Persona Non Grata (Inspector Trotti Book 3)

by Timothy Williams

  “You laugh at me.” She stopped so suddenly that he almost walked in to her. She held out a thick, short finger. She had pale eyes and no eyelashes. “I could have married—I could have had children. Don’t laugh at what you can’t understand. I didn’t have to become a nun.” She spoke in a flat monotone. “If loving Jesus means emptying bedpans, I am not ashamed of my love for Him.” She turned again. “This way please.”

  They were new wards, part of the expansion at the beginning of the 1970s when there was money coming from Rome for the university. A room with six beds, at the same time both institutional and yet human. Posters of furry animals and television stars on the wall. Inspector Gadget and Heidi. A lot of flowers and two children in red pajamas running hurriedly towards their cots.

  “Children!”

  The underlying harshness in her voice reminded Trotti of one of his aunts. Zia Martina lost her husband at Vittorio Veneto and spent the next fifty years wearing shiny black dresses and resenting the happiness of others. She went to Mass every morning and lit a candle to the memory of her husband.

  The two barefoot children scrambled into their beds and snatched the blankets towards their small, white chins.

  A third bed was occupied and at first Trotti thought that Laura was asleep. On approaching the bed he realized that her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. Beneath the nightdress he could see that her chest was wrapped in tight bandages.

  The nun placed a hand on the little girl’s forehead and then going to the foot of the bed, picked up the record sheet attached to the bedstead. “You’re doing well, Laura. We’re very proud of you.”

  There was no movement in the girl’s eyes.

  Trotti spoke softly. “Laura, how do you feel?” A long time since he had last been with children.

  The girl said nothing.

  Trotti smiled. “I have brought you a present.” He raised the large bear and set it beside her on the clean white sheet.

  She shook her head.

  “You don’t want a bear?”

  The eyes blinked but they did not look at Trotti.

  “I want to help you, Laura. I am your friend—and this bear belongs to my daughter. She is a big girl now and soon she is going to get married. An old bear—his name is Chinotto and nobody has ever found out why. My daughter has left home and she has forgotten about him. And I am a busy man.” He tapped Chinotto’s chin. “Bears need people to talk to them.”

  The nun was looking at him with a frown on her forehead.

  “Chinotto,” Trotti said and he looked down at his feet. “You would be doing me a favor if you took him. For a day or two—or perhaps a bit longer. Every time I see Chinotto looking at me with his cross-eyes, I am reminded of my daughter—and I haven’t seen …”

  Her nightdress did not have long sleeves and her left arm was a series of small bandages, neat flesh-colored squares anchored with sticking plaster.

  “I am not a child,” Laura Vardin said tersely and, with a sharp nudge of her elbow, she pushed the bear off the side of the bed. “And you are not a friend of mine. I have never seen you before.”

  11: Stetho

  “MY FAULT,” TROTTI said.

  Dottor James Wafula smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the nun, if I were you. They’re all like that. They’re very good—and, unlike the other nurses, they don’t have to be reminded a hundred times. Dedicated, but susceptible. Highly susceptible.”

  “I’m talking about the girl.”

  Wafula nodded and put the cup of coffee down.

  A small room, both neat and comfortable, with two leather armchairs and a large mahogany desk. A white laboratory coat hung from the stand and the stethoscope had been thrown over the back of a chair. The odor coming from the fresh coffee drowned the smell of antiseptic.

  “I am not a psychiatrist,” the African doctor said. “Although I did do a course in child psychology in Makerere.”

  “Macerata?”

  “In Uganda. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Strange behavior for a little girl. Eleven years old—my daughter was never like that.”

  “Times have changed, Commissario. And an eleven-year-old child today is not like an eleven-year-old of ten years ago. Children are growing up faster—a lot faster.”

  Trotti found himself resenting the suggestion that he was too old to understand.

