Property of Blood (14 page)

'He only laughed. “Write.”

‘What else could I do? I wrote. I followed the notes given to me by the boss, and my disappointment, my despair over all the wasted time drove me to say spitefully, “I can see why he wants me to write it in my own words. He can’t spell or put a sentence together, can he?”

‘As if this had not crossed his mind before, Woodcutter snatched the notes from me, and I could see that he didn’t know how to answer me, that his own Italian wasn’t up to seeing the mistakes. Satisfied at this little triumph over them, I took the notes back and read to the end.

“‘Here. Get on with it.” His voice was angry now because of what I had said. He pushed a thick magazine and a sheet of lined paper into my lap and gave me a cheap plastic pen. The light was feeble. There was a sort of window of transparent plastic in the tent but we were under trees and the tent was covered in brushwood anyway. I hoped I would be able to see well enough to write. I soon found that I couldn’t but I wrote, anyway. I was writing blindly, the little light serving only to keep me more or less within the lines. I was excited and nervous at the thought of communicating with my children, with the outside world, and I think this feeling took over from my horrified dismay on discovering that no contact had been made before.

My dearest Leo and Caterina,

I am allowed to tell you that the contents of this letter have been decided for me and that only one paragraph at the end can be my own. They’ll read the whole thing, of course, before this letter, goes to you. I am in the hands of professionals and, consequently, if you want to see me again, stick precisely to the rules given you. The first rule is be careful how you deal with state-employed murderers, i.e., police and carabinieri. These squalid cowards are two-faced, double-crossing worms and
you must avoid them,
otherwise you, my own children, will be guilty of murdering me. You must be even more careful of public prosecutors who have no interest in anything other than their own careers and who don’t care what happens to me or to you.

Don’t put your trust in a lawyer, either, because in a situation like this they would take money from you, further their careers, and still be at the service of the state-employed murderers, and that can only lead to my death. I have already suffered terrible tortures and am so destroyed by pain and grief that I no longer feel like a human being. I beg you with all the strength that remains to me to do what is necessary to free me. I am chained up like an animal, unable to see or hear and in dreadful pain. By law, the magistrates will freeze our assets but you can get round this with the help of my friends and, in any case, you can never be prosecuted for ignoring it whereas if you don’t get round it I will be tortured every day and then killed. This can only be avoided if you follow the instructions given you to the letter. The price of my life and freedom is 8 (eight) billion lire, and any hesitation, any false move on your part, will mean that
the price goes up.
The money must be in notes of 50 and 100 thousand lire.
They must be used and not chemically treated in any way.
The amount to be paid will not be bargained over and you have two months to get it together. If you refuse to pay the whole amount, on the last day of April I will be executed. If you pay up and don’t try and bring the police with you when you do it, everything will go smoothly. If you collaborate with the law it will do you no good and I’ll pay for it with my life. They have so much blood on their hands already that one more death will only serve to satisfy their bloodthirsty instincts. When you have the money ready you must publish a notice for three days running in the Lost and Found column of
La Nazione.
It must say: LOST in Piazza Santo Spirito, bag containing important personal documents. Reward. Tel (give the number of one of my friends). As soon as they see the announcement you will receive another letter from me telling you how to deliver the money and giving you proof that I am still alive in the form of a Polaroid photograph of me holding that day’s paper with the headlines clearly visible. Once you have paid I will be released within eight days. I will telephone you, telling you where to pick me up once I am freed, so don’t expect any calls until you have paid up. Don’t come to the appointment without the money or attempt to bring anyone with you. Anyone appearing without the money will be executed on the spot. The person delivering the money according to instructions has absolutely nothing to fear. Rich people become rich by treading on the poor and stealing from them. This transaction is intelligent, fair, and justified. Leo—Block payments to all our suppliers. They trust us and know they will be paid when this is over. Ask my dear friend E. for help. She is in a position to help us without any hardship. The rest Patrick will do. He knows who to ask. I have to ask you and Caterina to give up your inheritance temporarily. Patrick will deal with it. You can transfer it from your accounts to his. The Italian law has no influence in the States. You know I will earn it all back for you. We have survived worse in the past and I will deal with everything once I’m free. If necessary, borrow on the house. The bank will be more than willing and your two signatures will be valid without mine as you constitute a majority. The loan will be overtly to Patrick and you will be guaranteeing it so nobody will be breaking the law. Don’t wait until the last minute but do everything as fast as you can because I am suffering too much to survive very long in these conditions. Everyone will be paid back somehow to the last lira.

