The Short, the Long and the Tall

Who Killed the Mayor?

Cortoglia is a delightfully picturesque town in the heart of Campania. It rests high on a hill, forty miles north of Naples, with commanding views towards Monte Taburno to the east, and Vesuvius to the south. It is described in Fodor’s Italy quite simply as ‘heaven on earth’.

The population of the town is 1,463, and hasn’t varied greatly for over a century. The town’s income is derived from three main sources: wine, olive oil and truffles. The Cortoglia White, aromatic with a vibrant acidity, is one of the most sought-after wines on earth and, because its production is limited, is sold out long before it’s bottled. And as for the olive oil, the only reason you never see a bottle on the shelves of your local supermarket is because many of the leading Michelin-starred restaurants won’t consider allowing any other brand on their premises.

The bonus, which allows the locals to enjoy a standard of living envied by their neighbours, is their truffles. Restaurateurs travel from all four corners of the globe in search of the Cortoglia truffle, which is then only offered to their most discerning customers.

It is true that some people have been known to leave Cortoglia and seek their fortunes further afield, but the more sensible among them return fairly quickly. But then, life expectancy in the medieval hill town is eighty-six years for men and ninety-one for women, eight years above the national average.

In the centre of the main square is a statue of Garibaldi, now more famous for biscuits than battles, and the town boasts only half a dozen shops and a restaurant. The council wouldn’t sanction any more for fear it might attract tourists. There is no train service, and a bus appears in the town once a week for those foolish enough to wish to travel to Naples. A few of the residents own cars, but have little use for them.

The town is run by the Consiglio Comunale, made up of six elders. The most junior member, whose lineage only goes back three generations, is not considered by all to be a local. The mayor, Salvatore Farinelli, his son Lorenzo Farinelli, chairman (ex officio), Mario Pellegrino, the manager of the olive oil company, Paolo Carrafini, the owner of the winery, and Pietro De Rosa, the truffle master, are all automatically members of the council, while the one remaining place comes up for election every five years. As no one had stood against Umberto Cattaneo, the butcher, for the past fifteen years, the voters had almost forgotten how to conduct an election.

The Polizia Locale had consisted of a single officer, Luca Gentile, whose authority derived from the city of Naples, and Luca tried not to disturb them unnecessarily. This story concerns the one occasion when it was necessary.

No one in the village could be certain where Dino Lombardi had come from but, like a black cloud, he appeared overnight, and was clearly more interested in thunderstorms than showers. Lombardi must have been around one metre ninety-three, with the build of a heavyweight boxer who didn’t expect his bouts to last for more than a couple of rounds.

He began his reign of terror with the weaker inhabitants of the town, the shopkeepers, the local tradesmen and the restaurateur, whom he persuaded needed protection, even if they couldn’t be sure from whom, as there hadn’t been a serious crime in Cortoglia in living memory. Even the Germans hadn’t bothered to climb that particular hill.

To be fair, Constable Gentile was due to retire in a few months’ time, at the age of sixty-five, and the council hadn’t got round to finding his replacement. But a further problem arose when the mayor, Salvatore Farinelli, died at the age of 102, and an election had to be held to replace him.

It was assumed that his son Lorenzo would succeed him. Mario Pellegrino would then become chairman of the council, and everyone else would move up a place, with the one vacancy being filled by Gian Lucio Altana, the local restaurateur. That was until Lombardi turned up at the town hall, and entered his name on the list for mayor. Of course, no one doubted Lorenzo Farinelli would win by a landslide, so it came as something of a surprise when the town clerk, on crutches, his left leg in plaster, announced from the steps of the Palazzo dei Municipio that Lombardi had polled 511 votes, to Farinelli’s 486. On hearing the result, there was a gasp of disbelief from the crowd, not least because no one knew anyone who had voted for Lombardi.

Lombardi immediately took over the town hall, occupied the mayor’s residence, and dismissed the council. He’d only been in office for a few days when the citizens were informed he would be imposing a sales tax on all three of the town’s main companies, which was later extended to the shopkeepers and restaurateur. And if that wasn’t enough, he began to demand a kickback from the buyers as well as the sellers.

Within a year, heaven on earth had been turned into hell on earth, with the mayor quite happy to be cast in the role of Beelzebub. So, frankly, it didn’t come as a surprise to anyone when Lombardi was murdered.

Constable Gentile told the chairman of the council that as murder was out of his league, he would have to inform the authorities in Naples. He admitted in his report that there were 1,462 suspects, and he had absolutely no idea who had committed the crime.

Naples, a city that knows a thing or two about murder, sent one of its brightest young detectives to investigate the crime, arrest the culprit and bring them back to the city to stand trial.

Antonio Rossetti, who at the tender age of thirty-two had recently been promoted to lieutenant, was assigned to the case, although he considered it an inconvenience that would take him out of the front line – but surely not for long. He was already aware of Lombardi’s past criminal record; extortion, bribery and corruption were but a few of his crimes, so the citizens of Cortoglia would be among many who wouldn’t mourn him. He had assured the chief of police that he would wrap up the case as quickly as possible, and return to Naples so he could deal with some real criminals.

