Dark Dante

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1

It was midnight in the spring of 2000, and a dilapidated Alfa Romeo Giulia drew up outside an elegant nineteenth-century town house in a wealthy area of Florence. A woman of around sixty got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side and helped her elderly companion out and onto the pavement. They exchanged a few words and a kiss on the cheek, after which he lurched towards the house, seriously drunk. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he turned to blow a second kiss at the departing car, before unlocking the main door and going inside.

In the dark hall his hand pressed the light switch. When it failed to respond, he let fly a string of Italian swear words, cursing the Madonna, Baby Jesus and all the miserable swine in Christendom in quick succession. He was groping his way towards the lift when two strong hands gripped his neck. As the fingers tightened, he lost consciousness.

A torch flashed on, revealing a man called Kim, which isn’t his real name for reasons I prefer not to disclose. Picking up the victim’s keys from the floor, he dragged the heavy, flaccid body towards the lift, opened the door and pulled it inside. On the third floor, Robin, his accomplice, was smoking outside the victim’s flat. His hand was shaking as he put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled the smoke. The minute he saw Kim emerging from the lift, he knew the moment had come. Kim grabbed the fag from Robin’s mouth, throwing it angrily down and intimating that he needed a hand to get the body out of the lift.

Robin felt sick as he obeyed the orders. This was the first time in his life that he had touched a dead body. He and Kim took hold of the corpse and hauled it out of the lift. There were three locks on the flat door and a dozen or so keys on the bunch taken from the victim, so it took Kim a minute or so to fathom out which keys would work. Once the door was open, he pocketed the keys and the two men carried the body into the flat. Quietly pulling the door shut behind them, Kim breathed a sigh of relief. They were safely inside, so no passing neighbour could see them.

In the bathroom they undressed the body, lathering it with spicy gel, rinsing and then drying it on a couple of luxury towels. As a final touch, Kim chose some perfume from about ten bottles neatly arranged on a dainty blue table by the window and proceeded to spray the body. Now for a heavyweight polythene bag that he had bought specially for the occasion. The two men opened it and carefully put the corpse inside, fastening the top with some string. They then carried the bundle through to a room beside the kitchen, which housed three chest freezers. Opening the middle one, Kim began transferring most of the food to the freezer nearest the door. Reading their labels – ‘Lamb’, ‘Singh’s ragout’, ‘Chicken curry’ – he thought grimly that the body had found a suitable resting place in the meat section. The pair lowered the corpse into the freezer and arranged it amidst the remaining frozen food.

By now Robin was about to throw up and made a move towards the door, but Kim was having none of it. He swiftly grabbed his accomplice’s arm and propelled him into the victim’s bedroom, where he opened a wardrobe. Kim’s eyes roamed over a collection of about fifty ties hanging neatly on two racks. After a moment’s indecision, he chose the first tie on the nearest rack – narrow, navy-blue striped, with a crest – for Robin; while for himself, he chose the last one on the second rack, made of yellow silk. The two men stood side by side, eyeing each other up in the wardrobe mirror. Kim smiled, satisfied that everything was going according to plan, while Robin’s eyes looked haunted. A voice in his head kept repeating that he was now an accomplice to a murder.

With the job almost finished, they wrapped the ties around their necks and adjusted the knots. Now for the bathroom, where they meticulously cleaned all the surfaces and scrubbed their hands and faces, Kim tidying his hair with the victim’s comb. Looking for all the world like two office employees off to their place of work in central Florence, the pair left the flat. It didn’t matter that it was two in the morning and not a soul was stirring.

2

For crying out loud! At this time in the morning?

I run to answer the ringing phone, rapidly fastening the top button on my pyjama jacket and pulling the collar straight, half-imagining that whoever is on the line can see me. Grabbing the handset, I stand poised, waiting for someone to speak.

Hello, is that Signora Maria Farrell? The voice sounds foreign.

How do you know my name? Who are you?

