PART SIX
-1984–5-
6.1. THE MISSING PAGE
This page concerns Silvano Vargius.
As has already been observed, Sergio Muscas, on the few occasions when he withdrew his accusations against Flavio Vargius, transferred them to Flavio’s brother Silvano. The last time this happened was in 1984 when Flavio was under arrest and Sergio was being questioned yet again about his accomplice in the ’68 murder. The transferral, as always, was of short duration and the one-page report of it separated from the main file as being irrelevant. Only after the murder of the two German boys seemed to demonstrate Flavio’s innocence did the investigators find and re-examine it. Its contents ran as follows:
Quite suddenly, for no apparent reason, Muscas began to talk about Silvano Vargius: “Still it’s true that Silvano was no better than he should be. He killed his wife before he left Sardinia and the kid was saved that time as well—no, I’m not saying anything against Silvano. I’m not suggesting anything. Silvano Vargius had a car.”
6.2. SERGIO’S AMBIGUITY
Muscas had made this reference to the death of Silvano’s wife the first time he accused him in ’68 but immediately after that he confessed and the seemingly irrelevant remark, though recorded, was ignored as being an invention. As regards the car, Sergio by now knew that his other accusations were against people who did not possess a car and so were unconvincing.
As regards Muscas’s original accusation against Silvano it should be remembered that when the latter was brought to Sergio’s cell for a confrontation Sergio fell to his knees sobbing and begging for forgiveness. When the case went to trial in 1970, Silvano was present and was wearing the dead woman’s engagement ring.
6.3. CAUSE OF AMBIGUITY
A re-examination of the documents of Sergio’s trial revealed an alarming piece of information. Sergio’s sister-in-law Tina declared in the witness box that Belinda Muscas had frequently declared that Nicolino was not Sergio’s son but the son of one of the Vargius brothers. Tina said she didn’t know which brother was referred to but that Sergio himself admitted the story was true. In fact, the brother referred to could only have been Silvano. At the time of Nicolino’s conception, Flavio was still living in Sardinia. Silvano had just arrived in Tuscany and was living with the Muscas couple. This puts Sergio’s twice-repeated statement, “He killed his wife … and the kid was saved that time as well,” in an even more alarming light. What remained unclear was a credible motive for Silvano’s having killed Belinda and any reason why Sergio, instead of accusing him openly, continued to accuse his brother.
In 1985 Sergio was questioned again about Flavio, once it was clear that he was not guilty of the six double homicides committed since 1974.
“It’s true that I was lying about Flavio when I accused him. It’s true as well that Silvano wanted me to accuse Flavio because they’d quarrelled. They didn’t quarrel about Belinda, though. It was to do with Amelio, Silvano’s kid. He always said Flavio had ruined him, teaching him to steal and to hate his own father. Silvano took the kid to live with him when he married again but it went badly. He ran away from home and went to work for a shepherd for a bit—a bad sort—I forget his name but he was always in and out of prison and, in my book, it was him got the kid involved in thieving, not Flavio. Anyway, then he did go and live with Flavio for a bit and that was when him and Silvano started fighting. It’s not true that it was because Silvano had picked up with Belinda again—I know he said he didn’t but he did. It wasn’t her, it was that he was pissed off about his kid running away and he even went to the carabinieri to try and get him brought back, claimed the kid had stolen a truck and a moped from him and set fire to his workshop. Silvano reckoned it was all Flavio’s fault. I don’t know whether it was or not. It’s true the lad got caught trying to steal an Alfa Romeo when he was fifteen or so but it was only a kid’s trick so it came to nothing. He just had a passion for red sports cars. I think he pinched a few of them—or he tried to—until he bought himself one when he came home—he took off from Flavio’s after only a few months and went somewhere up north to his mother’s sister. Stayed away for years. Anyway, that’s all there was to it. Silvano called that corrupting him and he never forgave Flavio and that’s why he wanted me to accuse him. You can believe me or not as you want but I swear it wasn’t because of Belinda. Now I’ve told you the truth, but Flavio did it, anyway, and if you bring him here I’ll accuse him to his face.”
Checking began on every contradictory element of his latest statement.
