terrace, very large by Florentine standards. Petra had fallen in love with it immediately, and with a little time, patience and determination had transformed it into a garden that was the envy of their friends.
This was the time of year when she spent a lot of time in the greenhouse, sowing, transplanting, fertilising. The greenhouse was a small mobile construction of wood and glass, complete with air-conditioning, placed against the wall of the apartment on the south side of the terrace.
As he embraced his wife, Ferrara felt a strange sensation. When two people know each other so well, it takes the slightest thing, a pressure that lingers a moment longer than necessary, a glint in the eyes, an unexpected pause.
'What a wonderful day, Michele!' Petra said, freeing herself from his embrace with a forced smile that did not deceive him.
If she didn't want to come out with it straight away, he was happy to humour her. She was not the kind of woman to hide things. When the time was right she would tell him what the problem was. That was what he thought, anyway.
'You have no idea how wonderful,' he replied, taking her by the arm and walking her to the arbour, where the table was already laid.
'What do you mean?'
'Massimo's surprise.'
A nice one?'
'To say the least.'
They sat down, but he found it hard to concentrate on the tempting salad with porcini mushrooms and slivers of Parmesan. 'So,' he said, 'don't you want to know? What's the matter? You seem distracted.'
'No, no, tell me. What is this great news?'
He told her as he handed her the envelope, and for a moment at least the joy of the surprise seemed to dispel whatever anxiety was nagging away at her. But immediately her expression grew pensive.
'So,' Michele Ferrara said gently, unable to restrain himself any longer, 'do you want to tell me now or do you prefer to keep it bottled up until tonight?'
What, Michele?' she said, making a small attempt to defend herself but knowing it was pointless.
Petra's greatest gift was that she was a practical, down-to-earth woman. She always overcame her fears and anxieties, always tried to find ways of dealing with even the most difficult situations, and never let herself become discouraged. The important thing was to do something: that was her credo in life. That was another reason he didn't like to think that something had unsettled her.
They looked at each other intensely for a few moments. Then she took a letter out of the big pocket of her gardening smock, and handed it to him. As he held out his arm to take it, he uncovered his watch, and he instinctively noted the time: 1.46.
It was an ordinary commercial envelope. It bore the letterhead of a mail order firm and a gummed label with Michele Ferrara's name and address printed on it. Inside, an ordinary sheet of A4 paper, folded twice.
He unfolded it.
What he saw was like a collage made by a mad artist with a taste for the macabre.
MemENTo MORI
'Remember that you will die.' Or else, That you must die. A pleasant little gift, Ferrara thought. The warning was pointless: death is the one thing we can be sure of in our lives, we don't need anybody to take the trouble to remind us. But if someone deliberately, and anonymously, sends a warning like that to the head of the Florence Squadra Mobile, it's hard to take it as a joke.
Petra certainly hadn't.
The letters had been cut out of a newspaper, and the sender had put the finishing touch to his work by spattering the words and the paper with red stains, and then holding it up to allow the liquid to trickle a little. A realistic touch that achieved the desired effect, whether the bloodstains were real or fake.
Ferrara put a cigar in his mouth but did not light it.
Petra stood up and started clearing the table. Neither of them had done justice to the porcini mushrooms.
He would have liked to put his arms around her and hold her tight. Perhaps she would have liked it, too. He would never know because at that very
This was the time of year when she spent a lot of time in the greenhouse, sowing, transplanting, fertilising. The greenhouse was a small mobile construction of wood and glass, complete with air-conditioning, placed against the wall of the apartment on the south side of the terrace.
As he embraced his wife, Ferrara felt a strange sensation. When two people know each other so well, it takes the slightest thing, a pressure that lingers a moment longer than necessary, a glint in the eyes, an unexpected pause.
'What a wonderful day, Michele!' Petra said, freeing herself from his embrace with a forced smile that did not deceive him.
If she didn't want to come out with it straight away, he was happy to humour her. She was not the kind of woman to hide things. When the time was right she would tell him what the problem was. That was what he thought, anyway.
'You have no idea how wonderful,' he replied, taking her by the arm and walking her to the arbour, where the table was already laid.
'What do you mean?'
'Massimo's surprise.'
A nice one?'
'To say the least.'
They sat down, but he found it hard to concentrate on the tempting salad with porcini mushrooms and slivers of Parmesan. 'So,' he said, 'don't you want to know? What's the matter? You seem distracted.'
'No, no, tell me. What is this great news?'
He told her as he handed her the envelope, and for a moment at least the joy of the surprise seemed to dispel whatever anxiety was nagging away at her. But immediately her expression grew pensive.
'So,' Michele Ferrara said gently, unable to restrain himself any longer, 'do you want to tell me now or do you prefer to keep it bottled up until tonight?'
What, Michele?' she said, making a small attempt to defend herself but knowing it was pointless.
Petra's greatest gift was that she was a practical, down-to-earth woman. She always overcame her fears and anxieties, always tried to find ways of dealing with even the most difficult situations, and never let herself become discouraged. The important thing was to do something: that was her credo in life. That was another reason he didn't like to think that something had unsettled her.
They looked at each other intensely for a few moments. Then she took a letter out of the big pocket of her gardening smock, and handed it to him. As he held out his arm to take it, he uncovered his watch, and he instinctively noted the time: 1.46.
It was an ordinary commercial envelope. It bore the letterhead of a mail order firm and a gummed label with Michele Ferrara's name and address printed on it. Inside, an ordinary sheet of A4 paper, folded twice.
He unfolded it.
What he saw was like a collage made by a mad artist with a taste for the macabre.
MemENTo MORI
'Remember that you will die.' Or else, That you must die. A pleasant little gift, Ferrara thought. The warning was pointless: death is the one thing we can be sure of in our lives, we don't need anybody to take the trouble to remind us. But if someone deliberately, and anonymously, sends a warning like that to the head of the Florence Squadra Mobile, it's hard to take it as a joke.
Petra certainly hadn't.
The letters had been cut out of a newspaper, and the sender had put the finishing touch to his work by spattering the words and the paper with red stains, and then holding it up to allow the liquid to trickle a little. A realistic touch that achieved the desired effect, whether the bloodstains were real or fake.
Ferrara put a cigar in his mouth but did not light it.
Petra stood up and started clearing the table. Neither of them had done justice to the porcini mushrooms.
He would have liked to put his arms around her and hold her tight. Perhaps she would have liked it, too. He would never know because at that very
Similar Books
Lost City of the Incas (Phoenix Press)
Hiram Bingham
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man
Claudia Carroll
The Torn Guardian
J.D. Wilde
Noman
William Nicholson
Ruthlessly His
Walker Cole
RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer
Simon Hawke
The Silent Twin
Unknown
Sexiest Vampire Alive
Kerrelyn Sparks
Cash
Vanessa Devereaux
Renegade Heart
Kay Ellis