I send you all my love and I think of you day and night despite my suffering. Tell Patrick I love him and think of him. My life is in your hands and I trust you. Don’t abandon me.

Eight

P
eople often maintain that they can sense when a telephone is ringing in an empty house or when someone is about to answer. This is not subject to proof but Marshal Guarnaccia, who wasn’t the sort to make any such claims, nevertheless sensed that something had changed inside the Brunamonti house between the moment when he rang the bell on that Friday afternoon at his usual hour and his being admitted. He gave the matter very little thought but he did sense a change in the time he was left waiting and the nature of the footfall approaching through the marble vestibule, rapid and loud instead of leisurely and soft.

The door was opened by a woman he had never seen before and who certainly wasn’t a servant. She wore no make-up or jewelry and her clothes had a secondhand look to them but she had an air of confidence and authority which the Marshal responded to, excusing himself for the interruption as he would to the owners of the house and not to an employee.

The woman ignored his remark and said in a loud confidential whisper, ‘Are you the one from Palazzo Pitti? If you are I want to talk to you—not now. I’m just so worried … Come in, come in …’

He followed her into the white drawing-room and all the faces there turned to stare at him. Their expressions were anything but welcoming and he was left there, hat in hand, conscious of a silence as thick as the cigarette smoke circling slowly above Patrick Hines’s head and full of the echoes of the intense conversation his arrival had interrupted. Well aware of the fact that silence was going to unnerve these people rather than himself, he examined them in turn. The woman who had let him in had seated herself on the very edge of a big armchair, her feet close together and her back as straight as a ramrod. Her hair was the same grey as her dowdy grey suit, her eyes dark, her expression just about bursting with all the things she wanted to talk to him about, but not now. Patrick Hines and Leonardo Brunamonti were seated together on the white sofa. After taking in the Marshal’s arrival their eyes avoided him. The sister was perched on the arm of the sofa next to Hines, her arm along the sofa’s back, her diamonds glittering. She was looking at the Marshal with that sideways stare of hers over the cascade of fair hair on her shoulder. Her mouth was widened as if in a tight smile. She was not smiling. The only member of the group arranged in an attitude of complete ease and with an expression that betokened absolute control over the situation was the English detective, Charles Bendy, by which the Marshal understood him to be the most put out at his arrival, which was acknowledged with a brief nod.

‘Leo,’ murmured his sister, reaching to touch his shoulder, ‘we should ask the Marshal to sit down.’

The Marshal, seeing Leonardo’s eyes as blank as the day he had collapsed, considered this remark an adequate invitation and seated himself on a solid-looking straight chair right next to the detective. Then he waited. As he waited, his big eyes registered everything within view without his ever turning them on anything in particular. He was very aware of the dog basket not far from Leonardo’s feet, aware, that is, of its being empty. The grey-haired woman spoke with sudden loudness.

‘I think you should bring Tessie home. Whatever’s wrong with her she’ll heal better at home.’ She seemed to be addressing Leonardo, and when he didn’t answer she leaned forward and raised her pitch.

'Leonardo!’

'Caterina’s seeing to it.’

Caterina said very quietly, ‘She had to be put on a drip, she was so dehydrated, and it may have to be done again. It’s not fair to a sick animal with all those injuries to keep moving it about. It’s too painful. The vet’s keeping her this week.’

“You can’t leave her there for a week! She’ll die.’

‘It’s the best place for her and it might need to be for longer.’

'Leonardo! You can’t do that!’

There was no immediate answer. Leonardo leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands. Then he seemed to make an enormous effort to sit upright and speak.

‘I’d rather have her here but that’s just me being sentimental. She needs constant expert attention, which we can’t give her.’

It was odd, the Marshal thought, that this remark was clearly offered in good faith as to its content but that every word sounded false.

The detective’s hard-edged voice brought the subject to an abrupt end.

