The Ouroboros Mystery

[Part two. Read part one here]

Fiorella Muti sat at her desk, chin propped on her hand, gazing out of her grimy office window. A row of sycamore trees stood sentinel along the river Po. In the middle distance, in the city centre, a mass of buildings was dominated by the looming silhouette of the Mole Antonelliana, whose boxy dome and tall steeple were a symbol of Turin. Beyond the city, Fiorella could make out the jagged wall of the Alps, snow pinkened by the low sun. Muffled sounds of rush-hour traffic floated up, people impatient to get home.

Fiorella saw and heard none of these familiar things. As was her custom in the hour before returning home, she was taking time to reflect on the day’s developments, allowing them to percolate, absorbed by facts, expressions, visions, phrases she’d collected during an afternoon of interviews.

Who killed Professor Enrico Marconi, the Director of Turin’s Museum of Antiquities? This might have been the ultimate question but there were hundreds of smaller questions to be answered before that. Notes were scattered all over her desk, much the triangle of colored balls are scattered across a pool table by a violent break shot.

According to the coroner Dr. Fermi’s initial opinion, Marconi had been dead for at least 24 hours before his discovery. Marco Greco and his brood of British grannies had found him on Saturday night 9pm, which meant he died on Friday.

A blow to the back of his head had cracked his parietal bone, a wound that had been inflicted before death. It would certainly have been damaging enough to be the cause of death but Dr. Fermi cautioned that there were indications that the victim may already have been unconscious when the blow was delivered. The ouroboros tattoo was just a transfer, the kind of fake tattoos that kids get, and it had apparently been applied after death (most likely by the murderer).

Forensics had come up with a few things that might or might not have been significant. Fiorella bookmarked three of them.

Firstly, two or three long blonde hairs had been found with the body inside the display case. Fiorella knew that it might not mean anything; there was a good chance it belonged to whoever had initially set up the display or a staff member who’d checked on the display at some earlier date. There was also a chance that the murderer and/or an accomplice might be blonde.

Secondly, the ouroboros tattoo combined with the placing of the corpse in the pot suggested something ritualistic about the murder. Was this merely a killer’s pathology? Or was Enrico involved in some kind of cult?

Thirdly, Enrico’s cellphone was found sitting on a niche in the wall of the Pot Burial hall. Had the murderer left it there deliberately, or was it a careless oversight? The former seemed most likely. In any case, it meant they could check Enrico’s text messages, browsing history and files. It could be the key to reconstructing the Director’s final hours on earth and to opening up a window on the murderer’s motive.

Fiorella was intrigued by the logistics of this grisly crime. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood anywhere in the museum. The murder had been committed elsewhere. Someone had cleaned the body, manipulated the limbs to mimic the foetal position and put the ouroboros tattoo on his upper arm. Someone (the same person?) had then carried the body into the museum, unlocked the display case, arranged the body in the pot, then they’d locked the case again. But where? How had the body been brought into the museum without anyone noticing? Giorgia was checking security-camera footage this evening.

Everything pointed to a carefully planned and completely unhinged murder.

* * * 

That morning, Fiorella had seen Enrico’s widow, Dr. Theodora Rossa, a lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Torino. She was a small, compact woman with a pretty mess of curly red hair cut at chin length. She gave the impression of having a great amount of energy but that it was reigned in for politeness’s sake.

“Please come in,” she said brightly to Fiorella and Giorgia, greeting them benignly as if she were ushering students in for a lecture. They entered a large living room with a big picture window. The view was splendid, looking down on the autumnal grounds of Parco Valentino with its faux-medieval castle, and on the Po, where a school group was practicing sculling.

Fiorella offered the widow condolences.

“Thank you,” said Theodora, “It’s been an enormous shock, of course. Now, how can I help? Would you like a drink?” She was very business-like. Fiorella was quite unable to tell whether she was putting up a brave front, or if she was actually unaffected.

They declined drinks politely.

“What we’d like, Mrs. Rossa—”

“Theodora,” the same brisk voice and tight smile.

