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- Herausgeber: McNidder and Grace
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
'Feels like a grown up, intense and grisly version of Cluedo, you suspect everyone and trust no one. Jacopo is from a family of aristocrats, he is known as the Dragon, rescues kittens and lives in a wing of the family Palazzo in Florence. When Jaco walks through Lucca or drives home, it feels as though you are seeing Italy through the eyes of a local. The legal, social and cultural aspect of this novel is as intriguing as the identity of the killer. As the gripping story continues, you may start to have your suspicions, but this in no way spoils the ending, as there are still a number of surprises waiting to trip you up along the way. It s good to know that this is the first in the 'Jacopo Dragonetti' mystery series, may there be many more to come.' --Liz Loves Books 'Broken Chord, an elegant psychological exploration of a dysfunctional family in a fine tradition of crime mystery is a great read, and I will follow Drago s investigations and musings in further instalments.' --Euro Crime Margaret Moore has created a stylish, astute yet empathetic Italian investigator. State Prosecutor Jacopo Dragonetti known as Drago (the dragon), makes his debut in this elegant psychological exploration of a dysfunctional family. Ursula von Bachmann made many bad decisions in her life, but the worst was to let her killer into her bedroom. In the unbearable heat of July in Tuscany, investigating magistrate Jacopo Dragonetti unravels a family history of feuds and violence. Money can buy you many things but it can't protect you from murder, it can't buy you love, and there is no love lost in the despotic Ursula s family. Imprisoned in the villa, they eye each other with increasing suspicion and fear. Three children by three different fathers, resentful servants, a jilted lover, and echoes from the Second World War as well as the more recent past, are the components of this complex case.
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Contents
25th July
PROLOGUE
It was impossible to tell what the victim had looked like when alive. Dead, and now unidentifiable, the face was reduced to a bloody mask. His immediate thought was that the ferocity of the attack must have been in direct proportion to the hatred that had inspired it. Jacopo Dragonetti, State Prosecutor for the Province of Lucca, was known to most people as Drago – Dragon – but he wasn’t breathing fire today, it was bile he felt rise to his throat. He swallowed hard and his face shuttered over the compassion he felt. His large green eyes half closed as though to cancel out the abomination he had been called to witness.
His eyes travelled the length of the body, where further outrage had been committed. The nightclothes had been hacked and ripped while a knife had plunged over and over again into what surely must have been, by then, a lifeless body. He sighed, sick and angry. He found detachment difficult in the presence of mutilation and made an impatient gesture, his fists clenching at his sides, as he looked at this horror.
July is always a hot and humid month in Italy. Today was no exception. The room was stifling, the air still and heavy. Dragonetti was aware that moisture coated his face and even his scalp was damp. Drops of sweat ran down to wet the collar of his white linen shirt. His over long black hair clung to his neck. He wanted desperately to be out in the open air, preferably with a breeze caressing his face, not standing over a corpse. Death was never very dignified but in this case it was worse than that; it was a desecration of life. He hoped he wouldn’t faint and abruptly stood aside to let the official predators have their way with the body.
Through the faint humming in his ears he heard a voice exclaim, “This is butchery!” and looked back at the body again. One accusatory eye angled unnaturally towards him, staring balefully like a glutinous marble. It was hard to look at but at the same time it was compelling, drawing his eyes towards it. He wrenched his glance away from the fascination.
“Cause of death was probably this wound here,” muttered the police surgeon pointing at a cut in the chest, “It went straight to the heart. The rest is superficial and was done post-mortem as far as I can see, but it’s a really savage attack.” The man continued his rummaging, exclaiming at intervals, “Good God!” and “Unbelievable! Why do all this?”
There was a lengthy silence. The room seemed to grow hotter and there was a faint but pervasive odour; the smell of death.
“Perhaps he wanted to make quite sure,” Drago suggested, more to break the silence than because he believed it to be so.
“Looks more like a frenzy to me. I’d say it was very personal. Either that or the guy was completely crazy.”
In an irritable tone of voice Drago asked, “Have you finished here?” He wasn’t interested in the man’s opinion, just facts.
“Yes, I’m done. The lab boys will do the rest. I need a drink after this. What about you?”
Drago looked at the surgeon carefully; he was overweight and he too was sweating copiously in the stifling bedroom. His cheeks were mottled with tiny broken capillaries sullying what once must have been a handsome face. It was eleven o’clock in the morning which was not a time that he would have ever considered drinking alcohol. With an effort he limited himself to saying, “No, thanks. I’ve got a lot to do here.”
He turned his attention back to the body. He noticed a ring on a finger that had been partially severed. It looked valuable. Theft could hardly have been the motive for the death. Lab technicians bagged the hands, ring and all. Then they zipped the body up in a plastic bag like so much rubbish.
Well, he’d wanted something to relieve his summer boredom, to shake him out of the lassitude caused by the heat and he’d got it; a VIP murder. Perhaps he should have been pleased to have a challenging case, but he wasn’t. He found it quite depressing to see this carnage and had the feeling that the doctor was right; this was such a personal murder he was probably going to be arresting a family member or a close friend of the victim. He left the room, his mind busy with what he wanted to do next.
17th July
CHAPTER ONE
Jacopo Dragonetti pulled Vanessa’s suitcase out of the car and wheeled it through to the check in. She was off again, leaving the stifling heat of Florence, for a music festival on the southern coast of Italy; her job as a music critic entailed frequent travelling.
He thought she was looking quite stunning; her freshly washed, chestnut coloured hair covered her shoulders and swayed as she walked. She was wearing a simple off-white linen dress and flat sandals. Her legs were tanned and slim and very long. He let her walk ahead and admired her lithe figure.
