Justine Gilbert

PROLOGUE

Tuscany

In the winter months, the Italian seaside camping spots are closed like a clam. Even the street lamps are off. But tonight there is too much moon, and the light rippling to shore illuminates his every move. From the back of the van, he unzips the body bag. He is not long out of boyhood, friends with brutality, and clear about his instructions. Dump the body, bring back the bag. The former has no identification—not in this land and possibly not in any other—so there is no need to bury her. But the bag is trademarked and can be traced back to the source.

His mother complained the females in the village were worth less than the livestock. Now, as he lifts the little girl, he cannot help but think the child has the weight of a lamb to market; how ironic that her value in death became so great. His share needs to be bigger, he decides—much bigger than the amount the doctor is offering. He’ll deal with that when he gets back, but for now the risk of discovery hurries his actions. He glances at the sky and damns the moon again. It will take one insomniac and his dog on a lonely night walk to bear witness, note the vehicle, and create a noise that requires another death. Slinging her over his shoulder, he determines there will be only one body here tonight, hidden just enough to give him a day’s head start. Then he will be in a Belgian brothel without a care in the world.

Near a salt-mottled sign of Campeggio, he spies an upended wooden fishing boat and places the child by its side. Rolling the vessel over with a grunt, he moves the body to lie in the sandy depression. In a twitch of superstition, he presses her arms to her side and straightens her legs. Congealed blood dampens the shoulder of his jacket. He removes it, smacks his gloves together to rid the excess grit, and brushes the blood from his boots with a flyer he’d thrust in his pocket earlier. Then he turns the boat back to cover the body, forming a makeshift burial mound.

There. She is ready for her god. Whomever that may be.

It isn’t until he has driven away that he realises he’s dropped the printed Montecatini flyer, but it won’t be important. No one has his fingerprints, and he’ll be out of the country by the time someone finds the body.

CHAPTER ONE

The Tuscan Hills, Easter, 2016

The enemy is at the gate.

In the bluish-grey of early morning, she can see he’s exceptionally large. She flaps her arms and shouts. In response, he snorts and turns towards her, wet nostrils flared, catching his haunch on the wire. A harsh zap, and the wild boar’s skin crinkles—more in shock than pain—but it has the desired effect. His tusks lower, and he trots away. Agata savours her victory. After a minute, she walks forward, cuts the electricity to the garden fence, and goes inside the perimeter of the vegetable plot to begin her daily watering.

None are immune to the sight of velvet darkness giving way to dawn over the Tuscan Hills, but neither is Agata in awe. This is the place where she was born. It is a place of hard physical farm work, where her father and mother died. A place to where she never wished to return. Florence is her preferred venue, and she had thought that she and Luca and the boys had lived happily there for the past twenty-five years.

Maybe not so happily. But that’s an old story that circles in her head. At least, it could be said they were content—until Luca shocked her with his midlife crisis.

‘Let’s move to the hills,’ he said. ‘That’s what I need. Less stress. I want to connect with the soil, farm the land, touch the earth, feel at peace.’

Pah! The earth? Peace? He’s a city boy, born and bred. What he knows about farming can be written on the back of a packet of pasta. She wanted to continue working in Florence as an agenta di polizia, and warned him country bugs are more relentless than city pickpockets.

But then her Agenzia shut down. And the Polizia di Stato offered him a transfer to the coast. Two more years of service, and he can retire. Sorted. So, at six in the morning, she stands over the embryonic vegetable plot—created not by him, but by her and her family, the ones with the skills—and thanks God that at least the air is cool now. Later on, the land and Agata will fry, and there will not be an air-conditioned office in sight.

She frowns at the upstairs window. Where is the would-be farmer?

A phone trills. Through open windows, she hears Luca’s snores turn into an angry mumble.

‘Too early! Go to hell!’ After a deep cough, he regains his official voice. ‘Pronto—Commissario Agnello.’

A silence. Then a series of loud expletives that frighten small birds out of the fig tree. He emerges onto the balcony, scratching the grey curly hairs on his bare chest.

‘Everything all right?’ she asks.

He raises his eyebrows at her night clothes. ‘Outside already?’

Her expression could probably slay a wild boar at five paces, but he yells ‘No time!’ before she can reply.

With a huff, she goes inside to grind coffee beans, pressing the powder into the silver machinetta. A crime. A crisis. A reason for his blood pressure to shoot up, so it looks like they’ll both need a strong morning cup. She drizzles olive oil inside a piece of focaccia and wraps it in a paper napkin for him.

Unshaven, he dashes into the kitchen and downs the espresso in one gulp.

‘Bad?’ She doesn’t really have to ask.

‘A murder at the beach, and Fabio’s there before me.’

‘The assistant who’s no assistance?’ she says lightly, neatening his tie. ‘And yet you swore you’d have no trouble adjusting to the peasant police officers out here.’

‘Must rush. He’ll handle it all wrong,’ is his reply as he stuffs the food parcel in his jacket pocket and stoops to pull on shoes.

‘Back for lunch?’

