| Dead Man in Marche by David Sheppard Chapter 3 |
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3 With Deefor safely ensconced in the boot of his Alfa 166 estate, Luca headed off down and out of Macerata against the increasing flow of traffic returning into town for lunch. He called Sofia to say that he would have to miss lunch .He had a nagging suspicion that he would probably be stuck with a slab of pizza in a bar or if lucky maybe a toasted piadina with prosciutto and cheese. He did not take in the view as he threaded his way down from Macerata. He was so deep in thought that he was oblivious to the wide undulating vista of rolling hills surmounted with limpet-like villages, backdropped by the massive majesty of the Sibillini Mountains. Luca's work had normally taken him East towards the coast where the action, murderous or otherwise, was generally acknowledged to be. On New Year's Day the Carducci's would take the hour long trip up to the Sibillini ski station at Sassotetto for a morning's skiing with friends.Agatha and her friends were chivvied off into ski school whilst the adults showed off their new apparel and old skills. This would be followed by a celebratory late lunch some thousand metres below in Sarnano. After about twenty minutes Luca turned off the SS78 Sarnano road and headed up the hill towards Monte San Nicola. He got lost trying to find the sign for Contrada Molino but eventually found it without the embarrassing bother of trying to find someone to give him directions. At just before one o'clock he reached Casa Timo and the teaming mass of journalists, cameramen and Carabinieri. Luca never ceased to be amazed at how the Press were always nearly at a crime scene before the authorities who were invariably outnumbered four to one. He parked at some distance to allow himself to collect his thoughts and to let Deefor out to stretch his legs and do what dogs do. As he strolled towards the shoal he called Sofia to tell her to give Agatha a kiss from him, her mobile was engaged yet again, however. And so, putting on a suitably purposeful look on his face, he snapped his phone shut and waded through the throng answering 'No comment,' to the onslaught of questions hurled at him. He patted the forensics officer's shoulder and briefly consulted him in a huddle. He then turned to the senior carabiniere officer and received a concise verbal report from him also. Ascertaining that nothing new was to be added to his preliminary report until after the autopsy, Luca turned to the fomenting mass of the Press, held his arms aloft and cleared his throat noisily, ' Ladies and gentlemen of the Press, I have some good news.' This brought a collective gasp and set off a salvo of flashes. ' Indeed, yes. I have absolutely no comment to make and suggest you head off before they stop serving lunch. That is all.' There was an uproar of further questions mostly involving the word 'hoofing'. These died down as the undeniable truth of the Inspettore's statement sank in; he was damned if he would give an interview before he had eaten. That was something set in stone, immutable, inviolable. They knew that. What the young carabiniere showed him beneath the sheet put him off the thought of eating instantly. The top half of the body put him in mind of an ice cream that Agatha had dropped at the seaside one morning. He had caught sight of it later that day: crushed, ruined, fly-blown and dog-lapped; the antithesis of it earlier, delicious incarnation. Luca nodded to the officer to replaced the sheet over the mashed top half of the victim. He moved away to allow the removal of the corpse into a waiting body bag and thence into an unmarked mortuary van for its trip to the morgue. The gabbling of the carabinieri was off putting. They were gossiping amongst themselves and with the handful of die-hard hacks who were willing to put a story before their lunch. As he stared at the place, in the centre of the parking space some five metres from down from a low wall that separated this gravel yard from the house and garden, Luca tried to picture the scene some twelve hours earlier. Here a man had lost his life at the hands of persons as yet unknown. His meditations were being constantly interrupted by the flashing lights of the carabinieri vehicles and the inane chatter of the others present: 'Russian Mafia...Cossack Killing...Hoofing...Harvey Keitel...Hoofing...'Al Caponski'...Just out on DVD...Great Soundtrack, too...Hoofed ,for sure...'I want that mutha hoofed!'