Sweet Song, Bitter Loss, page 11
ELEVEN.
As agreed in a phone call, Sergeant Rossi met up with Davide, the dog handler, a couple of hundred metres before the turn into the Mirelti property so that they could arrive together. True to her word, Laura had found an unwashed fleece that Giovanni wore during the winter, and Davide stayed just long enough to collect the fleece and return to his van with the dog inside, and by the time he was turning back into the road, he was already talking to Lazzaro on his radio to check where they should meet up before Davide joined the search.
Rossi stayed at the house for a while longer, introducing herself to the family, and explaining to them that she was taking on a co-ordinating role in the search, so they could contact either herself or Major D’Angelo, who was lead officer in the enquiry.
Twenty minutes later, having taken her leave of Giovanni’s family, Sergeant Rossi had parked fifty metres down the road from the entrance to Montenero Primary School, not wishing to draw attention to the carabinieri squad car. She sat for a few moments, contemplating the sad atmosphere she had just encountered, before walking back up to the school building, where she was directed to the classroom in which the head teacher was taking a history lesson. The head teacher left her class briefly to greet Rossi, and check she was the officer who rang earlier, then directed her to the staff room where Giovanni’s form teacher was waiting, temporarily relieved of teaching duties by courtesy of an experienced assistant. The teacher, Signora Recchia, insisted that Rossi call her by her first name, Carolina. Rossi reciprocated by asking that she be called Teresa, helping retain the image of a civilian, possibly a new recruit to the teaching staff.
‘We’re very anxious about Giovanni’s disappearance,’ said Carolina, ‘how might I be able to help?’
‘I want to try and build a picture of him,’ replied Rossi. ‘I gather he’s rather a loner. Does he have many friends here at school?’
Carolina twisted her mouth and glanced away, towards the window.
‘Not really. He’s quite often with Enrico, a quiet little boy who has very poor hearing, and who avoids the rough and tumble of playground games. But he’s closest of all to Evelina. They’re almost inseparable. They sit next to each other whenever they can, and they hold hands while waiting for the school bus. I can easily envisage them going out together at high school, and probably even getting married in years to come.’
‘Can I meet Evelina, have a quiet chat with her?’
‘Not today, I’m afraid, Teresa. Evelina was devastated when she heard that Giovanni had gone missing, and she hasn’t come to school today. Her mother rang to explain her absence.’
‘Was Giovanni bullied by any of the other boys?’
‘Oh no, we don’t allow any bullying here,’ said Carolina defensively. ‘But you know what children are like. If there’s one who’s a bit different, they, well – they can be a bit unkind.’
‘Do you think Giovanni enjoys school?’
Carolina once again thought about the question before answering.
‘I think he’s rather neutral about it. He isn’t overly enthusiastic, he does just about enough to get by, but his attendance is good. He doesn’t take lots of days off sick like some of the children.’
‘But as far as the other pupils are concerned, you would say he’s on the fringe, not one of the crowd, so to speak.’
‘That more or less sums it up, yes.’
‘And you said he does just about enough to get by. Does that mean his school work is average’’
‘I have the record book here, Teresa. You can see the typical grades he gets from the three of us who teach his class – generally between five and seven, six being regarded as the pass mark. There we are look, Maths : 5, History : 6, Italian : 6, ….’
‘But two notable exceptions,’ observed Rossi quickly, ‘Natural Sciences and English.’
‘That’s right. Signore Orsatti takes him for sciences, and he tells me that Giovanni loves Natural History, in fact he thinks the boy knows more about fauna than he does himself. His excellent knowledge in that area pushes up his grades for the whole subject to eight, nine, even ten. Eleven is the highest possible grade.’
‘And English?’
‘Our English teacher is Signora Treddenti, and she teaches across nearly all the classes. English is her only subject, and yes, she gives Giovanni between seven and nine, and here, look, another ten on that report.’
‘How much longer will Giovanni be at this school?’