  “Eleven-year-olds are not interested in dolls—and certainly not in teddy bears. They’re interested in boys.” Wafula leaned forward and picked up the cup of coffee. “Laura probably feels that she has been betrayed.”

  “Why betrayed?”

  “A girl likes to think that she is coping, that she is in charge. And at puberty most normal children manage to stay in control, even if it is not easy. But suddenly she is attacked—attacked in a way that was probably sexual.” Wafula’s Italian was perfect; only the slight accent betrayed the fact it was not his mother tongue. “In her mind, she is still just a little girl.” He shrugged. “Not the end of the world and certainly not something she’ll never get over. She’s a tough little thing.”

  “I hope so.”

  “We normally manage to forget what we don’t want to remember.”

  “You said you weren’t a psychiatrist.”

  A flash in the doctor’s eyes—perhaps even a flash of anger. “We are all psychiatrists to a certain extent. Even policemen.” He drank. “The wounds will heal, and so will the wound in her mind. Time cures everything—while gradually leading us onward to the grave.” He looked at Trotti. “Death is the cure to everything.”

  Trotti said nothing.

  “I don’t think you need worry about Laura. She has had a rather bloody introduction to adulthood. She will recover. And her reaction to you—in the circumstances—seems to me both healthy and normal.”

  Trotti put his hands on the leather armrests. “Thank you for the coffee …”

  “But it wasn’t about that, Commissario, that I wanted to talk to you. Have another cup of coffee.”

  “I must be going—I’m driving up into the hills this afternoon.”

  “The hills? Tarzi? I thought I recognized the accent.”

  “For a foreigner, Dottor Wafula, you are very good at accents.”

  “And to think my father ran around in a loin cloth, shaking a spear.” A brilliant glimpse of the teeth. “Perhaps you would like to bring me back some wine from the hills—real, full-blooded wine. I’d be—”

  “There are a lot of places in this town where you can buy good wine from the hills, Dottor Wafula.”

  “Good wine, with good anti-freeze.”

  “I see you have already developed your prejudices about the Italian people.”

  “We are all prejudiced at some time or another.”

  Trotti stood up. “I must be going.”

  “We are not getting on very well.” A very wide grin. “Be careful, Commissario Trotti. My Ugandan predecessor in this job went back to Africa and became Minister of the Interior. In six months he managed to murder one hundred thousand of my compatriots.” An unassuming shrug. And then, with deadly irony, “We Africans are not always very bright—what can you expect from people who have just climbed out of the trees?—but we can be dangerous.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Do please have another cup of … Ugandan coffee.”

  Trotti sat down again.

  “I said I wanted to talk to you about the girl.”

  “We have already discussed her, Dottor Wafula.”

  “But we haven’t discussed her father.”

  Trotti frowned. The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know why I want to tell you all this—I am sure you have got computers. And I know that you have better things to do than waste your time with a stupid black man.” A mischievous smile. “But it is not every day that I have the opportunity of chatting with a policeman—a real policeman.”

  “An ageing policeman, who has been in the PS for too long. A policeman who has got anoth
er four years to get through before a well-earned retirement. A policeman who asks for nothing more than to leave this city and to go and live in the hills and make his own wine—wine without anti-freeze.”

  “Commissario—we all have our bad days.” The smile was sympathetic. “Vardin,” the surgeon said, “you know who he is?”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “You haven’t always lived in this city, Commissario?”

  “I was in Bologna—and in Bari. I came back in seventy-seven.”

  “Then you do like the city?”

  “It was my wife who wanted to return.” A dismissive movement of his hand. “Why do you ask about Vardin?”

  “You have interviewed him, I suppose, and he has told you where he works?”

  “He is unemployed.”

  Wafula nodded. “And before he was unemployed he worked at the sewing-machine factory.”

  “Well?”

  “And before that he worked for AVIS.”

  “So what?”

  “AVIS, Commissario. The voluntary blood bank. I knew I recognized his name. He was the porter—and it was he who gave evidence about the comings and goings at the dispensary. About Galandra.”