...Good old Harvey...As good as de Niro?...Looks almost pained by it all, don’t you think?...Who'd've thought it, Ruski Mafia out here?... Pinched his Ferrari, too...A classic, a 308 GTS like Magnum PI...No, no dummy that's the theme from The A Team...Now, in my part of Sicily...' It was impossible for Luca to think with all these distractions. Once the senior carabiniere had confirmed that nothing inside the house had been touched, it was agreed that a lone officer should stay behind and guard the taped off house and scene. As the group broke up, Luca managed a look at the crime scene officer's polaroids of the site, he was promised copies by email that afternoon. Luca smirked at the officer's fresh faced efficiency, this was Thursday after all. Facts were one thing; the hard part was to put them into a human framework and solve the clues once that scenario had been constructed. The forensics officer had stated that at least three sets of tires had driven over the victim and indeed this did point to the lurid 'hoofing' execution theory which in turn pointed to the murky underworld of Eastern Europe and all that went with it. Luca did not hold out much hope for finding the killers of this man- Alexis Pullenyov- who could only be intially identified by his signet ring. Proof from dental records would take some time, the forensics officer had muttered rather tastelessly out of the corner of his mouth. Luca was always surprised by how dead the dead looked- how unalive and lacking in humanity and dignity. Maybe it really was the absence of the soul that caused this, he ruminated. He paused momentarily in thought and perhaps even in silent, unconscious prayer. Then remembered that his brain and stomach needed nourishment. He remembered too that a cousin of Sofia's called Ugo worked as a geometra and had his studio in Monte San Nicola. He drew up the number from his phone and called. The cousin was at that very moment finishing a meeting with some British clients and would be delighted to meet Luca at Le Volte in the village for lunch. Ugo's partner , Sam, would be coming too. So Ugo's gone into partnership; his surveying/architectural restoration practice must be doing well after all. Ugo had been widely considered the very stupidest of all the combined cousins; which was quite a feat, to be sure. Having parked in the piazza, Luca walked up the narrow alleyway where Le Volte was discreetly signposted. As he stepped down into the brick-vaulted cantina, he was relieved to see that the Press Posse had opted to use their expense accounts at the other, smarter restaurant, Da Roberto, which was rumoured to be only a cat's whisker away from a Michelin star. There were a few lone diners peering up at the giant television screen in the corner babbling away to itself as they shoveled great steaming mounds of papperdelle alle lepre into their gaping maws. Ugo and Sam were nibbling breadsticks at a table in the corner opposite to the blaring set. Ugo stood up to shake Luca's hand and clapped an arm around his shoulder. Ugo was in his early thirties but since he had begun to lose his hair a decade earlier, he had sported a shiny, polished bald head. The postage stamp beard defiantly announced that he was still capable of sustaining some hair growth, though. If anything, this frivolous piece of facial hair succeeded in giving Ugo a youthful look of almost adolescent fecklessness. . Sam got up and when introduced drawled 'Piaciere,' in a heavy American accent. He was wearing an orange version of Ugo's shirt and pink jeans. The boots were identical. Maybe they got bulk discount at the store, Luca wondered. He was aware of the well-toned strength in Sam's handshake that rippled up his arm. As they sat down, Ugo explained that he had gone ahead and ordered the menu fisso for three. Luca always found it unnerving talking to Ugo as one of his eyes pointed in a slightly different direction to the other. Sofia's advice was to look at the brown one. This had further compounded the family's less than flattering view of Ugo's mental abilities. Ugo leant forward conspiratorially after the platter of pecorino and salamis had been served and as they tucked into the cheese and ciambuscolo, coppa and lonza, he burst out unable to contain himself any longer, ' What's all this about a hoofing in the village? Oh, do tell. Is it true? Has there really been a Russian mafia hit? What has Alex been up to, the dark horse? It's like that DVD we rented the other night.' Luca interrupted the cousin in full flow remembering now that the geometra had a chronic dose of verbal diahorrea and this was why Luca had always tended to give him a wide berth at family get-togethers. 'I cannot make any comment on this matter. None at all. Final. Full stop.' He interjected pompously. Ugo and Sam looked at each other and shrugged, 'Well there's no harm in trying, is there?' They smiled in unison. Luca steered the conversation into a different direction,' How are things? Aunt Paola says you're busier than ever.' 'Am I? Oh Madonna, yes! So busy. Like a bee buzzing around making dreams come true. Like a fairy god-mother, you could say.' Ugo and Sam beamed at one another. Luca was beginning to regret calling Ugo and in his mind that humble slab of reheated pizza was becoming a wondrous alternative to this sissy drivel. He took a long draught of the house Rosso Piceno and after a second slug he did not seem to mind quite so much. 'I don't know if you metropolitan town dwellers know what's been happening out here over the last five years.' Luca shook his head.’ Well, there's been a positive invasion of British around these parts. And to a lesser extent Irish, Dutch, Germans,inevitably, and Americans; ' He winked at Sam.' Australians, too, all buying up property like mad. It's like a gold rush. They're calling it the 'New Tuscany' and in particular around here 'Marcheshire' on account of all the Brits.' Betwixt the Mountains and the Sea'. They love it because it's a third of the price of Tuscany and half that of Umbria. And it's not just for holiday houses either. Loads of them have restored these farmhouse to live in, full-time. There's a proper little colony now. ' Mm. These junipers really make this sauce.' Murmured Sam. 'So I'm doing a roaring trade with my excellent English and wonderful eye.'Luca looked away momentarily and smirked. ‘I can help them through all the paperwork, talk them through possible ideas, make plans; get permissions; set them up with reputable builders, plumbers, sparkies, the lot. We offer 'Turn Key Solutions'. That is, we create a design for the house together; I cost it out; add a suitable management commission then hand them the bill. They pay in three installments and with the final one they get the deeds, keys, the whole shebang.' Luca rather resented others using new fangled, hip English expression in their speech. ‘Turn Key Solutions' indeed; for instance what was wrong with 'Bespoke architectural service to the gentry'?' 'During work in progress they can come and view their little baby. I'm like a house-nanny: I get paid to calm any tantrums so the clients don't get any of the head aches or see any of the dirty nappies, so to speak. They pay for peace of mind, really. And they are so grateful; both the clients and the locals.' Luca nodded and sprinkled some more pecorino cheese over his plate. 'You should see the Mercedes that Ercole the carpenter drives now! For the clients it's perfect; they can trust me and understand me; we work together like family almost. If there is something lost in translation, Sam helps out. 'And Sam is your partner. You're a trained geometra, Sam?' 'No, silly. Sam's my partner. He's just an interior designer. He does the insides; I'm the builder.' 'Ooh, Butch.' muttered Sam snapping a breadstick. Luca's mind went off somewhere else as Ugo explained how a trickle of foreign interest had become a steady stream over the years. He loved his clients as they were easy going and keen to use his sympathetic style of restoration. This cost money of course but all his clients had been good payers and had recommended Ugo onto others and so a chain had begun. They wanted everything done three times faster than Ugo's Italian clients, but were willing to pay three times the rate. Ugo's commission as Project Manager from this work meant that he no longer had time for his Italian clients who were happy to the old ways of waiting the time and sparing the money. ‘My British clients, you know, become more like my friends. We've been over there a few times to stay with some of them. Been taken morris dancing, curries, pony trekking, all sorts.' As Ugo babbled on, Luca's mind was off on a tangent wondering what sort of gays the pair were as he did whenever he was confronted by homosexuals. Were they just holdy-hands companions for life types? Or maybe S+M types? though there was no visible evidence of piercings or tattoos. There was definitely sometime of the clone thing about them. Sam was the body builder one so maybe he was dominant. Luca chastised himself, these were not appropriate ruminations at the lunch table so he turned his attention to his papperdelle with its deliciously rich wild hare sauce. Not that it mattered, of course,( his mind had returned to the subject) what consenting adults did to each other in the privacy of their own homes. That was their own business. Luca liked to think he had a modern thinking, broad mind .Besides he hated the idea of people speculating behind his own back what he and Sofia enjoyed in the bedroom and he blushed in a mixture of indignation and bashfulness. A huge plate of lamb grilled over olive embers arrived and all three dug in with their fingers. It was the only way to enjoy these tiny succulent morsels of meat. Ugo continued. 'You must have noticed all the restored farmhouses about. The farmers have been using the old abandoned farmhouses as tractor sheds for years since they moved out into their new houses. Then when I tell them how much they could get for their old sheds, they do the moths: at these prices they could buy ten brand new tractor sheds for the price of their single tumbledown one .' Luca found it hard to concentrate over the alluring aroma of the lamb. 'Most of the semi-habitable abandoned farmhouses have now been snapped up, they tend to be the first to go. There are still plenty of derelict ones about and even the piles of rubble are finding buyers amongst the more intrepid. Sam and I have been doing a bit of speculating ourselves. We've bought up about a dozen houses.' 'A dozen! Gesu you must be doing well.' Luca exclaimed. 