The Monster of Florence by Magdalen Nabb Page A

they’d been too absorbed in the job for this sort of chitchat. They’d been left strictly alone to get on with it, too, which was a rare pleasure. So, maybe it wasn’t Ferrini who’d changed but the situation. Or it was since he’d been promoted to officer. Thank God, the Marshal thought, that he’d refused. Not that he’d imagined what the problems might be. He just didn’t want to go back to school and make a fool of himself. Nor did he want to start moving about the country again, uprooting his wife and children every few years. He was very happy where he was, Monster or no Monster. One way or another, this would eventually be over and he’d be back to stolen cameras and lost bicycles and worrying about having enough men to guard the openings of exhibitions in the galleries … Here they were, thank heavens …
    The huge stones darkened with rain and the black iron bars at the ground-floor windows gave the long façade a prison-like air, but for the Marshal the Pitti Palace was home and he had to suppress a sigh of relief as the car splashed to a stop in the wet gravel at the entrance.
    “I expect I’ll see you tomorrow.” He opened the car door.
    “What you want to do”—Ferrini prodded him sharply in the upper arm—“is to read the Instructing Judge’s report.”
    “I expect you’re right …”
    What he wanted to do, the Marshal thought, getting himself up the stairs as fast as he could and feeling in his pocket for keys, washave a long hot shower. And what’s more, nothing, he said to himself, is going to stop me.
    To make sure that nothing did he went straight to his quarters without checking in with young Brigadier Lorenzini.
    “Salva? Is that you? Good heavens, you’re wet through.”
    “I know.”
    “If you’re getting back into uniform, have a good hot shower first.”
    “I will.”
    “And then a hot drink. Do you want coffee or do you fancy hot chocolate?”
    “Anything. Coffee.”
    And within minutes the hot water was pouring over him, bringing comfort to every damp and aching bone and sluicing away monsters and murders and public prosecutors all. He lingered as long as he decently could with the water as hot as he could bear, gradually relaxing with the thought that the rest of the evening was his own, or at least could be spent in his own familiar world, in his own familiar uniform doing his own job.
    He lingered in the kitchen, too, standing there, coffee cup in hand, trying to make the tiny espresso last.
    “Oh, do sit down, Salva!”
    “I haven’t time.” And he stood there, at peace with the world, as Teresa squeezed past him.
    “I’m trying to get out to the shops if you’ll let me unload the dishwasher.”
    “Am I in your way …? You can’t go out in this!”
    “I’ll have to. I’ve nothing for the boys’ school snack tomorrow. I suppose I could wait half an hour or so and see if it stops …”
    She paused and looked out of the window at the steady drumming rain. He put down his cup and went over to stand behind her. “Wait till it stops,” he advised her. “There’s no great hurry, is there? Don’t get wet.”
    He enveloped her small form in a big hug.
    “I must get back to the office.”
    Not for the first time, as he entered the waiting room, he thanked God for Brigadier Lorenzini in whose hands he could safely leave his station. Two people sat waiting, pretending to read back issues of
The Carabinieri
. Both looked up at him hopefully as he entered and greeted them politely, then went back to leafing through their magazines as he popped his head round the corner of the duty room. Di Nuccio sat there typing furiously with two fingers and his colleague was talking quietly to the two men out on patrol through the radio switchboard. The Marshal opened the door of his own office where Lorenzini was at the desk, apparently concluding a piece of business. The heavy young man in front of him was getting to his feet and putting away the log book of a