A mumbled reply could be a yes or a no. A quick kiss and he’s out the door. She watches his hunched shoulders, the searching movements of his fingers.

‘House keys?’ he roars.

‘You don’t need house keys,’ she shouts back. Their new address is so far off the beaten track that even people who want to find them get lost.

He jumps in the car and fiddles with the GPS. She is about to remind him it won’t work along this stretch but decides to leave him to it and return to the watering.

There’s no doubt he’ll dissect the case with her later. This has been their way. He—the Commissario, earning twice as much as she earns as a paid civilian investigator. Yet how she misses her work! The subterfuge, the occasional flirtations, the triumph of finding good information. The only drawback was Luca’s interference. He’s straight as a Roman road.

Arching her back, she turns off the tap. At least he’d never insisted on her being chained to the home. She loves her two boys, but that would have driven her mad. Thank God for younger sisters to babysit. Her eyes follow his 4x4 Fiat. Why can’t she be the one spinning out the door instead of digging? She knows the answer: There is so little paid work here.

The tyres leave a fine dust lingering in the air between the olive trees.

The Tuscan Beach

In twenty minutes, Luca is on-site. He rubs the stubble on his chin and prepares himself. His stomach squeezes as he notes the insect trail to the overturned boat.

His assistant, Fabio, and a local Carabiniere grimace, lifting the wooden vessel from the prow end. Lying in the sand, the cadaver’s flesh is wriggling with larvae. The victim’s mouth is closed, but weevils ooze from eye sockets like black tears. Luca coughs and forces himself to inspect the naked body. The men are watching.

Despite the short hair, it is definitely female, and judging by the size—a child. African or Arab in origin. From the smell, he guesses she’s been dead for many days. The sliced torso has been split from collarbone to navel. The cavity is almost empty, stripped white by maggots, ribs protruding from behind mottled flaps of chest skin. No heart, no lungs, just bloated intestines unraveling in the pelvic basin.

He shivers and crosses himself. Within a few seconds, he can stand it no longer and waves a hand for the men to release the craft. There is a collective oomph of relief, and they retreat twenty paces, gulping the sea air.

‘Has Gianni the Forensic been called?’

‘Yes, but it’s an undocumented migrant,’ says Fabio with a snicker.

He reminds Luca of a police dog, quick to sniff and quick to move on.

‘You don’t know she’s a migrant, Fabio.’

‘I’m telling you, Commissario. Did you notice the calloused feet? I’ll bet her death is connected to some voodoo thing.’

Luca’s jaw tightens. ‘Let’s wait for more information. She could be a local.’

‘Not a chance, Commissario. The campsite owner and the local shopkeepers know all the workers.’ He jerks a thumb toward a corpulent man having a whispered but heated discussion with a reed-like male at his side. ‘That’s Enzo Bianchini and his eldest son. They say they’ve never seen her before.’

Luca grimaces, wanting to object to Fabio’s lazy answers but knowing he must tread carefully where his junior assistant is concerned. The young man is the nephew of his boss, the Capo di Commissario, who, in turn, reports directly to the Minister of the Interior. Given free rein, Luca would shut down the boy’s chatter, or clip him around the ear—something Agata would do with ease—but he has yet to test the extent of this workplace nepotism in his new job. He takes a long breath.

The upended boat fills him with disquiet. If the body had been that of a local child, there would be a sense of horror, a shout of urgency in the streets, eager citizens ready to lynch the perpetrator. Noise. Outrage. Even the local Mafia wouldn’t do something so barbaric as to slice up a young girl and leave her this way, without a sheet or a crucifix in her hands. They have standards.

The serenity of the blue sky and rippling waves defies the hidden horror. Bianchini and son stand under a bleached sign reading Campeggio Bella Cecina. They have stopped arguing, their eyes vigilant like field mice.

‘The owner is a very unhappy man,’ continues Fabio. ‘The family came back this week to clear the beach in readiness for Easter, and they find this.’

Despite coming from a city office, Luca understands that tourism sustains this area even more than the city. Bianchini, like other campsite owners, is getting ready for the spring opening. His place will have been shut over winter, but now Easter is days away. Motorhomes and tents have probably been fully booked for months, and if the corpse forces a closure, far from cooperation, there will be curses and threats all round.

‘It’s murder, Fabio. She didn’t crawl under there to annoy people.’ Luca tries to keep his voice light.

Fabio runs fingers through his gelled fringe. ‘This isn’t Florence. Excuse me, Commissario, but you’re new to the area.’

‘But more experienced in police matters than you.’

‘Didn’t you see Rai TV news last night? One hundred thousand migrants have arrived in boats so far this year. What next? This government needs a kick up the arse.’

‘Is this what you learned at that Lega Nord rally you attended last week? How to kick arse?’

Fabio lifts his chin. ‘They’re prepared to say what the government is too feeble to acknowledge! I’m telling you—you’ll never get to the bottom of this death!’

