Read the detective thriller Lord Archer (picture: )
After rejecting a false confession from the truffle descendant Pietro De Rosa the day before, who had allegedly stabbed Mayor Dino Lombardi with a truffle knife, local olive oil producer Mario Pellegrino was on Antonio Rossetti’s list of possible suspects. Top-quality oil with local truffles and wine was one of the city’s three pillars of wealth. The vile Signor of Lombardy imposed harsh taxes on sellers and buyers after threatening his way to power in the picturesque southern Italian town of Cortoglia.
Antonio left the police station just after breakfast and set out for the olive oil shop in the town square, pleased that he would have to pass the pharmacy on his way after the young woman who had run it the previous afternoon.
He slowed down as he approached the store and looked out the window. She was standing by the door, turning the closed sign to open, and looked up as he passed. They exchanged a glance before hurrying off. When Antonio arrives at the olive oil shop, Mario Pellegrino is waiting for him at the door, having just placed a huge festive wreath made of olive branches and twinkling stars in the window.
He said, “Good morning, Lieutenant.” “Did you come to buy a bottle of the finest olive oil, or is this a police raid?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call and make an appointment, Signor Pellegrino, but…” Antonio said, following him into the shop. “You were hoping you’d surprise me,” Pellegrino said. “But I have to tell you, Lieutenant, I am not surprised at all.”
“You were expecting me?” Antonio said as he stood by the table and took out his notebook and pen.
“Yes, everyone knows that you have been sent from Naples to inquire the death of Lombardy, and you suppose I shall be among the first persons whom you may wish to question.”
“It’s no secret that I hated the guy. So if you’re going to arrest me, the last thing you’re going to do is call and make an appointment, because that will give me enough time to escape.”
Antonio put down his pen.
“But why do you want to run away, Signor Pellegrino?”
“Because everyone knows that I killed Lombardi, and I realized that it wouldn’t take long for a bright young detective like you to figure out the identity of the killer.”
“But why do you want to kill the mayor?” Antonio asked.
“He was ruining my business with his protection racket and added taxes. And if that wasn’t enough, he was asking for commissions from buyers, some of whom began avoiding the trip to Kortuglia because they feared the next year and I had nothing to leave the kids with.”
Pellegrino stood and stretched his arms across the table as if he expected his hands to be tied.
“Before I arrest you, Signor Pellegrino,” said the policeman, “I will need to know how you killed the Mayor.” Pellegrino did not hesitate. He said, “I strangled the damned man.”
“One minor problem,” Antonio replied. “I’m afraid Lombardi did not strangle you or anyone else over this matter.”
“What a pity. But as I wanted to strangle the man, can’t you just accuse me of attempted murder, and that will solve all our problems?”
“Except for the problem that the offender will remain at large,” Antonio said. “So, if you would be kind enough to advise your friends that I intend to catch the real murderer and put him behind bars, I should be most grateful.” “I wonder if I’ll ask you a little favor,” said Pellegrino. “I just wondered if you could tell me how the mayor was killed.”
The young policeman ignored the request and left the store.
Antonio was on his way back to the police station to write another miscarriage report but hesitated when he reached the pharmacy. He enters and finds the young pharmacist, who he deduces is Francesca Farinelli, daughter of Lorenz Farinelli, standing behind the flower-bedecked counter, conversing with a customer.
“This should ease the pain, Signora, but make sure you only take one pill a day before you go to bed. If it doesn’t get better, come back and watch me,” she said. Francesca turned to face Antonio. “Is it my turn to arrest the lieutenant?”
“No, something much simpler. We ran out of toothpaste.”
“You know, we have customers who buy soap, toothpaste, and razors all at the same time, or is this nothing more than subtle police tactics to thwart the suspect and make her confess that she killed the sheriff?” Antonio laughed. Francesca continued, “If your plan is to simply ask me out for a drink after I leave work this evening, I might say yes.”
Antonio asked: “Was that obvious?”
“Why don’t we meet at Lucio’s around six?” “I’ll look forward to it,” said Antonio, turning to leave.
“Don’t forget your toothpaste, Lieutenant.”
When Antonio returns to the police station, a large, burly man in a long white coat and blue-and-white striped apron is waiting for him outside the front door. “Good morning, Inspector. My name is Umberto Cattaneo.”
Lieutenant, Signor Cattaneo, corrected Antonio.
“I feel confident, Lieutenant, that promotion will not be far off when you hear what I have to tell you.”
“Please don’t tell me you killed the sheriff?”
“Absolutely not,” said the butcher, lowering his voice. “However, I can tell you who killed Lombardi.”
Finally, an informant thought it was Antonio. He opened the station door and led Cattaneo into his small office.
“But before I let you know who the murderer is,” Cattaneo continued, sitting down, “I need to make sure it won’t be traced back to me.”
“You have my say on that,” said Antonio, opening his notebook. “This is assuming we don’t need you to be a witness when the case goes to trial.”
