Page 17 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio

I thanked him for the positive feedback and told him that I also struggled to find the time to write. He asked me if I was actively working on a new book and I told him that I’d only just started one, this time set in neighbouring Siena. I decided that I’d better go out and buy one of his books. The least I felt I should do would be to read one of his historical novels and maybe pass it on to Anna. She was the history expert in our household.

Only a few minutes after the remains of the antipasti had been cleared away, a waiter appeared carrying our mixed grill. He was a strong-looking young man and I could see why he needed the muscles. He was bearing a large silver platter, almost the size of a tray, on which there was a mountain of food. He set it down in front of us, nodded politely and left us to it. I glanced across at the mayor and saw him studying the expression on my face. He grinned.

‘And it tastes as good as it looks, believe me.’

There were pork chops, chicken breasts, slabs of beef that would have been a meal in themselves, as well as Tuscan sausages, split in half down the middle and grilled inside and out. The meat was accompanied by a pile of little roast potatoes, slices of grilled aubergines and courgettes and a heap ofpeperonata– a spicy mix of onions, red, yellow and green peppers, and choppedtomatoes. I took a deep breath, picked up the serving spoons and helped myself. The mayor was right. It was outstanding.

We got talking about dogs, and the mayor – ‘Call me Ugo’ – asked me about the black Labrador he’d seen at the book launch. I told him about Oscar and he told me his wife had a dachshund, but I got the impression that he longed for a bigger dog. Of course, with his work commitments, he knew he wouldn’t have the time to dedicate to walking it.

We were still talking about dogs when we both finally admitted defeat and threw in the towel. I had eaten enough to last me for the rest of the week and there was still meat left over. The mayor very kindly asked the waitress if she could organise a doggy bag for Oscar – he told me his dog was too spoilt to deign to eat leftovers. When this was handed to me on our way out of the restaurant, the waitress must have added even more bits of meat as it felt as if it weighed at least a kilo. Somehow, I had a feeling Oscar was going to forgive me for not taking him out to lunch.

We shook hands outside the restaurant and I thanked the mayor for the meal, promising I would see what I could find out about his daughter’s boyfriend and report back as soon as possible. A shiny Mercedes was waiting by the kerb and the mayor offered me a lift back to my office, but I told him I needed the walk. In fact, after everything I’d eaten, I probably needed at least a twenty-mile route march. I watched him leave for his next appointment – opening a new sports hall in the suburb of Rifredi – and I reflected on how very human and approachable he had been. I hoped I wouldn’t discover anything sinister as far as his daughter’s mysterious boyfriend was concerned. He had enough on his plate already, trying to run this amazing city.

10

MONDAY AFTERNOON

On my way back to the office, I stopped off at a bookshop and bought myself a copy ofRevenge – a Medici Family Dramaby Ugo Gallo and was delighted to see a pile of my murder mysteries on display. I would definitely pass his book on to Anna to read after I’d had a go at it, and no doubt she would be able to comment on the historical accuracy of the mayor’s research.

At the office, I received a warm welcome from Oscar – made even warmer when I gave him a succulent piece of steak the size of a pack of cards. I then took him for a walk and, out of curiosity, I went back to the Ponte Vecchio. The entrance to David Berg’s shop was still taped shut, but as far as I could see, there were no longer any police officers inside so presumably the forensic investigations had all finished. We crossed over to the other side of the river and from there, we walked upstream to the next bridge, the Ponte alle Grazie. As we walked along, I gazed across the water at the predominantly white palazzi lining the river with the clocktower of the Palazzo Vecchio and the cupola of the Duomo beyond. Looking back, I could see the Ponte Vecchio in all its glory, three storeys high and with three perfect open arches in thecentre. It was an iconic view and I never tired of it, although the thought that only a matter of days earlier, an elderly Dutchman had been found hanging there was sobering, and my mind was once more drawn to the motivation behind that murder. Had it been robbery or something more personal?

We crossed the river again and walked past the Basilica of Santa Croce, which houses the tombs of such legendary names as Michelangelo and Galileo. History is everywhere in Florence and, after some of the stories Anna had told me about events in the Middle Ages, I knew that a random murder was as nothing when compared to some of the brutal things that had happened here over the centuries.

As I neared the office, I returned my thoughts to business and checked my watch. It was two forty-five and Marco would be coming to see me soon, so he would be able to let me know if they’d found any more clues to help with the murder investigation – although I wasn’t holding my breath. I was definitely coming around to thinking that the killer must have been a pro, so it was highly unlikely that he would have been careless enough to leave any fingerprints or DNA for the police to find.