I am Dottor Giuseppe— the voice responds, irritated.

For Christ’s sake, Dottor Whoever-You… It’s eight o’clock. And Easter Sunday!

It is nine here; very sorry. I am Dottor Manetti, the man says apologetically.

I decide it might well be some actor friend trying to set me up, so I attempt to catch him out. "You sound Spanish, or is that an Italian accent? Perhaps from near Rome? A dottor of what exactly?" Picking up a pile of paperwork from the divan and plonking it onto the carpet, I sit down and wait for his answer.

"Sì, sì, sono Dottor Giuseppe Manetti. Calma, Signora, calma. Yes, yes, I’m Dr Giuseppe Manetti; don’t get angry. May I have a word with you?"

Even more convinced that it must be a scam, I hang up, but two seconds later the phone’s ringing again. It’s the same voice, only more insistent. I decide to try blasting him with a barrage of words. Whoever you are, I am up to my eyes in paperwork. I’m a theatre-producer-cum-director-cum-coffee-maker-cum-usherette-cum-toilet-cleaner – actually, whatever is needed, depending on the emergency. And this morning, while most people in England are snoring their heads off, I have an Arts Council application to get in. The deadline: Tuesday at twelve noon… Are you still there?

The phone’s gone dead, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then it’s him again. Signora, Signora, please listen; my secretary has been trying to contact you for several days.

And of course she didn’t catch me; I’m generally out early and back late. A hectic schedule, not for the faint-hearted.

So I thought, perhaps on a Sunday morning I’d manage to—

This time I snap. It’ll have to be quick, though; I’ve got far more urgent things on my plate.

There’s no reply, and for a moment I think he’s hung up. I suddenly have a dreadful feeling. What… what if this call isn’t a joke? It might be something really important. I’ll try coaxing him. Well, come on, get to the point; I don’t bite, Monsieur, or Signor, at least not over the phone. I’m busy, remember, working my socks off.

Socks off?! What? No socks?

"Figuratively speaking, Dottor."

"I’m the notaio dealing with—"

"I don’t get you. Didn’t you say you were a doctor, Dottor?"

"Dottor Giuseppe Manetti, notaio, Signora Farrell. That’s Italian for a notary or a solicitor. I’m specialised in deeds and wills, that sort of thing, and I’m phoning from Florence—"

Florence?

Yes, Florence, Italy.

My eyes flash to a black-and-white photo on the desk near the window. Rigged out in his grammar-school uniform, my Uncle Peter stares back at me, reminding me that he lives in Florence.

Signora Farrell, I’m very sorry, it’s something very serious. It’s your uncle, Professor Peter Farrell – my client. The police have informed me that…

What? He’s dead, isn’t he? My dad always said Peter was a sickly child. I take Peter’s school photo off the desk, clasping it close to my chest.

I’m very sorry but your uncle has died, but not of natural causes, according to the police report. They’ve opened a murder inquiry.

Oh my God!

Let me reassure you. His voice softens. I am presuming you weren’t in Florence when it happened, so you aren’t a suspect. There’s a will, you see. Signora? Are you still there?

A will? It must be my Italian uncle. Well, no, he’s not Italian. It’s a long story. I really don’t know.

What do you mean, ‘really don’t know’? Aren’t you sure? Is he or isn’t he your uncle?

It’s complicated. I never met him, but I feel strangely very close to him. It’s probably to do with the fact he was my dad’s identical twin. All I’ve seen are photos from when he was young. I’m actually looking at one right now. He must be about twelve in this one. Mm… He’s looking rather fey… What? You don’t understand? I can assure you, ‘fey’ describes him beautifully. And I think… You see, Dad would have been seventy-three this year. He died ten years ago, so that makes Peter, his twin brother, seventy-three. Even I can work that out, and I only managed to scrape through my O Level maths exam on my second try.