6.4. SILVANO VARGIUS IN 1968
Silvano’s alibi for the night of 22 August, 1968 had presumably been checked verbally but there was no written record of this. Silvano claimed to have been playing billiards that night with a young man called Salvatore Angius. Angius, a homeless Sardinian labourer, was indebted to Silvano for a number of reasons. He had employed him on building jobs and found him places to live. Most of the people questioned seemed to regard the younger man as having been treated as an adopted son. Angius was still living in Tuscany and working as a builder. On being questioned in 1984, he said he had often played billiards with Silvano but had never been sure about the exact day they’d played that week, but nobody had brought the matter up again and then Sergio was convicted. He was still in touch with Silvano but he wasn’t working for him now. Silvano, he said, had an emergency house call firm now, the sort you call if you lock yourself out or your pipes burst.
The employees of Silvano’s firm “Domestic Emergencies” were questioned in the spring of 1984. Two disturbing facts emerged about Silvano’s 1968 alibi: the first was that the relationship between him and the much younger Angius was a homosexual one. The second was that the address given by Angius when asked to confirm Silvano’s alibi in ’68 was that of his brother. Salvatore Angius had used his brother’s address for years as his official place of residence but had never lived there. In August 1968 he was actually living on the Pistoia road at number 156 on the stretch known as Via Torrente. That is, he was living next door to the Rossini house where Nicolino had been left that night, in the peasant’s cottage which Sergio had mistakenly described as the Rossini house.
6.5. SILVANO VARGIUS IN 1984–5
Two new lines of enquiry were now opened. In Florence an extensive and detailed report was made by the carabinieri of Silvano Vargius’s way of life, medical and social history and, in particular, sexual habits. In Sardinia, magistrates reopened the enquiry into the death of Silvano’s wife in 1960, which had been treated as suicide at the time.
Silvano’s second wife had left him in 1981. She was traced and questioned as to his sexual habits, as was his present partner. Both women testified that they had been forced into group sex, organized by Silvano, in which he sometimes participated, sometimes not. His wife also described homo-heterosexual encounters which Silvano organized with certain couples of their acquaintance and stated that she had left Silvano because of his unacceptable sexual habits. This was confirmed on examination of documents relating to their separation. Silvano denounced his wife for abandoning the conjugal roof (Civil Code para. 146 absolves the husband of supporting his separated or divorced wife if she abandons her home and refuses to return). Although this was patently the case here, judgement was in favour of the wife because of his violence and sexual practices. His wife also revealed that Silvano had been in a psychiatric hospital during 1981.
At this point the ambiguity of Sergio Muscas as regards Silvano becomes explicable. Confronted with the above information, Sergio admitted that Silvano had sexual relations not only with Belinda but with Sergio himself. He confessed that while Belinda enjoyed her relationship with Silvano and all that it entailed, she also enjoyed herself with her other lovers, including Flavio, but Sergio himself was totally dominated by Silvano. It was true that at his request Sergio brought home other men for his wife, to satisfy Silvano’s taste for group sex and voyeurism, and that his remark about Flavio’s “screwing my wife in front of my eyes” was to be taken literally and in truth referred to Silvano more than Flavio. He recounted now that Silvano would organize group sex with other men for Belinda in the Cascine park and that on these occasions it was his habit to take along both Sergio and the child Nicolino.
Two things were now clear: Sergio was so dominated by Silvano that, even to save himself, he hadn’t had the courage to accuse him to his face but fell to his knees crying and begging for forgiveness, and that the other principal reason for his reticence was shame. In the culture he belonged to, homosexuality was something so shameful and disgusting that its existence was not even acknowledged. It is notable, also, that though Sergio was too weak to react against his wife’s behaviour, he was the one to separate the lovers’ bodies after the murder so that they were not discovered in the lovemaking position.
Unfortunately, at this stage Sergio’s subservience to Silvano, and his overpowering shame, meant that he would still not make a clear unequivocal statement regarding the ’68 murder so as to facilitate the investigation of the later crimes.
6.6. 1960
In 1960 Silvano was still living in his native village in Sardinia. He was married with a one-year-old son, Amelio. When his wife was found dead with an unlit gas canister turned on in the room, she was presumed to have committed suicide. The little boy, in his cot nearby, was saved. The case exhibited such strong analogies with the ’68 murder—especially given the new information that Nicolino was also Silvano’s son—that the case was reopened and the wife’s body exhumed.
