The Marshal at the Villa Torrini Page 10

  'All her clothes?'

  'The clothes she was supposed to wear. Stuff I'd bought her, a pink tracksuit that she'd set her heart on. It was supposed to be for Christmas, but I'd given it to Antonio so she could wear it to come out with us. That bitch had hidden it—or thrown it away. Anyway, we never found it.'

  'Did you consider it unreasonable that after looking after your daughter all year, as indeed she had, there was some friction over her going to you at Christmas?'

  'Christmas? What sort of Christmas was she going to get? There wasn't a card or a bit of tinsel up. The place was filthy and she hadn't even bought any food. That's why Antonio was on our side. How could he keep her there!'

  Nevertheless, I understand that these scenes which occurred were not frequent and the fact remains that she did look after your daughter.'

  'Look after her? Christ almighty, it was nine o'clock at night and the kid hadn't even had a meal!'

  The Prosecutor relaxed and stood there in silence, letting it sink in. At first, it seemed as though Chiara was the only person in the room not to realize what she'd done. Then Saverino's voice hissed at her from behind the bars of his cage.

  'Stupid cow!'

  She whipped her head round in panic then, and seeing the Prosecutor's triumphant stance her face crumpled and she gave out a wail of fear.

  Her lawyer, redder and more dishevelled than ever, requested permission to consult with his client and was granted it.

  During the ensuing pause, the Marshal heard somebody come in and take a seat among the press. Galli from the Nazione. Not his style, this case, he usually went for bigger stuff. In fact there was already a Nazione reporter there, a much younger man. Galli was removing a long green loden overcoat. As always, he was immaculately dressed, and looked as though he'd just come from the hairdresser's. Quite possibly he had. Now what? He was making signs across the room, but there was no time to work out why because at that moment the Marshal was called.

  He felt no apprehension as he seated himself in the red chair that was too small for him. The Prosecutor would no doubt delude himself into thinking, after the fact, that he had tricked that admission about the time out of Chiara when, in fact, his only intention had been to show her up as a bad mother and so remove any reason to deal lightly with her so as to reunite her with the child. The revelation had been entirely gratuitous and owed more to Chiara's bad temper than the Prosecutor's skill. As for the defence . . . The Marshal, despite a slight, scratchy-eyed vagueness after his sleepless night, felt his strength, felt conscious of knowing all about Chiara and her family when the others had trouble remembering their names. He felt himself again. What's more, having put a stop to his diet by force after the sausage episode, Teresa had supervised his breakfast. If there was a connection between these facts, the Marshal was not conscious of it. He just felt better.

  'Marshal, were you aware, before the events occurring on Christmas Eve, of the problems Pecchioli Antonio was having with Grazzini?'

  'Yes. I'd been called out by the proprietors of the café she frequented.'

  'Can you describe to the court what happened on that occasion?'

  'Pozzi, the owner of the bar known as the Piano Bar in Piazza dei Cardatori number ten, telephoned to the Pitti station at seven twenty-five in the evening to report a disturbance. I went to the scene myself with carabiniere Di Nuccio and found Grazzini Anna Maria seated on the pavement outside the bar. A group of local people were standing around her, apparently trying to persuade her to go home.

  'Was she behaving in an aggressive manner?'

  'Not when we arrived. She had broken a number of glasses and a chair inside the bar, but when we arrived she was crying loudly and accusing everyone of ill-treating her.'

  'So in fact you never witnessed any violence on her part?'

  'Oh yes. She gave carabiniere Di Nuccio a black eye and a number of bad scratches when he tried to pick her up.'

  'And in your opinion, Marshal, can this truly be defined as aggressive behaviour or should it be more properly considered as the exuberance of a glass of wine too many?'

  'It was neither.' He wouldn't be able to help it now.

  'Neither?'

  There he went! The Marshal's face didn't flicker.

  'I understood from Pozzi that she arrived there perfectly sober and that he had only served her two drinks. Her behaviour was extremely bizarre and several witnesses testified to the fact that it dated back to the moped accident.'