“I know you’re looking at me,” she said over her shoulder.
“Admiring you.”
“Now you walk ahead and I’ll admire you.”
“No way!” He laughed.
She stopped and gave him a critical stare. He was wearing jeans and a pale green Lacoste polo shirt. “I love that colour.”
He grinned and suddenly looked much younger than he was.
She looked kindly at him, “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”
“You always say that but I do miss you.”
“Stop sounding so sorry for yourself, Jacopo.”
He reflected that she was the only person who called him by his name. “That wasn’t how I meant to sound. Don’t you want me to say that I miss you?”
“Yes, if you really do, but don’t expect me to say it. I won’t miss you a bit. I shall have a great time and be far too busy to even think about you.”
“What a heartless wench you are. My problem is that I’m not busy at all. Really. Nothing’s going on. Everyone’s on holiday, including the Chief Prosecutor, so I’m in charge of all this nothing. My office is freezing because of overactive air conditioning and I think I’m actually getting a summer cold.”
“You’ll feel better when Bruno comes back from his holiday.”
There was some truth in this. He missed his colleague. Their temporary transfer to Lucca from the State Prosecutor’s office in a town near Florence had made him feel isolated.
They reached the head of the queue and Drago heaved the case onto the scales. Vanessa always had immensely heavy suitcases that were stuffed with her laptop, an enormous amount of clothing and at least five pairs of shoes. She insisted that her feet required frequent changes of shoes.
Vanessa clutched her boarding pass and moved away. “Come on, we’ve got stacks of time. Let’s have a coffee.”
He waited till she had gone through to the boarding area, then left the airport and drove away. It was still hot and he planned on a lengthy shower and an early night, but when he parked the car and got out he nearly tripped over a small ginger kitten. It rubbed against his leg and mewed at him. He bent down to stroke it. He could feel the bones beneath the rough fur. He stood up and looked around as though hopeful that a mother cat would materialise out of the shadows and claim it as her own. He walked through the tunnel under the Palazzo, his family home, and into the garden with the kitten stuck to him, still crying. When he went into the building it rushed past him and up the stairs.
“Well, it looks as if you’ve decided to join me for dinner, so I’ll have company after all,” he muttered, while he mentally reviewed what food he had in the house that would be suitable. A tin of tuna set on a saucer was devoured with enthusiasm by his starving guest. He knew he should put it outside. It probably had fleas and sundry other parasites but, when it jumped onto an armchair and curled itself into a purring ball, he hadn’t the heart to.
After showering he dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped to take stock. He was of medium height and slim. He patted his flat belly, glad he hadn’t gone to fat like so many men over forty. He was forty-seven and he hoped he looked younger than his age, mainly because Vanessa was twelve years younger. It was still a mystery to him that she loved him.
He pottered about preparing himself a simple meal of mozzarella and tomatoes with lamb’s tongue lettuce which he was very fond of. Music filled the flat. Tonight he had chosen a Bach violin sonata. Music played an important role in his every-day life. It had brought him into contact with Vanessa. He’d met her at the Teatro della Pergola where they’d been seated next to each other for the season. After weeks of smiling and nodding at each other and then with increasing familiarity, commenting on the music and the performers, he had finally asked her out for a drink. Things had moved on from there until a couple of months ago she had moved in and now shared his life.
After his meal he read a crime novel, which demanded total suspension of disbelief, while waiting for Vanessa’s phone call that would reassure him she hadn’t fallen out of the sky on her way south. It was peaceful in the house and without music, too quiet. He remembered when the house had been filled with his children’s noise and the clutter of their daily lives, the toys strewn about and the paintings waiting to be finished. He walked over to his fridge where he kept a few of their childish artistic efforts stuck there with magnets. The stick-like figures and the childish block capital letters spelled out Mamma and Babbo, the Tuscan word for father. Now his daughters were nearing adolescence and lived with their mother and David, her wealthy husband. Another life for all of them.
He went to bed straight after Vanessa’s call. In the sitting room, sleeping in an armchair, there was a little ball of fur and bones, which he hadn’t the heart to put out. He was restless and tossed and turned for what felt like half the night. He turned his pillow several times to cool his hot head and began to despair of sleeping at all, but in the end he did sleep, dreamt that Vanessa with him, and woke up feeling momentarily surprised to find himself alone in the bed.
On the outskirts of Lucca, in a huge and recently restored eighteenth century villa, just outside a small hill town, Ursula von Bachmann was in the vast salotto which in her mind’s eye was already thronged with notables. She turned towards the massive and ornate mirror, placed in the centre of the end wall, which perpetuated the length of the room and gave the impression of even greater size. In one corner her beloved cello was leaning against the wall. As she looked at her reflection, a small figure in the huge room, she was aware of movement and watched as the slim elegant figure of Guido glided into the room, came up behind her and placed an arm round her waist.
“Don’t we look amazing together, in this fantastic room?” he whispered as he kissed her neck. She felt a moment’s irritation. She knew he was really admiring himself.
“Guido, the mirror was an inspiration,” she said warmly.
“As you know, I’m very fond of mirrors,” said Guido, “but you’re right. It’s perfect on that wall.” He stood back from her and smoothed his shirt as though afraid that contact with her had sullied it in some way. “You’re ready?”
“Yes. I just have to put my necklace on. Will you?” She handed him the box, and Guido opened it reverently and lifting the jewellery from the faded velvet, admired the way the emeralds caught the light. He loved beautiful things and if Ursula wasn’t beautiful, she was as near as it was possible for her to be, given the available resources. She was elegant and exuded wealth, and that was far more attractive than physical beauty. It was magnetic. He closed the clasp and turned her round.