However, the results of an autopsy had only a negative value. A body exhumed after twenty-five years was obviously not in a condition to provide accurate positive information.
Enquiries as to the likelihood of the woman’s wishing to commit suicide revealed that she had decided to leave Silvano because of his violence and had obtained a position as a residential housekeeper at an orphanage in another village. She was to leave and take up this position on the morning after she was found dead. It was likely, according to the information received, that Silvano, with the help of his wife’s brother, smothered her with a pillow to prevent her leaving and damaging Silvano’s pride and her own family’s respectability. Again, this could in judicial terms have only a negative value, i.e., there was evidence against the likelihood of the woman’s having wanted to commit suicide, but no real proof of Silvano’s guilt.
6.7. THE BERETTA 22 L.R.
Ever since it was established that the Beretta 22 used in the double homicides was the same one used in ’68, efforts to trace its provenance were intensified. Of the guns of this type, regularly licensed but reported missing by their legitimate owners, was one belonging to a Sardinian emigrant worker, returned home after many years working in Belgium. He had died some years before in his native village and the gun had never been found. It was the same village where Silvano Vargius was born and which he left after his wife’s “suicide” in 1960. The gun disappeared at the same time as he did. The owner of the gun was the uncle of Silvano’s wife.
6.8. 1985 SILVANO’S MOVEMENTS
From this point on, all of Silvano’s movements, habits and activities were checked on. The following points were established:
1. Given the type of job he did, Silvano had no fixed hours. He was frequently absent during the night responding to emergency calls, and such absences were not notable.
2. For obvious reasons, he kept, and was expert in using, both knives and awls such as were used on the female victims.
3. He also owned a miner’s lamp to be attached to the head and which must have been necessary to a killer working on the bodies in total darkness.
4. Silvano was unable to furnish alibis for any of the double homicides when required to do so, except for the ’83 murder of the German boys. He claimed that he had been called out to an emergency in the centre of Florence at the house of a known prostitute. A singular but not necessarily helpful circumstance was that a receipt from Silvano’s firm was indeed found in the prostitute’s house, but it was dated 1982 not 1983 and it was discovered because the house was being searched after she had been murdered in 1984.
An attempt was made to follow Silvano, particularly on the darkest night of the month, but this was extremely difficult to achieve in the country without being seen by him and on most occasions he eluded his followers. This was the case on the 29th July 1984. On that night Carlo Salvini and Patrizia Renzetti were murdered in their car at Vicchio.
The following morning a search of Silvano’s house revealed the presence of a bloodstained rag. The blood on the rag was of two distinct groups and further analyses revealed the presence of gunpowder.
“But why didn’t they arrest him?” The Marshal had resisted ringing Ferrini in the middle of the night—the minute he finished reading about the missing page—but even though almost twenty-four hours had passed and they were seated together in his office, he still felt stunned.
“I mean, the Prosecutor working with Romola, to have taken the enquiry that far, must have been on his side?”
“Does he name him? Remember, I haven’t read the thing.”
“No. No, he doesn’t …”
“Mm. A small point but an important one. The Prosecutor running the enquiry was suddenly, when it came to the crunch, put on another case and someone else took his place. Ask me who.”
“Who?”
“Simonetti.”
“Dear God.”
“All he had to do was lie doggo. It’s not the Instructing Judge’s job to prosecute. He signs the warrants but the Prosecutor has to request him to do it. He didn’t. And now he’s got his reward. Fame and fortune will be his.”
“If he carries it off. He did try and prosecute, Romola, whether it was his job or not. This …” The document lay on the Marshal’s desk between them. “It’s supposed to be an acquittal but it isn’t. You say you didn’t read it …”
“I had no reason to. I knew all along what was going on. Anybody who didn’t know wouldn’t be interested. An abandoned enquiry is hardly news.”
