The Marshal's Own Case Read Online Free Page B

of.’
    And that was that. He went through to his quarters where the boys had already gone to bed. Teresa was in the kitchen, washing up.
    ‘I’ve saved you some supper as I don’t suppose you’ve had chance to eat anything. Di Nuccio said—’
    ‘I need a shower.’
    ‘Well, there should be plenty of hot water. The boys had theirs before they ate.’
    When he came back he was in pyjamas and dressing-gown. Teresa waited a while to see if he intended telling her about what had happened but he sat at the kitchen table forking up risotto in silence.
    ‘It must be a bit spoilt. I wouldn’t have made risotto if I’d known you were going to be so late.’
    Nothing. Only after a moment did he rouse himself to think of saying, ‘It’s all right. It’s good. Is there another piece of bread?’
    She knew better than to force matters. He told her most things sooner or later. In any case, there was something she had to tell him.
    ‘I hope you won’t have to be late tomorrow night. There’s parents’ night at school and it starts at half past six. Do you think you can get away?’
    He poured himself half a glass of wine. ‘You can go, can’t you?’
    ‘Of course, but the thing is, Totò’s class teacher telephoned at lunch-time. She specially wants to talk to both of us.’
    ‘What for? Is something wrong?’
    ‘She didn’t want to say over the phone, but you know Totò always has more difficulties than Giovanni. In any case, if she went to the trouble to telephone me specially I think we should make the effort. Of course, if you can’t get away because you’ve got something particular on—’
    ‘No, no. I can leave Lorenzini in charge for an hour.’
    And she had to be content with that.
    Only when they were in bed and she had switched off the lamp did he offer, ‘I checked up on the Luciano boy—what’s his name . . .’
    ‘Enrico.’
    ‘Hm. He’s had no trouble with the police.’
    ‘Well, that’s something. I could call his mother tomorrow and tell her.’
    ‘Wait till the evening. I meant to check the hospitals but I haven’t had a minute. What was the last address they had for him?’
    ‘I can’t remember off hand but it’s somewhere in the Santa Croce area. I’ve written it on the pad by the phone.’
    ‘I might go round there and take a look . . .’
    He was still pretty well convinced that the boy had simply had enough of his family, but the day’s events had brought it home to him that the nightmarish dreads that assail us all about our children at one time or another sometimes become reality. After all, the three pieces in plastic bags now lying in a refrigerated drawer at the Medico-Legal Institute were once somebody’s daughter.
    The next day was as beautiful, as calmly sunny, as the last. If it didn’t start raining soon there would be a water shortage. It was already being talked about after such a long dry summer. Perfect for the wine-growers who had got in their harvest and were already proclaiming a first-class vintage. The weather would surely break by the end of the month and, in the meantime, the Marshal for one decided to make the most of a fine afternoon and walk over to Santa Croce, the address of the Luciano boy tucked into his top pocket. If he turned out to be still there it would be enough to have a short talk with him, suggest he let his mother know he was alive and well and leave it at that.
    Santa Croce wasn’t an area he knew particularly well. It was on the other side of the river and off his beat. His intention was to cross the Ponte Vecchio but as he approached it he saw a gesticulating knot of people blocking the way. It looked as if the ‘Wannabuys’ were in trouble again. These unfortunates were always in trouble with somebody. They were West Africans who sold their trinkets, belts and bags on the pavements of the city and had been christened ‘Wannabuys’ by the Florentines because ‘wanna buy?’ was about the only thing they knew how to say. It