“Fabulous. You look fabulous as always.” The white dress which he had chosen for her sheathed her body and looked good against the tan she had all year round. He admired himself again in the mirror. Thick, wavy, dark hair that just touched his collar, a heart-shaped southern physiognomy with strange dark blue eyes, a slim body dressed in clothes that were impeccable.
“Let’s go. The limo’s arrived.”
They left by the front door, went down the steps into the warm evening air and got into the waiting car. The uniformed driver closed the doors and set off at a sedate pace.
On the top floor of the villa, a blonde girl flicked a cigarette butt down from an open window and watched it bounce and land on the bottom step. She turned her head towards the room and said, “OK they’ve gone.”
A tousled curly-haired young man joined her and looked at the tail lights of the car.
“How can she stand him?”
She stared at him with expressionless blue eyes. “Guido? He’s not as bad as some of them. At least he keeps his hands to himself.”
“If he wasn’t so obviously servicing her, I’d have said he was queer as a coot.”
“God, you are vulgar.”
“Well, what else would you call it? Love? I mean she’s nearly sixty and he’s all of thirty-five.”
“Come on, he’s nearer forty and Mamma’s fifty-five.”
“So what. He’s a gigolo, a toy boy, whatever.”
“If she was the man and he the woman, you wouldn’t find anything extraordinary about it.”
“Well she’s not and neither is he and it’s revolting.” Roberto couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice.
“And you’re sexist.”
“Yes, so what? Come on, Marianna, you don’t like it either. Why are you defending them?”
“Am I? I’m not really, but you’re right. I find it hard to believe she really loves him and I’m absolutely certain he’s only out for what he can get.”
“Well then, what are we arguing about?”
Marianna seemed to lose interest in the subject. “Have you got anything?”
“Of course.” His eyes flicked towards his jacket.
“Well then shut up and get it out.”
He grabbed his jacket from the chair and after patting the pockets produced a small packet. He held it up out of her reach.
“Money. This stuff costs and I’m poor.”
She went to a drawer pulled out a few notes and threw them at him. “You’re beginning to sound like Guido.”
“Oh no, I’m not, Guido is a pretentious jerk. He makes out he comes from an aristocratic family that lost its money, whereas I’m just a normal guy and never had any.” He grinned at her, holding the packet just out of reach.
She darted forward and snatched the packet from his hand. “You’re my lovely bit of rough.”
He grabbed her and held her arms tightly, “Don’t say that.”
“Oh for Chris’ sake make up your mind. First you’re working class and proud of it, then you’re not my bit of rough.” She looked at him with those clear blue eyes that were so dead she almost looked like a doll. “You don’t really love me.”
“I do. Do you know what I’m risking getting you this stuff? I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. I don’t do it for anyone else.” Well that wasn’t strictly true, but it was only for close friends.
“Really?”
“Didn’t you realise?” He managed to sound astounded.
“No, sorry, I thought you were dealing.”
“Great, so that’s why you’re so mad about me.”
“No, I love you as well, but it’s very handy to be in love with my dealer.”
“Marianna, I don’t deal and I’m not working class. Got it? I’m just a common or garden council surveyor. I don’t deal and I don’t snort coke or shoot up and I wish you didn’t either.”
“Poor little Roberto, what a good person you are, or were, until you met me.”
Roberto thought there was more truth in that than she realised. He was hopelessly in love, hopelessly out of his depth and he was risking a lot for her. She’d wanted coke and he’d got it for her. He remembered those first times and how terrified he had been, looking over his shoulder expecting to be arrested at any moment. That was how it had started and then, somehow it had become easy, so easy that it seemed silly not to get some extra and make a bit from it. He needed money and this was a relatively simple way to make it. The discrepancy between their wealth was enormous and this made a little difference. It meant being able to pay for meals out and enabled him to buy her little presents. He knew she would never marry him and although she thought she loved him now, he was quite certain it wouldn’t last long. Even so he had no choice but to stay with her. Four months into this relationship he could see with absolute clarity that it would never grow, or come to anything and that he might well ruin himself if he didn’t get out. He watched while she snorted the coke and knew that he was never going to leave, and that he would do anything she asked him to, anything at all.
CHAPTER TWO
Plump, ultra-feminine, bejewelled, superbly made-up and still pretty despite her age, Fiona beamed on her guests. “Ursula, Guido, my dears, I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve got quite a treat for you this evening.” Her husband, Ubaldo, faultlessly dressed, had a permanent smile fixed on his tanned face. He bowed and kissed Ursula’s hand, his eyes barely seeming to register her, before she was wafted on with Guido and ushered through to the main reception room where rows of chairs had been set out facing a small raised dais. As soon as they were safely out of earshot, Fiona hissed in her husband’s ear, “Those emeralds are divine. What a waste. She should give them to her daughter. They only draw attention to her neck and let’s face it that’s the last thing she needs.” Her hand touched her own wrinkled neck briefly.
“I can just see you giving your stuff to Diana, my dear,” Ubaldo said through his teeth.
Fiona ignored that and said, “I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing with that toy-boy.”
“Use your imagination, Fiona.”
“I’d rather not.”
As soon as they left the room Ursula whispered, “I’m sure he’s on something.”
“Not surprising, he’d need to be living with that.” Guido’s eyes were already darting round taking note of everything, the paintings, the furnishings and the colours.
“It’s his eyes, they never connect,” she said thoughtfully.