“Theodora, we’d like to build up a picture of Enrico’s last days. If we can establish where he was, what he was doing, who he was with, what he was thinking about…that sort of thing would be very useful to our investigation.”

Giorgia nodded, casting a disconcertingly intense gaze on Theodora Rossa.

“We are particularly interested in how he spent last Friday. But anything you can share would be greatly appreciated,” added Fiorella.

Theodora nodded once, then sat in thought a few moments, biting her bottom lip. Her students would have recognized the gesture as indicative of a forthcoming carefully articulated insight. Finally, having corralled her thoughts, she spoke.

“I ought to preface my remarks by clarifying the state of Enrico’s and my relationship. For, oh, three or four months—we’ve been living separate lives. It’s nothing acrimonious, I hasten to add, but…well, he had his own apartment near the museum and he was deeply involved in his work. For my part, I have been preparing for a conference in Portugal for the last month and only got back on Friday.”

“I see,” said Fiorella. “Forgive the indelicacy, but was there…”

“Anyone else?” Theodora supplied hurriedly, tossing her hair our of her eyes impatiently. “Yes. Enrico has said as much, though he did not volunteer her name. In reality it’s immaterial. The truth is, we have been drifting apart for years. It was time. Change is always stressful of course, but it was working out rather well.”

She smiled, but stroked her leg as if to soothe herself.

“Anyway, the point is that I really have no idea what he was doing lately.” We’ve been living completely separate lives. The last time I spoke to him was back in July.”

It was clear that she was trying to end the interview, but Fiorella was not satisfied.

“How many years were you married, Doctor Theodora?”

“Thirteen. We were both in our thirties when we met.”

“How would you describe your husband’s character?”

“Enrico?” She bit her lip again, searching for the right words. “If I had to sum him up in three adjectives, I’d say rigorous, blind, and devoted.”

“Devoted?”

Theodora laughed.

“Oh, not to me, of course. Not to a mere mortal. No, I mean to his principles, to the God of Work.”

“And blind?” Giorgia asked, flummoxed.

“I mean he didn’t understand people. He was congenitally unable to see what mortals tick, that they could be influenced by other people’s opinions or by their own emotions, or that they could be devious in any way.” She nodded, approving her own pronouncement.

“Did he belong to any sort of club or religious group?”

“Well, he was Catholic if that’s what you mean. But not what I’d call a practicing one.”

Fiorella held up a photograph of an ouroboros symbol.

“Does this symbol mean anything to you?”

Theodora peered at it and nodded.

“Of course, it’s the ouroboros, the snake that devours itself. It appears in the Cleopatra the Alchemist, the legendary Alexandrian alchemist of the third century. Some say she invented the alembic.” She caught herself. “Sorry, I’m in lecture mode.”

“We do have another question,” said Giorgia. “Did you fly directly from Portugal?”

“Yes, from Lisbon to Torino. By Ryan Air. I arrived at one o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll give you my flight number if you like.”

“Please,” said Giorgia, nodding with satisfaction.

 * * * 

The next person they interviewed was Greta Hertz, Enrico Marconi’s colleague. The first thing both Fiorella and Giorgia noticed was that her hair was long and blonde, pulled back from her forehead in a severe bun. Her skin was pale and, not wearing any make up, she looked thoroughly washed out, emphasizing the fact that her eyes were red, as if from crying.

They had invited her to the police station, where it was easier to record statements. The interview room was rather bare and had a doctor’s-office feeling. Fiorella wasn’t entirely sure whether this was an advantage or disadvantage.

Fiorella thanked her for coming in, expressed her condolences, obtained essential information. She was fifty-three years old, an Austrian national, had been working at the museum for three years and her specialty was the hieroglyphic script.

“What was your relationship with Enrico?” Fiorella asked.

“He was my superior. He was a good boss. Yes, he had high standards but if you met these then he trusted you to do your job and did not bother you with unnecessary matters. That said, if you didn’t meet these standards, well, he could perhaps seem difficult.”

“Was there anyone who didn’t meet these standards at the museum?” Fiorella asked, taking the hint.

