Page 5 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio

‘He certainly didn’t sound drunk, and the spumante at my party wasn’t the strongest wine on the planet. No, he just looked worried, but he also looked remarkably resilient. I find it hard to believe that he was the sort of man to take his own life.’

‘And he gave no clue as to what it was that was worrying him?’

‘No, not so much as a hint. I asked him if it was business or personal and he said, “a bit of both,” but I’ve no idea what he meant. But surely, if he was contemplating hiring the services of a private investigator, it must have been something serious – at least serious to him – but what?’

Marco must have heard the frustration in my voice. ‘Who knows? Well, let’s see what Gianni says when he’s finished the autopsy. I’ll give you a call or send you a text when I hear something, okay?’

I thanked him, rang off, and spent the next few hours wondering what might be behind the old man’s sudden deathwhile I split some logs for the wood burner and pulled up a few weeds that were already appearing in the flower beds. It had been such a brief conversation the previous night and I knew next to nothing about the victim, so it was an almost impossible task to try to guess what might have been worrying him. I still found it hard to believe that the hard-faced, determined man I’d met should have chosen to take his own life. Of course, in the right circumstances, anybody can feel suicidal but, considering that I’d quite possibly been one of the last people to see him alive, I hadn’t gained that impression from him at all.

At just after four o’clock, I was sitting outside under the loggia, the fresh green shoots on the vines and clematis serving to shelter me from the remarkably warm April sunshine. I had a mug of tea in my hand, my human partner at my side, and my four-legged canine partner sprawled at my feet. I felt remarkably relaxed and content, thanking whatever lucky stars there were that I’d made the decision to give up life in London and move over here. Bees were humming above me, the view down the hill over the wide valley of the River Arno towards the tree-clad Apennines in the far distance was as delightful as ever, and I felt at one with the world.

Then my phone rang. It was Marco.

‘Ciao, Dan. It wasn’t suicide after all. Gianni says the old guy died of a heart attack caused by manual strangulation before he was hung out to dry. There were clear thumb prints around his throat beneath the marks caused by the noose as well as signs of somebody assaulting or interrogating him. There were distinct bruises to his torso consistent with him taking a beating.’

‘So he was already dead when somebody tied a noose around his neck and dumped him over the side of the bridge? That’s macabre.’

‘It truly is. Ever since Gianni called me, I’ve been trying to getmy head around it. The way I see it, the old man must have been in the shop when his assailant arrived. The shop was closed, so why did the victim open the door to him? Did they know each other? The assault must have taken place inside the shop, out of sight of passers-by, in the course of which the old man died. Maybe the assailant went there with the intention of killing, or maybe he was trying to rob him, but accidentally went too far with his intimidating behaviour, and as a result, the old man dropped dead. The killer then found himself with the problem of what to do with the body. Should he leave it there to be found or should he try to make it look like suicide? As we know, he opted for the sham suicide, but he was taking a hell of a risk of being seen.’

‘Did Gianni give a time of death?’

‘This is where it gets interesting. Death occurred quite a few hours before the “hanging”. Gianni says the victim was probably killed between eight and ten last night, but the fake hanging wasn’t until around two o’clock in the morning.’

I hesitated while my brain processed the implications of what I’d just been told. ‘It was probably around eight-fifteen or so when I last saw Berg, so, assuming he went straight back to his shop after speaking to me, his killer was quite possibly waiting for him and followed him inside. Any sign of forced entry?’

‘No, although his shop and the little apartment above it had been ransacked. Forensics are in there at the moment, but it’s a hell of a mess.’

‘An apartment? Did he live on the bridge?’

‘I doubt it. There’s just a tiny one-room apartment above the shop, used as a storeroom.’

‘Any idea what was taken, assuming it was robbery?’

‘No idea at all. There was a lot of fairly cheap jewellery stilllying about, but presumably, the thief removed the more valuable stuff.’

‘Is there a safe there?’

‘Yes. Forensics say it’s an ancient model and should be easy enough for them to open. It has a pass combination rather than a key so maybe the killer was trying to get Berg to reveal the combination when the old boy’s heart gave out.’

This sounded like the most likely scenario and I was quick to agree. ‘I’m sure you’re right that the murder was the work of a thief who killed the old man – deliberately or accidentally – while trying to get his hands on what was in the safe. When Berg dropped dead, he presumably helped himself to a bag full of jewellery as the next best thing. I wonder if Berg had anything of serious value in the safe. I bet the murderer was frustrated not to get access to it. With Berg dead, all he could do was sit by the dead body until the small hours when the bridge was deserted before setting up the phoney suicide attempt.’

‘That’s what it looks like. Poor old guy.’

Virgilio and Lina arrived just after six. Oscar gave a boisterous greeting to both of them and even managed to raise a smile on thecommissario’sface. Although the Italian police force has a more complex ranking system than the Metropolitan Police,commissarioroughly equates to chief inspector, which made us both the same rank. This, apart from anything else, explained why we’d become close friends, and when I saw him this evening, I was immediately concerned at his appearance – I’d never seen him looking so troubled. I handed him a glass of red wine made by Fausto, the friendly farmer just over the hill from here, and did my best to get to the bottom of what might be bothering him, butwithout success. Virgilio remained remarkably taciturn, and even the prospect of some exceptionally good grilled meat didn’t appear to cheer him. In the end, I decided that all I could do was to offer him my support, so I took him to one side as I was finishing grilling the last of the sausages and spoke quietly into his ear.

‘If something’s bothering you, you know I’m here, don’t you? If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate.’

He looked up from the hot coals and met my eye for a moment. ‘Thanks, Dan, you’re a good friend. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of thing I can talk about.’

At least, I thought to myself, he had admitted that he had something on his mind, but I was no closer to knowing what this might be. Lina appeared to be fairly normal, although I could see her casting concerned looks at her husband from time to time. No doubt she was aware that he was worried about something but, by the look of it, she was no closer than I was to knowing the reason.

Modestly speaking, it was a very good meal. The steak was excellent and I reckoned my barbecuing skills had developed sufficiently to do the meat justice. Anna had made a huge mixed salad containing everything from artichoke hearts to olives, quails’ eggs to walnuts, and we finished the meal off with meringue ice cream from the local gelateria and some of last year’s apricots from the garden that Anna had conserved in syrup. I deliberately didn’t mention the death on the Ponte Vecchio as I had a feeling Virgilio’s worries might turn out to be work-related and instead, I concentrated on cheering him up. For his part, he made no mention of police business at all, which only confirmed my supposition that something at work was playing on his mind.

By the time they left, he had at least had a smile on his face a few times, but he was still looking unusually sombre. This hadnot gone unnoticed by Anna, who turned to me as the tail lights of his car disappeared down the track.

‘What’s the matter with Virgilio?’

I shook my head. ‘I wish I knew. There’s definitely something wrong, but he won’t say what it is.’

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