Page 33 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio

‘Ciao, Dan, this is a pleasant surprise.’

I explained that I’d been summoned by Inspector Faldo to give him my statement about Jacobs, and Virgilio got up and went over to make sure the door was closed. He came back to his seat and leant over the desk towards me. ‘What did you think of him?’

‘Very professional. He was polite and thorough. Certainly, no obvious signs of guilt, although – like a few politicians I could name – he has the ability to look you straight in the eye and lie through his teeth. This is not necessarily suspicious in itself, but it’s worth bearing in mind. I gather you haven’t told him about the contents of the safe yet. I pleaded ignorance. When are you going to tell him?’

‘I’m going to add the latest developments to the file this evening.’

Something Faldo had said came back to me. ‘Tell me, does theexisting version of the file mention a cigar box? Faldo knew about it and I was wondering if that might be suspicious.’

His answer was disappointing. ‘It mentions a cigar box containing unspecified valuables worth three hundred thousand euros but it doesn’t go into detail. I’ll reveal what we found in the safe when I write up the report this evening.’

‘Bang goes another great idea. I thought for a moment this might indicate Faldo knew more than he should. Ah, well…’

Virgilio gave a weary smile and pointed to his computer. ‘Changing the subject to Marco, I’ve just been sent this by Tech. They’ve been studying doorbell footage and some dashcam footage around the time that Marco was run down. See what you think.’

I spent several minutes flicking through the various video clips, but without seeing anything significant. Twenty or thirty vehicles had gone down Marco’s road around the time that he’d been hit and, infuriatingly, none of the cameras had been able to give a clear shot of the faces of any of the drivers. Even more annoyingly, only three or four number plates were visible. All the others had been hidden by passing cars, trees, cyclists or delivery vans. I looked up at Virgilio and shook my head sadly. ‘There’s nothing there that leaps out of the screen at us, is there?’

‘No, not a thing.’

The phone rang and Virgilio answered it. It was a very quick conversation and when he replaced the receiver, there was a smile on his face. ‘That’s a bit of luck. Thevice questorewants to speak to me about a different matter. He’s on his way down here now. I can introduce you as our friendly local interpreter. You already know Superintendent Grande and now you’ve met Faldo and Luuc Berg, so this way you will, at least, get a look at all of our main suspects.’

While we waited, I told him about my brief conversation withthe superintendent on the stairs, and he asked me if I thought he could be our killer. All I could tell him in response was that anything was possible.

A couple of minutes later, the door opened and thevice questorestrode in. Giuseppe Verdi was impeccably turned out in a grey Prince of Wales check suit, white shirt, and what looked suspiciously like a red and blue striped Brigade of Guards tie. Considering that we were in Italy, I considered that highly unlikely, but with his well-trimmed moustache and polished shoes, he looked more like a retired British general than either of the two retired generals I’d come across in the course of my career at the Met. He shot me an uncertain glance but then stopped dead when Oscar stirred and pulled himself to his feet, tail wagging in welcome – but the reaction of thevice questorewas far from welcoming.

‘What’s this animal doing in here, Pisano? This is a police station, not a zoo.’ Even his speech was clipped and formal, like his appearance. He looked outraged and, me being me, I felt slighted on my dog’s behalf. I’ve never liked people who throw their weight about and I took an instant dislike to this autocratic character with the composer’s name. For his part, Oscar glanced up at me with hiswhat’s his problem?expression. I was quick to improvise.

‘I’m just leaving. This is a trainee sniffer dog.’

‘What kind of sniffer dog?’ He gave Oscar the sort of look people give to something on the underside of their shoe.

As Oscar’s nose was only a couple of feet from thevice questore’s crotch, I had to struggle to keep a straight face as I replied. ‘Suspicious substances, sir. Anything from drugs to explosives. I don’t suppose you have anything explosive in your trousers, do you?’ I glanced across at Virgilio and saw him grin and duck behind the shelter of the laptop screen.

Giuseppe Verdi’s face changed to a glowing, pillar-box-red colour so rapidly that it looked as though he might be about to explode – with or without the assistance of my imaginary sniffer dog – so I decided the time was right for Oscar and me to depart.

I knew how I was going to be spending my evening – learning my lines.

19

THURSDAY MORNING

Thursday was my day for having ideas – not all of them outstanding.

Oscar and I were halfway up the gravel track behind my house on our early-morning walk next day when I had my first idea. Credit where credit’s due, I had Oscar to thank for this. I had been thinking about Virgilio’s problem of how to catch the killer without being able to draw upon the full resources of the Florence police. As long as three of the four possible suspects were members of the force, everything had to be kept strictly on a restricted ‘need-to-know’ basis. I was turning over in my head various possible ways of helping the investigation along when Oscar helped me find a solution.

We were approaching a corner where the track curves around the top of one of my neighbours’ olive groves when Oscar deposited yet another stick at my feet for me to throw for him. Although he’s never received any gun-dog training – as I had told the gentlemen at the wildfowl lake – he’s certainly inherited the retriever gene and his idea of fun is chasing after sticks and pine cones that I throw for him as we walk and bringing them back tome. I threw this particular stick for him but, when it landed, it skidded across the track and wedged itself between two large stones at the foot of a wall. Oscar galloped after it and, after unsuccessfully trying to drag it out with his teeth, set about digging it out with his front paws, sending the white gravel flying in all directions, glistening in the morning sun as it did so. It was at that moment that it occurred to me that a good way for Virgilio to flush out the perpetrator would be to set a trap.

My industrious dog finally managed to wrench the stick out of the wall and dropped it proudly at my feet. I took it and threw it into the olive grove on the other side of the track for him to fetch while I squatted down, lifted a handful of the irregular pieces of gravel and let them run through my fingers onto the track. They weren’t diamonds, but they would do. I removed one of Oscar’s poo bags from my pocket and filled it with gravel until I reckoned I had at least the same weight as the diamonds in the cigar box. I then perched on the wall and called Virgilio.

‘Ciao, Virgilio, any developments?’

‘Ciao, Dan. Some promising news from the hospital. Marco’s beginning to remember things that happened on the afternoon of the so-called accident. Before you ask, no, he can’t remember the phone call yet, but the medics say this is a very good sign. What about you? Any bright ideas?’

‘Maybe. Did you file your report of the latest developments in the Berg case last night like you said? If so, what did you say about the contents of the safe?’

‘Yes, it’s on file now. I indicated that the technician managed to open the safe and I made reference to the provisions of the old man’s will, but I didn’t itemise all the contents of the safe. Forensics are doing that.’

‘So it’s now common knowledge that there was a cigar box full of diamonds?’

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