he said, ‘It seems he has a different story this morning from the one he told when you arrested him last night.’

‘Not altogether. He never denied having gone to the flat, only he said the victim wasn’t there, in which case he couldn’t have got in without breaking in and there were no signs of anybody having done that.’

‘So now he’s dreamed up an accomplice with keys.’

‘It could be true.’

‘The Prosecutor thinks not.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t agree? Surely it’s the first thing he would have told you had it been true?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But surely, a nameless, faceless client we’ve no hope of finding and checking on. It sounds to me like pure invention. A last-ditch attempt to sow a seed of doubt despite the evidence of those traveller’s cheques. It’ll do him no good, I rather think. Some of these lawyers are too clever for their own good.’

‘Yes . . . but he’s not faceless or even entirely nameless . . .’

‘What? You mean this mythical client?’

‘They call him Nanny. I don’t know why. I’ve seen a photo of him.’

The Captain regarded the troubled face before him for a moment without speaking. There was never any way of knowing what was going through the fellow’s mind and even if you asked him it was a waste of time. The Captain knew this of old. The Marshal was none too bright and far from articulate but there was no getting away from the fact that he didn’t miss much and that the quieter he got, the nearer he was to whatever he was after. If he’d been capable of explaining just what it was he was after it would have been possible to help him, but he wasn’t. Some people laughed at Guarnaccia, and it was true that he was slow and had a tendency to bumble about in an absentminded way and to stare at you without answering because he hadn’t followed what you’d said. It was a lucky thing that he’d got into the Prosecutor’s good books, but he wouldn’t stay there long if he tried going off on some track of his own the way he sometimes did.’

‘Don’t get yourself in any trouble,’ he advised.

‘No, no . . .’

‘It’s not worth it.’

The Marshal stared at him in a way that made him add, ‘I only mean . . . He probably is guilty, you know, in which case you’d be sticking your neck out for no good reason.’

‘If he’s guilty, yes.’

‘You obviously think he’s not. There are those traveller’s cheques, remember. The Prosecutor told me he’d already forged the second signature.’

‘Yes . . .’

‘You admit you signed these, copying Esposito’s signature?’

‘I . . . yes . . .’

‘And you expected to be able to change them? Don’t you
know that they must be signed at the moment of exchange and
proof of identity given?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what did you intend to do with them?’

‘I . . . he . . .’

‘My client has a customer, someone who works in a bank.
He was to have taken the cheques that night which was why
she—he had them in his bag.’

‘Would that be the one who was in such a hurry to disappear
when the carabinieri arrived?’

‘Exactly.’

That was a witness they would certainly never find. Funny that the lawyer should . . .

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Nothing,’ the Marshal replied, ‘I wasn’t thinking anything. I just remembered that the lawyer accidentally referred to his client as “she”.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Nothing. It just struck me . . .’

It really was impossible to help the man! Perhaps it was a mistake to give him the case. He’d never thought it would come to anything, that was the truth. He wondered if he should take him off it now—but how could he? Guarnaccia wasn’t the sort to be unduly upset, but the Prosecutor would be furious. He was delighted with the way things had gone. There was nothing to be done except to give due warning . . . He’d already done that, but couldn’t help saying it again.

‘Be careful. It does nobody any good to annoy a prosecutor. You know the power they have.’

‘Yes. I haven’t said I disagree with him.’

‘But you thought it.’

‘I don’t think anything. I’m just trying to understand . . .’

‘But for goodness’ sake, Guarnaccia! The chap attacked you when you were arresting him. Look at your face—and he even went for your throat from what I’ve heard. By all accounts he’s a bit crazy or at the very least unbalanced.’

‘Unbalanced, yes.’ The hormones they took . . . Ferrini had said. ‘They go up in smoke at the least thing’ or some such remark.

‘And apparently he admits having hated Esposito.’

‘A lot of people did. But not that much, I would have thought.’

‘You can’t be sure of that.’

‘I’m not sure of anything . . . He went for me that first night we brought a bunch of them in—not physically, I don’t mean . . . He flared up. He’s the sort that flares up . . . Ferrini said—’

‘Well then,’ insisted the exasperated Captain, ‘what more do you want? An unbalanced transsexual who hates another and is found in possession of the other’s money after the murder. Of course you have doubts, it’s only right at this stage. But you can’t say that anybody’s incapable of murder when pushed far enough. He may have more reason for hating his victim than he’s saying.’

‘That’s true.’ How could he explain when he didn’t understand himself? He sat there looking at the Captain hopefully. He was an intelligent man. He ought to be able to explain what was wrong. The Captain leaned back in his chair and drummed with his fingers on the edge of the polished desk.

‘Well, all I can say is—’ the thing was useless but he’d done his best—‘you’ll be very unwise to make any move, however apparently legitimate, that will get you in trouble with the Prosecutor. Very unwise. And I can tell you from experience that he’s not the worst of them, not by a long way. He knows his business better than most. I’m not saying you may not be right, only that you shouldn’t stick your neck out, both for your own benefit and because this is not a case of petty theft we’re talking about but an extremely nasty and cold-blooded killing such as I haven’t come across in my whole career.’

‘That’s it.’ The Marshal sat forward, his monosyllabic bulk suddenly animated. If only he had half the Captain’s brains. ‘That’s exactly it. I couldn’t put my finger on it myself.’

Then his eye fell on the Captain’s watch and he looked at his own. ‘It’s half past ten. If you’d excuse me, sir, I have to be at the Medico-Legal Institute and I’m going to be late.’