“I know … I’m not so good at explaining myself but it’s not just what’s in it … it’s the way it’s written. I’ve not read much of this sort of thing. Our job’s over long before a case gets to this stage so I admit I’m no expert …”
The Marshal had been staring sightlessly at the map of his quarter on the wall, as he so often did when musing, but now he turned his big troubled eyes on Ferrini. “Whatever this document pretends to be it’s really an accusation. In a funny sort of way it reminded me, the way he accused Silvano, of the way Sergio Muscas accused him. ‘Silvano’s wife died in Sardinia and the kid was saved that time, too. I’m not making any allusions. Silvano Vargius had a car …’ It’s like that, you see. What the judge really means is what Sergio meant: I’m not accusing him but he did it. And then there’s so much anger in it. He’s very bitter.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I don’t know because I don’t understand why. Why should they have done that?”
Ferrini shrugged. “I only know the gossip that was going around at the time. That they didn’t want Romola’s Monster just because he was Romola’s. Some ambitious soul I won’t name didn’t want him taking the credit, so he opened a completely new line of enquiry. That was when Flavio was in prison and—oops! Wrong again—the two Germans were killed. Then the fight for the evidence started. They had that camper removed with the bodies inside it before you could say Jack Robinson. And before any external measurements had been taken, presumably to get it out of the clutches of Romola and the carabinieri and into the custody of Simonetti and the police.”
“I just can’t believe it …”
“You can’t? Well, I was there. It was before I came to work in the city. I was out there in charge of the local station and I found the bodies.”
“You were?”
“You bet I was. I saw them drive the camper away and I knew the measurements hadn’t been taken. So, what do you expect to happen if you drive a van along a country lane and it’s got bullet holes through the windows?”
“The glass shattered, I suppose.”
“You suppose right. There were bullet holes through the metal body, too, of course, but since they hadn’t been measured from the ground … The whole thing was a shambles.”
“But it’s not … When I said I couldn’t believe it I didn’t mean anything so specific, I just meant I couldn’t believe that even the most ambitious person … a case as serious as this …”
“For a really ambitious person, nothing’s more serious than his own career. Listen, I’ve managed without a smoke for an hour so as not to fog up your office but I can’t hold out any longer, d’you mind?”
The Marshal didn’t answer. He was staring at the map again.
“I’ll take your silence for consent. Where’s Bacci got to? I thought he was bringing us some stuff?”
“He’ll be here. He had to go home and get it. I told him after that bullet episode that he shouldn’t go about openly with those books. I’ve noticed what’s-his-name giving him odd looks … What is he called?”
“Esposito?”
“No, no, the other one. Esposito’s the one with the scar.”
“You’re right. You mean Di Maira, then.”
“Di Maira, yes. I always get the impression he’s watching us more than he’s watching the Suspect—this’ll be Bacci now.”
The Marshal got up when the bell rang and went through the darkened waiting room to look through the spy hole and open the door.
Ferrini grinned when he saw Bacci hesitate before the cloud of cigarette smoke that was rapidly filling the tiny office.
“Oh, come on in, Bacci. I won’t say ‘it won’t kill you’ because along with all the car fumes in this town it probably will. Come and give us a few subtitles on this FBI stuff of yours.”
If anyone had asked the Marshal for an explanation of why he was going where he was going, he’d have been hard put to find one. As it was, nobody asked him because nobody knew. They’d been given half a day’s freedom after all the fuss of the search, and if the Marshal had been himself he’d have done a trip to the supermarket and given his quarters a good sweep out. But he wasn’t himself, and it was difficult enough to keep his mind on his driving. He hadn’t been on this road for years, not since being involved in that case out in the potteries. The landscape had changed. There were factories, service stations, new blocks of flats, an ugly, raw-looking sprawl. The traffic was heavy, but then it always had been … He should be coming up to where he had to make a right turn. There. Lastra a Signa. He couldn’t have said why he hadn’t told anybody, at least, not precisely why. There were some things he didn’t tell Ferrini when he might have done, perhaps because Ferrini sometimes seemed to be laughing at him. He was so cynical. Not telling Bacci anything—well, they’d agreed on that without really having to say it. There was really no point in burdening him with more doubts than he had already.
They had let him talk on without ever mentioning the document still lying on the desk.
