Free The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) by Michele Giuttari Page B

coffee to be ready. It seemed to be taking for ever to come to the boil. She needed to drink at least two cups straight away in order to feel ready to face the day. She was sure it was going to be a tough one.
    Eventually she heard the coffee bubbling. She inhaled the pleasant aroma as it spread through the air. She looked at the wall clock. It was seven on the dot: still early. She decided she’d do a bit of shopping. The fridge was half empty.
    She put on jeans and a white T-shirt and went out.
    The only thing on her mind now was that she had to tell Ferrara what she had discovered working on the material taken from the villa.
     
    She crossed the Piazza del Mercato Centrale, walked up the few steps, and went in through the door on the right-hand side.
    Almost all the stall-holders were finishing arranging their wares on their stalls. You could buy meat, fish, fruit and vegetables at more reasonable prices here than in the shops. And everything was top quality, sourced not just from Tuscany but in other Italian regions too.
    The hustle and bustle was constant. Most of the people who shopped here refused to patronise the new supermarkets or big shopping centres. Many had grown fond of this nineteenth-century covered market. Although, to tell the truth, some of the produce that had been appearing on the stalls recently was anything but local.
    This morning Teresa made a quick round of the stalls. She was early, but she wanted to get to the office as soon as possible. She bought the absolute minimum: milk, Tuscan ham, turkey breast and some fresh fruit. She left with her hands full of plastic bags.
    She was only just outside when she heard shouting and saw a tall, solid-looking man running after a young girl. From her clothes – a long, loose skirt, a multicoloured low-cut top, sandals on her feet and a shawl around her waist – Teresa guessed she was a gypsy. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. After a hundred yards or so, the man gave up the chase, and when he turned back Teresa recognised him. He was a fruiterer whose stall she had often frequented. A good person, always friendly, smiling, and well turned-out. Now, with his check shirt hanging out of his trousers, sweating profusely, and especially with that angry look in his eyes, he seemed like a different person.
    ‘What happened?’ Teresa asked, going up to him.
    ‘I’d only just opened up when that girl came and stole a bunch of bananas,’ he replied, and even his voice sounded different. ‘It happens all the time. I can’t take it any more. Should I be running after people at my age? What are things coming to in this city? I can’t stand it any more, and I’m not the only one. If it carries on like this, we’ll have to shut down!’
    ‘Please calm down,’ Teresa said. ‘I’ll call 113 for a patrol car.’
    ‘No, don’t bother, it’s no use. They couldn’t do anything, even if they caught her. The law is on the criminals’ side now. And the police have more important things to do at the moment. You just have to read
La Nazione
, don’t you?’
    Teresa preferred not to reply.
    She headed back to her apartment building, thinking that the man had a point.

19
7.30 a.m. Police Headquarters
    Ferrara was already in his office.
    At Petra’s insistence, he had put a few drops in his reddened eyes before leaving the house.
    Enjoying the morning hush, he read the newspapers, the reports by the various patrols, the details of responses to 113 calls, the telexes received from the Ministry and from other Headquarters.
    It had been a quiet night.
    There were only two detainees in the cells, two Albanians without the right residence permits, who had been caught in the act stealing petrol from a self-service garage in the Via Pisana. They would be taken to court later to be fast-tracked through the system.
    This morning, he and his men would be concentrating on the double murder in Fiesole.
    The name Enrico Costanza and the savagery of his