“He’s probably up to his eyeballs in Xanax.”
“And that smile.”
“Plastic surgery. He’s got no choice. He has to smile; his skin’s been stretched so much.” Guido grinned.
“Really! Remind me not to go for it.”
“You don’t need it, darling.” He knew when she was fishing for a compliment and always made quite sure she got what she wanted.
“Thank you, my love.”
Ursula entered the main room and smiled vaguely around her while Guido’s sharp rapacious eyes discerned who was present and decided the order in which they would be greeted. He murmured instructions in her ear and she moved regally, her hand extended showing her engagement ring to full advantage. The large diamond glittered in solitary splendour and she was aware it was the focus of everyone’s glances as she smiled and spoke the usual words of greeting, “My dear, it’s been ages…”
Her white evening dress made soft noises as she moved. It sheathed her sun-bronzed body and swathed her shoulders covering the more vulnerable areas of ageing skin. She was as tall as Guido but with none of his grace. She was big boned and walked a little awkwardly in her high heeled shoes as though unused to them. Guido’s guiding hand, lightly touching her waist, felt reassuring. He was quite invaluable. She wanted to interpret the way other women looked at her as envious, and tried to ignore the possibility that those subtle whispers were critical. They could laugh as much as they liked. She had what they didn’t, a handsome, sexually-active man. Whatever they might think or say, she knew it was wonderful to enter a room with a good-looking man. She sighed with pleasure. Fiona’s charity concert would no doubt be very good but already Ursula was planning her own which would be even better. She finally sat down, smoothing the dress underneath her, with a delicious feeling of anticipation.
***
In the kitchen at the villa, Marta, the housekeeper, watched as the woman finished loading the dishwasher, started it off and then washed and dried her hands before taking her apron off and hanging it up.
“That’s it. I’ve finished. See you tomorrow, goodnight, Signora.” Franca, the kitchen help, took her leave, using the formal you, ‘lei’. Her bicycle was waiting outside and she would cycle off into the warm evening, home to her husband and daughter. She lived in the village and Ursula had inherited her along with the house.
Marta and her husband Piero both smiled and said goodnight, but they used the more casual you ‘tu’ as they did with all servants. Piero waited until the door had closed before pouring himself a generous measure of Madam’s finest whisky. As always, he was dressed immaculately, in a sober fashion. His shirt was pale blue and the cuffs were held together by gold cuff links. He was tall and spare, his greying hair was cut very short. His face was austere, his eyes grey and shrewd. He looked what he was, a man of authority within his circumscribed sphere.
“So she’s going to marry him,” said Marta flatly. She’d been holding on to this piece of news, longing to bring it up and explore the ramifications, ever since Ursula had shown them the ring that afternoon with a strange kind of exultation.
“She’s a fool if she does. All he wants is her money. I’d have thought she’d have realised that by now.”
“Oh I don’t know. She needs a man. You know she can’t live without one. Anyway she’ll make sure he can’t get his hands on too much of the money. At least he’s better than the last one.”
“He’ll take as much as he can get from her, but you’re right, anything would be better than Carletto.” He remembered the scenes, the broken vases hurled across the floor, the childish tantrums and then of course the disgusting, the obscene truths shouted for all to hear and Marianna cringing in the kitchen looking at them with frightened eyes and feeling responsible for everything.
“That abortion nearly did for her,” remarked Piero, following his own train of thought.
“She’s upstairs with that boy now.” Her tone was one of disapproval. Marta was the epitome of respectability. Very thin, she was wearing a dark linen dress with long sleeves. A broach was pinned to one side and simple golden earrings glinted against her carefully dyed brown hair, which she wore in a chignon. The lightest of make-up over naturally olive skin, and dark red lipstick, gave her the look of a gypsy, or so Piero thought, knowing full well that it was a description that would have made her feel uneasy. He looked at her but said nothing.
Marta looked round the enormous kitchen. It was spotless. Stainless steel gleamed everywhere. The rest of the villa might be eighteenth century but the kitchen, apart from the massive stone fireplace, was definitely ultra-modern.
“This is the best place so far,” said Marta with satisfaction. “I hated the villa near Florence. It was way out in the wilds and the kitchens were half a mile from the dining room.”
“Well, they are here, too.”
“No, it’s quite different. But what I really like is that there’s a village here and Lucca is only seven kilometres away.”
“Shame about the Rossi family.”
“Oh God! What a nightmare. She’ll never get rid of them, you know.”
“Something will have to be done.” He took another reflective sip of the whisky, swilling it gently round in his mouth.
Marta looked sharply at him.
“She’s made them a decent offer and they should go,” Piero said slowly. “Things can’t carry on like this.”
“No, I suppose not. Maybe she should get another lawyer for this. Avvocato Martinelli’s getting on a bit.”
“Maybe. The trouble is that sitting tenants have the law on their side and they know it.”
They sat in silence for a moment. They had been with Ursula for twenty-five years, following her from country to country, villa to villa, through marriages and liaisons, privy to all the family secrets, yet still not quite part of the family. They were paid servants, and yet as familiar to the family as kitchen cats. They were often ignored, occasionally petted, leaned on when necessary and most importantly, they were always there; loyal, devoted and reliable. Childless, they had parented Ursula’s off-spring, helping them through the upheavals as they changed step-father, or house, or country and school. Rootless, they had provided roots for Tebaldo, Marianna and Lapo, who they thought loved them but, had their mother decided to throw them out, would have watched them leave without protest. They were dependents, and as such dispensable.
“Lapo didn’t come back last night,” Piero said.