  'I see. However, you saw Grazzini, for whatever reason, behaving in a violent manner and were able to restrain her—the two of you, or just your carabiniere?'

  'Just carabiniere Di Nuccio.'

  'And was he forced to be violent in turn in order to restrain Grazzini? Did he handcuff her? Did he hit her? Throw her to the ground?'

  'She was already on the ground. She flailed her arms at him when he bent to talk to her. He held her arms and got her to her feet. We then accompanied her home and gave her into the care of Pecchioli Antonio.'

  'Thank you, Marshal. So, one man, without the use of violence, was able to deal with Grazzini when in an aggressive state. Can we come now to the twenty-fourth of December and hear what happened then?'

  The Marshal wasn't too pleased with all this. Clearly, the presence of two large, uniformed men is going to have an effect that members of a family don't have. But he had no idea whether he was allowed to protest at this misdirection. He thought probably not. It wasn't his business— though the pathologist had got his in about their knowing they'd kicked her in the stomach . . . The moment passed and he could only carry on with his evidence.

  'At 02.17 the bell at the Pitti Station was rung repeatedly. It was heard by my men whose dormitory is above the office where the bell rings. Two of the men went down to answer the housephone. A woman who refused to give her name claimed to have been passing through Piazza Pitti and to have seen someone collapse near our gate. When asked had she called an ambulance the woman said there was no phone near enough, and that all the bars were shut. When my men arrived at the gates they found Grazzini Anna Maria lying on the ground. There was no sign of whoever had rung the bell. One of them called an ambulance and the other came for me.'

  'Thank you, Marshal. Now, am I right in saying that during the night the Station at Pitti is closed and that all emergency matters are dealt with through your Headquarters at Borgo Ognissanti?'

  'Yes. Anyone needing help can go there directly to report a crime or, if necessary, call out the emergency service on 112.'

  'Yes. We know, in fact, that Giorgetti Chiara and Saverino Mario had already tried to call the police emergency number, 113. When that failed to produce what they wanted, instead of calling an ambulance directly as advised, and instead of calling the carabinieri emergency service on 112—they came and rang your bell! Do you have any idea why that should be?'

  'Most probably because Giorgetti Chiara knew me. It often happens.'

  'She knew you because you had helped her out of some— shall we say—difficulties, some years ago?'

  Chiara's lawyer was almost on his feet. The Prosecutor veered away from this forbidden ground and the Marshal could see that it hurt him to do it.

  'She didn't, however, want to see you, did she, Marshal? At that hour of night she knew your station was closed and you were in your bed. She didn't ask for you personally, and she certainly didn't wait around until you arrived. Isn't that true?'

  'Yes.'

  'So. Why you, Marshal, instead of 112? We have heard Saverino claim that it was, indeed, Giorgetti who insisted on going to Palazzo Pitti, claiming that you were the best person to deal with the matter. Wouldn't it be more logical to suppose that she rang your bell, knowing you were not on duty and knowing it would take you time to arrive, the time they needed to clear off the scene—in other words, a call to 112 might produce help too quickly from a nearby patrol and find them still in the vicinity!'

  'Objection!'

  'Sustained. Mr Prosecutor,
the Marshal is not here to give opinions on your opinions but to give his evidence. May we please confine ourselves to the facts.'

  'No further questions.'

  'Counsel for the defence?'

  Counsel for the defence, in an attempt to straighten his stock and his papers at the same time, sent the stock further askew and the papers fluttering to the floor. The Marshal waited, his bulging eyes expressionless.

  'We have heard a lot of talk about violence, Marshal. You have known my client for some years, I believe. Would you say that she was a violent person?'

  'No.'

  'Do you consider her a strong person, a person who influenced the people and events around her?'

  'No.'

  'How would you describe her?'

  'She was weak-willed, easily influenced.'