At three o’clock, Marco arrived and I was delighted to see Virgilio accompanying him. Oscar was also very pleased to see the two of them, as was Lina. Her husband was looking as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders and the relief on her own face was plain to see. I brought the two men into my office, closed the door, and looked at them expectantly. ‘Well…’

Virgilio answered first. ‘I’ve had a long talk to Marco, and we’ve agreed to work together – in the greatest secrecy – to try to uncover the identity of whoever’s making files disappear.’

Marco nodded in agreement. ‘When thecommissariotold me of his suspicions, it immediately rang a bell with me. I’ve been trying to investigate the death of an asylum seeker that took placetwo months ago and it’s as if it never happened. There’s virtually nothing on the system to show that the man even existed, let alone was murdered.’

I thought back to the conversation Virgilio had had with me the previous day. ‘As I understand it, two asylum seekers have been murdered in the last few months and the police records of the deaths have disappeared. From what little you know of the two men – assuming they were men – is there anything that links them together?’

Virgilio answered. ‘Not a lot. For what it’s worth, they were both male and, from their appearance, I would have said sub-Saharan African, with very dark skin but, like so many so-called asylum seekers, they were carrying no documents. That might be because their passports or ID documents were stolen by their killer, but quite possibly the documents had been deliberately lost or destroyed by the victims themselves. That way, they could refuse to say exactly where they’d come from.’ He caught my eye and explained, although this wasn’t news to me. ‘It’s legal to deport illegal migrants from the EU back to their home countries if they don’t qualify for refugee status, but if we don’t know where they come from, we don’t know where to send them, so they can’t be removed. Crazy, eh? They most probably arrived in southern Italy by boat via Libya and were planning on heading north to Germany or even the UK.’

‘So you have no names for them?’

Virgilio shook his head. ‘I’ve spoken to the two officers who discovered the bodies and they confirm there were no documents or personal belongings on either, nothing more than the clothes they were wearing. None of the other migrants they questioned in the station area claimed to know anything about them so, no, they were logged asSconosciuto 07andSconosciuto 08.As you can tell from the numbers, these weren’t the first people to end updead and unidentified this year. How do you refer to unidentified bodies in the UK?’

‘Normally John Doe – don’t ask me why. Were they both killed in the same way?’

‘Yes. Both were stabbed with a narrow blade. Just one single stab wound in each case, direct to the heart – no fuss, no struggle, and very little blood.’

All three of us looked at each other for a moment before I stated the obvious. ‘That sounds like the work of a professional to me.’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘So why would somebody want to pay good money for a hitman to murder a couple of guys who’d just got off a boat from Africa? What about drugs? Any trace of illegal substances?’

Virgilio shook his head again. ‘Nothing. From the way they were dressed, neither man can have had much in the way of money, so I can’t imagine that robbery could be the motive. Why would anybody run the risk of going to jail for a long time by stabbing somebody for the sake of a few euros? No, there must be another reason.’

Marco hazarded a guess. ‘Could it be some sort of rogue vigilante with a grudge against asylum seekers or people of colour?’

Virgilio nodded. ‘Anything’s possible. The first problem, though, is to find out why somebody on the force is deleting the files. Presumably, it’s so as to remove evidence and protect the killer.’

I added the obvious corollary. ‘Unless the person removing the evidenceisthe killer.’ I saw Marco and Virgilio look at each other in horror at the thought of a fellow officer killing people, so I decided it best to move the conversation on. ‘While I remember, Marco, let me tell you about the man who came to see me this morning.’ I wasn’t worried about the old Dutchman’s threats if I revealed what he had said – I had been threatened by far moredangerous people over the years. I told them everything that I’d heard from Axel Jacobs, particularly his conviction that Berg’s murder had been robbery, possibly to the tune of three hundred thousand euros, and Marco whistled in awe.

‘Three hundred thousand, that’s not chicken feed. I wouldn’t like to be in this man Jacobs’s shoes. If we open the safe in Berg’s villa and find that Jacobs’s cigar box isn’t there, he’s three hundred thousand out of pocket. If it is there, he’s going to find himself fighting an uphill battle to prove that the stuff belongs to him and not Berg. Either way, I don’t envy him.’

‘Talking of Berg’s safe, what about his will? Have you been able to talk to his lawyer yet?’

Marco’s face darkened. ‘Yes, I managed to speak to him just before lunch, but I didn’t get much out of him – not that he was uncooperative. He had very little to tell. As we’ve already worked out for ourselves, he told me that Berg didn’t trust anybody, and that included him. On the Wednesday before the old man’s death, they met up and talked for an hour, mainly about a change in European regulations regarding dealings in precious metals and precious stones. In the course of the conversation, Berg referred briefly to his will, indicating that the housekeeper and her husband had witnessed it, but he didn’t disclose its contents. So, yes, he appears to have a will, but it remains to be seen who the beneficiaries are.’

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