However, it didn’t help that Luca Gentile had disappeared even before Lieutenant Rossetti had set foot in Cortoglia. Some suggested Gentile was suffering from the strain of the whole affair, as the last murder in the town had been in 1846, when his great-great-great-grandfather had been the town’s constable. But where had he disappeared to, and why, because Gentile was the only other person who knew how the mayor had been killed.

Rossetti was appalled to discover Lombardi had been cremated, and his ashes scattered on the far side of Mount Taburno within hours of his death, such was the locals’ hatred of the man.

‘So you, Gentile and the coroner are the only people who know how the murder was committed,’ said the chief as he handed over the results of the autopsy to his lieutenant.

‘And the murderer,’ Rossetti reminded him.

Lieutenant Antonio Rossetti arrived in Cortoglia later that morning, to be told that the council had decreed he should reside in the mayor’s home until the murderer had been apprehended.

‘After all,’ the chairman said, ‘let’s get this over with so the young man can return to Naples as quickly as possible and leave us in peace.’

Antonio set up office in the local police station, which consisted of one small room, one unoccupied cell and a lavatory. He took the relevant case files out of his bag and placed them on the desk. He looked at the large, empty board on the wall and pinned a photograph of Lombardi in the centre.

He then decided to leave his office and roam around the town, in the hope that someone might approach him, wanting to supply information. But even though he walked slowly, and smiled a lot, people crossed the road when they saw him as if he had some contagious disease. He was clearly not looked upon as the Good Samaritan.

After a fruitless morning, Antonio returned to his office and made a list of those people who had most to gain from Lombardi’s death and came to the reluctant conclusion that he would have to start with the members of the Consiglio Comunale. He wrote Wine, Olive Oil and Truffles on his notepad and took the photographs of the five councillors from the case file, and pinned them around Lombardi’s photograph. Rossetti decided to start with Truffles. He called at Signor De Rosa’s office to make an appointment with the councillor at his shop later that afternoon.

‘Would you care for a glass of wine, Lieutenant?’ said De Rosa, before the policeman had even sat down. ‘The Cortoglia White is favoured by connoisseurs and 1947 was considered a vintage year.’

‘No, thank you, sir. Not while I’m on duty.’

‘Quite right,’ said De Rosa. ‘But forgive me if I do, as it may be my last for some time.’ Rossetti looked surprised but didn’t comment. De Rosa took a sip. ‘So how can I help you?’

The policeman opened his notepad, and looked down at his prepared questions. ‘As your family have lived in Cortoglia for over two hundred years—’

‘Over three hundred years,’ corrected the truffle master with a smile.

‘I was rather hoping you might be able to shed some light on who killed Dino Lombardi?’ continued Antonio.

De Rosa emptied his glass with a large gulp before saying, ‘I most certainly can. You need look no further, Lieutenant, because I killed Lombardi.’

Antonio was taken by surprise but delighted to have a confession on his first day. He was already thinking about returning to Naples in triumph, and getting back to locking up some serious criminals.

‘Are you willing to accompany me to the station and sign a written statement to that effect, Signor De Rosa?’

De Rosa nodded. ‘Whenever it suits you.’

‘You do realize, Signor De Rosa, that if you confess to the murder, I will have no choice but to arrest you, and take you to Naples, where you will stand trial, and could spend the rest of your life in the prison at Poggioreale?’

‘I have thought of little else since the day I murdered the bastard. But I can’t complain, I’ve had a good life.’

‘Why did you kill Lombardi?’ asked Antonio, who accepted that motive invariably accounted for any crime.

De Rosa filled his glass a second time. ‘Dino Lombardi was an evil and ruthless man, Lieutenant, who preyed on everyone he came into contact with.’ He paused and took a sip of his wine, before adding, ‘He made their lives unbearable, mine included.’

‘What do you mean by evil and ruthless, signor?’

‘He intimidated the shopkeepers and the local tradesmen, and even brought Gian Lucio, our local restaurateur, to his knees.’

Antonio kept on writing. ‘How did he manage that?’

‘He demanded protection money, even though he never made it clear who he was protecting us from as there hasn’t been a serious crime in Cortoglia in living memory. And when he became mayor – a mystery in itself – he introduced a sales tax on all of our goods. If he had been allowed to continue for much longer, he would have put us all out of business. Last year my little company made a loss for the first time in three hundred years. So I took it upon myself to rid my fellow citizens of the fiend.’ He put down his wine glass and smiled. ‘I hear the council are planning to build a statue of me in the town square.’

‘I only have one more question,’ the detective said, looking up from his notebook. ‘How did you kill Lombardi?’

‘I stabbed him with my truffle knife,’ said De Rosa without hesitation. ‘It seemed appropriate at the time.’

‘How many times did you stab him?’

‘Six or seven,’ he said, picking up a knife from his desk and giving a demonstration.

Antonio stopped writing and closed his notebook. ‘I feel sure you know, Signor De Rosa, that it’s a serious crime to waste police time.’

‘Of course I do, Lieutenant,’ said De Rosa, ‘but now I have confessed, you can arrest me, drag me off to Naples and throw me in jail.’

