Matteo's assessment had been right: the public prosecutor saw no reason to continue the investigation. He had just received the reply. It said that no autopsy would be approved either, and they were now officially assuming suicide, which made Matteo seethe inwardly as he made his way to the Hotel La Vetta.
Against his better judgement, he had mentioned the clues in his final report. Raffaella's outstretched hand pointing to the steeple, the "six" scrawled in the dirt. He knew himself that these were hardly definitive clues. But by God, they were something, surely!
They couldn't just be dismissed out of hand. In his mind, he ran through the different means still available to him by which he might convince the prosecutor to pursue an inquiry into the case of Sister Raffaella. But for that he needed, well, better evidence. And that in turn meant that he would have to carry out some investigations of his own. He at least owed that much to the dead sister, and to Isabella.
His route led him along the small avenue of poplars through the still toll-free Via Madonna delle Grazie, where he briefly checked the immaculate paintwork of his Lancia Delta, parked in the shade of a particularly large poplar. He enjoyed the slightly chilled air. A mild, pleasantly cool breeze drifted through the streets and carried the scent of Giuseppe's pizzeria to him. Spontaneously, he decided that he would take his lunch break there today. He had some reheated lasagne with him that his neighbour had brought over last night, but today he was more in the mood for Giuseppe's famous quattro stagioni.
Rationally, he knew that a visit to the hotel would be a waste of time, and that there was nothing to investigate there, because the case had been canned. But the prosecutor's letter had set something off in him. A spirit of defiance, perhaps? He knew in his gut that he would only be able to set his mind at rest if he carried on with his search for a motive and found nothing. He also found it odd that this young thing wanted to speak to Sister Raffaella, of all people. And so soon after her tragic demise.
La Vetta, a boutique upper-crust hotel, occupied a historic villa on the market square, which had formerly housed the town hall. The adjacent property had since been expanded to include a panoramic pool and a romantic flower garden, which could be admired from the street through an elaborate high wrought-iron fence.
As there were hardly any tourists in Santa Caterina, La Vetta mainly served as a conference hotel and a stop-over for business travellers who preferred the hinterland to the big cities of Lucca and Pisa.
For Matteo, this hotel represented a world that did not fit with his own. The only hotels he knew from the inside were bunkrooms in overcrowded tourist regions of Spain, where he had spent wild holidays with his friends as a teenager.
He didn't think he could find out much more about Raffaella here, but he didn't want to leave this particular stone unturned. Maybe this girl knew something that could help him in his investigation. A clue, a new lead: anything.
When she had appeared in the convent garden yesterday, he had recognised her immediately. A pretty girl like that inevitably catches a man's eye. He knew she worked at La Vetta because he had often seen her in her work clothes. A white pleated skirt with matching shirt and a striking sky-blue waistcoat embroidered with the hotel's golden logo.
Once again, Matteo thought about the laconic reply from the public prosecutor's office. Fundamentally, he took the view that the murder of a nun was an absurdly improbable event. But how could the public prosecutor be so sure? After all, there were no signs that Sister Raffaella had wanted to take her own life. She hadn't even left a suicide note.
Standing at the hotel's front door, he took one more glance at the cursive lettering over the entrance, and went inside.
The icy cold of an air-conditioning system running on full blast made the hairs on his forearms stand up as he walked through the sliding doors.
He was surprised by the modern design. He actually found that he was intimidated by how exclusive and refined everything seemed in here. From the outside, La Vetta was a lovingly restored villa building, like the dozens of others all over Tuscany: somewhat overloaded, and a little ramshackle.
Still gawking around the stylishly furnished reception area, he strode towards the expansive reception desk.
"Welcome to La Vetta! How can I help you?"
The receptionist, a young, tanned man, also wearing a sky-blue waistcoat and sporting an elaborate blow-dried hairdo, gave him a friendly smile.
Matteo responded in kind. "Buongiorno. My name is Matteo Silvestri, I'm here on business." He tapped his peaked cap for clarification.
The good humour drained from the man's features and was replaced by uncertainty.
The name tag on the receptionist's lapel waistcoat identified him as one V. Cattaneo. Matteo wondered what the V stood for. Valentino? Vico? Vincenzo?
"I'd like to speak to Aurora Rossi."
Relief spread across V. Cattaneo's face. He was probably glad that Matteo didn't want anything from him.
"Sorry, she's off today."
This caught Matteo off guard. "Mm. Is the owner of this hotel available, by any chance?"
The receptionist was silent for a second, then nodded.
"One moment, please." He reached for the phone and half-turned away from the policeman.
Matteo discreetly moved a few steps away from the reception desk and looked around with interest. His eyes fell on a group of bulky leather armchairs. He resisted the urge to sit down in one of them to find out if they were as comfortable as they looked.
He wondered how the rooms were furnished. He imagined being a guest of this hotel and enjoying the amenities.
He loved his two-room flat with a balcony where he tended his sprawling green potted plants. It was small but cosy: just right for him. Still, every now and then, a little escape to a luxury den like this would certainly have its charms. No washing up, no making the bed. A pleasant thought.
He was wondering whether he might just treat himself to a stay here when a slamming door made him turn around. A slim man with long slicked-back hair, a well-groomed beard and a patrician expression on his face came out. He was wearing a rather fancy suit with gold cuffs.
"Bongiorno. Davide Valentini. I am the hotelier. How can I be of assistance?" He held out his hand to Matteo. A pleasantly firm handshake.