'Well, we buy them cheap and flip them. There's always plenty of gossip about who wants to sell what down in the village bars late at night over a game of cards.' Ugo tapped his nose.' We're not a patch on the Black Widow, though. She's supposed to be sitting on scores of houses.' Sam joined in. 'You've not heard of her? Contessa del Moro? Elena del Moro? No? Bit of a local legend. Well, she pretty much created the market; so all power to her.' Ugo continued' About ten years ago she set up an agency with the Geometra Sforza from Sarnano. She found houses for her foreign clients and Sforza drew up plans and did the restorations. One of her first clients was some daytime tv presenter from London and since then Le Marche has been all over the British media. It all coincided with the internet. It meant that clients could simply and safely window-shop for houses in the comfort of their own homes.' Ugo picked up a delicate little chop and gnawed away on it until it was stripped clean. ' Then, of course, came the cheap flights to Ancona which is just over an hour from us. It's created a mini-industry both here and there. You know in Britain there are all these programmes about people selling their houses, giving up their jobs and moving abroad to be self sufficient.' Ugo screwed up his face in distaste.' However, most of my clients seem to have taken early retirement and get a gardener in. Le Marche has become a property 'Hot Spot' and this is the hottest spot. You,' he said, pointing at Luca,' are in the centre of the Golden Pentagon- the area around the five hottest villages: Monte San Nicola, San Ginesio, Sarnano, Monte San Martino and Loro Piceno. Haven't you noticed how many more stranieri there are about or at least the foreign number plates? You won't see many English next time you take your holidays in England! Well, deep in our hearts we have to thankful for the Black Widow, without her none of this would have happened and I'd be designing disabled restroom extensions for restaurants.' Ugo paused for breath and a sip of water. 'I'm amazed you've not heard any of this. You need to get out of Macerata more. It's no longer the back of beyond out here. There’s a lot of money washing around here now and you know when that happens along come the cowboys and chancers. We've got a good reputation here for our work and I'll give you a call next time I hear about some good investment properties before they reach the market. It'd be a shame for you to miss out on such a good thing.' He paused to lick his fingers clean. 'Come on, Luca, tell us about this murder. I knew the guy a bit; Alex. He did a bit of under the table estate agency on the side. Obviously he hadn't taken the exams but he offered a low commission to act as initial intermediary to set up deals and then passed the clients onto me for the boring old paperwork for which I do have the qualifications. I believe he does quite a bit with the Black Widow, too. Anyway, he is/was less of a charlatan than most of the types who have jumped on this bandwagon.' 'Sorry, guys. No can do.' replied Luca as he waved the waiter over and asked if he could take the remaining lamb away with him. He returned with a tin foil bundle of meat, coffees and mistra. The diners shot back their espressi and slurped the sticky aniseed liqueur. The sound of the Pet Shop Boys trilled from Ugo's man-bag.' Pronto!' Chirped Ugo,'Darling, I can meet you at the house straightaway. Give me ten minutes, honey. Ciao!' The party broke up and Sam paid.' I might have to change my middle name to Aga, I've sold that many this year!' Luca fumbled for his sunglasses as he strolled into the mid afternoon blaze of the piazza. Deefor wolfed down the cutlets and shown Luca his forgiveness by covering his ears with lamb and rosemary scented saliva. As he reversed out into the piazza, he was forced to slam on his brakes as a Mini Cooper Screeched past from the direction of the old town above. As it tore past with a bark of its horn, Luca was aware of a glaring figure in black with milk bottle glasses at the wheel and at least five others crammed in besides. One of these gave him the finger through the rear windscreen. Luca automatically returned the gesture then checked himself, he had never given a nun the bird before. As the black car with its cream top shot out of view, Luca caught sight of the word Guinness in familiar gold letters on its rear. Luca nodded to himself. So that was the infamous Madre Angelica and her Little Sisters of Poverty & Charity. Officially they had one the car in a raffle but the rumour was that Madre had personally collected over a quarter of million ring pulls. Their days in the village were numbered now however, as the six Sisters of Poverty & Charity had sold their huge convent to developers for a fortune and were relocating to a villa above Amalfi with views out towards Capri in order to be nearer to God. To T |
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| Chapter Four |
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