The call from Virgilio came through at lunchtime on Tuesday when I was working in my office. I dropped everything and made it to the main police station, thequestura, in barely five minutes. Virgilio hadn’t said much on the phone, just that there had been a murder and he might need my help.
Commissario Virgilio Pisano of the Florence murder squad is my best friend here in Tuscany. I first met him three years ago when I moved over here after thirty years at Scotland Yard. We have a lot in common and we rapidly became good friends. It was his idea for me to set up my own private investigation company, and he often puts cases my way that the police are unable or don’t want to handle. In return, I’m only too happy to help him out when English speakers are concerned. In fact, his English is pretty good, but we work well together as a team, and I have to confess that a murder investigation every now and then makes a pleasant change from tracking unfaithful spouses or light-fingered employees.
I found Virgilio in his office, accompanied by Inspector Marco Innocenti and Sergeant Diana Dini. We all know eachother well by now, and Oscar has a very soft spot for Sergeant Dini – and indeed for most members of the opposite sex, regardless of species. While he trotted over to her side, I shook hands with the three officers and took a seat alongside them.
‘Take a look at this, Dan.’ Their eyes were trained on the computer screen, and I followed suit.
The first thing to strike me was that the image in front of me was of none other than Florence’s famous duomo. Had there been a murder in the cathedral?
‘That’s him, there.’ Virgilio didn’t tell me who he was – at least not yet.
At first, it was difficult to pick out the man amid the sea of tourists milling about in the piazza, admiring – and photographing – the baptistery, the bell tower and, of course, the cathedral itself. With the aid of Virgilio’s pointing finger, my eyes located the man as he emerged from Via Cavour. My eyes followed him as he made his way through the throng of people outside the main façade of the duomo and up the steps to the cathedral entrance. The video footage was time-coded and I noted that he reached the door at exactly nine twenty-eight. He was wearing a white polo shirt, beige trousers, an anonymous baseball cap pulled down over his forehead and dark glasses – nothing that made him stand out. Was there a reason for this maybe?
I shot an enquiring look at Virgilio. ‘The victim or the perpetrator?’
‘The victim.’
‘Is that all you’ve got?’
He nodded. ‘That’s the only footage we have so far. Tech are checking back to see if they can find footage from other cameras showing where he came from, but with thecentro storicoso full of tourists at this time of year, it’s going to take forever.’
He pressed Pause, and we were left with the last image of the victim, just before he disappeared into the duomo. I looked up from the screen at the three police officers. Predictably, Oscar had positioned himself beside Sergeant Dini, his hairy nose on her knee, and she was stroking his ears. She knows he likes that.
Transferring my attention from my dog back to the matter in hand, I pointed to the screen. ‘And when was the body found?’
‘An hour and a half later,’ Inspector Marco Innocenti answered. ‘It was inside one of the confessionals. That confessional wasn’t being used this morning, and it was an inquisitive Polish tourist who peered inside and discovered the body.’ He looked up from his notes. ‘She said she was curious to take a look at where the priest normally sits, and finding a dead body came as such a shock to her that she had to be rushed to hospital. The emergency call came through to us at just before eleven-thirty.’
‘Are there surveillance cameras inside the duomo?’
Marco shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, but they weren’t all operational, and none of them were pointing towards the confessionals.’
‘Cause of death?’
Virgilio answered, his face impassive. He, like the rest of us, had far too much experience of violent death to be shocked, although it had clearly been a ruthless and violent act. ‘A single shot from a 9mm pistol. The victim was in the priest’s position on one side of the screen, while the killer pretended to have come to confess. The shooter knew exactly what he was doing. Gianni says death would have been instantaneous. Assuming he used a silencer, there would have been very little noise and virtually no mess. Cold-blooded and very organised.’ He reached forward and pressed the off switch on the screen. ‘Looks like a professional hit.’
‘And it couldn’t have been suicide?’
‘No, there are clear marks and gunshot residue on the outside of the grill between where the penitent kneels and where the priest sits, indicating that the weapon was fired from there. Apart from anything else, there was no weapon found at the scene. No way the victim could have shot himself.’
‘And you say the confessionals weren’t being used this morning?’
‘These two confessionals, side by side, were out of use. Confessions were being heard in a nearby side chapel.’
‘So there’s no question of the victim having gone there to confess?’ It sounded as though the location had been specifically chosen to be secluded and private. This implied forward planning but on whose part – the killer’s or the victim’s?
‘There was a sign right alongside indicating that those weren’t in use today and pointing towards where the others were to be found and, besides, the victim was in the priest’s place. No, it seems that the victim deliberately went to that confessional, presumably to meet the person who murdered him.’
‘And you still don’t know who the victim was?’ One thing was clear: the killer and the victim must have known each other – or at least had arranged to meet. Why the duomo?
Virgilio shook his head. ‘No, there was nothing at all in the man’s pockets: no wallet, no keys, no phone and no ID. There’s a tattoo of what looks like an angel on his right shoulder and the only clue – if it is a clue – is the label in the man’s shoes.’ He gave me a little smile. ‘That’s why you’re here, Dan. Thanks for coming.’
‘I’m happy to help. So what’s the English connection? If there was no ID on him, how do you know he spoke English?’
‘We don’t, but we’re clutching at straws at the moment. Like I said, all we have is a label in a shoe. Take a look.’ He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a transparent evidence bagcontaining a shoe. ‘The other one’s still at the lab, being examined, along with the victim’s clothes.’
I took it from him and studied the shiny medium brown leather loafer closely. I’m no expert when it comes to clothes, but I immediately recognised the name on the label – Thatcher and Schooner, Covent Garden. Years ago, when I had been a newly promoted inspector in the murder squad, I had even been into that very shop on several occasions while trying to prevent a diamond heist from a jeweller’s directly across the road from the shoemaker. Along with my sergeant, I had spent hours in their first-floor stockroom overlooking the street while carrying out covert surveillance, in the hope that the tip-off we had received would turn out to be correct. It had given me considerable satisfaction when the gang had turned up on schedule and we had managed to nail all of them. I gave a nod of recognition and handed the bag back across the desk to Virgilio.
‘I definitely recognise the label and, believe it or not, I’ve even been into the shop – not, I hasten to tell you, to buy anything. Thatcher and Schooner are just about the most famous – and expensive – shoemakers in London. They claim to have been making shoes for the rich and famous, including members of the royal family, for a couple of centuries. One thing’s for sure: the owner of these shoes was a whole lot wealthier than I am.’ I caught Virgilio’s eye. ‘If you could let me have photos of the victim and the shoes, I’ll get in touch with the shoemakers straight away. They’re a very old-fashioned company, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they remember the victim; not too many people are prepared to pay a small fortune for a pair of shoes. In fact, if he hasn’t died in the meantime, old Mr Thatcher might even rememberme.’
