Blood Will Tell
David Bastiani
Copyright David Bastiani 2013
Cover design by Ben Hughes
Cover photo © germainphotos
Chapter One
Emilio Peretti had seen dead bodies before. His grandfather. Uncle Fabio. The dead always seemed to look so peaceful lying there all dressed up in their Sunday clothes, as if they had fallen asleep in church. But this messy business was a whole world away from paying your last respects beside an open coffin. Based on the evidence in front of him, being shot in the head was anything but a peaceful way to go.
The body was slumped in a corner behind the desk. A once white shirt had been dyed a rusty red by the blood. That was the first thing he noticed as he stepped into the office: the amount of blood. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent coppery smell that had all but overpowered the more regular musk of old paper and neglected books.
There was splatter on the wall at head height and then a long smear below it where the body appeared to have slid down the whitewashed plaster. The pool on the floor around the victim was large enough to make Peretti wonder what had seen him off him first: the internal damage done by the bullet or the loss of blood.
It was the sight of the blood that brought back memories of heading out of Rome for the school holidays to help slaughter the pigs on his grandparents’ farm. The very first winter he was allowed to join in, he had wanted desperately to cover his ears and block out the sound of the frantic squealing. But, determined to prove his manliness, he gritted his teeth and kept his hands firmly in his pockets. One bolt from the gun and the squealing stopped. A deep slash of the knife and it was over.
The animal was hung up then to let gravity do its work and blood ran in angry red rivers through the snow. Violent crimson against purest white. Like flowers at a funeral. But it wasn’t the blood that bothered him. It was the eyes. Staring sightlessly down at him from the meat hook in silent accusation.
In a strange sort of way, the dead man reminded him of Nonno’s pigs. Eyes wide open in that distant stare. A look of surprise, perhaps, on his face. But surprise at what? Pain? The fact that his nerve had held long enough for him to pull the trigger? Or the grieving mother’s theory: surprise at having a gun pulled on him in his own office.
Peretti took a step back and tried to get the scene straight in his head. There seemed a stark contrast between the almost obsessive tidiness of the place and the gory mess behind the desk. It was a typical accountant’s office – everything just so. Books arranged by size marched along the shelf with regimented precision. The telephone was set perfectly square on the desk. Pens lined up ready for use. Peretti blew out his cheeks and whistled softly. If the office was anything to go by, the deceased probably had a sock drawer with the contents organised by colour.
Taking his cellphone out of his pocket, he began snapping photos: the body, the desk, the wall. Everything had to be captured. He’d commit it all to memory anyway but it was better to have the pictures to study later.
‘Hey, Signore! Who let you in here?’
Peretti slipped the phone back into his pocket and spun around. The policeman’s shoulders filled the doorway. The round-faced little officer peering from behind him was the same man who had been on guard at the front door and Peretti pointed in his direction.
‘That would be your colleague. He’s been very helpful.’
The policeman turned and raised an eyebrow.
‘Is that so?’
The little man spread his hands and opened his mouth ready to make his defence but his outranking officer cut him off with a shake of the head.
‘No. On second thought, I don’t want to hear it, Contadino. For now you can go back to the job you were supposed to be doing when our friend here walked in. And if there are any more unwanted visitors then you’ll be with the Carabinieri doing whatever it is the Carabinieri do faster than you can blink.’
‘Right away, Inspector.’
The little man did his best salute and disappeared. His boots echoed down the hallway as he retreated to the front door. The remaining policeman turned back to Peretti.
‘Now, would you care to explain yourself? What are you doing poking around in here?’
‘My apologies; I presumed Signora Vialli told you I was coming. My name is Emilio Peretti. Private investigator. Signora Vialli hired me to find out who killed her son.’
The eyebrow went up once more.
‘Peretti you say? Any relation to Fabio Peretti?’
‘He was my uncle.’
The inspector threw up his hands.
‘Mah! We get rid of one busybody only to find another one comes to fill his shoes. And now I have a suicide which will become a murder because of it. Look, the door was locked and the key was in the man’s pocket. We found him with a gun in his hand that was registered in his name. What else do you need? But no, it’s a murder. Of course it is. Because Fabio Peretti has come back to haunt me. Now go. Get out. And don’t let me catch you snooping around again.’
Peretti’s mouth twitched.
‘I had no idea my uncle was so bad at making friends. I think I’m going to enjoy trying to fill his shoes after all. And as for the suicide, well, we’ll see.'
‘Get out!’
‘I’m going.’
Peretti stepped out into the hallway and headed for the street. The uniform on the doorstep half-looked at him and then began studiously polishing a spot on his boot.
‘Goodbye, Signor Contadino.’
The man kept polishing.
Chapter Two
The Vialli residence was a few minutes’ walk from the office where Signor Vialli had worked up until that morning’s unfortunate incident with a gun. Peretti checked his watch: half past eight. The August sun was warming by the second and it seemed a pity to rush into anything too soon. And besides, if the dead man’s wife was anywhere near as overwrought as his mother had sounded over the phone then he would have an emotional wreck on his hands. And if that happened before he had his morning coffee then he wouldn't answer for the consequences.