'I’m sure the Marshal will understand, Hines’—emphasis on the NCO rank, remark made across the Marshal’s head—‘that there is a meeting in progress here and that, since we are discussing the financial situation of the family, it’s byway of being a personal and private meeting. In fact, I feel bound to say that, for the moment, it would be better if these visits of his were discontinued since there’s a possibility that they could be endangering the Contessa Brunamonti’s life.’

‘I don’t agree,’ declared Caterina, giving Bendy a hard, bright glance. ‘It’s his job. He’s involved, and I—’

‘Please don’t worry,’ said the Marshal blandly. There was no point at all in his staying since they would say nothing in front of him. Better to let them talk and see what the daughter came out with later. He got to his feet and hoped that the unknown woman would show him out. Tense as she was, she was up and moving in a flash. At the door, that fierce stage whisper again: ‘Did you know about the maid’s being sacked?’

I… no. I thought she’d gone to visit her sister. She seemed so upset…’

‘She was. Upset about Olivia, I mean, but now she’s even more upset. Sacked. That’s why she’s gone to her sister’s. I don’t think her Italian was that bad—do you think it was that bad?—oh, by the way, I’m the Contessa Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli. I know your name, that’s all right. And, besides, you have to teach these Filipino girls to wait at table. Do you realize that some of them come from such poor families they’re lucky if there’s any food on the table at all, never mind worrying about which wineglasses are which, can you imagine? I feel so sorry for that girl I’m going to take her in and give her some work until Olivia—’ She stopped.

'We’re doing our best, you know.’

’
You‘re
doing your best? I’m not worried about what you’re doing! Unless you’ve got eight billion lire! I’m doing my best but it’s not going to be good enough and Patrick’s a darling but he doesn’t have a bean. I have to go. They’re listening. Bye;’

The door was practically slammed in his face. He was going to need time to recover from the impact of the Contessa Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli and he paused a moment down in the piazza to make a note of her name and then dab at his eyes as the sunlight started them watering. He put away the handkerchief and fished for his dark glasses. It was really quite warm, a remarkable jump in temperature of the sort which Florence specializes in and which, every February, sends half the population down with flu. Fat grey clouds gathering behind the sunny yellow facade of the church were a reminder that warm meant wet but for the moment it was pleasant to be out. The Marshal was glad of this regular afternoon walk between Piazza Santo Spirito and Borgo Ognissanti Headquarters and never more so than today…Elettra …well named. The woman was like a bolt of lightning and clearly in a temper, but with whom? The little dog seemed to be the chief provocation …and the weeping maid …Eight billion. Hm.

Captain Maestrangelo was in a meeting with the Colonel and had left a message for the Marshal saying that if there was nothing of note to report he would see him at the usual time tomorrow. The Marshal sent a carabiniere to knock at the Colonel’s door and stood in the polished corridor next to a rubber plant, waiting.

When the Captain appeared, he looked expectantly at the Marshal but there was nothing to be read in his expression. There never was anything to be read in the Marshal’s expression. He had received the Captain’s message and had presented himself, just the same. He was standing there. It was enough.

'Contact?’

‘Yes. A request for eight billion accompanied, I imagine, by the usual instructions but I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything other than the sum. I’ve lost them. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t assume that too quickly. The first contact is always a shock, frightening, but that’s all the more reason why they should turn to you once it’s sunk in.’

‘No. There’s that detective. He’ll be able to help them.’

‘Is he talking to you?’

‘No.’

‘But the ransom demand?’

‘A friend of the family let it slip. I think she’ll let plenty more slip if the detective doesn’t bully her.’

‘Does she seem liable to be bullied?’

‘Oh no. Then there’s always the daughter. She wanted me in on it but the others wouldn’t have it so I came away. She must appear to agree with them or they’ll keep her in the dark. I just hope the damage hasn’t been done. She shouldn’t have spoken out as she did today.’

‘Not very bright, I gather …’

T don’t know… Of course she’s upset, so …’

‘What’s the friend’s name?’

The Marshal consulted his notebook. ‘Contessa Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli.’

‘Ah yes. Fusarri mentioned her as a likely contact. A very rich woman. Will you wait for me up in my office until I finish here? I’ve got some names I want to give you. We need to concentrate on finding the planner.’