‘This is his final term. In September, after the holiday, he’s due to go up to the Lower Secondary.’
‘Which will presumably involve a longer bus journey, and being with older pupils. Does that prospect worry him, do you think?’
‘He’s never said anything to suggest he’s bothered about it. Like a lot of our youngsters, I think he’s looking forward to freedom and the end of school days, although it’s surprising how many look back on life here with fondness. It’s an odd thing, that they’ll rebel against discipline, but their lives can be happier and more structured when they have rules and regulations to obey.’
‘I greatly enjoy my job,’ said Rossi, smiling, ‘and it’s all about strict rules and regulations. Is there anything else about Giovanni you think might be helpful, anything we should know about?’
‘Not really. Oh, except I have here his Italian exercise book, which he handed in on Monday.’
‘Monday? The last day he was in?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Anyway, I had asked the class to write an essay of about two hundred words on any subject they chose, and this is his essay. The grammar is moderate, some of the words he uses are good, but the subject matter most unusual. Normally, pupils will write about something they’ve done with their friends, visiting a festa, perhaps, watching the marching band or the firework display. Giovanni has written a fantasy story about some birds that get together and decide to do something because a hunter has been shooting their family and friends. They fly up to the mountains, and persuade a bear to come down in the night and kill the hunter while he’s asleep.’
‘Shows imagination.’
‘Oh yes, it shows imagination, and it’s quite graphic, but I would never ask him to read his essay aloud to the class.’
‘Too graphic?’
‘Not that so much. Some of the games they play on their smartphones and tablets are truly gruesome. No, it’s just that the fathers of some of the pupils in his class are themselves hunters.’
‘I see. Yes, I can understand how sensitive that would be. Could you prepare a list of the hunters’ names for me, just in case? And can I keep hold of the exercise book for now?’
‘Yes, please do.’
‘Thank you. And I would like to go and see Giovanni’s friend, Evelina, if you could give me her address.’
‘No problem,’ said Carolina. ‘Her home is not too far from here.’
D’Angelo decided to try and cover two bases with one visit. He wanted to know whether Giovanni had any connection with the church, and in particular whether he had been attending confirmation classes, but he was reluctant to add to the family’s distress by calling on them yet again without any positive news. At the same time, he wanted to meet Giovanni’s friend and part-time employer, Filippo, so he was hoping that Filippo might be able to answer the question about confirmation, as well as covering any other unknown aspects of Giovanni’s life. Laura had described the location of Filippo’s workshop, and with his growing knowledge of Montenero’s layout, it didn’t take long for D’Angelo to find the small but functional premises. The ornate door was partly open, watched over by a carved wooden owl that sat in a recess in the stone doorway. D’Angelo pushed the door further open and stepped inside, where he found most of the floor space taken up with blocks and sheets of seasoned timber, and all four walls covered with shelves, some of which held a wide variety of hand tools, others loaded with carvings. In the middle of the space was a large, floor-standing lathe being worked by a middle-aged man with a full beard and long hair tied back in a pony tail. The scene was lit by a beam of sunlight, falling as though from a theatre spot lamp, from a high window behind the man’s back, a myriad motes of dust dancing in the bright glow. D’Angelo walked the few paces to watch as the man carefully turned his block of dark wood, the newest carving gradually taking shape. For a while the man continued concentrating on his work, not lifting his eyes for a second, until he stopped and examined his creation. Apparently satisfied with progress made, he switched off the lathe and put down his carving, looking at D’Angelo for the first time. In the sudden silence, D’Angelo became more aware of the surroundings and smells inside the workshop. The scent of newly-cut wood mingled with the sweetness of linseed oil, the slightly acrid smell of tobacco, and beneath it all something else, a bitter-sweet odour that could never be disguised, weak but unmistakable, the smell of cannabis. D’Angelo remembered his time as a high-flying young captain leading drug busts in Rome, before becoming one of the youngest majors in the Italian carabinieri, destined surely for the very top. But that was all before ……
Returning from the past, he introduced himself to Filippo.