“You won’t need a witness,” said Cattaneo, “because I can tell you where the gun is buried.”
Antonio closed his notebook and sighed deeply.
Cattaneo protested, “But I didn’t even tell you who the killer was.”
“You need not worry, Signor Cattaneo, because Lombardy has not been shot.”
“But Gian Lucio told me he shot him. He even showed me the weapon,” Cattaneo insisted.
“Before I lock you up for a few days, if for no other reason than to prevent a further waste of my time, may I ask why you are so willing to arrest your friend for an offense which I can assure you you have not committed?”
Butcher protested, “Gian Lucio Altana is my oldest and dearest friend.”
“Why do you accuse him of murder?”
“Because I lost the lot,” Cattaneo said. “Did you lose the lottery?” “Yes, we agreed that whoever wins will give himself up and admit that he killed the mayor.”
“Then why didn’t he turn himself in?” Antonio said unable to hide his frustration.
Signor De Rosa advised us not to. He said there had been a lot of confessions already, and he felt Gian Lucio would have a better chance of being arrested if you thought I was an informant.”
“May I ask why Gian Lucio was willing to charge him with a murder he did not commit?”
“Oh, that’s easy to explain, Lieutenant. Lombardi used to eat at Gian Lucio’s restaurant three times a day and never paid the bill.”
“That’s not a good enough reason to kill someone.”
“It happens when you lose all your regular customers because none of them want to eat at the same restaurant as the mayor. By the way, Lieutenant, has Lombardi been electrocuted by any chance?” Get out of here, Signor Cattaneo, before I get arrested for murder. .”
It wasn’t quite a lost morning, Antonio considered, for he was only now confident that he and the Gentile policeman and the murderer had any idea how Lombardy had been killed. But where were the nations?
Antonio arrives at Lucio’s before 6pm, looking forward to seeing Francesca. He sat down at an outside table and placed a bouquet of flowers on the chair next to him, smiling as the owner, Gian Lucio, joined him.
“Can I get you a drink, lieutenant?”
“No, thanks. I’ll wait until my guest arrives.” “Just to let you know that your friend Signor Cattaneo tried to arrest you for murder this morning,” said Antonio as the restaurateur turned to leave, Gian Lucio.
“I know, but then I won the lottery,” Gian Lucio sighed.
Antonio kept looking across the square into the pharmacy until he spotted Francesca closed. He watched her cross the square and immediately realized that it was the first time he had seen her not wearing a long white coat. She was wearing a red silk blouse, a black skirt, and a pair of high-heeled shoes, which were certainly not bought in Cortoglia.
Try not to stare at her. What else was different? Of course, she let her hair down. He didn’t think it could be more beautiful.
“Since you are a highly trained detective, you will know that my name is Francesca, whereas I am not sure if I am Antonio or Tony?” said Francesca as she sat down next to him.
“My mom calls me Antonio, but my friends call me Tony.”
“Does your family also come from Naples?”
Antonio said, “Yes.” My parents are both teachers.
Francesca laughed. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“Only one brother, Darius. He is a lawyer. And as soon as I lock up a criminal, he puts on a long black cloak and defends them. That way we keep everything in the family.”
Francesca laughed again. “Have you always wanted to be a cop?” I asked, while Gian Lucio handed them a glass of wine.
“From the age of six when someone stole my sweets. But to be fair, if you grew up in Naples, you had to decide early on which side of the law you were going to be on. Did you always want to be a pharmacist?”
Looking across the square, she said, “I first worked in the shop at the age of 12, and with the exception of four years at the University of Milan studying chemistry, it was my second home. So when the owner retired, I took over.”
I fell silent: “How many people have confessed to killing the mayor today?”
“Only one. Florist, Signor of Bourgogne.”
“So how was Lombardi shocked?” Francesca asked.
“He claimed he ran over him in his Ferrari, then reversed him to make sure he was dead. Here in the town square.”
“He seems very convincing to me, so why didn’t you arrest him?”
“Because he doesn’t own a Fiat, let alone a Ferrari, and what’s more, he doesn’t even have a driver’s license,” said Antonio, handing Francesca flowers.
“So he will be able to continue selling his flowers.”
The couple stood up and started walking across the square towards the pharmacy where Francesca had an apartment above the store.
“It won’t be long before I go back to my little apartment in Naples,” Antonio sighed.
“Not if you don’t catch the killer,” I joked. When they got to Francesca’s door, she took out the key.
But before she could put her in the lock, Antonio leaned over and kissed her.
She smiled: “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Antonio looked puzzled until Francesca added, “I have a feeling it can’t be long before you need another bar of soap. By the way, Tony, some of our customers buy them in boxes of three or six.”
- Adapted exclusively by Jeffrey Archer for the Daily Express from Who Killed the Mayor. His latest must-read thriller, Next in line (HarperCollins, £22), starring William Warwick, available now. Lord Archer’s fee was donated Give a book.
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