“No.” She grimaced. “Madam didn’t say anything.”
“She never does.”
“What’s to say?” They looked at each other.
They both looked up as they heard the door open and then Lapo was in the kitchen, blonde curls, blue eyes, the face of an angel with the body of a gargoyle, and the behaviour of the devil, intelligent and cunning, and when the occasion arose, quite charming. Marta loved him desperately. She always had. His deformed body that she longed to straighten out for him, endeared him to her so much that she ignored all his faults and condoned all his actions, no matter how terrible.
“Lapo! Are you hungry?” She couldn’t hide her pleasure at this unexpected intrusion.
“Starving, dear, lovely Marta. Tell me there’s something left for me.” His blue eyes were laughing at her.
She grinned at him. “Where have you been?”
“Ah, that’s a secret.”
“Oh well, I don’t want to know your secrets. Now let me see what I can give you. Do you want pasta?”
He shook his head,
“I’ve got some quiche and I can make a salad. Would that be OK?”
“Fine. Can I eat here with you two?”
“We’ve already eaten but we’ll keep you company.” Marta couldn’t keep the happiness out of her voice. She loved it when Lapo sat with them in the kitchen.
Lapo’s eyes slid round and fixed on Piero’s glass as though guessing the age of the whisky he was drinking. “Have another drink Piero.”
“No, thank you. One’s enough for me. I’m not much of a drinker, as you know.” There was a brief silence, heavy with unsaid words. Marta prepared the food and set it down in front of Lapo.
“Have they gone to the Contessa’s?”
“Of course.”
“Ah, the lovely Fiona and the never-aging Ubaldo. I’m sure she’s had him stuffed. He never changes.”
Marta stifled a laugh.
“Is Marianna in?”
“Yes,” she replied in a guarded tone.
“With her friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh yes you do, Marta. Anyway I know you, when you say ‘I don’t know’, what you mean is ‘yes’.”
Marta gave a brief smile.
“Did Mamma tell you she’s going to marry Guido?”
“Yes.”
“And, no comment, is that it?”
Piero shifted in his chair. “It’s not our business to approve or disapprove of anything your mother does.”
Lapo laughed, “That’ll put your nose out of joint, Piero.”
“Not at all. Why should it?”
“Come on, he’ll be checking on the level in the whisky bottles for one thing and everything else that you consider your personal domain. ‘The times they are a changin’,” he sang.
“It will be up to your mother if any changes are to be made.”
“She’ll want her husband to be happy, don’t you think?” he said, and then began to eat very fast, shovelling the food down as quickly as he could, without any pretence of elegance or even good manners. He ate like an animal.
As soon as he had finished, he pushed the plate away and announced, “I’m absolutely full to the brim. Thanks, Marta, that was great,” and then he was gone. They listened to his feet running unevenly up the stairs and then the distant sound of a door banging, muted shouts and then the door again. This time the footsteps were coming down slowly. Piero moved into the hall and watched the young man walk towards the front door. “Goodnight… sir,” he said very slowly, adding the last word a beat too late.
Roberto looked at him warily as though worried he was being made fun of or perhaps threatened in some subtle way. “Goodnight, Signor Lotti.”
Piero watched him until he had closed the door and then went back into the kitchen. “He’s gone.”
“It sounded like they had words. He and Lapo don’t get on.” Marta didn’t sound displeased.
“No, I shouldn’t think they do. They haven’t got much in common.”
“True and he’ll be worried about his sister,” added Marta.
“You reckon? Let’s face it, Roberto’s not exactly a prince, is he? I mean what can he offer her?” He paused and added, “Madam will make a move soon. She’s been holding back but I can feel it building up.” Piero said it in a vaguely apprehensive way.
“Poor boy. He’s got no idea how vicious she can be.”
“Well it can’t go on, so the sooner it’s dealt with the better.”
Marta sighed and changed the subject. “Tebaldo’s coming the day after tomorrow.”
“It’ll be nice to see the children again.”
“But Isabella does nothing but cause trouble. She’s very difficult.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is rude. Her father was a peasant and she’s so aware of her roots she treats everyone who doesn’t have the same amount of money like dirt. She’s not a lady and no amount of money will make her one. Tebaldo should never have married her.”
“Money is always useful and the children are lovely,” said Marta trying to be positive.
“Well, they’re only little. Just you wait and see what they’re like when they grow up.”
“Tebaldo can’t stand Guido,” she observed.
“More trouble.”
“Isabella was so rude to him last time it was appalling. She called him a second-hand furniture dealer. She really goes too far.”
“But he takes it,” Piero smiled at her.
“Of course he does. A man who sells himself has no pride. He’ll take anything and keep quiet.”
“Not much of a man at all really.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
They both knew what they meant by that.
CHAPTER THREE
“Lapo, why are you so foul to him?” Marianna asked. She was pacing up and down the room smoking again.
“Can’t stand him. Wake up, Marianna. He’s after your money.” Lapo sat on her bed, his short legs dangling in mid-air.
“No he’s not.”
“Of course he is. He’d be a fool not to be. He’s a swineherd dreaming of marrying the rich princess.”
“Come on, Lapo, we’re going out together, that’s all.” She blew smoke in his direction.
“Tell me what you see in him?”
“Why should I? You wouldn’t understand.”
He stared at her and remarked, “You should see your eyes.” She made no comment. “You’ve been snorting coke again.”
“That’s my business.”
“He brings it to you.”
“No!” She jerked to a standstill and stared at him.
“Liar. I wonder what Mamma would think if she knew about you and especially about him.”
