Death in Tuscany by Michele Giuttari Page B

have thought of. But they had made a tacit rule never to talk about his work and he preferred to keep to it. His wife's question had been a spontaneous expression of her unswerving love for him. He understood that and it was enough.
    'Forget about that,' he said, smiling. 'How about showing me those famous trunks?'
    'No, no, no,' she replied, flirtatiously. 'Your bag's already packed, and I don't want you messing it up.'
    'At least tell me what colour they are,' he insisted, pouring out two half glasses of Friulian Tokai, which he liked for its fruity flavour and its slight aftertaste of bitter almonds.
'Green with blue stripes,' she replied, radiantly.
    It reminded him of something, and at first he wasn't sure what it was. Then he remembered. 'Like the ones—'
Absolutely identical!'
More than thirty years had passed.
    Thirty years since they and their inseparable friend Massimo Verga had spent a summer camping on Lampedusa, that dream island with its view over the Isola dei Conigli and the transparent blue sea which would have inspired envy in a coral reef; that island where they had set the seal on their love.
    The memories returned, and he could feel tears pricking at his eyes. Petra had been so beautiful, tall as a goddess, merry, full of life. It hadn't been her eyes, or her mouth, or her long slender legs, or her lovely breasts, which had driven him wild. It was her voice. He was crazy about her husky, sensual voice, which sent him into an ecstasy of laughter and adoration every time she mangled the Sicilian dialect.
    It had been a summer that had seen the birth of their love, but a cruel summer too, because in their own self-absorption they did not see in time the fire that was smouldering so close to them.
    Ferrara realised it when he left the tent, incredulous at what had happened, and ran down to the beach, breathless with happiness, to tell Massimo, and his friend's glowering look forced him to hold back the river of words bursting inside him. And later, when they were sitting around the fire, roasting potatoes and cuttlefish as big as steaks, and no one said a word, Petra realised, too, and she was stunned, knowing she should feel guilty but unable to do so. But it was already too late.
    Massimo had introduced them, Massimo loved them both. But when he realised that they were a couple and he was the unwanted third part of the equation, he vanished. As soon as they got back to Catania. He vanished for good, and many years passed before the Ferraras met him again, in Florence.
    'I'm pleased we're going to see Massimo,' Ferrara said, casting these memories aside.
    'Tell me about it. We've hardly seen him since he rented that place in Marina di Pietrasanta. He's never at home.'
'Cherchez la femme!'
'That's what I'm afraid of!'
    Massimo Verga was an inveterate womaniser. Petra had two nicknames for him: Peter Pan and 'the tombeur' - the ladies' man. Perhaps because he had never found a woman who could replace Petra, or more simply because of his innate character, he often fell head over heels in love, but it never lasted long. His love affairs amused Michele but worried Petra, who could see him getting old without a companion. She had another worry, too. He had already squandered a great deal of his inheritance, but she was afraid that sooner or later he would get into even worse trouble.
    'Do you want to bet we'll solve the mystery tomorrow?' Ferrara said with a smile.
As he spoke, the telephone rang again.

'It's me again.' Anna?'
    'Sorry to disturb you, Michele, but it's urgent. It's about this business of the Commissioner and the girl who died in the Ospedale Nuovo.'
'The child?'
'Child? They told me she was a prostitute.'
Rumours travelled fast. Especially the worst ones.
'Who told you that?'
'I can't tell you. We have to meet.'
'How about Monday?'
    'I can't. I'll be busy all day, I'm in court and then I have a meeting with some of my colleagues. Tuesday's pretty full, too.'
'So what shall we do?'
    'Well, there's