The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Michele Giuttari
voraciously, but this time, rather than moving apart, they clung together, bathed in sweat, and for a good hour not just the room but the entire world seemed to disappear. The first to regain consciousness was Angelica, who got up, went to the bathroom, then outside to breathe in the fresh country air.
She lived in a charming, lovingly renovated stone cottage between Dicomano and San Godenzo. She had inherited it from her parents, who had died several years earlier: her father had killed his seriously ill wife and then killed himself, unable to live without her. Angelica had been their only child.
Lounging in a deckchair under a chestnut tree, she stretched out a hand and took an apple from a basket. She ate it in big bites then threw the core into the grass.
Next, she typed a text message on her mobile and sent it.
Just a few words:
Let’s meet in that place. Time as agreed.
12.12 p.m.
Shortly after midday, the corpses were put in body bags, ready to be transferred to the Institute of Forensic Medicine.
The Forensics team had only just left, as had Francesco Leone and Deputy Prosecutor Vinci, who had arrived late as usual.
They had done their job, photographed the victims, examined every square inch of the house. The residue of the reagents used to detect organic liquids and prints were scattered all over the place, but especially in the study, the bathroom and the former chapel.
The Luminol and the Mini Crimescope 400 had been no help. The former was capable of showing bloodstains even after some time had passed, thanks to a characteristic electric-blue luminescence observable in complete darkness. It could also show up marks or smears that the killer had tried to wash away or remove.
The Mini Crimescope 400, perhaps less well known, indicated the presence of possible latent traces invisible to the naked eye, like fingerprints, fibres, strands of hair, or fingernails. Thanks to its ultraviolet light source, it could work on various wavelengths.
So they would have to wait now for the detailed technical report to learn the likely position of the killer in relation to the victims, the distance at which the shots had been fired, and any prints that might be of significance.
For Ferrara, the moment had come to give his men their orders. And to perform the thankless task of informing the victims’ relatives before the media arrived. The latter he decided to leave to Rizzo. He had things to do.
9
1.50 p.m. Piazzale Michelangelo
He really loved Florence.
To him, it was the most beautiful city in the world. The only one apart from Paris that really stirred him. He had lived in Florence until he came of age and had many memories of those years, both pleasant and unpleasant. Every time he came back, he felt welcomed by these streets, so human in their scale, however anonymous.
He had lived the past week to the full. He had eaten lunch in the best restaurants, visited museums, and gone for long strolls in the evenings, especially around the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, one of his favourite spots. There, his gaze had lingered for a long time on the façade of the basilica until, his attention drawn by their voices, he had turned and looked at the large number of young people sitting on the grass and the benches, many of them drug addicts.
It was almost two in the afternoon. The city lay beneath a cloudless blue sky, and the roofs of the buildings glittered in the sun.
He was in the Piazzale Michelangelo, from where you could see the whole heart of Florence, from the Belvedere fortress to Santa Croce and beyond, by way of the riverbanks and bridges, the Ponte Vecchio in particular, as far as the outlines of the hills on the horizon. It was a wonderful view, reproduced on countless postcards.
Florence reminded him of Titian’s
Venus
in the Uffizi Gallery. A young woman, lying naked on a sofa, her two small but proud breasts like rosebuds, her languid gaze seeming to invite the observer to enjoy her, silently
She lived in a charming, lovingly renovated stone cottage between Dicomano and San Godenzo. She had inherited it from her parents, who had died several years earlier: her father had killed his seriously ill wife and then killed himself, unable to live without her. Angelica had been their only child.
Lounging in a deckchair under a chestnut tree, she stretched out a hand and took an apple from a basket. She ate it in big bites then threw the core into the grass.
Next, she typed a text message on her mobile and sent it.
Just a few words:
Let’s meet in that place. Time as agreed.
12.12 p.m.
Shortly after midday, the corpses were put in body bags, ready to be transferred to the Institute of Forensic Medicine.
The Forensics team had only just left, as had Francesco Leone and Deputy Prosecutor Vinci, who had arrived late as usual.
They had done their job, photographed the victims, examined every square inch of the house. The residue of the reagents used to detect organic liquids and prints were scattered all over the place, but especially in the study, the bathroom and the former chapel.
The Luminol and the Mini Crimescope 400 had been no help. The former was capable of showing bloodstains even after some time had passed, thanks to a characteristic electric-blue luminescence observable in complete darkness. It could also show up marks or smears that the killer had tried to wash away or remove.
The Mini Crimescope 400, perhaps less well known, indicated the presence of possible latent traces invisible to the naked eye, like fingerprints, fibres, strands of hair, or fingernails. Thanks to its ultraviolet light source, it could work on various wavelengths.
So they would have to wait now for the detailed technical report to learn the likely position of the killer in relation to the victims, the distance at which the shots had been fired, and any prints that might be of significance.
For Ferrara, the moment had come to give his men their orders. And to perform the thankless task of informing the victims’ relatives before the media arrived. The latter he decided to leave to Rizzo. He had things to do.
9
1.50 p.m. Piazzale Michelangelo
He really loved Florence.
To him, it was the most beautiful city in the world. The only one apart from Paris that really stirred him. He had lived in Florence until he came of age and had many memories of those years, both pleasant and unpleasant. Every time he came back, he felt welcomed by these streets, so human in their scale, however anonymous.
He had lived the past week to the full. He had eaten lunch in the best restaurants, visited museums, and gone for long strolls in the evenings, especially around the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, one of his favourite spots. There, his gaze had lingered for a long time on the façade of the basilica until, his attention drawn by their voices, he had turned and looked at the large number of young people sitting on the grass and the benches, many of them drug addicts.
It was almost two in the afternoon. The city lay beneath a cloudless blue sky, and the roofs of the buildings glittered in the sun.
He was in the Piazzale Michelangelo, from where you could see the whole heart of Florence, from the Belvedere fortress to Santa Croce and beyond, by way of the riverbanks and bridges, the Ponte Vecchio in particular, as far as the outlines of the hills on the horizon. It was a wonderful view, reproduced on countless postcards.
Florence reminded him of Titian’s
Venus
in the Uffizi Gallery. A young woman, lying naked on a sofa, her two small but proud breasts like rosebuds, her languid gaze seeming to invite the observer to enjoy her, silently
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