Piazza di Santa Maria it was then. It would only take a small detour and he hadn’t been there for breakfast since his family had moved out of the city. It was about time he was reacquainted with the place.
The square was even more beautiful in the sunshine than he had remembered and as he crossed the cobblestones the bells in the tower chimed out as though they were greeting an old friend. Bar di Marzio was already busy with locals and the ever-present handful of tourists but there were a few tables still unoccupied. He chose one out in the open air where he could watch the world, or at least a small corner of it, drifting by. Then, ordering his first espresso of the day, he sat down to think.
Peretti slid his cell-phone out of his pocket again and, between bites of brioche, he studied the photographs of Vialli’s office. It only took a glance to see there wasn’t much that hinted at foul play. No sign of a struggle. Nothing out of place - other than the look of surprise on the dead accountant’s face. He wondered why Vialli’s mother suspected it wasn’t the straightforward suicide it appeared to be. Maybe she was just refusing to accept the obvious.
Finishing the brioche and washing it down with the last mouthful of espresso, Peretti stood and crossed to the fountain in the middle of the square. The water sparkled down out of the mouths of the stone wolves into the pool below. Scooping with his hands, he brought the water to his face and gasped at the icy shock of it on his skin. Then he ran wet fingers through his wild hair and started off across the cobblestones with a lightness in his step that had
n't been there for a while.
He’d been away far too long, he decided. But he was home now and Agenzia Investigativa Peretti was back in business. He wondered if it was wrong to be feeling like he did but it was good to be alive on a day like this and the dead man back at the office had only proved that to him. Peretti smiled at the brightness of the morning and as he walked out of the piazza, the bells rang out behind him again in agreement.
~
The Vialli place was big. Not palatial but bigger than he expected for an accountant in Trastevere. Emilio Peretti paused at the front door and shielded his eyes as he squinted up at the maize-coloured walls. He knocked and stepped back to wait. After a moment or two of silence came the sound of slow footsteps; the door swung open to reveal an old woman dressed in black.
‘Good morning, Signora. My name is Emilio Peretti. I spoke to Signor Vialli’s mother this morning.’
‘Yes, yes. The detective. We had a call to say you would be coming over. Come in, come in.’
‘May I? Thank you.’
Peretti stepped onto the spotless hallway tiles and instantly felt out of place. In contrast to the cold minimalism of the office, here the presence of a woman’s taste could be seen everywhere. Ornate mirrors, wallpaper embossed with golden flowers; even the pink silk scarf draped over the collar of a jacket hanging on the coat stand in the corner and the leather gloves peeking out from the pocket.
The entrance hall was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers and he found himself fighting the urge to sneeze. He was relieved when the old woman ushered him through into the lounge where the widow sat on an antique-looking chaise longue staring out of the window.
‘Maria, it’s the detective.’
She turned at the sound of the old woman’s voice and attempted a smile.
‘Ah, Signor Peretti, there you are. Please, have a seat.’
‘Thank you, Signora. I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll try not to keep you long but your mother-in-law has hired me to investigate your husband’s death. There are a few questions that I need to ask.’
There was a hollow laugh and a shrug in response.
‘Of course. But your client is wasting her money. Giacomo is dead, so what difference will it make? I suppose she told you her precious son would never do that to himself. That there must be someone who wanted him dead.
So, could she bring herself to say my name when she accused me or did she drop hints? Well, I’ll save you some time, Detective. If it really was murder then I think you should be looking at a list of his clients instead.’
Peretti took a small notepad out of his pocket and poised ready to write.
‘Well, I have to look at every possibility, of course. So let’s begin there. What kind of clients did your husband work for, Signora? And are there any in particular who you think I should look at? Anyone who may have had a grudge against your husband?'
Signora Vialli spread her hands in frustration and shook her head.
‘No, I’ve thought about this all morning and I don’t know. My husband rarely spoke about his work. Not to me anyway. But, thinking back, maybe there were things which should have made me suspicious. He would sometimes call me and say he had a meeting with a client and that he would be late home. Who meets with their accountant at ten o’clock at night? Who, Signor Peretti? Tell me that.’
She looked at Peretti for a response and seeming satisfied with his shrug she carried on.
‘One evening, when he called me to say that he would be home late, I went across town to see a friend in Vittoria. On my way home, I dropped by my husband’s office to see if he had nearly finished for the night. I was about to open his door when I heard voices inside. I’m not sure why but something made me stop and listen. Maybe it was the tone of the men’s voices. I don’t know.
