Page 13 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio

I decided to dodge the question. ‘I’m waiting for the right opportunity. What about the late Claudia Greco, Berg’s lady friend? Any luck tracing her family?’

‘We’re still looking into it, but it turns out she was originally from Naples and it appears that she had no family living near here and possibly none down there either. We’re still checking, but it’s not looking likely that there’s a relative with a grudge who might have taken the law into his own hands.’

I could hear the frustration in his voice and it mirrored my own. ‘So it’s looking ever more likely that it was either a robbery that went wrong, or murder by person or persons unknown…’ A thought occurred to me. ‘What about CCTV? Surely the Ponte Vecchio must be bristling with cameras.’

‘That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. A number of thejewellery shops on the bridge have CCTV as part of their security systems. Tech have been examining the footage and we now know one thing: the murderer was there, lying in wait, when Berg returned to his shop at 20.17 on Friday night, presumably straight after talking to you. The bad news is that it was dark by then and the perpetrator was wearing a hoodie. It looks like a man, taller than the victim, but that’s about it. As Berg opens the door to the shop, the killer appears from the shadows, bustles him inside and closes the door behind them. Then there’s no further sign of activity until 01.46 when the man in the hoodie emerges from the shop, carrying a coil of rope. There’s still a surprising number of people about, so he lurks in the shadows for a bit until he spots his chance. He ties one end of the rope to a metal ring set in the wall, returns to the shop and reappears with one arm around the victim, supporting the body against his own as if the man’s the worse for drink. He waits until a group of Fiorentina supporters go past and then he slips the noose around Berg’s neck, pushes him off the edge, and disappears in the direction of the Pitti Palace.’

I did my best not to let my mind rest too much on the brutal way David Berg’s life had ended. It wasn’t the most sadistic murder I’d come across in my time but, considering that the victim had been an old man, it had to be the work of somebody with a very different moral compass from most people. He deserved to be caught and locked away for a very long time.

‘When you say “disappears”, weren’t you able to track him on the city video surveillance system?’ Florence has well over a thousand video cameras scattered about the city, making it theoretically feasible to track a person right across town – but not in this case.

Marco sounded puzzled and annoyed when he answered. ‘Tech have tracked him going around the back of the Uffizi butnot emerging again. In spite of the weather and the late hour, there were still quite a few people milling about, and all Tech can imagine is that he did a quick change and mingled with one of the groups. I don’t know how he did it, but he just vanished.’

‘That sounds very professional. The more I think about it, the more I reckon Berg’s death was the work of a pro. Did you see anything that might help to identify the killer?’

‘From the width of the shoulders and his way of walking, Tech are confident it was a man, not a woman, and they reckon he was between one metre eighty and one-eighty-five tall, but that’s that. His clothes were dark and he was wearing gloves but nothing else of note – no wristwatch, no earring, no distinctive shoes, nothing.’

I felt as frustrated as he did. I’m six foot one, which is about one metre eighty-five, and I know how many men there are in the world of my height, plus or minus an inch or two. Looking for a needle in a haystack didn’t even begin to describe it. ‘He obviously came prepared and he carried out his plan to perfection.’ I did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. ‘The fact that he spent five or six hours in close proximity to a dead body makes me think that we have to be talking about a pro. Either it was a robber with a strong stomach or the victim was deliberately targeted by a professional hitman. The question, of course, is why? Robbery is self-explanatory, but murder? What could that old man have done for somebody to put out a contract on him?’

8

MONDAY MORNING

I went into the office at just before nine on Monday morning and found Lina already there. She mustered a smile for Oscar and me, but I could see that the strain was beginning to show. I hadn’t been able to tell her much yesterday after talking to Virgilio and all I could do today was smile back and offer a few words of encouragement.

‘I’m sure Virgilio will get things sorted out very soon. Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal, it’s just a work thing, and I’ve said I’ll give him a hand if he needs me.’ She looked slightly heartened so I changed the subject. ‘What’s in the diary for this week?’