  'Now, my client has stated that she took no part in the violence inflicted on Grazzini but was nevertheless unable to prevent it. Does that statement accord with your experience of my client?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you consider it significant then that the weakest of the three people involved should be the one to insist on assigning to you, a person she knew to be trustworthy, the job of seeing that Grazzini was taken to hospital for treatment? That, given her weak character, this demonstrates very clearly her concern for Grazzini?'

  'No.' It was all very well deciding to call her 'his client' to cover up that he kept forgetting her name, but he had prepared that little speech before Chiara had spilled the beans about the time. The Marshal didn't want Chiara to go to prison, but he shared the judge's opinion that they should stick to the facts and then decide. Fellow's face was getting even redder and you could see that he was going to insist because he had no alternative speech prepared.

  'But is it not clear from her action, from her taking charge when before she had never taken charge, that of the three she was the one who cared?'

  'Of the three she was the most frightened. She thought of me because I'd helped her out of a mess before.'

  'That's only an opinion of yours, Marshal, if I may say so.'

  'I beg your pardon. I understood that my opinion was what you asked for. She was frightened, though, that's a fact. When I went to the house she was hysterical. In any case she told me that she hadn't called 112 because it had occurred to her that they might be picked up before they got home. It's in her statement. She was afraid of that and of Grazzini dying, and she was afraid of losing Saverino.'

  'Marshal, this is all yet more supposition, is it not?'

  'No. It's in her statement.'

  Furious, he changed the subject.

  'Was Grazzini alive when you went out to the gate?'

  'I wasn't sure . . . I thought so . . . ' The Marshal paused, remembering his dream and expecting the Prosecutor to leap up and say 'You thought?'' but the Prosecutor was deep in whispered consultation with his clerk.

  'What action did you take?'

  'I covered her with a blanket. She had a lot of injuries, so we didn't think we should move her. I tried to find a pulse.'

  'She gave no sign of consciousness? Made no noise?'

  'No, none. When the ambulance came I followed it to the hospital with one of my men. She was declared Dead on Arrival.'

  'One last question. You know my client well, and consider her a weak character? Would you say that her behaviour depends largely on whose influence she is under?'

  'Yes.'

  'And would you describe the influence of Saverino as being a positive or a negative one?'

  'Negative.'

  Chiara wouldn't thank her lawyer for that. If he got her off at Saverino's expense there'd be a reckoning one day. They couldn't keep him in prison for ever.

  'No further questions.'

  'The court will adjourn.'

  The Marshal was glad enough to rise from the uncomfortable little chair, but he had hoped that they might have got through the whole business whereas he was going to have to go through the arrest some other day. Oof! In the old days it was confirm your report and Good Day. He watched Chiara being led away and then made for the exit.

  'Marshal!'

  He smelled the perfume before spotting the person.

  'Galli. I'm surprised you're bothering with this.'

  'You're joking.' Galli slid into his dark green coat and felt tentatively at his bouffant black hair. He wasn't good-looking, carried too much weight, like the Marshal, but he looked as sleek and expensive as a pedigree cat and his wife, whom the Marshal had once glimpsed at some official do, was a real stunner. Long hair and long legs like a fashion model.

  'I want to talk to you. Rang your office and they said you were here. It's about Forbes.'

  CHAPTER 7

  The Marshal buttoned his greatcoat and slid his glasses on before they reached the great baroque entrance where the dazzling sunlight would blind him.

  'Five below zero last night,' Galli said. 'I think we lost a few tiles. That's going to cost me a packet.'

  The carabinieri on guard looked frozen to the marrow, despite the extra thickness of their bullet-proof jackets. Clutching at their machine-guns, they hunched their shoulders against the agonizing blast of the tramontana which made their ears ring.

  'Let me offer you a coffee.'

  'Well . . . I've got my driver waiting.'

  But Fara was as warm as toast, sheltered from the wind with the bright sun burning through the windscreen. They left him to wait a little longer. The Marshal had to hang tightly on to his hat as they crossed Piazza San Firenze and made for the welcoming warmth of a big bar near the corner.

  They took their small thick coffee laced with a dash of grappa. The tramontana seemed to require it.