  “The AVIS dispensary?”

  “You have records in the Questura, Commissario—and I can’t remember very much. But I remember the name—because I remember thinking that he was courageous. From Udine or Trieste, isn’t he? A man with guts.”

  Trotti had picked up his cup although it was empty.

  “It must have been in seventy-five or seventy-six. No, seventy-six, because that was the year I arrived in this city and I was working for Professor Adunata. That’s right, seventy-six.”

  “What happened in seventy-six?”

  “The AVIS trial.”

  “And Vardin was involved?”

  “Vardin—I am quite sure. Either him or a relative—or else a coincidence. It’s not a common name and I have got a good memory. The people at the blood bank—they were getting all the blood from the donors and then selling it to the hospital watered down. They were selling plasma and pocketing the money. And in the end it was Vardin’s testimony that sent them to jail. The man—the ringleader—he was sent away for seven years.”

  Trotti listened in silence.

  “Ten years ago—it took over three years for the thing to get to court. So by my calculations, he should be coming out of prison any moment now. With a grudge against Vardin.”

  “A grudge?”

  The wide grin. “More coffee, Commissario?”

  12: Principessa

  INSTINCTIVELY HE PUT his hand to his mouth.

  Over the last couple of months it had been getting stronger, more assertive, making life on the third floor of the Questura more unpleasant.

  Today the smell was overpowering; it worked its way down the back of Trotti’s throat.

  As Trotti stepped out of the lift, Gino looked up and smiled wanly.

  “Any news?” Trotti asked, lowering his hand.

  Under the table, Principessa was motionless, curled up and her paws outstretched. Hardly a hint of movement although the dog’s eyes were open, pink and looking at Trotti without interest. Gino and Principessa had been together for more than fourteen years.

  “A woman waiting for you, Commissario. Signora Bianchini—with her son.”

  Trotti placed his hand briefly on the blind man’s shoulder then went down the corridor into his office.

  She was sitting in the canvas armchair. She wore the same skirt and her slim legs were crossed. She turned her head very slightly as Trotti entered his office.

  “Buongiorno, Signora Bianchini.”

  A small smile. “My son has decided that he would like to see you.” She gestured to where Riccardo Bianchini stood by the window, staring out at Strada Nuova.

  “It is very kind of you to cooperate.”

  The smell had worked itself into the dingy office. It was coming through the wooden hatch in the wall.

  “Riccardo is willing to answer any questions you may have.”

  Trotti opened the window, took a deep breath and then sat down behind the desk. He moved a pile of dossiers on to the floor.

  “I don’t want you to think that my son has anything to hide.”

  Trotti looked towards the boy. Riccardo continued to stare at the street below; the oblique light fell on a sallow, thin face.

  “You want to help the Commissario, don’t you, Riccardo?”

  The boy turned and glanced coldly at his mother. Riccardo had put on a white shirt, a tie and a sports jacket. Trotti noticed the dirty fingernails and the grime embedded in his fingers. The boy—eighteen years old, tall and slim—looked ill at ease in his clothes. The shoes were new and uncreased.

  Signora Bianchini placed her hands on the armrests. “If you wish to speak to Riccardo alone …”

  Trotti gestured her back into the low chair and smiled at her.

  She returned the smile. There was something of Agnese about her—the fine bone structure and the way the almond eyes held his glance. But there was a softness to Signora Bianchini—a softness that Trotti’s wife had long abandoned in her dealings with her husband.

  A breeze came through the window and it partially carried away the sickly smell. The smell of death.

  Trotti’s mouth was dry. “Something to drink?” He ran his tongue along his lips.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Something to drink?” He smiled.

  Signora Bianchini shook her head. Her French perfume competed valiantly with the smell of the dying dog.

  “You won’t say no to a cup of coffee?” He turned in his seat and banged on the hatch. “Gino, get somebody to bring me a pot of coffee from downstairs.” Then he looked carefully at the boy.

