Free The Marshal and the Murderer by Magdalen Nabb

Moretti. 1 just lost my temper - and so might you if you were in my position.'
    'If I were in your position I'd be a damn sight more careful about losing my temper. Now, you listen to me: if you had nothing to do with this business you've nothing serious to worry about, but don't go putting people's backs up. Keep your head and give a straight answer to a straight question, not like this morning. No good can come of that sort of behaviour. You've got a cast-iron alibi and so have all your men since they were all of them at Tozzi's - but start trying to be clever with us and we're going to start thinking that one way or another you had something to do with that girl's death. Do I make myself clear?'
    'I had nothing to do with it.'
    'Then stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes! What were you two fighting about just now?'
    'Like he said, it was a personal matter, something between us two and nothing to do with the girl. I've never harmed a soul in my life, anybody in this town can tell you that.'
    'I don't doubt they could, but unfortunately nobody in this town is likely to tell me anything. They're all like you. And you'd do well to remember on that score that the people in charge of this investigation don't know you or anything about you. All they know is that the girl's body was found on your sherd ruck - and then I find you with your hands at Sestini's throat - Stop that blasted row, can't you?'
    Sestini had rolled the broken shells of plaster into a corner and was breaking them into smaller bits with a mallet. He stopped what he was doing without comment and began dropping the pieces into a black polythene rubbish bag. The Marshal left Niccolini to his fruitless attempt at reasoning with Moretti and walked over to him.
    'What are those things, anyway?'
    'Moulds.'
    'They're a funny shape.'
    'They're in two parts, sometimes three. Have to be bound together with wire. This one's had it, that's for sure . . .'
    'Does he often get that violent?'
    Sestini shrugged without answering and the Marshal gave it up. He didn't see how anybody would ever get to the bottom of this business if guilty and innocent alike remained silent, and it looked as though that was how it was going to be.
    He stood looking out of the broken window where the rain had been blowing through the day before. The busy road, having swept away in a big curve from the railway and its high black wall, was slightly less dreary here than outside Berti's place, but no^much. No doubt this had been a pleasant enough country area when the big house across the way had been built.
    The house of the seven lavatories . . .
    Niccolini's voice was rising in exasperation again
    Niccolini's voice was rising in exasperation again but the Marshal was unaware of what he was saying. It had occurred to him that there was one person in the town who did talk, and incessantly at that. Robiglio, unpleasant though he was, didn't belong to the rest of them. He didn't have the stubborn peasant mentality that maintained an obstinate silence against all the odds, not trusting himself to speak nor anyone else to believe him if he did. A sophisticated man, a man of the world, Signor Robiglio. He might lie through his back teeth but he'd say something. The yellow facade of the big house was beginning to dry in patches in the pale sunshine. Probably it never got thoroughly dry before the rain began again in this Godforsaken place . . . except perhaps in midsummer when Robiglio was no doubt away. He was the sort who'd have a house in some fashionable seaside resort, or even abroad.
    The tall windows returned his gaze blankly.
    Sestini had begun hammering again and this time nobody told him to stop. The Marshal glanced over his shoulder. Niccolini had a big hand on Moretti's shoulder and was talking in a lower, more urgent voice, but Moretti wouldn't meet his eyes. Where was the use of it? He would go his own way, for good or evil, as people always did who had been brought up to trust nobody