Open wooden gates reveal the start of a row of planking in the sand and a walkway to the toilet block. A smaller signpost shows the position of the cafe to the right. Luca has been to this beach once or twice in the past months to de-stress and enjoy the serenity of the empty Mediterranean. The area is a vacant canvas in winter.

The four co-opted Carabinieri are studiously ignoring the crime scene, standing next to a mound of winter detritus collated near the road. Water-scarred plastic bottles, metal caps, old flip-flops, and squashed drink cans await bagging and removal. A scattering of rocks and shells remains on the sand, but no proof of anyone carrying a body to the boat, unless Bianchini’s movements obscured tracks.

‘Looks like they killed her elsewhere and carried her here,’ Luca says.

‘It’s the perfect spot to drop off a murder victim at night—no open shops, and the street lights aren’t activated until next week. These smugglers know all the tricks.’ Fabio moves to flag down a yellow and green car turning at the end of the road.

A tap on Luca’s shoulder makes him turn.

‘Enzo Bianchini, dottore.’ The campsite owner has come over and holds out a hand with blackened fingernails.

Luca doesn’t flinch, returning a firm handshake. ‘We’ll need your statement, Signor Bianchini.’

‘When can the body be moved?’

‘I’ll do my best to get everything gone in twenty-four hours.’

The frown clears from Bianchini’s brow. He is effusive with thanks. ‘At first, we ignore the boat. It belongs to me and needs mending. Two, maybe three days, the body has been there and us working alongside.’ He throws up his hands in horror. ‘But the smell when the wind changed direction!’

‘We’re not in trouble, are we?’ the son asks. ‘We assumed it was a dead cat. Who knew?’

‘Nothing to do with us.’ The father gives an annoyed look at the son for this suggestion. ‘This is the work of the devil. These migrants have strange practices.’

‘Signor Bianchini,’ says Luca, ‘we don’t know she’s a migrant.’

‘He said!’ An accusing finger points at Fabio.

Luca perseveres. ‘Are you sure the girl hasn’t been with a local family? Perhaps her mother works for someone?’

The two of them are incensed at the suggestion. ‘All the businesses along this stretch are family-owned. Respectable. Nieces, nephews, everyone helps in season. If we need extra, relatives are called over from Sicily. It’s the only work we have.’

‘Was she perhaps with one of the migrants selling umbrellas and plastic items along this stretch of beach?’

Again, they deny any possibility. ‘Dottore, none of the hawkers stay over winter. You know that. They arrive in summer only. Out of season, there are no tourists to buy things, so they move on.’

The son agrees with the father. ‘Anyone from last year would be well gone by now.’

‘I’m not an unfeeling man, Commissario. I have a daughter,’ Bianchini insists. ‘But will there be bad press? If people feel unsafe, it will cause cancellations. A disaster for us. We’re only a small family business, with regular clients. If they’re put off and find another site, they will expect refunds! They might not return next year!’

From the corner of his eye, Luca can see Fabio about to add his two euros’ worth and interrupts, ‘Signor Bianchini. Some coffee for my assistant and the Carabinieri would be welcome. They’ll be standing here for a few hours more.’

‘Gladly, Commissario!’ The fat man almost bows in his effort to ingratiate himself. A friend in the local guard is always useful. Unless the local Mafia are stronger. Luca assumes this is not the case here, and the uniformed men acknowledge his request with grateful glances. A crunch of tyres heralds the ambulance crossing from road to sand.

‘Must we wait? Gianni the Forensic takes forever on these morning calls.’ Fabio cracks his knuckles. ‘We’ll not solve this. Migrant pimps don’t talk.’

Luca stands tall. ‘For God’s sake, stop speculating. We need evidence, Fabio!’

‘Evidence?’ The chin juts out again. ‘These people should be sent back to where they come from, not let loose in our society. Why should we deal with their problems? Prima gli Italiani!’

Luca swallows a pithy reply, unsure how sympathetic his Capo di Commissario is to the ultra-right wing Lega Nord group. Currently, Italy is so polarised, it’s dangerous to assume political affiliations unless openly stated.

‘Okay, young man. You say: Italy first. But I’m saying: Work first.’

Fabio looks ready to continue his political rant. Luca puts up a hand.

‘She was just a kid, part of someone’s family. Imagine if that was your child. Go through that pile of junk Bianchini assembled over there. A stray cigarette. A drink can. Something may give us a lead.’

Fabio holds his palms upwards in protest. ‘Commissario! It’s pointless.’

Ignoring him, Luca smacks his hands together, and the Carabinieri turn questioningly. ‘Attention everyone. We’re looking for clues about how the child got here. This isn’t a place where the traffickers’ vessels land, and she’s too young to have travelled this far on her own. Someone must be missing a daughter. I want everyone to make enquiries door to door, cafe to cafe.’ He slaps his assistant on the back with a false camaraderie. ‘Come on, young Fabio. Politics second, humanity first. Let’s do what we can.’

Luca looks back to where the body lies. The ambulance men are circling in masks and white gloves. Upside down, painted in faded lettering, there is a name visible on the sea-worn boat. La Speranza. Hope.