A faint chuckle is immediately overshadowed by the gravity of Dr Manetti’s tone. I scrutinise the photo again, letting my eyes run over every item of Peter’s school uniform: the navy-blue cap and striped tie, the blazer with the owl crest on the pocket. Were those his first long trousers? Sturdy lace-up shoes and a bulky leather satchel complete the picture. The news of the murder has knocked me for six, and suddenly the handset weighs a ton.

I can hear Dr Manetti again. The murder was committed at Professor Farrell’s home, in the early hours of the morning two weeks ago.

Two weeks? Jesus! Why wasn’t I informed sooner? Am I in time for the funeral?

I am sorry, it took us some time to trace you. The funeral was two days ago. There were lengthy forensic procedures to be dealt with.

Would you mind telling me, was he buried or cremated?

In his will he asked to be buried in the English Cemetery, Ms Farrell.

An English cemetery in Florence? Really?

I’ll tell you about it once you are here. It’s a very special place.

My hand reaches out towards the television for a packet of cigarettes. There isn’t one. Although I gave up smoking six months ago, I still make an automatic gesture in that direction any time I’m feeling fazed. I breathe deeply, listening to the silence around me, pretending to inhale the smoke I am craving. There’s something else I just have to ask. How was Peter killed?

I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. But about the will – you’re one of three beneficiaries: Professor Gabriele Foschi, Countess Caterina Guiccioli, and you.

A professor and a countess. Can that be right? I mean, a countess?

They were his closest friends.

Can you at least tell me what I’ve inherited? I mutter, still refusing to quite believe what has happened.

I’ve already told you, I’m afraid I can’t disclose anything further. I’ve made tentative arrangements for the official reading of the will on Tuesday. It’ll be at 3pm at my office here in Florence. Is that all right?

You mean the day after tomorrow?

If that’s okay, I’ll notify the others.

I suppose it’ll have to be. I’ll book a flight to Florence.

Not Florence. The easiest airport is Pisa, and then a train to Florence, Ms Farrell. My office is a ten-minute drive from the railway station.

I can feel my stomach tighten. I think of the many commitments I have in Manchester, and the ordeal facing me in Florence. It strikes me that, if this is a sample of what the new millennium has in store, I am in for a rough ride. My mum passed away at the beginning of the year, and at about the same time Derek, my long-term partner, legged it. A new woman, a new life. And now Peter has been murdered. Is there some sort of cosmic cataclysm pointing straight at me?

As Dr Manetti rings off, his voice sounds warmer. "Arrivederci, Ms Farrell. I look forward to meeting you very soon. Buon viaggio! Have a good trip!"

Clutching Peter’s photo, I stretch out on the divan. Holding it close to my eyes, I imagine the face and body of this adorable twelve-year-old mauled and disfigured. I beg him to tell me what exactly happened to him, and my mind drifts to the dozen or so snaps Dad kept of his twin. I drag myself off the couch, lift the bureau lid and rummage around until I find the bundle. According to Dad, he and Peter fell out before they went to college and never saw each other again. When I was growing up there were scraps of news from their cousin, Edith, who’d kept in touch with him. But then she died, leaving a vacuum behind her. I never understood what caused the rift between the twins and probably never will, now they’re both dead.

I flick through the black-and-white photos, and the people captured therein spring back to life, firing my imagination and prompting me to speak aloud even if there is nobody here to listen. In this one Peter must be about five; longish, wavy blond hair; a girlish, winning smile. In this one he’s in his early teens; his hair darker and shorter. He looks nervy; the spontaneity of childhood has disappeared. In this one, he and Dad are on the beach at Scarborough with my nan. They look about ten, their arms wrapped round each other’s shoulders, heads touching, as if they’re joined there. They are the spitting image of one another. And in this photo, the war must be on; they are poking their heads out of the Anderson shelter in Nan’s garden. They’re holding gas masks up to the camera, and Peter’s blowing a raspberry. He’s jeering, seemingly oblivious to the tragedy unfolding around them. For some reason my dad never wanted to tell me why he and Peter never met up again. No more love, no more friendship between two people who were once so close. The silly sods. That just about sums them up.

