BODY FOUND BY HIKERS IN CANNEGIA BELIEVED TO BE MISSING MAN
The remains of a body have been found in the mountains near the village of Cannegia, north of Milan, a small village whose only claim to fame is that it is the birthplace of legendary opera star, Lucia de Santis.
Though the identity of the body has not yet been confirmed, there has been speculation amongst residents that it is Lorenzo Mancini, a local man who went missing over a decade ago.
Police were unable to say whether the body was that of the missing man as they wait for formal identification to be carried out. They added that, while it appeared to be a tragic accident, they were unable to rule out foul play.
The investigation continues.
Gina shivered. Despite the warmth of the bar, a chill flooded through her, as though her bones had turned to ice.
She gulped down the rest of her Negroni, hearing her mother’s voice once again: The world will catch up with you, my girl.
It seemed her mother had been right.
‘Ouch! What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry …’
Lucia narrowed her eyes and glared at the poor assistant dresser who was helping her to get changed out of her elaborate costume. ‘I should have you fired for your incompetence.’
‘No, please don’t … I’m sorry.’ The young woman looked terrified. She had sallow skin and mousy hair and Lucia’s overriding feeling was one of pity for what she felt sure must be this poor girl’s very dull life. Imagine having to work alongside such greatness every day, knowing that you would never achieve the same dizzy heights. It made Lucia quite forgiving.
‘Luckily for you, I’m in a good mood, so I won’t,’ Lucia said benevolently. It was true. She was in a good mood. Gina had confirmed that Marco had agreed to dinner tomorrow evening, and Lucia was surprised to find how much she was looking forward to it. He really was quite delicious. If she had her way, he would be all she needed for dessert, she thought, her wicked smile reflected back at her in the dressing-room mirror.
La Leonessa sat back and gazed at her image, as she slowly transformed from her character, Violetta, back into Lucia de Santis. It was a time-consuming process – almost as lengthy as getting dressed in the first place. First of all, her beautiful costume was removed. It was a period production, so she wore a lavish ballgown in a deep shade of crimson, decorated with gold embroidery, with half a dozen layers of netting underneath to give it volume. It was off the shoulders with a Bardot neckline, to perfectly display her voluptuous figure, and the corsetry was light to ensure she could breathe without restrictions while singing.
After the dress came the wig, which this incompetent fool was trying to take off her head, ripping out Lucia’s real hair in the process. Finally it was done, and Lucia removed her hairnet and pins, the platinum-blonde waves tumbling down and falling around her bare shoulders. She was still wearing the thick, heavy stage make-up, but the effect was dramatic and she rather liked it.
Tonight she wanted to have some fun. Perhaps she would go to one of the exclusive Carnival parties, she thought, idly glancing over the many invitations that littered her dressing-room table. Then tomorrow would be her dinner date with Marco. She was definitely looking forward to that. Which reminded her …
‘Out! Get out!’ she suddenly shrieked, flapping her hands at the dressers and assistants and hangers-on who were crowding her dressing room, praising her after another impeccable performance. Didn’t they have anything better to do with their sad little lives, she thought dismissively.
‘I need some privacy. Basta! Vai!’ Lucia snapped, shooing them away and closing the door. She quickly got dressed, pulling on a white cashmere dress that fitted her like a second skin, showing off her incredible curves. Then she picked up her phone to call her agent.
‘Ciao, Bianca.’
‘Ciao, Lucia,’ came the reply. Lucia didn’t need to announce herself – her agent knew exactly who it was, and was on call for her twenty-four seven.
‘Tomorrow, I’m going for dinner with a man. Marco DiMaggio,’ Lucia announced, rolling his name around on her tongue and enjoying how it sounded. ‘We’re going to La Sirena, and we absolutely must have the window table, furthest from the door, OK?’
‘Of course, Lucia, I’ll call the restaurant and confirm. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’
‘It had better not be,’ Lucia snapped back.
At the other end of the line, Bianca barely batted an eyelid – she was used to these kinds of demands, not to mention Lucia’s rudeness. ‘But are you sure you want to be near the window? If any fans spot you, it’ll cause a riot. Wouldn’t you prefer somewhere more discreet?’
‘Oh, no,’ Lucia smiled. ‘I’ve told the paparazzi exactly where I’ll be, and that’s the place to get the best shot – the light there is so flattering.’
There was a pause, and Lucia could almost hear her agent frowning down the line. ‘I don’t understand—’
‘You’re not paid to understand,’ Lucia shot back. ‘You take fifteen per cent to do as I say.’