“I don’t care what she thinks. Anyway Mamma doesn’t think about me at all really and she certainly doesn’t care. She never even looks at me, hasn’t done for years, since… you know… so I don’t expect she’ll notice anything.”
“Perhaps I’ll tell her then.” He got up as though to go on this errand.
“Good idea. Get out of my bedroom.” She was angry so she gave him a slight push which made him stumble.
He whipped round, grabbed her arm and pinched the skin viciously between his fingers. She slapped his face and he slapped hers more violently.
“Don’t you dare touch me again,” he said, his beautiful face twisted into a vicious mask.
“You bastard.” Tears had sprung to her eyes with the violence of the blow and her face was stinging.
“Actually, I think you’ll find that, technically, it’s you who are the bastard.”
He grinned at her, then turned and left.
Alone in the room, Marianna went into her bathroom, ran the cold water and applied a wet cloth to her cheek. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was beautiful. She had no difficulty in seeing and accepting that. She brushed her blonde hair aside and examined her cheek. She applied some make-up to her face to hide the redness. It was still stinging from Lapo’s slap. She picked up a hairbrush and began to brush her hair. It was thick and dead straight and hung like a curtain down to her waist. She sometimes thought it might have been better if she’d been less attractive, maybe even deformed like Lapo. Would that have saved her? She stared at herself without expression. What could other people read from your face? Could they read your hatred, your fear, your lack of real interest in life, or your desperation? Could Lapo really see from her eyes what she was doing? Would her mother notice? Why was she doing it anyway? There was no answer to that, or no answer that she wanted to give. “Everybody does it,” she murmured, “so why not?”
She turned on the television and watched it for some time without actually having any awareness of what she was seeing, then she abruptly got up and threw on a light jacket. She knew Roberto would be down at the main bar in the small town. She wanted him, she needed sex right now, so she was going to go and get him. She would drive up to the bar, honk and make him run out and get in the car like a puppy dog, wagging his tail or maybe she’d rush in and grab him in front of his friends. She laughed at the thought. He would need petting after his little set to with Lapo and besides, she loved him. She picked up her bag and turned out the light.
Lapo got out of the shower and avoided looking at his body in the mirror. If he kept his eyes firmly on his face he could actually forget about his body, apart from one very important and impressive part. He was short, not far off being a dwarf, and crooked, but there was nothing missing. In fact, he glanced down at himself with pride, he knew he was rather more well-endowed than most men. He got dressed carefully. They might call him a freak but he could have any woman he wanted. Women only looked at his face too. Besides, his money was enough to make them forget the rest. All women were whores in his book. There wasn’t one of them you couldn’t buy. You could do anything you wanted as long as you had the money to pay for it and everybody had their price.
Roberto entered the bar inwardly seething with rage. Lapo had no right to interfere, no right to tell him he was wasting his time and in such a way that was deliberately done to humiliate him. OK, so he was poor compared to them, but he wasn’t going to let that freak Lapo, and, come to that, all the rest of them, walk all over him. Even that bloody manservant, because that’s what he was, a servant, treated him like shit.
He looked around. The bar was full. There were a few girls hanging round the snooker table where their boyfriends played. Older men sat playing cards or reading the papers provided by the owner; La Gazzetta dello Sport, La Nazione and Il Tirreno, the sporting paper and two Tuscan papers. He ordered a beer and began to drink it, standing at the counter. He felt someone move up beside him. “Got anything?” a voice whispered.
He turned and saw Mario, a boy he’d been at school with, not a close friend but close enough. “Sure,” he muttered and, leaving his beer on the counter, walked through to the back where there was an unsavoury lavatory. A few minutes later Mario joined him. There was an exchange of money for a small packet, palm to palm. Roberto went back to his beer.
Cocaine was cheaper now and as far as he was concerned nowhere near as damaging as heroin. It was the cool drug, the ‘in’ drug and there were no risks of infection. Heroin was the bad one, it was squalid and the general aura around it was a big turn off. Druggies, pale and white, scratching themselves, lying about in a stupor, going through withdrawal, or risking an overdose, were quite different to the hip image of ‘get up and go’ coke. He wouldn’t touch the other. This stuff was just recreational and he wasn’t really a dealer; he was just getting some for his friends. So what if he did make a little extra on top, he was running the risk of bringing it in here. Every time he bought some from his local supplier, his skin crawled. Being caught would mean jail and the end of everything.
When the door had closed for the last time, behind Lapo, Piero poured himself another generous shot of whisky and, carrying it in his hand, moved up to the study. He walked past the door of the well-equipped gym where Ursula worked out every morning. Twice a week she also had a massage. Her hair was washed and set at least twice a week too and coloured as often as was necessary, by Jean Paul who was really a Neapolitan brat with clever hands. It was amusing to watch Jean Paul and Guido sizing each other up. They were both made of the same clay, clever and reasonably successful men who had come from nothing, who used their wits and lived off the rich. Piero did not, however, include himself in that category.
In the study was the huge desk at which Ursula sat only to write cheques. Apart from these brief visits it was really his domain. Ursula had no idea where anything was or even what was there. He had total control and that was how he liked it. He took a small key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. His fingers reached down to the bottom of the pile and pulled out the grubby envelope addressed to Ursula, that she had never seen. He took the letter from it and read,
“Why don’t you go home you fat German cow. We don’t like Germans round here, not after what you did to us during the war. People here have long memories. If you don’t go you’ll be very sorry.”