I let the photos fall onto the carpet and get back to writing my application. I force myself to concentrate on the topic: a drama workshop aimed at empowering second-generation women migrants.

3

It’s 9am on Easter Monday and I am cycling to the theatre to let my assistant know I am leaving. As I walk into our little office in Deansgate, Joanne is printing out her part of the Arts Council application, moaning that she’s had no holiday. In the same breath she complains that the toner is very low and there are still twenty pages to print. We need to buy a new one, and the shop round the corner is closed.

I’m leaving for Florence tomorrow, I call, ignoring her.

Her face falls a mile. And who’s going to finish this lot? she asks, pointing at the pages. Then a far more terrible thought strikes her, and her face crumples. "And what about Hamlet? Who the heck is going to get the show on? You can’t just walk out on us. You’d never do that, Maria. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?"

My uncle has just been murdered.

Christ almighty! I am so sorry! Why didn’t you say so? I didn’t even know you had an uncle. You kept that a secret.

It’s a long story. I never met him, you see. But now I’ve just got to get to Florence. Peter’s solicitor’s been on the phone and I need to deal with my inheritance.

Wow! That sounds grand! Joanne looks like I’ve drenched her with a bucketful of icy water.

Come on, Joanne, pull yourself together. Remember Prince Hamlet’s line: ‘The readiness is all.’

Thank you very much, Your Majesty.

That’s enough of your sarcasm! Look on the bright side. You’ve just turned twenty-five and I am offering you the chance of a lifetime to direct Shakespeare’s greatest play. Go for it.

As I am telling her this, Joanne doesn’t budge from near the printer, where she is rhythmically patting the pages she’s holding as if trying to get a grip on the situation.

I realise you’ve got to go, but you’re our captain, sort of. I’m quite happy being your second in command, Maria. Her voice is shaking. And I wasn’t being sarky before. The moment they know you’re not here, the actors will go to pieces.

I push the button and the printer sets in motion. Don’t be silly. I’m going, Joanne, but I’m not, if you see what I mean. That could be another line from Hamlet! I quip, then turn serious on seeing her worried face. What I mean is, I’ll be on the phone every day to find out how things are going with the rehearsals. We’ve already done three weeks’ hard slog, and most of the cast are on their way to finding their characters. I’m confident you’ll manage to get them through the final weeks.

In reality, I am not at all confident she will pull it off, and feel sick at the thought of leaving her to manage, but I have no alternative. I’ve just got to go to Florence.

A touch of colour has returned to Joanne’s cheeks, and she flashes me a glimmer of a smile. I’m flattered you believe in me. I’ll give it my all. If we talk every day that will be a big help. And—

I cut her short, a long list of things-still-to-do racing through my mind. I’ve got to book my ticket to Italy. I need to pack, and talk to my cleaner and my neighbour. They are in for a surprise; they’ll have to do some cat-sitting.

It’s nearly midday and I give Joanne her instructions for finishing the application. I sign the final page so that tomorrow she can take it to the post office and send it off by recorded delivery. That done, I take myself off to the airport; the only place I feel pretty sure of finding a ticket on Easter Monday. As I drive, I go over what I am going to tell Jean, my daily help, whom I’ve arranged to meet later this afternoon.

A persistent purring welcomes me home. Richard and Henry, my two furry black friends, advance rapidly down the corridor, heading straight towards me. Still with her coat on, Jean hovers near the door, looking fraught. My human dynamo, as I call her, can’t stand anything that spoils her usual routine. Being summoned to my place on Easter Monday has set the tic under her eye going a frightening nineteen to the dozen. Once again, I have no choice. I’ve just got to tell her I’m off to Italy.

How long will you be away, Maria?

Jean’s question leaves me nonplussed, and I hesitate. I’ve bought a single ticket, so I’m not tied to a particular return date. The truth is, in my mad rush to head off to Florence, I’ve given no thought to when exactly I’ll be back.