‘Which I would be only too happy to do, signor,’ said Antonio, ‘if only Lombardi had been stabbed.’

The truffle master shrugged his shoulders. ‘But how can you possibly know how he died when he has been cremated?’

‘Because I have read the autopsy report,’ said Antonio, ‘so I know exactly how he was killed. What I don’t know is who murdered him, but it certainly wasn’t you.’

‘Does it really matter?’ said De Rosa. ‘Just tell me how Lombardi was killed and I’ll confess to the crime.’

This was the first time Antonio had ever known someone admit to a crime they hadn’t committed.

‘I’m going to leave, signor, before you get yourself into even more trouble.’

The truffle master looked disappointed.

Antonio closed his notepad, stood up, walked out of De Rosa’s shop and back into the square without another word.

He tried not to laugh as he passed a pen full of the most contented pigs he’d ever seen, almost as if they knew they would never be slaughtered. He was on his way back to the police station when he spotted a pharmacy on the other side of the square, and remembered he needed a bar of soap and some toothpaste. A little bell above the door rang as he stepped inside. He stood by the counter for a few moments, before a young woman came through from the dispensary and said, ‘Good morning, Signor Rossetti, how can I help you?’

Hardened criminals from the back streets of Naples couldn’t silence Antonio Rossetti, but a chemist from Cortoglia managed it with one sentence. She waited patiently for her customer to respond.

‘I need a bar of soap,’ he eventually managed.

‘You’ll find a good selection behind you on the third shelf down, Lieutenant.’

‘Is it that obvious that I’m a policeman?’ said Antonio.

‘When you’re the only person in town that nobody knows, everyone knows you,’ she said.

Antonio selected a bar of soap but ignored the toothpaste, because he wanted an excuse to return as soon as possible. He placed the soap on the counter and tried not to stare at her.

‘Will there be anything else, signor?’

‘No, thank you.’ Antonio picked up the bar of soap and headed for the door.

‘Were you considering paying or don’t the police in Naples bother with anything quite so mundane?’ she asked, suppressing a smile.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Antonio, quickly placing a note on the counter.

‘Do call again if there is anything else I can help you with,’ she said, passing him a small bag and his change.

‘There is just one thing. You don’t, by any chance, happen to know who killed the mayor?’

‘I thought Signor De Rosa had already confessed to murdering Lombardi? I assumed by now you would have arrested him and locked him up.’

Antonio frowned, left the shop without another word and made his way back to the police station. He sat at his desk and began to write a report on his abortive meeting with De Rosa, but found it hard to concentrate. Once he’d completed it, he returned to the photographs on the board and put a large black cross through De Rosa.

Antonio decided he would have to pay a visit to Mario Pellegrino, the owner of the olive oil shop, next, but this time he wouldn’t call to warn him.

Rossetti left the police station just after breakfast the following morning, and set out for the olive oil shop in the square, pleased he would have to pass the pharmacy on his way. He slowed down as he approached the shop and glanced through the window. She was standing by the door, turning the closed sign to open, and looked up as he passed by. They exchanged a glance before he hurried on.

When Antonio arrived at the olive oil shop, Mario Pellegrino was waiting for him at the door.

‘Good morning, Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘have you come to purchase a bottle of the finest olive oil on earth or is this a police raid?’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call and make an appointment, Signor Pellegrino, but—’ Antonio said as he followed him into the shop.

‘You were hoping to take me by surprise,’ said Pellegrino, ‘but I have to tell you, Lieutenant, I am not at all surprised.’

‘You were expecting me?’ said Antonio as he stood beside the counter and took out his notepad and pen.

‘Yes, everyone knows you’ve been sent from Naples to investigate the death of Lombardi, and I assumed I would be among the first people you would want to question.’

‘But why you in particular, signor?’

‘It’s no secret that I detested the man. So if you were going to arrest me, the last thing you’d do is to call up and make an appointment, because that would give me enough time to escape.’

Antonio put down his pen. ‘But why would you want to escape, Signor Pellegrino?’

‘Because everyone knows I killed Lombardi, and I realized that it wouldn’t take too long for a smart young detective like you to work out who the murderer was.’

‘But why would you want to kill the mayor?’ asked Antonio.

‘He was ruining my business with his protection racket and added taxes. And if that wasn’t enough, he was demanding kickbacks from my buyers, some of whom began to avoid the journey to Cortoglia as they feared they might be next. Another year and I would have had nothing to leave the children. I’m only thankful that my son Roberto is ready to take over the business while I’m locked up in prison.’ Pellegrino stood up and stretched his arms across the counter as if expecting to be handcuffed.

‘Before I arrest you, Signor Pellegrino,’ said the policeman, ‘I will need to know how you killed the mayor.’

Pellegrino didn’t hesitate. ‘I strangled the damn man,’ he said.

‘With what?’

This time he did hesitate. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No, not really—’ said Antonio.

‘Good, then let’s get on with it,’ Pellegrino said, once again stretching his arms across the counter.

‘Just one minor problem,’ Antonio continued. ‘I’m afraid Lombardi wasn’t strangled by you, or anyone else for that matter.’