"Oh, it's really nothing major. It's just about an employee of yours." Matteo paused for a moment, sensing the young receptionist's curious gaze on him.
The hotelier understood immediately and put his hand on Matteo's shoulder. "Let's go to the bar."
The hotelier led him past the reception desk into a spacious room with cherry-red sofas and yet more leather armchairs. They sat down at the bar, behind which an older man with greying temples and an expression of grave seriousness was wiping down the chrome fittings of a sinfully expensive-looking coffee machine.
Although not a single guest was present, light music was playing in the background.
The hotelier held up two fingers and not a minute later two espressos were served.
"Like I said, it's nothing serious. But I have a question or two about one of your staff, Aurora Rossi." At the mention of the name, Matteo saw the hotelier's brow start to furrow. "She does work for you, doesn't she?"
Davide Valentini nodded curtly and lowered his gaze.
"Sì. She's doing her training with us."
"Can you tell me a little about her? What kind of things she does here, exactly, her role … things like that." Matteo was starting to worry that Valentini might demand to know just what this was all about, but instead he answered quite calmly: "I hired her to work at reception." He lifted his chin and looked at a point floating somewhere above Matteo's head. "Just under six months ago, that was."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Are you happy with her? Is she doing a good job?" The hotel manager hesitated for a moment. "At first, she was, yes. No question about it.
"She's good with customers. Natural, open. But to be honest, lately she's been – well – she's been off her game."
"In what way?"
"Well, she's been neglecting her work, disappearing during her shift and leaving the front desk unattended." Matteo could see the hotelier's expression darken. "Honestly, I'd like to send her packing. It's no way to behave at work."
Matteo nodded sympathetically. "So why don't you?"
Valentini hesitated. "Oh, you know how it is." Matteo tilted his head. He didn't know.
"I know her father well. He is a craftsman. You must understand what I mean. And he's my cousin, too."
Matteo didn't understand.
"Look, La Vetta is an old building. He's made me an offer to renovate our bathrooms more or less at cost, if we find employment for his daughter in return. You don't say no to that, you know?"
Matteo nodded. "Of course." He took a deep breath and tried to contain his distaste. It was so typical. He hated this kind of nepotism. Not what you know, but who you know. Maybe he felt that way because he came from a large but fairly insignificant family, and he had had to work hard, himself, for everything he had achieved.
"But unfortunately her father is just as unreliable." Davide Valentini sighed. "He still hasn't started the work. He was meant to start on the top floor a month ago. Well, you know." He laughed mirthlessly. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"So you say that Signora Rossi neglects the front desk while on duty?"
Valentini sipped his espresso and nodded emphatically. "Incredible, isn't it? Disappears just like that."
"And goes where? Cigarette break?"
The hotelier pondered. "No, as far as I know she gave up smoking some time ago. She goes to the marketplace, right opposite." He pointed to the exit.
"To the marketplace?" This answer surprised the carabiniere.
"Sì! I've gone to fetch her from there a few times myself. At first I thought she was trying to do her shopping during working hours. But that wasn't it: she was always just hanging around that stall. The, uh …" He snapped his fingers to jog his memory. "What's it called …?"
Matteo sipped his espresso. It was wonderful. Much too good to down it in one.
"The convent stall! That's the one. The one where they sell that refined grappa."
Matteo stared at the man, his eyes wide, almost choking on the scalding hot espresso.
"You mean she was risking her job to go and talk to the nuns at the convent stall?"
"Actually, there's only ever one nun there. A kind of skinny looking one. Couldn't say what she wanted from her. Maybe she wanted to join the convent?" He laughed unpleasantly.
Matteo's mind was racing. The person the hotelier had described could be Sister Raffaella. But what was a young, worldly woman doing with a sister? There was probably only one person who could answer that question for him: Aurora Rossi herself.
"Signor Valentini, thank you very much for this information, you have been very helpful. If you can tell me when I can meet Signorina Rossi, I'll be on my way."
A few moments later, with the hotelier's business card in his hand, Matteo stood with his back to the hotel entrance, feeling ready to collapse from heatstroke as the sliding door released him from the ice-age climate into the glaring midday sun.
He had learned that Aurora Rossi lived in the neighbouring village and that today was her day off. Matteo briefly considered paying her a visit, but then decided against it. If he didn't take care of the parking violations in Via Madonna delle Grazie soon, the Mayor would throw a fit. Besides, he had heard from Valentini that it was Rossi's turn to work the early shift tomorrow. So he would just pay her a visit then and indulge in another of those excellent espressos. He was still not convinced that this woman was directly connected to Sister Raffaella's death, but he wanted to rule out all possibilities. After all, he had promised Sister Isabella.
Lost in thought, he was strolling down an alley by the market when first a bump knocked him off his feet and then something shockingly hot scalded his chest.
He cursed in surprise, his voice rising to a wail as the pain registered. Boiling hot coffee had caught him in the chest. It felt as if his skin had been seared with an iron.
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
Matteo looked up from his ruined shirt and saw a pair of eyes looking at him regretfully. They were an intense blue.
The woman tucked an auburn strand behind her ear, pulled a cloth towel from her handbag and dabbed at Matteo's shirt: the policeman reflexively tensed his chest.
"Oh, it's not so bad. It's only coffee." He smiled at her, the pain forgotten.
She smiled back.
"Besides, I am the one who should apologise," Matteo said gallantly. "Now you don't have any coffee. Hey, why not let me buy you another one? It's the least I can do!"