* * *

There could be little doubt about the author of this kidnapping once Salis had been eliminated as a suspect, and Salis was too clever and too experienced to permit the discovery of a hide-out before the completion of a job, or even after it except in the case of an imminent raid and consequent hurried flight. There was good reason, however, to wish it had been otherwise. With Salis there would have been no need to look outside the Sardinian community for his associates, and members of enemy clans reduced the possibilities even further. But Puddu had not only lived long on the mainland, he had lost sight of his origins and traditions. His criminal associates were legion and enemy clans the only element that could be eliminated with the exception of such of his sidekicks who happened to be in prison. The Captain’s men had come up with a list. Given the importance and high risk of the job, they had included only those men who had worked for Puddu before and who had experience of the kidnapping business. The resulting list had been shortened by the elimination of anyone currently serving a sentence, out on parole and reporting in regularly, or known to be elsewhere. The remaining men were under discreet surveillance as were all access points to the acres of woodland and scrub where Puddu might be hiding his victim. This last was the most difficult aspect of the job because the investigators were altogether at a disadvantage, knowing neither exactly for whom they were looking nor precisely where to look. There had to be traffic between the hide-out and the outside world for the provision of food and water and the passing of information but, should a feeder be spotted, any action at this stage could only result in risk to the victim. The only person it was safe to arrest was the planner, the contact between Puddu and his victim. Safe because he would have fixed his percentage and made his deal through an intermediary and would never know, unless things went wrong, who had done the job. He was, nevertheless, a valuable element to the investigators because someone with access to the Brunamontis could only make contact with Puddu’s world during a prison sentence and that contact was at the centre of a web which would reach out to some of the names on that list.

Up to this point, neither the investigators through their informers nor the Marshal through his talks with the family had come up with even the vaguest of possibilities by way of a planner.

‘Frankly, Guarnaccia,’ the Captain admitted, ‘I had more hopes of you than of them. What about this Contessa Cavicchioli Zelli? I have it that she’s a close friend of the victim’s and if she was in on the meeting you described then she’s going to be providing a good part of the ransom. She’ll be put on her guard by the London detective … what’s his name? Bently… so I’d prefer not to make any formal approach. She might well come up with a past boyfriend of the daughter’s, a resentful ex-employee. Whal; do you think?’

‘I’ll go and see her if you’ll give me her address. The employees …’

'Yes?’

‘Your men have questioned them.’

‘Of course. Except for a young designer from America, straight out of art school, they’ve all been there for years and are clean. We got nothing. Why are you insisting on this? Have you found out something?’

‘No, no … I only looked in there on my first visit to ask directions…’

‘If you think we’ve missed something, Guarnaccia, say so. Go and question them, by all means.’

‘No, no… Me…no. I’m no investigator…treading on people’s toes, no…There was just something. There was something.’

'So you said before. Then you did suspect somebody?’

‘No.’ The Marshal examined the hat on his knee, his left shoe, the window. T had a feeling they were all united, all loyal—-just a fleeting impression, of course. You’ve talked to them all…’

‘And got exactly the same impression. So, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know…yet. And now I’ve lost the son.’

You’re quite sure about that, are you, Guarnaccia?’

‘Oh yes. He’ll try and pay without us.’

You must try and convince him to let us mark the notes in return for non-intervention during the drop.’

‘This Mister Hines…’

‘What about him?’

‘He doesn’t say much.’

‘Some people don’t.’ The irony was lost on Guarnaccia.

This was the moment when any investigator would push him aside as hopeless and it was the most critical moment of all. The most nerve-racking. Just when the pressure was on, when the journalists were waiting outside every day, and the Colonel was growing increasingly annoyed at each morning briefing, Guarnaccia would slow to a stop. He would mutter something about being more used to snatched handbags and distressed old ladies and say he was hardly competent—which few but Maestrangelo would contest—and any attempt to get near him or question him was doomed to failure. He would settle down like a bulldog with a bone between its paws, silent and unaggressive. If you got close he emitted a faint but unmistakable growl. The Captain knew he must control his impatience, try and help him without either of them knowing what he needed. If he would only ask … or had he asked?