‘But as he was cremated, how can you be so sure?’

‘Because, unlike you, I’ve studied the police report, and can assure you, Signor Pellegrino, that wasn’t the way that Lombardi died.’

‘What a pity. But as I would have liked to have strangled the man, can’t you just charge me with attempted murder, and that will solve all our problems?’

‘Except for the problem that the culprit will still be on the loose,’ said Antonio. ‘So if you’d be kind enough to advise your friends that I intend to catch the real murderer and put him behind bars, I’d be very grateful,’ he added, as he slammed his notebook closed.

As Antonio turned to leave, he spotted a photograph behind the counter. Pellegrino smiled. ‘My daughter’s wedding,’ he announced with pride. ‘She married the son of my dear friend, Signor De Rosa. Oil and water may not mix, Lieutenant, but olive oil and truffles certainly do.’ He laughed at a joke Antonio presumed he’d made many times before.

‘And the chief bridesmaid?’ said Antonio, pointing to a young woman who was standing behind the bride.

‘Francesca Farinelli, the mayor’s daughter. Lorenzo and I had assumed she would marry my second son, Bruno, but it was not to be.’

‘Why not?’ said Antonio. ‘Wasn’t there enough olive oil left over?’

‘More than enough. But modern Italian women seem to have minds of their own. I blame her father. He should never have let her go to university. It’s not natural.’

Antonio would have laughed, but he suspected the old man meant it.

‘I wonder if I might ask you for a small favour,’ Pellegrino said, holding up a large bottle of olive oil.

‘If it’s in my power, signor, I’d be only too happy to do so.’

‘I just wondered if you could let me know how the mayor was killed.’

The policeman ignored the offering and quickly left the shop.

Rossetti was on his way back to the police station to write up another abortive report but hesitated when he reached the pharmacy. He entered and found Francesca standing behind the counter, chatting to a customer.

‘That should ease the pain, signora, but make sure that you only take one pill a day before going to bed. And if it doesn’t get any better, come back and see me,’ she said. Francesca turned to face Rossetti. ‘Is it my turn to be arrested, Lieutenant?’

‘No, something far simpler than that. I’ve run out of toothpaste.’

‘You know, we do have customers who buy soap, toothpaste and razor blades all at the same time, or is this nothing more than subtle police tactics to wear the suspect down and make her admit she killed the mayor?’

Antonio laughed.

‘However,’ Francesca continued, ‘if your plan was simply to ask me out for a drink after I get off work this evening, I might just say yes.’

‘Was it that obvious?’ Antonio asked.

‘Why don’t we meet at Lucio’s around six?’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Antonio as he turned to leave.

‘Don’t forget your toothpaste, Lieutenant.’

When Antonio turned up at the police station, there was a large, burly man wearing a long white coat and a blue-and-white striped apron waiting for him outside the front door.

‘Good morning, Inspector. My name is Umberto Cattaneo.’

‘Lieutenant, Signor Cattaneo,’ corrected Antonio.

‘I feel confident, Lieutenant, that promotion will not be far away when you hear what I have to tell you.’

‘Please don’t tell me you killed the mayor?’

‘Certainly not,’ said the butcher as he lowered his voice. ‘However, I can tell you who did kill Lombardi.’

At last, an informer, thought Antonio. He unlocked the door to the station and led Cattaneo through to his little office.

‘But before I let you know who the murderer is,’ continued Cattaneo as he sat down, ‘I need to be sure that it won’t be traced back to me.’

‘You have my word on that,’ said Antonio, opening his notepad. ‘That’s assuming we won’t need you to act as a witness when the case comes to trial.’

‘You won’t need a witness,’ said Cattaneo, ‘because I can tell you where the gun is buried.’

Antonio snapped his notepad shut, and let out a deep sigh.

‘But I haven’t even told you who the murderer is,’ Cattaneo protested.

‘You needn’t bother, Signor Cattaneo, because Lombardi wasn’t shot.’

‘But Gian Lucio told me he’d shot him. He even showed me the weapon,’ insisted Cattaneo.

‘Before I lock you both up for a couple of days, if for no other reason than to stop any more of you wasting my time, may I ask why you are so willing to get your friend arrested for a crime I can assure you he didn’t commit?’

‘Gian Lucio Altana is my oldest and dearest friend,’ protested the butcher.

‘Then why accuse him of murder?’

‘Because I lost the toss,’ said Cattaneo.

‘You lost the toss?’

‘Yes, we agreed that whoever won would give himself up and admit that he’d killed the mayor.’

‘Then why hasn’t he given himself up?’ said Antonio, unable to hide his frustration.

‘Signor De Rosa advised us against that. Said there had been far too many confessions already, and he felt Gian Lucio would have a better chance of being arrested if you thought I was an informer.’

‘Just out of interest, Signor Cattaneo,’ said Antonio, ‘if you had won the toss, dare I ask how you would have killed the mayor?’

‘I would have shot him as well, but unfortunately we only have one gun between us, so I had to bury the weapon in his garden, where you can still find it.’