“You see, I’ve been through all the available statistics on this type of crime and, even without taking anything else into consideration, he’s just too old. Serial killers, lust killers, they really get into their stride in their twenties, so whoever did these murders should only be in his thirties now. I did find one exception, but even he started in his thirties and that was because his mother kept him practically chained up in the house until she died. He’d have started earlier if he’d been free. Apart from him the only exceptions to the rule are those who started unusually early. This boy here killed his first victim at twelve years old, this one at fourteen and this one at fifteen had already killed four. Accusing a man in his sixties makes no sense.”
But that wasn’t all that made no sense. There was that FBI profile Simonetti had read to them in abbreviated form so as not to “bore them with a jot of jargon.” He’d taken care not to bore them with a lot of facts, either. Cruelty to the weak, such as children and animals, he’d said, and the Suspect hit his dog with a stick. It was a far cry from the children in the FBI case notes, those who did such things as cutting off a cat’s paws and tail and then burying it alive, or dousing a horse’s tail in petrol and setting light to it. They set fire to buildings, too. Schools, for instance, when they thought they’d been ill-treated or unfairly punished, their own homes before running away, cars in the street. They robbed and burned and tortured, and when they were big enough and strong enough and had the means, they killed. The Suspect was just a foul-tempered, dirty old man like hundreds of others. He bore no relation at all to those young men in the photographs Bacci had shown them. Some were crazed and pitiful creatures, others terrifying, cold-blooded young men shown laughing as they were led into court, totally isolated from the rest of humanity which they had loathed and derided. But all of them were young, all of them came from poor backgrounds, all of them were cut off from human affection. They had, for the most part, been beaten senseless until their brains were irreparably damaged, starved, raped. Some had been tortured by their mothers, forced to watch them perform as prostitutes. Others had been orphaned as tiny children and left in the hands of people who despised and ill-treated them.
The catalogue of their crimes, the torn and mutilated bodies, the dead raw flesh eaten or “raped” or used to decorate the room, was terrifying. Yet there was something even more terrifying in the catalogue of their own sufferings, something so dark and relentlessly evil that in the end it seemed preferable to be the victim than the killer.
And their Suspect was a dirty old man. He’d killed his rival in love, killed him brutally, too. But how could you connect that with slaughtering strangers and stealing body parts? The Marshal decided that he, at least, couldn’t and that he had no intention of trying. As for the business of the daughter, that was far from being clear. But how much information might have been withheld there, too?
Disturbed and distracted as he was, he overshot the little town of Signa, where he’d meant to make his first stop, and so had to turn back. There was a small car park in front of a bar in the square, and he stopped there and got out to look at the cinema opposite.
THE GARDE CINEMA
The façade was small and low and the tops of the trees in the garden beyond could be seen. They’d grown a lot in over twenty years. A plank had been nailed across the peeling doors and the G of GARDEN was hanging crookedly, about to fall as the N had done. It was so dismal, so forlorn, that it gave the impression of having been closed up on the night of that murder, avoided as a haunted place.
“We went to the pictures and it was in the war and a house went on fire and then we went up there past the cemetery.”
The rest of the little square was cheerful and busy, which made the crumbling grey cinema look like a bad tooth in a healthy smiling mouth.
The Marshal stepped into the bar and ordered a coffee. It was a clean bright place with shelves full of boxes of chocolates and fancy liqueurs. There were two small tables with pink linen cloths on them and a man in a green loden overcoat was sitting at one of them reading the local paper.
“One coffee coming up.”
“Thanks. You don’t happen to know when that cinema across the road closed down, do you?”
“I really couldn’t say. Before my time, anyway, and I took over here five or six years ago. Ask Franco there. Franco? You’ll know when the Garden Cinema shut down, you’ve been here longer than me.”
“Born here. I couldn’t tell you the exact year, not to swear to, but it’ll be a good ten years or so. Didn’t get all that much custom since they built that bigger open-air place down near the supermarket, and there was already the one at the Communist Club. I know the owner of the premises, if that’s what you’re after, but she’s in her eighties and I don’t think she’s interested in selling.”
“No, no … Just curiosity.” Not that he’d expected anyone to believe him but it didn’t matter. It mattered that he wasn’t in uniform. He’d no intention of calling to pay his respects to the local force. It seemed to him that anybody who knew anything at all about this business was bound to have taken sides at some point, and while it seemed clear that the carabinieri had lined up on the side of Romola, that didn’t mean someone would want to get involved in crossing the Public Prosecutor’s office.