‘Of course. I’m going to be late myself; I was all but on my way when you came to see me.’ They stood up and went their different ways.

It was only when the Captain stopped wondering what it was he was supposed to have put his finger on that he started wondering just what the devil Guarnaccia had come to see him for at all. It’s doubtful whether the Marshal himself could have told him by this time, since he had quite forgotten that he wanted to be taken off the case.

‘You understand that it’s not going to be pleasant?’

‘I should think that’s putting it mildly. Just give me a minute to put some lipstick on. God, I look pale.’ From the bedroom Carla’s voice said, ‘I’m not used to getting up so early, I look a sight.’

When he came back the Marshal said, ‘That photograph, the one you showed me.’

‘The one of Lulu?’

‘That’s right. Would you mind letting me have it? Just for a day or two?’

‘You can keep it, for all I care—that’s if I can remember where I put it. I don’t know why I kept it anyway except that I always liked myself in that frock.’ He started rummaging through a drawer. ‘Hell, what did I do with it? Maybe in my bedroom . . .’ From there he called, ‘In any case Lulu must have had one. Didn’t you come across one in her flat? I suppose you must have been there?’

‘Yes. I don’t remember . . .’ He thought of the pile of photographs on the silk sheet and Ferrini . . .
‘Look at those
thighs, and as for the eleven and a half ounces . . .’
And he’d hardly glanced at them because of his embarrassment.

‘There might have been a copy but I’m not sure, so I’d be grateful if you’d find yours.’

‘I’ve found it. Here.’ He brought it to him. ‘Keep it.’

‘Thanks.’

Carla, his coat round his shoulders, parked on the arm of a chair while he sat looking at it. The birds in their cage were huddled together sleepily on their perch. Perhaps they didn’t chirp today because it was rather dark in the little sitting-room. The wind had dropped this morning and heavy clouds were gathering, ready for a thorough downpour.

‘Are you going to publish it in the paper?’

‘No . . . no, I don’t think so—in any case, if that should happen I can cut you off it.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t care. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘No.’

‘What about Peppina?’

‘What about him.’

‘You know what I mean. She’s going to have a hard time, right? Even if she didn’t do it, because of what she is.’

He could hardly deny it. Instead he asked, ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘Not particularly—to tell you the truth I tend to avoid her. She’s so jumpy, quarrelsome. She makes me nervous. If you ask me she should change her doctor.’

‘You think the hormone treatment . . . ?’

‘That’s just my opinion. It could be just the way she is, but in any case, if I were her, I’d change my pills. Still, I don’t suppose she’ll ever get out now. She wasn’t tough enough for this job. It was Mimi telephoned to say she’d been arrested last night and I said right away, “It would happen to her.” I can tell sometimes with people, that they’re no good at surviving, do you understand what I mean?’

‘I think so.’

‘Is there really much against her?’

‘I’m afraid there is.’ He was tempted to tell more than he ought. Carla knew so much more about all the people concerned than he could ever hope to know. ‘He’s trying to put together a sort of alibi. We phoned the trattoria where he says he had dinner that night but nobody can remember. He often ate there but nobody’s prepared to swear he was there that night. The other thing is—’ he indicated the photograph—‘this man you call Nanny. He says they were together, that Nanny picked him up from the place in the park where he always stands and took him to Lulu’s flat. Nanny, he says, had a key. Is that likely?’

‘Could be. I wouldn’t give anybody the keys to my flat, but Lulu was a nut-case and he was a regular client. I’ve heard he spent a lot of time at her flat, so it’s possible. I think—this is only hearsay, do you understand?—that Lulu had plans for taking him on as her man. She used to tell people he was loaded and could keep her. I’m not saying it’s true but if it was then maybe he did have a key.’

‘So she intended to give up the game?’

‘Lulu? You’re joking! There are some of us who do what we do because, being what we are, we can’t get any other job, and some who want to do it for the money we can make, but Lulu—you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I know, but Lulu was a hundred per cent prostitute. She enjoyed it. She’d have sold herself for the price of a cup of coffee. She was rotten to the core and even if Peppina did do it I feel sorry for her. You can bet she had her reasons and she wasn’t the only one, I can tell you that for nothing. Lulu was such a spiteful bitch she’d do somebody a bad turn just for the pleasure of it, even if she had nothing to gain.’

‘Like taking Nanny off you?’

‘If you like. She only did it to spite me. She thought she was pulling a fast one on me but I couldn’t have cared less. I told you, I don’t like his sort and she was welcome to him.’

‘What about his other clients?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Could there be some client he’d treated badly and who might have had it in for him?’

‘Any number, I should think. One for sure.’

‘Nanny, for instance?’

‘No, I was thinking of somebody else—Wait, maybe that’s somebody for me . . .’ A car horn was hooting in the street below. Carla drew the white curtain aside and looked down. ‘There’s a taxi waiting for someone.’

‘For me.’ It was partly a reluctance to subject Carla to being seen taken away in a squad car, partly an equal but unacknowledged reluctance to be seen driving him in his own car, that had prompted him to arrive in a taxi. The meter must be ticking away but taxis had no dividing glass and taxi-drivers no compunction about joining in any conversation going.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the taxi can wait. Tell me about this client.’

‘I can’t tell you much except that he was from Milan and drove down here fairly regularly. Maybe he was some sort of commercial traveller. I don’t even know his name, of course, but Lulu did. She found it out.’

‘How?’

‘She stole his identity card while he was undressed. You can probably guess what she used it for.’