‘Again, just so that I understand his motive, may I ask why Gian Lucio was so willing to be charged with a murder that he didn’t commit?’

‘Oh, that’s easy to explain, Lieutenant. Lombardi used to eat at Gian Lucio’s restaurant three times a day and he never once paid the bill.’

‘That’s hardly a good enough reason to kill someone.’

‘It is when you lose all your regular customers because none of them want to eat in the same restaurant as the mayor.’

‘But that doesn’t explain why you wanted to kill him.’

‘Gian Lucio is my best customer, and he could no longer afford my finest cuts, so it wouldn’t have been much longer before we were both out of business. By the way, Lieutenant, was Lombardi electrocuted by any chance?’

‘Get out of here, Signor Cattaneo, before I get myself arrested for murder.’

Not a totally wasted morning, considered Antonio, because he was now confident only he, Constable Gentile and the murderer had any idea how Lombardi had been killed. But where was Gentile?

Antonio arrived at Lucio’s just before 6 p.m., looking forward to seeing Francesca. He sat at an outside table and placed a bunch of lilies on the chair next to him, smiling when Gian Lucio joined him.

‘Can I get you a drink, Lieutenant?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll wait until my guest arrives. And Gian Lucio,’ Antonio said as the restaurateur turned to leave, ‘just to let you know your friend Signor Cattaneo failed to get you arrested for murder this morning.’

‘I know, but then I did win the toss,’ sighed Gian Lucio.

‘My bet is that both of you know who killed Lombardi.’

‘Can I get you a glass of wine while you’re waiting, Lieutenant?’ Gian Lucio said, quickly changing the subject. ‘Francesca prefers the Cortoglia White.’

‘Then why don’t you make it two?’

Gian Lucio left quickly.

Antonio continued to look across the square to the pharmacy until he spotted Francesca locking up. He watched her crossing the square and immediately realized it was the first time he’d seen her not wearing a long white coat. She was dressed in a red silk blouse, a black skirt and a pair of highheeled shoes that certainly hadn’t been bought in Cortoglia. He tried not to stare at her. What else was different? Of course, she’d let her hair down. He hadn’t thought it possible that she could be even more beautiful.

‘As you’re a highly trained detective,’ Francesca said when she sat down next to him, ‘you will know that my name is Francesca, while I’m not sure if you are Antonio or Toni?’

‘My mother calls me Antonio, but my friends call me Toni.’

‘Do your family also come from Naples?’

‘Yes,’ said Antonio. ‘My parents are both school-teachers. My father is the headmaster of the Michelangelo Illioneo School, where my mother teaches history, but no one is in any doubt who runs the place.’

Francesca laughed. ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

‘Just one brother, Darius. He’s a lawyer. So once I’ve locked any criminals up, he puts on a long black gown and defends them. That way we keep it all in the family.’

Francesca laughed again. ‘Did you always want to be a policeman?’ she asked, as Gian Lucio handed them both a glass of wine.

‘From the age of six when someone stole my sweets. But to be fair, if you’re brought up in Naples, you have to decide at an early age which side of the law you’re going to be on. Did you always want to be a pharmacist?’

‘I first worked in the shop at the age of twelve,’ she said, looking across the square, ‘and with the exception of four years at Milan University studying chemistry, it’s been my second home. So when the owner retired, I took over.’

‘How did your father feel about that?’

‘He was too busy fighting the mayoral election at the time, and I do mean fighting, to have even noticed.’

‘Which everyone assumed your father would win.’

‘By a landslide. So it came as something of a surprise when the town clerk announced that Lombardi had won.’

‘But I haven’t come across anyone who voted for Lombardi,’ said Antonio.

‘In that election, it didn’t matter how you voted, Toni, only who was counting the votes.’

‘But your father became mayor soon after Lombardi was murdered?’

‘No one even stood against him the second time, so I hope you’ll attend his inauguration on Saturday?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ said Antonio, raising his glass. ‘That’s assuming I haven’t arrested Lombardi’s murderer before then.’

‘How many people admitted to killing the mayor today?’

‘Two. Pellegrino and the florist, Signor Burgoni.’

‘So how did he bump off Lombardi?’ Francesca asked.

‘Claimed he ran him down in his Ferrari, and then reversed over him to make sure he was dead. Right here in the town square.’

‘Sounds pretty convincing to me, so why didn’t you arrest him?’

‘Because he doesn’t own a Fiat, let alone a Ferrari, and what’s more, doesn’t even have a driving licence,’ said Antonio, as he handed Francesca the lilies. ‘So he’ll be able to continue selling his flowers.’

Francesca laughed, just as Gian Lucio appeared and suggested another glass of wine.

‘No, no, Gian Lucio,’ said Francesca, ‘I must get home. There’s so much I have to do before Saturday.’

‘When your father will take up his rightful position as mayor of Cortoglia. But I do hope that we’ll see you both before then,’ said Gian Lucio as he offered a slight bow.

‘If I’m given a second chance,’ said Antonio as Francesca stood up, and they began to walk across the square towards the pharmacy. Francesca explained that she lived in an apartment above the shop.

‘Where are you staying?’ said Francesca.