  Riccardo Bianchini fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “Riccardo, you know what has happened?”

  The boy nodded.

  “You know that Laura is in the hospital?”

  Another nod.

  “You know that she was attacked by a man with a knife.”

  “Yes.” His face was partially hidden by the bright light of the sky behind him.

  “And you are Netta’s boyfriend?”

  “Netta and I are friends.”

  “More than just friends, I believe.”

  Trotti saw the slow blush as it moved across Riccardo’s face. He stood with his hands loosely clasped. His hair was unruly and, although he had brushed it, it showed a lack of attention. It needed cutting.

  “Netta and I are friends—that is all. There was a time …” He hesitated. “There was a time when we were a lot closer. Now we are just friends.”

  “Can you tell me where you spent Saturday night, Riccardo?”

  “I was with a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “From the Istituto Tecnico.” He nodded earnestly, stepping forward towards Trotti’s desk. “We went to the cinema and then, as it was late, I stayed at his place.”

  “Who is this friend—and where does he live?”

  “Raffaele Arzanti, via Emilia, thirteen, in the Borgo Genovese.” The boy spoke fast as if he had been preparing his answers.

  “And Raffaele—can he corroborate what you say?”

  “Of course.”

  Trotti opened the left-hand drawer and took out the dossier. He looked at Riccardo carefully before asking, “And does this mean anything to you?” He handed over the identikit pictures, two side views and one frontal.

  The boy took the sheet, his hand was shaking very slightly. Then with his eyes on the sheet of paper, he lowered himself on to the armrest of his mother’s chair. The light from the window softened the long nose and high cheekbones.

  Signora Bianchini looked up at her son; she placed her hand on his arm.

  “Well?”

  In thought, Riccardo massaged his jaw with his hand, as if he were trying to alter his own features. His face had paled, the blush had disappeared.

  “Well?�
��

  Signora Bianchini took the sheet from her son’s hand.

  “A resemblance?” Trotti asked in a flat voice.

  “It’s the old man, isn’t it?”

  Now the eyes were steady. Riccardo looked uncomfortable, but the eyes remained on Trotti. The same almond eyes as his mother. “Signor Vardin—the old bastard. He gave you the identikit.” Riccardo Bianchini spoke calmly. “It was Vardin, wasn’t it? He’s always hated me … And now he wants to get me into trouble with the police.” A dry laugh. “The cunning old bastard.”

  13: Sunglasses

  A MISTAKE. A pleasant mistake.

  The Audi moved effortlessly out of the city and Trotti sat back, enjoying the sensation—the sunlight beyond the tinted windows, the comfortable upholstery of the car and gentle, insinuating perfume that hung in the air.

  For twenty minutes he sat in silence looking through the window at the tinted September countryside. A country at work, a people at peace. Italia felix. Trotti smiled to himself. The muscles beneath his eyes seemed to ache.

  Signora Bianchini turned her head, raising an eyebrow. “Commissario?”

  He looked at the woman, at her regular features, her wide, almond eyes. “Not every day that I have such a charming chauffeur.”

  “And it is not every day that my son is accused of attacking an innocent child.”

  “Nobody is accusing him, signora.”

  The voice was cold. “But you don’t believe him.”

  “I don’t believe anybody.”

  “You believe that my son would take a knife to a little girl?”

  “Your son has nothing to be afraid of … if he has a corroborated alibi. We will check with Raffaele.” Trotti folded his arms. “Understand, signora, that I must look into every possibility, no matter how disagreeable.”

  “You really think Riccardo is a child molester?”

  “I believe nothing without proof, signora.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “You’re a strange man, Commissario Trotti.”

  “I am interested in facts—not in beliefs.”

  “A strange man—and harsh.”

  “An old man—and only a few years away from a well-deserved retirement.”

  “Old?” She smiled. “You are fishing for compliments.”