‘Ah yes, of course,’ responded Filippo, ‘Laura told me about you. You’re leading the hunt to try and find Giovanni. Do you have any news?’
‘Unfortunately not, but the search goes on. I gather he sometimes came to help you in here?’
‘I’m sure he will again when he’s found. I look forward to his visits. He reminds me a bit of how I was when I was his age.’
‘But you have no idea what could have happened to him? Where he might have gone?’
Filippo looked down at his lathe and shook his head.
‘None at all. It’s a complete mystery.’
‘Did he ever visit you at home?’
‘No, he never came to my house, only here at the workshop. But I’m sure he knows that if he’s in any sort of trouble, he can come to me for help.’
‘Where is your house, incidentally?’
‘It’s a place on its own, half a kilometre below Contrada Castagne.’
D’Angelo looked around at the wooden carvings on the surrounding shelves, many of them depicting animals and birds.
‘I saw one of your owls in his room at home. He must love all these.’
‘Anything to do with nature, Major D’Angelo.’
D’Angelo’s eyes rested on a particularly prominent carving of a snake, set on its own small shelf in the middle of the wall. Its coiled tail formed the base, its hooded head with red glass eyes raised as if to strike. D’Angelo walked over to examine it.
‘That’s very impressive,’ he said. ‘How much would you charge for a carving like that?’
‘I’m afraid that particular one is not for sale, Major, but if any of the others take your fancy ….’
‘Another time, perhaps. Tell me, Signore, do you happen to know whether Giovanni was visiting the priest for confirmation classes?’
Filippo picked up a piece of cloth and wiped his hands, an almost symbolic gesture of absolving himself of responsibility, it occurred to D’Angelo. Filippo threw the cloth back on the shelf where he had found it.
‘We didn’t talk about it much. I suppose I tried to dissuade him from it – I’ve never been a great lover of the church myself. All those strict rules and humble obedience, not my thing, Major. Too much of a free spirit.’ Filippo grinned briefly for the first time, but the smile soon disappeared. ‘My mother told me she had a bad time at a convent school when she was young, so she hated anything to do with the church.’
‘But Giovanni ….’
‘Giovanni was attending confirmation classes. He’s due to be confirmed in a few weeks’ time. He asked me if I would go to the ceremony, but I declined. I tell him that a lot of cruelty to animals results from the church’s belief that all life other than human is inferior, because only humans supposedly have souls, but he just quotes Saint Francis of Assisi at me. It’s been the closest we’ve ever got to arguing. When all’s said and done, it’s his life, his decision.’
Filippo picked up a packet of cigarettes, but seemed to change his mind and put them back down.
‘So he’s determined to continue with his confirmation?’
‘As far as I know, yes.’
‘Does he tell you about his home life, or school?’
‘Yes, he’s quite a chatterbox when he gets going. I don’t think he finds life particularly easy either at home or school. Odd one out, if you know what I mean. I get the impression he’s fond of his mother, but has a difficult relationship with his father, and he doesn’t get on at all with his future brother-in-law.’
‘Mario?’
‘Mario, that’s right. The real loves of his life are his sister, Laura, and his girlfriend at school, Evelina. Always talking about one or other of them, and neither can do any wrong in his eyes. And of course, he’s always wanting to know about animals and birds.’
‘How did you get to know Giovanni?’
‘He was staring at the owl in the doorway when I arrived one day. He asked me if I had carved it, so I told him I had, and there are more of them inside if he would like to see them. He started to come here sometimes after school, so I got him to help tidy up, sweep the floor and so on, for a bit of pocket money.’
Filippo pulled back the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt, revealing what appeared to D’Angelo to be an expensive watch. He also saw a small part of what looked like a tattoo.
‘I don’t want to rush you, Major, but I need to go and see a customer soon.’