‘They’ve put me in Lombardi’s old home while I’m here. I’ve never lived in such luxury, and I’m trying not to get used to it as it won’t be long before I have to return to my little flat in Naples.’

‘Not if you don’t catch the killer,’ she teased.

‘Nice idea, but my chief’s becoming restless. He’s made it clear he expects me back at my desk within a fortnight, with or without the murderer.’

When they reached Francesca’s door, she took out a key, but before she could put it in the lock Antonio bent down and kissed her.

‘I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Toni.’

Antonio looked puzzled until Francesca added, ‘I have a feeling that it can’t be too long before you’ll need another bar of soap. By the way, Toni, some of our customers buy them in boxes of three, even six.’

Francesca opened the door and disappeared inside. Antonio walked across to the other side of the square to find several of the locals were grinning.

The following day started badly for Antonio. He was studying the pinboard, now covered in photographs, several with crosses through them. His thoughts were interrupted by Riccardo Forte, the local postman, who marched in and even before delivering the morning mail said, ‘I can’t bear the strain any longer, Lieutenant. I’ve decided to give myself up and admit that it was me who murdered the mayor.’

‘I was just making a cup of coffee, Riccardo, would you like one?’

‘Not before you arrest me and beat me up.’

‘Later perhaps, but first a few questions.’

‘Of course.’

‘Black or white?’

‘Black, no sugar.’

Toni poured a cup of coffee and handed it to the postman. ‘How did you kill the mayor, Riccardo?’ he asked, no longer wasting any time with preliminaries.

‘I drowned him,’ said the postman.

‘In the sea?’ suggested Antonio, raising an eyebrow.

‘No, in his bath. I took him by surprise.’

‘It must have come as quite a surprise,’ said Antonio, opening his notebook. ‘But before I charge you, Riccardo, I still have one or two more questions.’

‘I’ll admit to anything,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you will, but first, how old are you?’

‘Sixty-three.’

‘And your height?’

‘One metre sixty-two.’

‘And your weight?’

‘Around seventy-six kilos.’

‘And you want me to believe, Riccardo, that you overpowered a man who was almost two metres tall and weighed around a hundred kilos. A man who some suggested never took a bath. Tell me, Riccardo, was Lombardi asleep at the time?’

‘No,’ said the postman, ‘but he was drunk.’

‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Antonio. ‘Although, frankly, if he’d passed out before you attempted to drown him, it would still have been a close-run thing.’ The postman tried to look offended. ‘In any case, there’s something else you’ve over-looked.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Lombardi couldn’t have been drowned in a bath, because there’s only a shower in the house.’

‘In the sea?’ said the postman hopefully.

‘Not an option. Not least because eleven other younger men have already confessed to drowning him in the sea.’ Antonio closed his notebook. ‘But a good try, Riccardo. More importantly, have I got any letters this morning?’

‘Yes, three,’ said the postman, putting the opened envelopes on the table. ‘One from your mother, who wonders if you will be back in time for lunch on Sunday. The second is from the chief of police in Naples who wants to know why you haven’t arrested anyone yet, and a third from your brother.’

‘And what does he want?’ Antonio asked, ignoring the fact that the postman had illegally tampered with the mail.

‘Could you let him know as soon as you have arrested someone, and if they’ve got any money, would you remember to recommend him?’

‘Are there any secrets in this town?’

‘Just one,’ said the postman.

Dinner with Francesca at Lucio’s restaurant was about as public as an execution. If Antonio had even thought about holding her hand, it would have been front-page news in the Cortoglia Gazzetta.

‘Don’t you ever get bored living in a small town?’ he asked her after a waiter had whisked away their plates.

‘Never, I have the best of both worlds,’ she replied. ‘I can read the same books as you, watch the same television programmes, eat the same food and even enjoy the same wine but at half the price. And if I want to go to the opera, visit an art gallery or buy some new clothes, I can always spend the day in Naples and be back in Cortoglia before the sun sets. And perhaps you haven’t noticed, Toni, the magnificent rolling hills or how fresh the air is, and when people pass you in the street they smile and know your name.’

‘But the bustle, the excitement, the variety of everyday life?’

‘The traffic, the pollution, the graffiti, not to mention the manners of some of your fellow Neapolitans who consider women should only be seen in the kitchen or the bedroom, and then not necessarily the same woman.’

Antonio leant across the table and took her hand. ‘I couldn’t tempt you to come back to Naples with me?’

‘For the day, yes,’ said Francesca. ‘But then I’d want us to be back in Cortoglia by nightfall.’

‘Then you’ll have to go on murdering some more of the locals.’

‘Certainly not. One will be quite enough for the next hundred years. So who’s the latest person who tried to convince you they disposed of Lombardi?’

‘Paolo Carrafini.’

‘Whose wine we are both enjoying,’ said Francesca, raising her glass.

‘And will continue to do so,’ said Antonio, ‘as Signor Carrafini’s attempt to prove he murdered the mayor turned out to be the least convincing so far.’

‘What was wrong with Lombardi falling through a trap door into the wine cellar and breaking his neck?’