“Yes,” said Greta primly. “I’d rather not say who they are because I don’t see how it is relevant to this matter.”

“OK,” said Fiorella, sensing that Greta was in a very defensive place and wishing to lower her hackles.

“On a personal note, were you friendly with Enrico?”

“I respected him,” Greta said concisely, “But I wouldn’t say we were friends. He was one of the best Egyptologists of our time and his loss is a severe blow to our profession. I don’t know if you are aware of it, but he secured a coup recently—millions of dollars in government money are now earmarked to developing our research wing. He’d worked for years to achieve that. He had great plans for the future. It’s a terrible shame.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Fiorella. “Then you didn’t see him on a social basis, outside of work?”

“No,” said Greta in a final tone. “He was very private.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“It was Friday morning, in his office. We were discussing some potential acquisitions and…and other matters. He wanted my opinion,” she said. With astonishment, Fiorella and Giorgia watched as her cheeks were suffused with a deep red blush.

“His opinion?” Giorgia asked.

“Yes, and, well, he wanted me to make a decision.” She looked very flustered but was clearly not going to elaborate. Fiorella decided to change tack.

“Did he mention his plans for the rest of the day?”

Greta frowned, remembering.

“Yes. He said he was planning to take the afternoon off. I believe he was going to meet someone for a drink.”

“I wonder, did he ever mention to you whether he was seeing anyone, romantically?” Fiorella asked, observing her reaction closely.

“As I said, he was very private,” she said primly. “I was aware of the separation, but he never spoke about that at work.” The blush had gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Just as a formality,” said Fiorella, “But could you describe your movements for Friday afternoon and evening?”

“Certainly. At twelve o’clock I had lunch alone at a trattoria near the museum called Sale. At twelve-thirty I went back to my office and worked there until four o’clock. I then decided to leave early as I had a bad headache—a migraine, really. I told my colleague Ahmed I was leaving early. Then I stopped at a pharmacy and bought aspirin, before catching the fifty-five bus to Vanchiglia. I stopped at Conad for some groceries, then went to my apartment. I must have arrived at about 5 o’clock and then slept for three hours. I talked with my mother on the phone for half an hour, made some soup, and then went back to bed, where I stayed until the morning.”

“I see,” said Fiorella. “Is there anyone who can confirm this?”

“Ahmed and I my mother, I suppose (we had a video call). And I still have my receipts I think.”

“Excellent.”

“Oh!” Greta said, putting a hand to her forehead. “I suppose I should really mention the text. I forgot about it because I assumed it was a prank or a spam or a wrong number perhaps.”

“Text?”

“Yes. There was a text purporting to be from Enrico. But it was so unlike him, you see.”

“Can I see it?” Giorgia asked.

“Of course.” Greta pulled her phone out and pulled it up to her face—she seemed to be short-sighted. “Yes, here it is.” She handed the phone to the policewomen. It read as follows:

Can’t wait to C U Monday XX [sent Friday 10.03 pm]

“Oh dear! You don’t think…the murderer sent that do you?” Greta said, suddenly appalled.

* * * 

 The next member of staff to step into the interview room was Valentino Brano, a tall, handsome, well dressed, well groomed man with a five o’clock shadow, an expensive watch and a dimpled smile. Fiorella appreciated his taste but was surprised to find herself put off by the overall effect. What was it? She wondered. Perhaps it was the flawlessness itself, the enviable sheen of someone apparently untouched by the griefs, annoyances, and embarrassments of ordinary life.

His handshake was warm, firm.

“How are you, Commissaria? Dreadful business, dreadful.”

He hitched his trouser legs up, sat on the chair as if it were a throne, and crossed his legs.

Valentino was 51. He’d been the curator in charge of wooden artefacts for five years. He and his wife Lucia were colleagues. They owed it to Enrico’s kindness that they were hired at the same time.

“In fact, he was considering another candidate for Lucia’s current position. He was a highly respected expert from Japan, but Enrico was eager to hire me. I insisted that Lucia was a sine qua non, so he graciously agreed to engage her, even if at a lower rate of pay.”