Why he should want to do it himself was a moot point. It hadn’t been by any choice of his that he was chasing a Suspect he didn’t suspect, but then that was probably what was irritating him into trying to get past the smoke screen and deal with something concrete. Like that bloodstained rag. The carabinieri had found it inside a flat straw bag hidden beneath blankets in a wardrobe. Two pieces of clean cotton printed with yellow flowers and between them the third piece, with its red and grey stains. Silvano had been there watching and he hadn’t turned a hair. When they asked him afterwards to explain the blood and gunpowder he had only shrugged.
“I know nothing about it. Never seen the bag before, though I suppose some woman might have left it here—perhaps the woman I used to live with. If you say it’s blood, it’s blood—but there can’t be gunpowder on it.”
And what sort of sense did that make? Either he knew or he didn’t know. And so Romola wanted to arrest him and the Public Prosecutor’s office refused. Romola asked for the rag to be sent to England where DNA testing was now possible. The Public Prosecutor’s office refused. The rag was sent instead for further testing in Rome and a report was finally produced in December 1987, three years and five months after the rag was found. The report said the sample was too old for significant conclusions to be drawn.
In desperation Romola managed to get Silvano arrested for the murder of his first wife and he was removed to prison to stand trial in Sardinia. And the material evidence was too old there, too. Silvano was acquitted. He was at once ordered to present himself before the magistrate in Florence to answer questions about a certain Beretta 22 L.R. Instead of which he left the country. Then the murders stopped.
The Marshal paid for his coffee and got back in the car, feeling better, at least, for having seen with his own eyes that broken-down cinema where this whole story had begun on the hot and very dark night of 22nd August 1968.
Not that it was easy, just now, to imagine the heat. There was an icy wind blowing fit to freeze your ears off. He switched on the engine and let it warm up as he fished his notes and the rough map Lorenzini had drawn up for him out of his pocket. He decided to proceed in the same order as the original investigators. He would go back a little by the way he’d come and take the Pistoia road as far as the Rossini house.
It was a long, straight road and the traffic was moving fast. It was similar to the road he’d taken out of Florence, with the same symptoms of sleepy countryside pimpled with rashes of new building here and there. It really wasn’t possible to go slowly enough to read the house numbers. When he tried there was an angry chorus of hooting and, once again, he overshot his mark and had to turn back. Well and good. The road he then had to take was, in any case, on the other side. He made an inspired guess, stopped his car as he turned in, and then got out to look at the white house on the other side of the road. Then he waited for a gap in the traffic and crossed. There was really no need to do that. The house was clearly numbered and recognizable, anyway, by the floodlight attached to it. But he couldn’t help himself. He needed the house, not its number. He needed the real, the concrete. He had no idea whether the Rossini family still lived there but he didn’t care. He just wanted to speak to someone, anyone, establish human contact with this twenty-year-old story.
The green shutters of 154 were closed. At 154A a woman was peering out from between tight lace curtains. 152, the other half of the building, housed a trattoria. An elderly woman there was sweeping the steps and the last late luncheon customers were getting into their cars in the cindered space beside the whitewashed building.
“Good afternoon.”
She carried on sweeping and looked up at him.
“We’re closed. It’s almost half past three.”
“That’s all right. It was just some information I wanted. That lane across the road … If I’m not mistaken it’s a short cut to Signa. Only I haven’t been around these parts for years and I’m sure it sometimes used to be impassable. I thought, living here, you might know …”
She’d barely paid him any attention once she’d established that it was too late to eat, but now her lips tightened and she stopped her sweeping to stare at him.