‘Nothing wrong with the idea,’ said Antonio, ‘it’s just a pity Signor Carrafini would have had to lift up the trap door before he could push Lombardi through. You should tell any other potential murderers that they must be prepared for something to go wrong even when they’re innocent.’

‘So who’s next on your list?’

‘I’m afraid it’s your father’s turn and he’s the last person I want to arrest. Although when it comes to motive, he’s an obvious candidate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we know Lombardi removed him as mayor and within days of the murder, your father was back in the town hall.’

‘Along with his friends,’ Francesca reminded him.

‘Who we now know are all innocent, so I can’t wait to find out how your father killed Lombardi.’

Francesca leant across the table and touched his cheek. ‘Don’t worry, my father isn’t going to admit to the murder.’

‘All the more reason to believe he did it.’

‘Except in his case he has a cast-iron alibi. He was in Florence at the time, attending a local government conference.’

‘That’s a relief, assuming there are witnesses.’

‘Over a hundred.’

‘More than enough. But if it wasn’t your father who killed Lombardi, I’m fast running out of suspects. Although there still remains the mystery of the missing policeman, because Luca Gentile hasn’t been seen in Cortoglia since the day Lombardi was murdered, which is suspicious in and of itself.’

‘Luca isn’t capable of murder,’ said Francesca. ‘Although I suspect he knows who did it, which is why he won’t be returning to Cortoglia and resuming his former duties until you’re safely back in Naples.’

‘Then I’ve still got a few more days left to surprise you all,’ said Antonio.

‘I think you’ll find there are at least three more potential murderers who can’t wait to give themselves up.’

‘Surely they must be running out of ideas by now?’

‘I think you’ll enjoy tomorrow’s, which is a great improvement on trap doors, truffle knives or being shot.’

‘Tell them not to bother tomorrow,’ said Antonio. ‘I’m taking the day off to watch your father being inaugurated as mayor. Why don’t I get the bill?’

‘There won’t be a bill, Toni, however long you decide to stay,’ said Francesca. ‘Gian Lucio is telling everyone that although he confessed to shooting Lombardi, even producing the gun, you still refused to lock him up.’

‘Because he wasn’t guilty,’ protested an exasperated Antonio, ‘and if we hadn’t been having dinner here tonight, I would have locked him up for the possession of a firearm.’

‘But it wasn’t even his.’

‘Ah, but he won the toss,’ said Antonio.

‘Won the toss?’

‘At last I have found something you don’t know about,’ he said as he stood up to leave. Antonio took her hand as they crossed the square to Francesca’s home.

When she opened the door this time Antonio followed her inside.

The Naples chief of police called Antonio a few days later, and asked if he was making any progress.

‘I can’t pretend I am, chief,’ admitted Antonio. ‘To date,’ he said, opening a thick file, ‘forty-four people have confessed to killing the mayor, and I’m fairly sure none of them are guilty. And worse, I think they all know who did murder Lombardi.’

‘Someone will crack,’ said the chief.

‘They always do.’

‘This isn’t Naples, chief,’ Antonio heard himself saying.

‘So who’s the latest one to confess?’ ‘Not one, but eleven. The local football team claim they pushed Lombardi over a cliff and he drowned in the sea.’

‘And what makes you so sure they didn’t?’

‘I interviewed all eleven of them. The nearest coastline is over forty miles away, and they couldn’t even agree on which cliff they pushed him over, where they pulled him out of the water, or how they managed to get him back to Cortoglia and tuck him up in bed. And in any case, I’m not convinced that lot could have murdered Lombardi between them.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘They haven’t won a football match in the past fifteen years and, don’t forget, this was an away game. Frankly, I think it’s more likely Lombardi would have pushed all eleven of them over a cliff before they laid a hand on him.’

‘All the more reason for you to come back,’ said the chief. ‘Lombardi’s clearly not going to be missed by anyone in Cortoglia, because I’ve just received a confidential report from the Guardia di Finanza to let me know even the Mafia expelled him. They felt he was too violent. So if you haven’t discovered who murdered him by the end of next week, I want you back in Naples where real criminals are still roaming the streets.’

Antonio wasn’t given a chance to respond.

Everyone took the day off, Antonio included, to celebrate the installation of the new mayor. Lorenzo Farinelli had been elected unopposed, which didn’t come as a surprise to anyone, and the council of six remained in place. Dancing and drinking in the town square went on until the early hours, right outside Antonio’s bedroom window, and that wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t get to sleep.

The next morning he called his mother to tell her he’d met the woman he was going to marry, and she would be captivated, and not just by her beauty.

‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ said his mother. ‘Why don’t you bring her to Naples for the weekend?’

‘Why don’t you and Papa come to Cortoglia?’

During the next few days, the number of citizens who confessed to killing Lombardi rose from forty-four to fifty-one, and when the chief called again from Naples to tell him to wrap up the case, Antonio had to admit that the locals had defeated him, and he accepted that perhaps the time had come to head back to the real world.

Indeed, Antonio might have done so if the new mayor hadn’t phoned and asked to see him on a private matter.