“But…isn’t she qualified for the position?” Fiorella asked in surprise.

“Oh, yes, yes. Of course. Lucia is a very promising scholar. She’s still very young, you see. She was 21 when we married. She's 27 now. I only mean she didn’t yet have the experience, the clout, you know that the Japanese professor had. She’s learning quickly, though.”

“Mr. Brano, how would you describe your relationship with Enrico Marconi?”

“We were on excellent terms. The relationship was defined by mutual respect. I’m utterly distraught at his death and so is Lucia. In fact,” he broke off and twisted his watch around on his wrist in a nervous gesture. “Speaking of my wife...Lucia is very sensitive, I’m afraid…”

“Yes? You’re afraid?” Giorgia prompted.

He shook his head and a shadow crossed his face. Fiorella realized she’d been mistaken thinking that his life was untouched by pain.

“Lucia is a very sensitive person,” he continued in a choked voice. “She loved Enrico. I’m afraid this business will push her off balance. Is there any way she can be spared? She’s simply an innocent child. One look is enough to tell you she would have nothing to do with such…such brutality.”

“By ‘this business’, you mean the murder investigation?” Fiorella asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes, yes, exactly. You see, she’s not well…emotionally, I mean.” He looked at Fiorella pleadingly, tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry Mr. Brano,” she said as gently as she could, “But we must talk to everyone who had access to the key of the glass display case, and that includes Lucia I’m afraid.”

He bowed his head, like a warrior in defeat. Really, he had a lovely skull.

“Very well,” he murmured.

“Can you tell us where you were on Friday, Mr. Brano?” Giorgia asked, oblivious to the preceding scene of pathos.

“Yes,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and passed his hands over his eyes. “I was in Milan speaking at an academic conference. I’d driven there on Thursday night. I stayed at The Stranger hotel and arrived at the first talk at eight o’clock. It was a busy day, I didn’t get a break until about four o’clock, when I got a couple of hours to sleep. Then I went to dinner and stayed up rather late. I checked out of the hotel at ten o’clock the next morning and got back home at twelve.”

“Thank you, that will do very well,” said Fiorella. “On a different note, were you aware that Mr. Marconi was seeing anyone romantically? His wife has informed us of their separation.”

Valentino looked sheepish.

“There has been speculation in the office, naturally.”

“You guessed someone?”

“Well, our guess was Greta. They’d been close lately. And she does make a more natural match for him, perhaps, than Theodora did.”

“How so?”

“Well, it’s quite clear that she adores him. And most men like that, don’t they?” he grinned.

Fiorella raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“In my experience, it very much depends on the particular man and, for that matter, the woman.”

He shrugged.

“When was the last time you saw Enrico?” Asked Giorgia, stubbornly determined to clarify the timetable.

“Would’ve been Thursday afternoon, at work. I reminded him I was going to the conference and he wished me well. He said, ‘Do us proud.’ Really, he was like a big brother to me.” He said sadly.

“Last question,” said Fiorella. “Have you ever seen this symbol?” She held up a piece of card with the ouroboros drawn on it.

Valentino frowned.

“It looks familiar, of course,” he said. “But I can’t tell why exactly…”

* * * 

Ahmed Ali was the picture of anxiety. Like Valentino, he was dressed expensively but in his case the suavity was spoiled by his obvious terror.

He mopped his sweating brow with a bright-yellow handkerchief. His breathing was laboured and he spoke loudly, as if to overcome the noisy machinery of his heart.

He was born in Alexandria, he came to work at the museum in Turin six months ago, bringing a large family with him. He’d previously been working at a museum in his native city, specializing in the Greco-Egyptian period. His relationship with the murdered man had been ‘Excellent.’

He’d been at work from eight to five. Then he’d gone home and had dinner with his family. After that, at about eight-thirty, he’d gone to a bar called Kemet, where he talked with friends. Yes, they knew him there, they’d remember.

The eighth time he mopped his brow, sunlight caught a gold ring on the pinky of his right hand. Fiorella saw that, embedded in it, an orange-red gemstone. Engraved in the gemstone was the symbol of the ouroboros.