She pressed a key and studied her computer screen. ‘You’re getting a visit at ten this morning from a Mr Jacobs. No idea what it’s about. He called first thing this morning to make the appointment. He doesn’t speak any Italian and he spoke English with a strong accent, so I wonder if he might be American. Then, tomorrow, you’re spending the morning at the theatre – I couldn’t get much out of them, but it sounds as though something fishy is going on. You have to meet a person called Zebra – that’s the only name she gave me – in a café near the theatre at ten-thirty. It allsounds a bit weird. And there was a message from the mayor’s secretary ten minutes ago. Please will you call as soon as you can?’ She smiled. ‘I saw him at your party on Friday night. Maybe he’s offering you a place on the city council.’

I went into my office and called the number Lina had given me. With everything that had happened this weekend, I’d almost forgotten about the meeting I was supposed to have with him and, as I waited on the line, listening to soothing music and a voice telling me how important my call was to them, I wondered yet again what might be behind this. Was it personal, work-related, or something else?

A minute later, I was through.

‘Good morning, this is the office of the mayor. How can I help?’ She sounded cordial but businesslike.

I gave her my name and told her I’d been instructed to call back. She immediately recognised my name. ‘Good morning, Signor Armstrong, the mayor asks if you would be free for lunch today.’

‘Yes, indeed. What time and where?’

She told me twelve-thirty and gave me the name of a restaurant that was unfamiliar to me. When I checked it afterwards, I was impressed to see that it appeared to be an ordinary trattoria in a side street not far from the university where Anna worked. During my career at the Met, I’d lunched a few times with political figures and, without exception, had found myself in the sort of expensive, central London restaurant where I had been very relieved not to be picking up the bill. Either Mayor Gallo was a refreshingly frugal politician or he was deliberately meeting me in a place where he was unlikely to meet any of his peers. The plot thickened.

I spent half an hour on the computer, among other things checking out the theatre where I would have to go the next day.Although I was familiar with the big-name theatres here in Florence like the Teatro Verdi or Teatro Puccini, I was unfamiliar with the name Teatro dell’Arno. I discovered that it was on the outskirts of the city and, by the look of it, it was housed in a former factory building or warehouse. The outside was spartan and decidedly unprepossessing and I found a couple of interior shots that looked little better. There was none of the baroque excess of red velvet and gilded luxury to be found in Italy’s more famous theatres and opera houses. This was art on a budget. I wondered idly how somewhere like this managed to survive in the midst of the current financial crisis.

I also plotted the addresses of the three senior police officers on a map of the city. Inspector Faldo lived in the suburbs to the west of the city, coincidentally not that far from where Virgilio himself lived, and the other two had addresses inside thecentro storico. Giuseppe Verdi, thevice questore, actually lived barely a three-or-four-minute walk from my office, while Vincenzo Grande’s home was to the west of the main station, not far from the river. I resolved to spend a couple of hours that afternoon taking a close look at the properties in question and maybe, if I was lucky, I might find some helpful neighbours who could dish the dirt – although at this stage, I had little idea what sort of dirt I was looking for.

At five to ten, Lina buzzed me to say that Mr Jacobs had arrived and I went out to Reception to greet him. I found a thin older man, probably in his early seventies. His skin was pale – as if he rarely went outdoors – and he was walking with the aid of a stick. He looked frail, but the expression on his face was determined and I was reminded of my first and only impression of David Berg. I gave the man a welcoming smile and held out my hand.

‘Mr Jacobs? I’m Dan Armstrong, how can I help?’ As Lina had told me he spoke English, I addressed him in my own language.

He shook my hand and shot a wary glance across at Lina before answering. Nodding towards the open door to my office, he lowered his voice. ‘Maybe I should explain it to you in your office.’ He spoke very fluent English with what sounded like a Dutch accent, not dissimilar to Casper Berg. My curiosity was immediately aroused. If he did turn out to be Dutch, this would be quite a coincidence, and in my line of business coincidences aren’t always what they seem.

‘Of course.’ I ushered him inside and made a show of shutting the door firmly behind me before taking a seat at my desk with him on the chair opposite me. Oscar looked up from his basket, saw that my guest wasn’t female and relapsed into slumber once more. ‘Now, Mr Jacobs, why don’t you tell me all about it?’

He leant towards me, still keeping his voice low. ‘I would like you to look into a suspicious death.’

‘I see. How long ago did this suspicious death take place?’ This wasn’t the first time I’d been contacted to investigate events that had happened in the past, in some cases way back in the past, but his answer came as a surprise – though maybe not such a major surprise as all that.

‘Friday night.’

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