I said, how long will you be away?

I pause again. A couple of weeks, I suppose; a month at the longest. You see, Jean, I don’t know what exactly is waiting for me over there. Then I drop the bombshell. My uncle’s been murdered.

By the look on Jean’s face I could be telling her that World War III has just broken out.

I try and comfort her. So I’m sure you can see why I’ve got to keep an open mind and take things one step at a time. But listen, I want you to keep to your usual days, but instead of cleaning and washing, you can mollycoddle the cats – feed them, stroke them, talk to them. And don’t worry, there’ll be no change in your wages. The cats know you, so if you come over as usual, they should be fine. My next-door neighbour will pop in on the days you’re not here.

A jumble of thoughts races through my mind as I’m packing. After some dithering, I go for my largest case, putting in clothes for all weathers, from Siberian cold to African heat. They are mostly jeans and pants, T-shirts, a fleece, a couple of sweaters, a well-worn anorak, a heavy coat and a raincoat. As a final thought, I put in a little black dress I keep for first nights. There might be some formal occasions and it could come in handy. I throw in my copy of Hamlet, and search my bookshelves for the next two plays in our season: Shakespeare’s The Tempest and Joanne’s new play, a thinly veiled autobiographical account of the anorexia she suffered in adolescence. Now for emergency medicines. I stuff in an assortment, mostly of the ‘anti’ sort: anti-mosquito, anti-runs, anti-hangover. At just turned eleven I press the case shut and feed the cats, wondering how long it will be until I see them again.

I roll into bed knackered, but can’t get to sleep. I’ve got a nagging feeling that my present circumstances are in some respects like Hamlet’s. As in the Danish royal family, in my family there has been a feud between two brothers, with one of them getting murdered. But I tell myself not to get cocky. Lots of things are different; not least the murder. Somebody poured poison into the old king’s ear while he was asleep in his orchard. I don’t imagine that this happened to Peter. What’s more, while Hamlet was still in mourning for his father, like lightning his Uncle Claudius ascended the throne and married Gertrude, his sister-in-law and Hamlet’s mother. In contrast, I have just lost an uncle who never married, as far as I know, and had no connections with royalty.

With Peter’s young face firmly impressed in my mind’s eye, and a voice telling me to forget Hamlet, I doze off.

4

The next day, I’m slowly pulling my suitcase along the platform at the train station in Florence. It is the Tuesday after Easter Monday, and the flight from Manchester to Pisa, followed by a train ride, has taken five hours. I head for the exit, weaving around the crowds of people, some rushing to catch a train, others waiting for one, or perhaps to meet somebody. My ears attune to the different languages being spoken all around me, and I wonder for a second if I really am in Italy.

Outside the station, I notice a McDonald’s on the other side of the dusty road skirting the building, flanked by sleazy bars, cafés and a couple of takeaways. The view strikes me as a far cry from the Renaissance city I read about in my guidebook on the flight over. The Uffizi Gallery, the Palazzo Pitti and the magnificent Boboli Gardens are nowhere in sight. Still, I tell myself, I’ve not come to Florence to visit the wonders of the historic city, or to go roaming around the Tuscan villas and farmhouses belonging to British celebrities who have second homes here. I’ve got more serious business to attend to.

I feel a buzz of excitement at the thought of the money I could be about to come into, then stifle it. I might be in for a shock. Peter may have been penniless, having squandered his money on gambling or drink. I glance at my watch –half past one – then look at a clock in front of me, which says half past two. I forgot that Italian time is an hour ahead of the UK, and I need to grab a taxi, fast; the reading of the will is in just half an hour.

The crowds have grown denser and the noise is deafening. People are milling in every square inch, reminding me that I have just landed in one of the busiest tourist cities in the world. Shoved to the left, right, and right again, I perch on my case, sweating and taking deep breaths. I have to keep calm. Still, a second later I jump to my