  'It was Fusarri,' Galli explained, 'who told me you were on the Forbes case. He seemed as pleased as Punch about it.'

  'Hmph.' That was another thing about Fusarri. He had friends among journalists where it was wiser to have just acquaintances. He and Galli probably went to the same tailor and hairdresser. They both smoked too much. Galli was lighting up now, but a normal cigarette, thank God.

  'You don't like him? I suppose he's not your sort. Still, you people never like any magistrate as a matter of principle, admit it.'

  The Marshal, as a matter of principle, admitted no such thing.

  'I just find him odd, that's all. That way he has of looking as if he's got more important things on his mind and is only listening to you out of politeness. I know he's kept busy, but, after all, what can be that much more important than the case he's on?'

  'Women.'

  'What?'

  Galli chuckled delightedly.

  'You didn't know that? Well, I suppose he wouldn't be likely to chat to you about it. They're his only real interest, apart from food and smoking. Quite a swordsman, too, I can tell you. We've had one or two girls in common—not at the same time, he's not a man I'd care to offend.' Galli grinned sideways at the Marshal, squinting against a curl of smoke. 'Trust you, Guarnaccia, to get his number. He is only listening to you out of politeness—well, out of a sort of informed interest, as you might say. He could easily afford not to work but he enjoys it.'

  'Mph. That explains a lot.'

  'Up to a point it does, but don't get the wrong idea. He's brilliant. Anyway, tell me about Forbes. You going to arrest him?'

  'Why? I wouldn't have thought there was much in it for you.'

  'There isn't, if you mean a story. I'm on the Bribe City job full time. I'm interested in Forbes because the Forbeses are friends of ours, have been for years.'

  'In that case,' the Marshal sighed, 'you can tell me more than I can tell you. What I can tell you, given that you're not writing it up, is that I'm not the person who should be on the case. My business is with people like them.' He indicated the Tribunal opposite. 'Something like that happens and I can have the culprits inside in a few days. This Forbes chap . . .'

  'You don't like him? Forget I asked. You don't or you'd answer. Well, having said we're friends . . . ' Galli
hesitated.

  'It was her you liked,' finished the Marshal.

  'Then you do know something?'

  'No, no . . . Just one of her neighbours chatting. She said it was something they quarrelled about, Forbes and his wife, that all their friends were her friends really.'

  'I suppose that's more or less true. No, I thought you might have found out—you will anyway, it's common knowledge—that I had a bit of a thing for her myself.'

  'No, I hadn't found out. You were lovers?'

  'We would have been if I'd had my way but she was ferociously loyal. She fancied me, though I say it myself, but she wouldn't, she said, not until she'd definitely given up on Forbes, a thing she was loath to do. Nobody likes admitting they've picked a lemon, do they? At least, women don't. They think it makes them look fools or failures. Well, he was the one who was a fool and a failure. Not that he could help being a failure, but he could help being a fool. Fancy having a woman like that—she was one in a million, I can tell you—and leaving her without. He hadn't touched her in a year, she told me that. Anyway, whoever said that about their friends wasn't far wrong. I think he's a right little turd, pardon the expression, and if he had something to do with her death I'm interested, story or no story. What do you need to know?'

  'I wish I even knew that. This Forbes . . . He'll inherit a goodish bit, I gather.'

  'Mm.' Galli looked unconvinced. 'Two more coffees,' he told the barman. 'If you're talking about a motive, I can't see that being it. He had full use of her money as it was, without the responsibility of it.'

  'Didn't he earn anything at all?'

  'Him?' Galli laughed. 'How would he ever earn anything?'

  'He says he's writing an article.'

  'Oh, he's always writing an article. Might even have been paid for one or two of them but they're the ones Celia'd been asked to write and given to him. Probably did half the work herself, anyway, and gave him the credit. The others he does for nothing, for some English language magazine that's printed here and given away free by hotels. The rest of the time he works on his mythical book. No, he doesn't earn anything, but she gave him all the money he wanted.'