Strozzapreti

Don Cardinali ran stubby fingers along the contours of the Golden Napkin. Its shiny surface, hard and cold reflected his pudgy features back at him distortedly. He caressed it as one would a lover, stroking it and admiring the craftsmanship that went into its design. At last, after years of tough grind the coveted award was his. It was official, his was the best restaurant in the North West. So why didn’t he feel satisfied?

Bitter as chicory, he discarded the trophy by the leaded window, stood and paced the porch of his Eighteenth Century farmhouse, the ancient wooden boards creaking in protest. In the last year he’d made so many changes. He’d swapped his stodgy chef for an airy Parisian and made a mint in the process. Then he traded in his dumpling of a wife for a saucy younger model. After years of celibacy he was due some fresh meat, and he’d always had a taste for spring lamb. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. More kudos, more money, and more flesh. He emphasised the last thought with a sharp kick to a terracotta pot of snowdrops that Molly had planted years earlier. Blighters came through every year, ‘bout time he trimmed them too. He bent and wrenched the tender shoots from the raw earth, scattering petals delicate as parmesan shavings. Then using his foot like a pestle, he ground what remained of the blooms into a savage paste, smearing the board with chlorophyll and scenting the air with a dying burst of heady fragrance.

The sun hung blindingly low on the horizon so Don didn’t notice the figure approach.

‘Father Cardinali?’ The stranger’s voice was harshly melodic, like a teaspoon tapping crystal. His beefy outline silhouetted against the lemon sky.

Father? No one had called him that in years. Not since the incident. Don shivered, abruptly aware of the chill February air and drew his cashmere scarf closer to his throat. He couldn’t make out the man’s features against the glare. Nor did he recognise the accent.

‘How did you get in?’ Don snapped. He’d have the hide of that no-good bloody gatekeeper. It was his job to keep out the press, the creditors and other assorted riff-raff. It had not come cheap, his success story either personally or fiscally, and it did not do to let one’s guard down.

‘I was summoned,’ the stranger replied, coolly acidic like sorbet.

‘Summoned? What by the bells. Look I don’t know what kind of nut you think I am, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember inviting some slimy foreigner to my own personal, PRIVATE, abode.’

Don yanked his mobile out of his breast pocket with such force that he tore a hole right through it. He snapped it open and barked, ‘Security’. He paused his face taking on the colour of overripe tomatoes. ‘Security.’

The air exploded with the shrill sound of plastic shattering.

‘Piece of shit.’ He bellowed.

The stranger stood motionless. Waiting.

‘Brutus.’ Don roared, apoplectic. ‘Get out here and earn your Pedigree Chum, you worthless beast. Call yourself a Doberman? Some guard dog’ He seized hold of the front door and bellowed ‘Brutus’. At the other end of the house he heard a faint whimper. Then silence.

Don began to sweat like a roasted mushroom, inky liquid seeping from every pore. His breathing became hot and shallow, his chest tight, as if bound.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ He demanded, jumpy as popping corn.

‘You know who I am, and why I’m here.’ the stranger said, removing a piece of tubular pasta from a small box. ‘There are dues to collect, now open wide.’

**************************************************

The rooky constable shifted from one foot to the other, trying not to gag. ‘Looks like he tried to call an ambulance. Must’ve been in agony, poor old bugger.’

‘That would be my assessment.’ replied the pathologist scribbling notes in an illegible hand as he spoke. ‘It is my assumption that he was in the middle of a meal when he became concerned about the dog. When he found the body he inhaled a piece of pasta and started to choke. He staggered out here to summon help, accidentally kicking over the plant pot and slipping on the snowdrops.’ The pathologist indicated a discolouration to the floor boards with his biro. ‘He then suffered an acute myocardial infarction, brought on by shock and clutching his chest with one hand he tried to dial 999 with the other.’ The pathologist pressed the back of his thumb against his lips, deep in thought. ‘As his nervous system experienced increasing trauma he dropped the phone, shattering it in the process. The pain then became so intense he tore at his breast pocket, leaving deep abrasions on the skin underneath.’

The constable frowned ‘Like someone tried to tear his heart out.’

In layman’s terms yes. But there’s no reason to suspect foul play. The pain would have been severe and it’s not unusual for such self-inflicted wounds to show up post mortem.’ The pathologist recapped his biro and replaced it in his top pocket. ‘ I’m done here. Bag him up. We’ll run the usual tests but I don’t expect we’ll find anything.’ He walked to his car, unlocked it and turned to the constable. ‘You know the funny thing about all this, that pasta he choked on, it’s quite a rare type, you can only get it in certain regions of Italy. Strozzapreti, they call it. Priest chokers.'