There was another long silence before Bianca replied coolly, ‘Of course. I’ll arrange it right away.’
Lucia hung up, looked at her reflection, and smiled. She looked incredible. And her plan was coming together perfectly.
Lombardy, October 1985
From their vantage point close to the ravine, two eyes watched warily from the secluded safety of the dense trees. They saw Lorenzo follow the girl, and the way he looked at her with lust-filled eyes, and how the girl’s flushed face turned from flattered to fearful, the way her body tensed as Lorenzo held her wrists tightly with his fists. Then the struggle, the screams, as he pulled at her clothes and her hair; then the terrible moment that Lorenzo’s body appeared to hover in mid-air before it disappeared over the edge with a piercing cry.
The eyes had watched as the beautiful young girl had fled the scene and now, as the figure emerged from its hiding place, they looked down over the edge to where the man’s body lay on the ledge far below.
The eyes were cold – and almost emotionless – as they took in the broken and crushed shape of the young man below, now still and lifeless. The figure stood silently for a moment, then slipped back into the forest, leaving only the birds and the mountains to their silence.
Chapter 20
Detective Roberto Gallo stepped off the train at Venice Santa Lucia station and looked around him. He was a staid, serious-looking figure, wearing a dark grey suit and a black wool overcoat, incongruous amongst the eager tourists who were arriving from all over the continent. Even here, people were dressed for Carnevale in extravagant costumes and bright colours.
Though he was outwardly unmoved, Detective Gallo was daunted by the city. He’d rarely left his home province, save for the occasional holiday in the Italian countryside, or beach holidays in Puglia with his wife, and this was his first time in Venice. He felt like a country mouse amidst the crowds. Outside the station, the Grand Canal itself lay across the small piazza, the domed church of San Simeone Piccolo dominating the background, flanked by magnificent palazzos in faded shades of cream and terracotta.
Detective Gallo knew that the Doge’s Palace and the magnificence of St Mark’s Square were just a short boat ride away, and part of him was tempted to do some sightseeing, but that wasn’t what he was here for. This was business, not pleasure, and he needed to get started right away.
He strolled over to the line of water taxis, approaching the first in the queue, and said in low tones, ‘The White Palace Hotel.’ The driver nodded, and Roberto stepped on board, settling himself in his seat, his overnight bag resting on his lap as the boat pulled away into the traffic of the canal.
It was a bright and sunny February day, though the temperature was hovering just above freezing, and Venice was looking splendid. Detective Gallo was open-mouthed at the views, wondering why he hadn’t visited before. The city was astonishing, over a thousand years of history proudly on display, like a living museum.
His journey took him almost the full length of the Grand Canal, chugging beneath the Rialto Bridge as scores of tourists leaned out from the distinctive balustrade. A handful of them waved; Roberto Gallo did not wave back.
They passed the Palazzo Grassi, then wove beneath the Ponte dell’Accademia, before the iconic church of Santa Maria della Salute hoved into view to the south, with the Piazza San Marco to the north. Then came an enormous white building on its own private island, familiar to Detective Gallo from photographs he’d seen in the many travel brochures he’d browsed.
‘There it is,’ said the driver, a surly man with a balding head and a shabby overcoat. He looked Detective Gallo up and down. ‘Are you staying there?’ he asked, his tone betraying surprise.
Roberto was aware that he didn’t look like a typical guest of the White Palace Hotel. He wasn’t rich, he wasn’t beautiful, and he was carrying a single small, unbranded bag, not a clutch of monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage.
‘No,’ he said shortly, meeting the driver’s gaze and handing over the fare. The driver shrugged, unbothered, and turned his gaze towards his destination.
The White Palace Hotel was certainly impressive, Detective Gallo thought. It was a four-storey palazzo painted, as its name suggested, completely white, with its roof tiled in the distinctive terracotta that was used throughout the city. He knew that all kinds of extremely wealthy, high-profile people stayed here: celebrities, CEOs, heads of state. If she was here, then she’d done well for herself.
Detective Gallo paid the fare without tipping and requested a receipt, which made the driver grumble. The cost of the journey was extortionate enough, Gallo reflected, without adding extras, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to claim the expense back without his superior questioning it. But how else was he supposed to reach a private island, if not by boat? The vaparetti didn’t stop here – yet another plus point for those guests seeking complete privacy. No one could set foot on the Isola dell’Angelo unless they were a guest or a member of staff.