There were three or four of them, I think, and they sounded angry. Arguing over something. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but it certainly didn’t sound like bookkeeping. I left without being seen but I made the mistake of asking about it the next day. Giacomo became angry and told me to stop snooping around in his business. I should trust him to do his work, he said. And I had to promise never to interrupt him at the office again. But wait; now I think about it he did mention a name. Let me see…’
Maria Vialli looked over Peretti’s shoulder and out of the window as if the answer was somewhere out there if only she knew where to look. He noticed for the first time how strangely clear her eyes were. They were as blue as the summer sky which could just be seen beyond the shutters. If she had shed any tears over the death of her husband then they hadn't left behind any lasting trace.
‘Miccoli. That was what Giacomo said: Miccoli. I don’t know the first name but my husband was a stickler for organization so I’m sure he kept a file for each of his clients. Maybe you should start there.’
Peretti jotted a few lines in his notepad.
‘That’s very helpful. Now, Signora Vialli, would you mind telling me about your relationship with your husband?’
She turned from the window and fixed her eyes on his as though the question had taken her by surprise. The room settled into uncomfortable silence for a moment before she spoke. When she did there was an edge to her voice.
‘My husband is dead, Signore. I thought you came here to find out what it was that got him killed, not to give me marriage counselling.’
‘Of course. Of course. I’m merely trying to get a clear picture of the kind of man he was.’
‘You don’t need to worry about what he was like at home. It’s his work life you should be investigating. But there’s nothing more I can tell you about that. Except that I’m sure the answers you need will be there somewhere.’
The lack of an answer told Peretti what he needed to know. He conceded the point and nodded.
‘So, how was your husband found, Signora? The inspector I ran into at your husband’s office wasn’t exactly forthcoming. But he did say that the door was locked and that the gun belonged to Signor Vialli. That’s why he was so sure it was a suicide.’
‘Ah, you’ve met Commissario Nesca then. There’s a bent cop if ever I saw one. I don’t think that man could even lie straight in bed. Take anything else he says to you with a grain of salt. But, for once, he’s right. My husband did own a gun. And the door was locked. So maybe it was suicide. But if it wasn’t, who knows? Maybe Nesca has been told to make sure the death gets passed off as suicide. I wouldn’t put it past him to be in the pocket of whoever did this.’
‘You think it could have been murder?’
‘No, I’m saying I don’t know. Isn’t it your job to find that out?’
There was a pause as Peretti stared at the page in front of him and tapped his pen.
‘And it was you who found him? When? This morning?’
The widow nodded.
‘About three o’clock. He often gets in after I’ve gone to bed but I woke up just before two and he wasn’t home. I phoned the office number and didn’t get a response. That’s when I went down there. The light was on but the door was locked and I didn’t have the spare key. I panicked and called the police. They broke in and we found Giacomo like...well, you’ve seen for yourself.’
‘When did you last see your husband, Signora?’
She shrugged her elegant shoulders.
‘I hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning. He said he had an all-day meeting with a client. Somewhere on the other side of the river. Tiburtino, I think it was.’
‘And you didn’t see him at all last night?’
‘No. If he has a meeting he’s rarely home before I’m asleep. I didn't think anything of it until I woke in the night.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening, Signora Vialli?’
Her eyes fixed on Peretti’s.
‘At home of course. You seriously believe what that old witch says? That I killed my own husband?’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
Peretti studied her face
for a moment then nodded and got to his feet.
‘OK. Thank you, Signora. That’s all I need to know for now. Could you take me to see Signor Vialli’s office before I go, please? His home office I mean.’
She pointed towards the door.
‘Certainly. It’s the second door on the left at the top of the stairs. Angela will show you up.’
Chapter Three
Signor Vialli’s home office was a carbon copy of the one downtown, apart from the mustiness and a newly acquired bloodstain. The room had been arranged obsessively. No paintings or photos to punctuate the plain white plaster of the walls. The place was empty except for an ancient desk and one small bookshelf organised in size order once again. The titles were all on business and making money. Not a fiction book in sight. Nothing to indicate any other interests outside of work. Clearly there was no time wasted on pleasure as far as the accountant was concerned. But that fitted with everything else that Peretti had heard about the man. Working long hours. Keeping his distance from a home life that left a lot to be desired. What had Maria Vialli ever seen in the man? Maybe the attraction was less than romantic. That might explain why there were no telltale signs of weeping in her eyes.
Peretti sat down at the desk and began opening drawers. Pens, pencils and paperclips were all arranged in rows or boxes. Any papers were stacked in perfect order. The detective was grateful for that at least. It made searching for clues so much easier. But nothing there looked suspicious. Perhaps Vialli kept anything private at the main office. He’d ask for the key and go back there later on, once the police finished with the place.
Peretti ran his fingers lightly around the underside of the desk for good measure. Everyone knew old desks were made with secret compartments but it was too obvious a place to hide anything. It was the first place anyone would go. But he had to look just in case.
Sure enough, his fingers found the catch and, pulling it gently, the compartment revealed itself. Peretti bent down and eased the drawer open. As he suspected: empty.