‘Let’s go over those notes we made, Luca,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you’re going to do when I send you back to the station.’
‘Check criminal records to see if they know any of the workmen at the Brancacci Chapel,’ Cassini began, reading slowly from his notepad.
‘Good,’ Fratelli said.
‘Check with catering companies to see if they’ve any record of stolen decorations with…’ He leaned down and peered at his own handwriting, struggling with it. Fratelli’s heart began to sink. ‘Er…’
‘Fig leaves. Fig leaves. Write it down properly. Capital letters if you need to.’
‘I was never good at writing,’ Cassini admitted. ‘Not my field.’
‘What is?’
The big youngster grinned, balled a massive fist and said, ‘Trouble. Bit of a fight? I’m your man.’
Fratelli sighed. ‘Don’t let them do that to you.’
‘Do what?’
‘Use you as a punch bag.’
‘I can handle myself.’
‘And one of these days you’ll walk in with that big grin and that big fist and the man you’re looking at will be carrying a knife. Or a gun.’
‘Not happened yet.’
‘You only need it once. The records. The catering suppliers. Take a look at any sex crimes in Oltrarno too. See if there’s something recent.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know!’
And it’s probably not a sex crime either, Fratelli thought. That would be too obvious.
Having some kind of line into the station seemed a good idea when it occurred to him in Marrone’s office. Now he wasn’t so sure. The records department was a lair of filing cabinets and paper going back decades, the staff both inefficient and — on occasion — downright surly. They would devour this callow young man as easily as he’d swallowed down his lampredotto and tripe. There was supposed to be computerization coming along soon, and with it the ability to track down suspects in an instant and cross-reference known crimes with possibilities too. Sometime there would be radios that worked as well, not just when they felt like it, and a central control centre that could take and dispatch messages in seconds. Peace and happiness would break out all over the world, probably on the same day.
He was never going to see any of that, and he knew it.
‘Take a look at the sexual assault files outside the city. Go back a few years. Murder cases, even. Look to see if you’ve any record of women being found with…’
His blood chilled as he tried to say the words; his voice failed him.
‘Found with what?’ Luca Cassini asked.
‘Marks on their faces. On their mouths.’ Fratelli opened up his coat to get some air. It suddenly seemed hot in the market. ‘Lipstick or blood or something red. Daubed on them.’
The big young cop just stared at him. ‘How do I find that out?’ he asked.
‘You read the files.’
‘Which files?’
Fratelli took a deep breath. How did he explain this? Sometimes he’d spend days in records, going up and down the shelves, looking for links that eluded him. It was an obsessive, time-consuming task, one that frequently ended in disappointment. The Carabinieri didn’t work that way any more. They wanted quick results. Not people spending weeks poring over ancient scraps of paper.
‘Never mind. Just stick to the recent stuff. Ask whoever’s running records these days if something rings a bell.’
‘Why did we come here?’ Cassini asked.
Fratelli was watching the side entrance of the market. She’d turn up. He was sure of it.
‘Couple of reasons,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the door. ‘When did you join up?’
‘Been an officer eight months.’
‘You won’t understand then. Over there…’ He nodded towards the southern door. ‘Two streets away, no more, you’ll find a building site. Until a year or so ago that was the Murate prison. Not a nice place.’
‘Heard of that,’ Cassini said.
‘You should have done. For a couple of hundred years it was where we locked up anyone we didn’t like. So did the Germans during the war. If there’s such a thing as ghosts…’
Cassini was laughing. It sounded as if someone had told a bear a joke.
Fratelli glowered at him and the kid shut up.
‘If there were such a thing,’ the older man continued, ‘we wouldn’t be able to hear ourselves think for the sound of their screams. I used to deal with prisoners there sometimes. You know those paintings of the Virgin, the little shrines along the Via Ghibellina?’
Cassini was putting gum in his mouth. He hadn’t a clue.
‘They were there to give men a glimpse of the hereafter just before they went to meet it. On the scaffold.’
Not a flicker of emotion. The young, Fratelli thought. And then he saw her marching in through the open doors, looking furious, scanning the crowds hunting for fish and meat and vegetables. And lampredotto.
‘I still don’t know why we’re here,’ the young carabiniere repeated.
‘Because it reminds me of things. It helps me think.’
No one removed a rooster’s comb without a reason. Finding that was on his own to-do list, and he damned near forgot it too. His head wasn’t right sometimes…
‘Also,’ Fratelli added, ‘because this place serves the finest lampredotto in Florence. And I am a man of taste. I’ll catch a bus across town for the best, the most memorable of anything. A Negroni. A glass of good Chianti or Montepulciano. The right cheese. A piece of perfect stomach. An intriguing conversation. Such as this.’
‘You’ve got a lot of time on your hands.’ A pause. ‘From what I hear.’
‘What you… hear?’
But it was too late by then. Julia Wellbeloved was with them.
‘That bastard in the Pitti Palace stood me up,’ she cried. ‘I had an appointment…’
‘This is Italy,’ Fratelli pointed out. ‘Time tends to be more flexible than you’re used to.’
‘An appointment made by Sandro Soderini.’
The two men blinked and stared at her, then Fratelli asked, ‘What bastard?’
‘Some ass called Giovanni Tornabuoni.’
For a moment they were lost for words.
‘You move in such grand circles,’ Fratelli said finally.
‘Not when they don’t turn up I don’t. My work! How am I to do it if no one speaks to me?’
‘The mayor spoke to you, didn’t he?’
‘I know that look,’ she said darkly.
His eye caught hers, and he nodded slyly at the giant next to him.
‘A fine man,’ Fratelli declared. ‘A credit to the city. Your work will be done. And done brilliantly.’ He took the young carabiniere’s arm. ‘Julia Wellbeloved, meet my young colleague Luca Cassini. He’s here to help us.’
Cassini nodded and blushed and stuttered. Didn’t meet women much, Fratelli guessed.
‘Buy your new English friend something to eat, Luca,’ Fratelli ordered, handing over some money. ‘I must leave you for a moment. Julia…’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Nature calls,’ he lied.
She was leaning over the glass counter of I’Trippaio, sniffing the tubs of lampredotto and tripe.
‘You don’t have to eat that,’ Fratelli said quickly. ‘Really. It’s for us locals. Pretty disgusting…’
‘It’s the guts thing I’ve heard about?’ Julia’s lively, attractive face broke into a grin. ‘I’ll try some. Why not?’ She leaned and stared at the offal swilling around the silver pots. ‘Which bit is which?’