“You can get through.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She gave him a black look and turned her back on him, starting to sweep again. When he was getting into his car he caught her watching him, peeping round from the side entrance, thinking, no doubt, that she was invisible. He sensed those lace curtains twitch slightly, too, and he felt the glittering eyes of the old woman trained on him as he started the engine. They were old enough to remember the story. Perhaps they thought he was a nosy journalist. Or perhaps he was becoming paranoid. For all he knew, they thought he was a tax inspector and they hadn’t even lived there long enough to know anything about the ’68 murder. Next to the big white house was a stone farmhouse building with three doors. In one of those, Salvatore Angius had been living, and nobody had ever found out. Why hadn’t they? Why hadn’t they knocked at every door in the block that night and asked, “Did you see a small child cross the road alone? Did you see a man watching him?” It was easy enough to criticize, of course, from this distance. Nevertheless, he was quite sure he’d have done it, and in doing it he’d have seen this Angius and broken Silvano’s alibi then instead of sixteen years later.
The woman with the sweeping brush came round to the front of the white building and stared across at him defiantly. He turned into the lane and drove down it, staying in second gear. He was being foolish. He wouldn’t have broken Silvano’s alibi because Silvano would never have given such an alibi if he hadn’t felt safe to do it. Angius had given his official address as being his brother’s house and before anybody could give the matter any thought Sergio Muscas had changed his story and the hue and cry was all for Flavio.
This stony lane was clear enough, all right, probably because a couple of small factories, little more than long sheds, had been built in the fields. There was no sign of the boulders which had demonstrated that the child couldn’t have arrived by car and that he’d have torn and dirtied his socks if he’d walked.
Even so, something was wrong. There was no sign of the Vingone which would have been running beside the road behind a screen of tall reeds. He slowed down more, looking about him. There was a line of reeds in the distance to his right but that was neither here nor there since they should have been to his left. The road was curving and rising now. It met another, wider country road that petered out to his right and became a tarred road to his left where there were a number of houses. This was all wrong. He stopped, wondering what to do. An old man with a stick appeared from the direction of the tarmac road and sat down on a low wall to get his breath, despite the cold which had reddened his hands and face.
“Excuse me! I’m looking for the road that comes out near the cemetery!”
The old man sat motionless and gave no sign of having heard, perhaps because of the wind. The Marshal got out of the car and approached him.
“Excuse me? I’m looking for the cemetery. I thought this was a short cut. An old friend of mine’s buried there …” He really was getting paranoid, but he couldn’t help imagining Di Maira, who always seemed to be watching him, following in his tracks.
“He was looking for the lane where that couple were killed …”
“He had a Sicilian accent …”
“The cemetery?”
“Yes, I thought this road led there.”
“You’re miles away.”
“But can’t I cut across these fields?”
“You’re miles off. This is Signa from here on. You’ll have to go up that road there into the centre. Then go back a mile or so till you get to the town hall and take the road to Castelletti. It’s about two miles, maybe a bit more, further on than that. You can’t miss it.”
“But … the Vingone—doesn’t the Vingone pass by here?”
“No, no. It’s beyond the town centre. If you turn left you’ll cross it. The traffic goes over the bridge.”
“But it’s only a stream, the one I’m talking about. I understand it crossed these fields.”
“I don’t know about that. The river’s all I know. You’ll see when you cross it.”
The Marshal got back in his car. How could he possibly have gotten so lost? The lane started right opposite the Rossini house and came straight here. Then he remembered: somewhere in the judge’s report there had been that episode where Sergio, having confessed to the murder, said he had accompanied his son. They’d asked him to show them the way, starting from the Rossini house, and he’d ended up near Signa over a mile away from the scene of the crime. So he hadn’t known the road either. They had both made the same mistake.
From the other end, then. He fished out Lorenzini’s sketch again. The cinema, the town hall, the road to Castelletti, the cemetery …
He set off again with the sketch propped against the windscreen.
Lorenzini had done a good job. After a couple of miles, just as the old man had said, he passed the marble pillars and wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, with its rows of black cypresses. Next there should be a fork … there … then the first lane off to the right. He signalled but couldn’t turn. The chain Lorenzini had mentioned as having been put up all those years ago was still closing the lane. He pulled in and got out of the car to check it. There was nothing to be done. The chain was thick and heavy and rusty and the padlock held firm. He locked his car, climbed over, and set off down the lane on foot. This was all right. A high bank topped by tall reeds hid the stream on the right from his view. About twenty, twenty-five yards … A curve that would have hidden the car from anyone passing on the road. And the car that followed? That too would have had to be hidden from the road. Had it slid down here with the engine cut and the lights out? It was probable.