It had been written on a computer and printed out. It was about as anonymous as it was possible for a letter to be these days. No one could ever identify its provenance. The postmark on the envelope was local and Piero had toyed with the idea of going to the police with it before dismissing that as a really bad move. This letter was probably the work of a local nut; to go to the police would give it an importance it didn’t merit. The thing to do with rubbish like this was to ignore it. He wouldn’t throw it away, not yet, but he didn’t see the need for Ursula to know anything about it, for now and, hopefully, not at all. It would be pointless to worry her with it. He folded it up and replaced it in the envelope, then put it back in the drawer and locked it again. He didn’t like it being there. He couldn’t forget it was there and although he tried hard to dismiss it from his thoughts, it had been constantly on his mind ever since it had arrived. The longer it stayed there in the drawer the worse it got. He might be making a mistake but now after three weeks he felt he couldn’t remedy it. At least there’d been only the one letter, so far, and that was what he was really worried about. These things were rarely isolated. He wondered about the author of the letter. Was it an old embittered survivor of the war, a widow, or an ex-partisan? There seemed to be a lot of those in the village which had been on the front during the advance of the allies through Italy in 1944 as they liberated the country and brought with them all their riches and their corruption, their chewing gum, chocolate, silk stockings, money and a different way of life. His own family who came from Florence had had very mixed feelings about their liberators, but their hatred of the Germans had been absolute. He had grown up with that as a constant theme. Now no one spoke about the war. It was over, forgotten by most, ancient history to the ignorant young, who knew little about it and were told even less at school. History lessons stopped with the beginning of Fascism. Now German tourists thronged the country and were welcomed by everybody, as was right, so why was someone taking exception to one half-German woman who had been born after the war, had no blood on her hands and was guilty of no sins except, of course, those of her father and her countrymen? The sins of the father… What rubbish! He snorted with derision. If that were true then how many would be guilty?
He sat down, took a sip of his drink and began sorting out the letters and bills. Part of his job as general manager of the house was to make out cheques for all bills, hire and fire servants and generally make sure that Madam, as she liked to be called, had nothing to concern herself with other than her own pleasure. He’d been protecting her for so long it seemed natural. His eyes roved towards the desk drawer again. He sighed, finished his drink in one short sharp gulp and began to make out the cheques. She would sign them without even looking. He could easily have cheated but he never had and she knew it. There were the odd perks like the few extra bottles of wine from the wine merchant, little things of that sort, but he had never cheated or taken a cut as he knew some people in his position did.
In the immediate future the problem of Roberto would have to be solved but Piero was quite sure he could deal with that, if asked, as discretely as he had dealt with other things in the past: paying off prostitutes brutalised by Lapo, Marianna’s abortion, and Tebaldo’s drug dependency. There were ways of dealing with unfortunate situations and he knew all of them.
A middle-aged man, modestly dressed, sat in a corner of the bar, reading a sports paper. Although not from the village he had become a regular and now aroused little curiosity. Occasionally, he lifted his eyes and watched Roberto come and go to the lavatory, always closely followed by someone. The local Chief of Police had asked for surveillance after becoming aware of an increase in the amount of cocaine available in the area. This Roberto was obviously the dealer but he wouldn’t be arrested just yet. He was a very small fish in a very big pool and it was the sharks that controlled the trade that they wanted, not the minnows.
A motorbike drew up outside making an incredible noise. Shortly afterwards a youth came in. He had studs in his ears, a ring through one eyebrow and another through his lower lip. His hair was very long and black, his face a mask of scorn. He didn’t walk in, he swaggered. Conversation faltered for a moment. Roberto studiously ignored him, partially turning away from him. The newcomer ordered a beer and when he had been served, turned his back to the counter and drank his beer down staring intently at everyone with a smile that was almost a sneer. No one spoke to him and he approached no-one. When his glass was empty he put it down on the counter, paid and left. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for the engine to start up and set off. The man reading his newspaper wondered what it was all about. One thing seemed certain; Roberto knew the youth and by his evasive action, which was quite unnecessary, had made that crystal clear. He might just as well have said out loud, “I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
As the sound of the motorbike receded, a furious honking started up outside. All eyes swivelled round to Roberto who seemed undecided but didn’t move. Then an incredibly beautiful blonde girl came into the bar and grabbed him by the arm. After a few minutes whispered conversation, they left together.
The man in the corner folded his newspaper and slowly left the bar. Outside, the girl was leaning against an expensive car and Roberto was kissing her, a lengthy deep kiss, which lasted long enough for him to reach his own vehicle. When they drove away, he followed them in his small dark car, watched as they turned into a driveway and made a note of the address. He parked in the shadows and a waited for a while before deciding to call it off for the night. Roberto was obviously going nowhere.
After the concert Ursula and Guido left almost straight away. She wasn’t tempted by the food laid out attractively in Fiona’s rather vulgar dining room. Guido looked round at the heavy curtains and the Baroque cherubs that were in abundance. He went over to examine a painting of Saint Sebastian. Ubaldo said, “Grim, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and undoubtedly a fake,” replied Guido. He smiled at Ubaldo, who moved forward to examine the painting more carefully. Then he joined Ursula who was drinking champagne, picked up a small pastry basket of caviar, examined it and replaced it on his plate and muttered, “Prepared yesterday by the smell of it. Don’t even think of touching it. Shall we go?”
Ursula nodded and they went to say goodbye to their hosts. She was already planning her own soirée which was going to be far, far better than Fiona’s pallid effort. She knew a world famous violist extremely well, in fact had once known him quite intimately, who was sure to come and play in the name of their old friendship. It had been an amicable parting so there was no rancour on either side. She would probably play something herself, after a bit of practice. She mentally ran through her repertoire.