‘Of course,’ said D’Angelo, ‘I won’t hold you up any longer.’ He looked again at the display of carvings. ‘Do you sell many of these?’
‘I sell enough to get by. Mustn’t complain.’
‘Mm.’ D’Angelo moved towards the door. ‘By the way, some civilian helpers have joined the search for Giovanni today. Your services not required?’
‘I would gladly have gone to help if I’d been asked. I presume the candidates were selected by Maurizio Bordini, in which case I’m not surprised my name wasn’t on the list. I suspect that in Bordini’s opinion, I’m not the right type to be given much responsibility.’
Filippo shook his head, so that his pony tail swung from side to side. D’Angelo smiled with understanding, and left the workshop.
Filippo stood still for a short while, then went slowly to the door and pushed it shut. He walked back to where the lathe stood, and once again picked up the cigarette packet. Inside the pack, along with a number of cigarettes, was a spliff he had rolled for himself earlier. He started to draw it from the packet, then pushed it back down, chose instead one of the cigarettes, and lit up. Deep in thought, he blew smoke into the beam of sunlight, like a billowing cloud across a summer sky.
D’Angelo walked past where he had parked his car, looking up to the impressive bulk of the church of San Bartolomeo, which stood at the highest point in Montenero, the summit of the Black Hill, surrounded by a ring of pine trees. He pulled the small but efficient radio phone from its leather pouch and called firstly Lazzaro, for an update on the ground search, then put in a call to Rossi. He could hear that she was using hands-free, so was obviously in the car.
‘I’m on my way back to base,’ she explained. ‘After visiting the school, I went to see Giovanni’s little girlfriend, who was at home today.’
‘Learn anything of interest?’
‘Not really. Some unusual schoolwork that I’ll show you later, and the girl is very upset, I think she’s made herself ill with worrying. It’s a shame, she’s a sweet kid. One thing I did get from her. It was a struggle, Giovanni had told her it was a secret, and she wasn’t to tell anyone. You know what kids are like, when they’ve promised to keep a secret. Well, girls anyway. I’m not sure boys are quite so principled. Sorry boss. Eventually I persuaded her to tell me this secret. Giovanni had seen his sister’s fiancé, Mario, stealing money from his nonna’s purse. Giovanni had apparently challenged him, but Mario told him to “keep his trap shut” or he’d suffer the consequences.’
‘Do you know when this happened?’
‘I got the impression it was quite recently. In the last week or two.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ve had a word with the guy Filippo, and now I’m off to see the priest.’
‘Your day for confession, Major?’
‘Ha bloody ha. You go and man the fort, I’ll catch up with you later. Over and out.’
Having climbed the numerous steps leading up to the church, D’Angelo realised he was a bit out of shape, not as fit as he used to be, and promised himself he would do a bit more exercise now he was approaching fifty. Fifty. Good god, he thought, nearer the end than the beginning, what a depressing prospect. Perhaps he should re-think this religion idea, maybe there’s something in it after all.
The large main door of the church, covered by a newly-constructed portico, was open, so D’Angelo let himself into the cool, incense-scented interior of the building. His footsteps echoed on the large stone flags of the central aisle as he made his way towards the altar, where he could see a side door leading to the vestry. He had thought he was alone in the huge space, but a movement beyond the gap between the rows of pews suddenly caught his attention. He walked between two of the pews to discover an elderly, diminutive woman fussily arranging some flowers beneath one of the stations of the cross. D’Angelo felt sure he had seen her somewhere before, and when she turned to look up at him, he remembered her face. One of the customers in Bianca Di Lello’s shop. D’Angelo was blessed with a good memory for names, but he was struggling to recall this woman’s name. In the space of just a few seconds, he visualised the scene at the butcher’s, and played back in his mind the moment she had taken the bag of meat from Bianca. Cristini. That was it, he was sure. An appropriate name for someone in a church.