To his left were open fields. The grass was long and thick because the weather had been so mild and wet until Christmas. But now the freezing wind coming from the mountains, faintly visible on the purplish horizon, was howling across the fields so that the grass was billowing in green and silver waves. The Marshal stood still, his ears and face burning and his fingers, even in thick leather gloves, beginning to ache.
The fierce iciness of the wind, whipping his cheeks and taking his breath away, was so cleansing, so exhilarating an antidote to his accumulated tiredness and stress, that he stood there for some time without thinking of anything.
It was that small voice from long ago that brought him back.
“Silvano was standing in the reeds.”
He turned to look. The reeds were dead now, their canes dry and broken. They wouldn’t hide anyone. But in August they would have been thick and rustling with leaves.
“There was a noise and he was in the reeds.”
The black night had been windless and hot. Seven shots and one shot. That was the only safe way. Silvano had to make sure they were dead before he could risk letting the incompetent Sergio fire at them so as to inculpate himself. Seven shots entering the bodies close together, centre target. One shot, thought to have come from another direction, only just hitting her arm and grazing her side. And by then Silvano was hidden in the reeds as the child awoke and his dad pulled him out of the car. He’d seen his uncle, too, going through his mum’s handbag.
“Get moving!”
That had to be Silvano’s voice. There was no other way. He would never have been fool enough to risk being seen driving Sergio and the child back to Signa. Sergio had to take the child away himself and perhaps be picked up on the Pistoia road. But how had Sergio found his way in the darkness if he wasn’t familiar with the road? Who was familiar with the road? Angius. Salvatore Angius, young and penniless friend and lover of Silvano, who lived at the other end of that road and maybe used it as a short cut to Signa because he had no vehicle.
“Was anyone else with your dad?”
“I think there was a man only I don’t know who he was.”
That was probably true. He didn’t know—and what interest could it have for a child whose mother has just been murdered?
It was as clear as it would ever get unless Sergio one day told the truth. An unlikely event.
The immediate problem was to get his car on to this lane so as to try and come out on the Pistoia road. He wasn’t intending to try it on foot. It took an hour or so each way and the cold winter afternoon was already darkening. He walked on a little and saw a decently maintained track coming from the direction of a cluster of houses beyond the fields further forward to his left. Beyond that he saw a car going by and felt pretty certain that the track was simply the next turning along the road to the one he’d come in by. He walked back to his car. It was true, thank goodness for that. A half-mile or so further along the main road he found the cluster of houses and the beginning of the lane, and within a few minutes he was joining the lane of the murder scene and proceeding in the direction of the Rossini house.
“Ah …” There ahead was the explanation of his mistake. The lane curved right, and there in front of him was the tiny bridge over the stream where Nicolino said he’d been set down. You had to cross the bridge to pick up another little road coming from Signa, the one he’d driven down without noticing the bridge and the deviation at all. There was, in fact, nothing odd or contradictory about Sergio’s mistakes at all. He’d been driven to the scene of the crime in Silvano’s car and taken no notice in the thick darkness of where the lane began. He’d probably then been accompanied to this end where you couldn’t go wrong anyway, there was no way forward other than the right one.
There was no way forward now, though, at all, because across the front of the bridge hung yet another heavy rusting chain and padlock.
“Blast …” The Marshal was about to give up and go back when he thought he might take a bit of his own advice. “Check everything. Don’t take anything for granted.” He said it often enough to the young carabinieri in his care. Without any real hope he climbed out of the car and approached the bridge.
“Which just goes to show …”
The padlock was hanging open. All he had to do was to drop the chain to the ground. At a quickened pace the Marshal returned to his car and drove across, careful to stop again and replace the chain behind him, always feeling Di Maira’s steely gaze on his back.
There! Ahead, the last little stretch of the lane hit the Pistoia road. And right facing him was the big white house with its floodlight. Number 154.
With a little grunt of satisfaction he signalled and turned on to the main road back in the direction of Florence. This was his world, the real world, where you checked things and they were true or not. His satisfaction was out of all proportion to what he had obtained. It had to do with his putting an end to any attempt at believing the unbelievable, and with a deep conviction that if he checked out a few more confused routes from both ends he might find the right road at last.