‘Haven’t found it yet,’ Cassini said. ‘Maybe he chucked it somewhere when he brought the head into town.’
Fratelli’s right forefinger stabbed at the images. ‘Why throw away something like that if you intend to stay with the body till you’re found? It makes no sense.’
‘Cutting someone’s head off makes no sense, Pino,’ Julia said gently.
‘Vanni,’ Fratelli went on. ‘Giovanni, as he was christened.’ He eyed Julia Wellbeloved. ‘Who’s the patron saint of Florence?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied, astonished by the question.
‘Everybody knows that!’ Cassini cried, laughing.
‘I’m not religious, Luca. I’m not from Florence. I’ve no—’
‘San Giovanni Battista!’ Cassini said.
John the Baptist. He was everywhere. On canvas in the Uffizi, carved from stone in the Duomo. San Giovanni Decollato. Murdered on the whim of Salome, his head brought to her on a silver platter.
‘That’s a stretch,’ she complained. ‘What about that cockerel and Tornabuoni’s family crest? You don’t like it when I see something you don’t.’
‘Nothing to see,’ Fratelli said with a shrug. ‘Merely an interesting coincidence. If it’s our man from the Brancacci we’re sure he knows his scriptures. Let’s stick to the facts for the moment. Vanni Tornabuoni wasn’t murdered in the garden where he was found. He was killed elsewhere and his body returned to his mansion in order to allow his killer to remain free. And a gardener…’
Fratelli stopped, frowning at something. Cassini, keen as ever, said, ‘Well?’
‘Men often murder according to their profession, Luca. When we have more time I will take you through the educational case of the butcher of Scandicci and his unusual recipe for finocchiona. I would expect a man who works the land to use the tools of his trade. A spade, a mallet. To bludgeon and then to bury. Not to decapitate. Besides, you read the initial autopsy. Julia, take a look.’
He picked up the photocopied sheet and handed it to her. ‘Tell me what stands out,’ he ordered.
They waited as she read through the document, line by line.
‘Oh,’ she whispered.
‘Oh what?’ Fratelli asked.
‘He was shot.’
The older man stared at the younger. The expression in his eyes was clear: why didn’t you mention this?
‘I read that,’ Cassini objected.
‘And?’ Fratelli said.
‘And he was shot. Someone murdered him. I don’t get…’
‘Don’t you normally behead people in order to kill them?’ Julia said. ‘I mean really, Luca. Isn’t that very, very odd? Seems so to me. He’s either rubbing it in. Or…’
‘Or?’ Fratelli wondered.
‘Or frightened somehow. Ashamed.’
‘Suppose,’ Cassini grumbled.
‘To behead a living man,’ Fratelli added, ‘is a dreadful thing. To defile the corpse of a murdered one is… quite extraordinary. Didn’t he have the courage to kill him that way outright? Does this indicate some reticence — guilt, even — on his part?’
‘You can’t know that, Pino,’ she said.
‘Of course not. But we can make intelligent guesses. Also, we must ask ourselves what kind of man would possess the physical strength to commit such a terrible act. Most murders are simple, bloody affairs. A knife, a gun, a flurry of fists. Butchering a corpse like that requires…’
His eyes strayed behind the counter where another bowl of grey meat was being ladled on to a split panino.
‘A farmer. A slaughterhouse worker. A man who works with meat.’
He was so sure of himself it seemed pointless to argue.
‘To return to my original point,’ Fratelli added. They waited. ‘Blood. Tornabuoni was a tall man, of average build. I’ve seen him myself, at meetings. I would estimate his weight at perhaps seventy kilos. That’s about…’ He counted on his fingers. ‘One hundred and sixty of your English pounds.’
‘Wait a minute…’ Julia began.
‘Patience.’ He waved her into silence. ‘As any homicide detective worth his or her salt knows the volume of blood in a healthy person is around one eleventh of their body weight. Or something like four point seven litres, on average.’
He picked up the plastic bottle of water on the counter.
‘That’s almost five of these. To sever the neck involves cutting the carotid artery, not to mention much else. We’ve all seen Cellini’s statue. That thug knew what a decapitated man looked like…’
He stabbed his finger on the photo from the garden and said, ‘Well?’
Luca Cassini finished his panino and said, through a half-full mouth, ‘Not enough, boss. Nowhere near.’
‘Quite,’ Fratelli agreed. ‘That’s why he waited until nine in the evening in the loggia. He had Tornabuoni’s body in his vehicle and couldn’t return it to the man’s home until later for safety. Any arguments?’
Not a word.
Then Luca said, ‘I suppose you’re right about him being strong too.’
Fratelli waited. When there was nothing more he asked, ‘Because?’
‘He might have been a pansy, but he wasn’t a pushover. He had form, that Tornabuoni. Kind of.’
Another mouthful of guts and bread. Still they waited.
‘What do you mean?’ Julia asked.
‘I mean they only pulled him over that murder last week. Out in Rovezzano. The weirdo hippie we found shot. You remember, Pino? I know you’re not on the job. But I mean… how many murders do we get? A couple in two weeks. It’s like New York here. Quite exciting really…’
‘What murder?’ Fratelli asked, a little too loudly.
People were looking. He took Cassini’s arm, dragged him towards the corner of the market, Julia close behind, and whispered, ‘What murder?’
‘Some hippie bloke called Aristide Greco. Came from Calabria. Sounds a bit dodgy if you ask me. Funny old business. Drugs, probably. Don’t know why they pulled in Tornabuoni but he was out again like a shot. Mistaken identity. I mean, if it wasn’t, they’d be sending someone out to the dead bloke’s farm, wouldn’t they?’
‘And they’re not?’ Fratelli asked.
Cassini grinned. ‘They’ve got their man, haven’t they? Why bother?’
‘I don’t suppose,’ Julia said, ‘you’d happen to have the papers on that, would you?’
Luca chuckled. Then he reached into his blue folder and pulled out a few sheets of paper stapled together.
‘I’m not daft, you know. I just wanted to see your faces…’
Fratelli snatched them from his hand. ‘Three sheets? Is that it?’
‘Hippie from Calabria,’ Cassini repeated. ‘Shot dead, left in a ditch. Murder squad seemed to think our dead mate Vanni had something to do with it. Then it turned out he didn’t…’
‘How do they know that?’ Fratelli demanded. ‘What cleared Tornabuoni?’
Cassini shuffled from one big foot to the other, uncomfortable.
‘Search me. They thought they found something at the scene that was Tornabuoni’s. Or supposed to be. And then he was out of the stazione, free as a bird.’ A pause. ‘Maybe he had an alibi.’
‘Maybe?’ Julia asked.
‘I don’t know, OK! I stuck my neck on the line for you, Pino. But I’ve got my limits. Sod this. I need a pee.’
He wandered off to the toilets, looking miserable.
‘What was that about?’ Julia asked when Luca was out of earshot.
‘Probably nothing,’ Fratelli said. ‘There’s an address for the dead man here. It said he lived on a farm with his American girlfriend. Out near Fiesole. Not far from Rovezzano where he was shot.’
She knew what he was thinking and it worried her. ‘Marrone said you two could work on the vandalism in the Brancacci. Nothing more.’
Fratelli looked around the busy market hall. ‘Do you see Walter here?’