When they got home she jotted down a few notes while Guido was in the shower. When he came out he was surprised to see her still fully dressed.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Not a bit. I’m busy working out the details of my charity concert. Oh Guido, it’s going to be so fantastic.”
“Do you mind if I go to bed? I’m terribly tired and I think I had rather too many glasses of that disgusting cheap champagne.”
“Fiona’s always been a cheapskate. That’s one mistake I won’t make. The trouble with old money is that they are so determined to hang on to it that they scrimp.” “Hardly surprising, they never know how long it’s going to last,” he said, thinking, ‘unlike you with your limitless pot of industrial gold’.
Ursula gave him one of her serious looks. “You’re right of course. I can never understand why I get looked down on for being nouveau riche, and it’s not that nouveau anyway.”
“Jealousy, darling. While they live in their crumbling palazzos, trying to ignore the cracks in the plaster, you can spend whatever you like on doing up the family ruins.”
Ursula smiled grimly. “Wait till they see what I’ve done with this.” It still rankled that she had been snubbed by the Florentine aristocrats. The things she wanted were things that money couldn’t buy, but she was going to get there in the end.
She said, “You poor boy; I can see you’re dropping. Get your head down and I’ll potter off to the study and jot down a few more things while they’re fresh in my mind.”
Guido crawled into bed and was asleep within a few minutes. Ursula kicked off her evening shoes and wandered along to the study where she began working out a guest list and a seating plan. Marta would no doubt have some amazing ideas for the food and Piero would see to the extra staff.
She heard Marianna come in giggling and whispering on the stairs with that wretched boy. She remembered that as their limo had drawn up she’d noticed her own car was not in its usual place. It was extremely irritating. Marianna had taken it again and she didn’t have a licence because she wasn’t yet eighteen. This had to stop. All of it. The thought that her daughter was upstairs giving her perfect body to that clod was so offensive she felt nauseous. What a waste. Even worse was the thought that she was snorting drugs to enhance her pleasure, drugs provided by that little delinquent. Well, it was time to put an end to something she had hoped would peter out of its own accord.
She rose from her chair and went up to her bedroom to undress. She took off the emeralds and laid them carefully in their faded velvet box and patted them reassuringly. They had been noticed by everyone. No wonder; they had been her grandmother’s and were exquisite. They would never leave the family. She would give them to Marianna, but not if she married someone like that boy. Tebaldo’s wife was out of the question, of course, and Lapo… she stifled the shooting pain in her heart. Lapo would never marry. Not because no one would want him but because he would never believe that any one could love him. She pitied the girl who ever tried to get close to him. He was extremely cruel and wouldn’t recognise love even if it was given to him unconditionally, like the love that Marta gave to him. Ursula knew perfectly well that Marta adored Lapo, but he was quite impervious to any feelings from others. Before they reached him they had to pass through a derisory filter that warped and negated them. Her thoughts returned to her daughter. The boy had to go and she would make damn sure that he did.
It was a triumphant and hopeful Ursula who slipped into bed later that night. She fell into a deep dreamless sleep that lasted till morning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dragonetti showered and then prepared the coffee pot setting it carefully on the gas. He searched in the cupboard and found another small tin of tuna. As soon as he opened it the cat leapt off the chair and rushed towards him, rubbing against his legs. “Yes, it’s for you,” he told it. He watched the kitten eating while he sipped strong black coffee. The cat ate fast and soon emptied the plate, then sat back to wash its whiskers.
They left the house together. When they reached the courtyard garden the cat sat down on its haunches and finished washing its face, one small paw passing repeatedly over the striped orange fur.
“Go home,” he advised it.
It watched him get into the car and drive off. The sky was relentlessly blue, the sun was already warm and it was going to be hot and humid again.
Another day of boredom stretched endlessly ahead of him.
Ursula appeared at breakfast looking so fit and happy that Lapo remarked on it. “Mother, you’re looking quite amazingly well this morning.”
“Yes, and I’m feeling good too. I had an interesting enough evening and I’m making plans for a stunning charity concert which will quite overshadow poor Fiona’s little do. I have better contacts than she does and quite frankly, my house is far more suitable.”
She ate a meagre but healthy breakfast.
“You know, Lapo, I wish your sister would make an effort to come to the breakfast table.”
“It’s the summer holidays. I don’t know why I got up so early myself.” He did; it was because he’d had a particularly unpleasant night tormented by nightmares. When he’d woken for the fourth time, his eyes anxiously seeking reassurance that he was indeed in his own bedroom and not in some land of horror, it had been a relief to find it was an acceptable hour to get up. He looked at his mother and wished he could find the kind of serenity she apparently had this morning.
“Actually, I would have expected Guido to join us,” he remarked quietly.
“Poor boy, he’s so tired. Late nights don’t agree with him. Well, it wasn’t that late actually but he had had a very busy day.”
“Well, I expect Marianna had a late night, too.”
“I know she did. I do understand that she’s young and prefers living at night rather than in the day, but I hardly seem to see her lately.”
“No, she’s… busy”
“Lapo, I’m well aware what your sister is doing and I’ve made plans to deal with it. She’ll be leaving for a holiday with Aunt Felicity. I’ve already phoned her, early this morning. Piero will be making the arrangements today.”
“My God!”
“Felicity’s not that bad, is she?”
“No, she’s just old, rather eccentric, and tremendously boring. Hardly good company for someone who’s being forcibly split up from her boyfriend.”
“I want to get your sister away. By the time she comes back it will all be over.”
“I admire your optimism.”
Marta came in with fresh coffee.