As the young detective walked across the square to the town hall, he assumed that the number of murderers in the town was about to rise from fifty-one to fifty-two, as Farinelli was now the only person on the council who hadn’t confessed to murdering Lombardi, and Antonio had recently discovered he hadn’t been at a conference in Florence on the day of the murder. But he did know who had been.

‘Those in favour?’ said the mayor, looking around the council chamber that he and his fellow members of the Consiglio Comunale had recaptured.

The five other members of the council – Pellegrino, De Rosa, Carrafini, Cattaneo and Altana – all raised their hands.

‘And are we also agreed on the sum of money we should offer him?’

The five hands were raised once again, without a murmur of dissent.

‘But do you think it will be enough?’ asked Pellegrino, as there was a knock on the door.

‘I suspect we’re about to find out,’ said the mayor as Antonio entered the room, surprised to find the whole council awaiting him. Farinelli nodded towards the empty seat at the other end of the table.

Once Antonio had poured himself a glass of water and sat back, the mayor said, ‘We’ve just finished our first meeting of the new council, and wondered if you would bring us up to date on how your investigation is progressing.’

‘Although I don’t have sufficient proof, Mr Mayor, I’m fairly sure I now know who killed Lombardi.’ His eyes remained fixed on the person seated at the other end of the table. ‘However, despite my suspicions, I’ve been instructed by my chief to close the case and return to Naples.’

Antonio couldn’t have missed the collective sigh of relief from those seated around the table.

‘I am sure your chief has made a wise decision,’ said the mayor. ‘However, I confess,’ he paused as Antonio continued to stare at him, ‘that wasn’t the reason we wanted to see you. As you probably know, Lieutenant, Luca Gentile has recently been in touch to let us know that he will not be returning to Cortoglia for personal reasons, and the Consiglio voted unanimously to offer you the position of chief of police.’

‘But the town has only ever had one policeman.’

‘Yes,’ said De Rosa, ‘but we all also felt with so many murderers on the loose, you ought to have a deputy.’

‘But there’s barely enough space for one officer in the police station. There’s only one desk and there isn’t even a lock on the cell door.’

‘True, but then we’ve never needed one in the past,’ said Pellegrino. ‘However, the council have agreed we should build a new police station, worthy of your status.’

‘But—’

‘We’d also be happy for you to go on living in your present accommodation,’ Cattaneo interjected.

‘That’s incredibly generous, but I still feel—’

‘And we’d pay you the same amount as the chief of police in Naples,’ Farinelli said, hoping to close the deal.

‘That’s more than generous—’ began Antonio.

‘However,’ the mayor continued, ‘although we didn’t put it to a vote, there is one thing we all felt strongly about. If you were able to marry a local girl…’

Several guests, including Antonio’s parents and brother, arrived from Naples on the morning of Antonio Rossetti and Francesca Farinelli’s wedding. However, Antonio assured the mayor they would all be leaving the next day.

The whole town turned out to witness the vows of eternal love sworn by the couple, including several locals who hadn’t been invited. When il Signor and la Signora Rossetti left the wedding celebrations to set off for Venice, Antonio suspected the festivities would still be going on when they returned home in a fortnight’s time.

The newly-weds spent their honeymoon in Venice, eating too much spaghetti alle vongole, and drinking too much wine, while still finding a way of not putting on too much weight.

On the final night Antonio sat up in bed and watched his wife undress. When she slipped under the covers to join him, he took her in his arms.

‘It’s been the most wonderful fortnight, my darling,’ Francesca said. ‘So many memories to share with everyone when we get back home.’

‘Including your feeble effort to climb St Mark’s, while pretending you weren’t out of breath when you finally reached the top.’

‘That hardly compares to your pathetic attempt to manoeuvre a gondola under the Bridge of Sighs, despite the gondolier pointing out that it was the widest stretch of water on the canal.’

‘Don’t tell anyone!’

‘I have photographs,’ Francesca teased.

‘But I confess the highlight was this evening’s candlelit dinner at Harry’s Bar overlooking the Rialto.’

‘Memorable,’ sighed Francesca as she kissed him, ‘but if Gian Lucio was to open a restaurant in Venice, they’d have a genuine rival.’

‘If you’d only come to Naples, Francesca, I would introduce you to one or two restaurants you might enjoy just as much.’

‘Perhaps I’ll come for lunch one day. Although I confess I’m looking forward to getting back to Cortoglia.’

‘Me too,’ admitted Toni. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised to find they’re all still in the market square celebrating.’

‘Let’s just hope no one’s murdered my father.’

‘Not least because I still haven’t solved the mystery of who killed the last mayor. Come to think of it, you’re about the only person who didn’t confess to murdering Lombardi.’

‘I was going to when you first visited the pharmacy. But you seemed more interested in trying to pick me up.’

Toni laughed. ‘Then all I need to know, my darling, is how you killed Lombardi?’

‘A spoonful of cyanide dropped into his coffee after dinner, just before he went to bed. A slow and painful death, but no more than he deserved.’

Antonio sat bolt upright and stared at his wife.

‘And I don’t have to remind you, my darling,’ continued Francesca, ‘that in Italy, a man cannot give evidence against his wife.’