by Tim Parks
‘Oh?’ Morris felt a shade unnerved. The inspector’s voice was heavy and slow, professional, and Morris remembered the businesslike manner of the man in the garden at Quinzano, the impression of experience. How long would it take him to come up with the real reason behind that messy collage?
‘Yes, in which case leaving the tracksuit in a bin in Vicenza—you heard about that, didn’t you? Yes, they left it at the rail station—that might just be some kind of deliberate red herring, trying to take us away from the immediate family circle. But my assistant here tells me you have some new information.’
‘Well, I’m not sure if it’s really useful, but it’s something I remembered yesterday and then when I saw about the kidnap . . .’ Damn! How on earth could he have seen about the kidnap in Bari? No Arena there. Rimini was one thing, just a couple of hundred kilometres south of Verona and crawling with tourists from the northern towns, but Bari? Morris trembled, switching the phone from one sweaty hand to another. It was awfully close in the booth. Nobody would ever want an Arena in Bari, surely.
‘Yes? Pronto?’
‘Well, Massimina mentioned to me that there was some strange character always bothering her on the bus when she came home from school. He used to try and sit or stand next to her and stare at her.’
‘She didn’t give you any description?’
‘No. Oh, only that he was very hairy, and that his eyes were odd. I got the impression he must have been around forty, but I don’t know if she actually told me that. I just told her to stick near the bus driver or the other people and not to worry too much. I mean, the world is full of people like that and they’re generally harmless. But now . . .’
‘No other description? She didn’t say where he got on, where he got off, what time of day it was?’
Morris left himself an authentic pause for thought. He was feeling confident again. The inspector was swallowing it.
‘Well, she went to school at the Stimate and got the bus straight home when the school closes at one. So it would have been around that time. But where he got on and off I don’t know. I can’t imagine he got off at Quinzano itself because if so she’d have known him. Everybody knows everybody there.’
‘Quite.’ Inspector Marangoni was obviously writing as he spoke, which gave Morris a breather. ‘Quite. We’ll have some men check out the bus route around that time for a few days.’
‘But if he’s the one who kidnapped her he won’t be on the bus any more.’ Morris managed to get some exasperation and fear into his voice. ‘If only I’d asked for more information, taken it more seriously.’
‘We can interview the passengers who regularly travel that line and maybe get something from them.’
‘I think I should come directly back to Verona,’ Morris said with determination.
‘Why’s that, Signor Duckworth?’
‘I don’t know. I’m so worried about it all and I’m not enjoying my holiday at all. Then maybe if I was in Verona I could help in some way. I could . . .’
‘Look, Signor Duckworth, I really don’t see any way you can help us here any more than you already have. Remember, you didn’t see Massimina for a full month before the kidnap. As for her family, I’m fairly certain that they don’t want to see you around. They appear to feel somewhat embarrassed in your regard, and hence hostile.’ The inspector chuckled in quite a fatherly way. ‘That’s life. Now, you’re with friends down there, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So you’ve got something to take your mind off it all.’
‘But . . .’ It was quite touching actually, this concern for his state of mind.
‘The decision’s yours, obviously, but I’d advise you to stay. There’s no need to feel in any way guilty about not rushing back, seeing as there’s nothing for you to do here.’
‘And if I go with them to Turkey?’
‘I’ve got no objections to you going at all. If you want information, just phone this number as often as you like and my assistant will tell you where we’re up to. You remember Tolaini. He was with me when we met in Quinzano.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Morris said miserably, and after a few more moments the conversation ended.
He stayed in the booth and on impulse decided to call his father. He dialled out the code for England, then the Acton number, listening to all the click and echo of exchange connections until at last there was the English ringing tone. Its familiarity gave him something of a jolt, so near, so usual, he could have been at Victoria station announcing his return home to a life with the Milk Marketing Board. Perhaps he’d tell Father he’d earned a shit-load of money speculating on the stock exchange or something and that he was going to buy himself a house on the hills outside Florence and would Dad like to come over for a week or two in September to get a bit of a suntan? That should shake him up.
But there was no answer. After a moment or two, Morris realized it was just a regular Thursday morning back there in London and Dad would be sweating away over a hot die-drawing machine in Park Royal. Shame. Each to his own though. Unicuique faber est . . . etc. He went out into the foyer, paid, asked for the Verona directory and scribbled down Bobo’s address.
No, but he should have been a detective himself, Morris thought, stepping out into the street. He’d never have missed a detail like how could somebody have got hold of the news of that kidnap in Bari. Maybe it still wasn’t too late even. He could go back and sign up and be a detective before he was thirty-five. Quite feasible. Surely the police of all people wouldn’t reject him. The only bind being those two years you had to spend on the beat, and then the image of course which scarcely conformed to Morris’s idea of what a cultured . . . Unless the case had got a mention on the national radio news, or television? That’s why the inspector hadn’t been surprised. They had mentioned the kidnap on the national network with Massimina’s face covering the whole screen!
Morris stopped in his stride, perturbed a moment in the busy street packed with disappointed beachgoers. But they couldn’t surely. It would never have made it to the national news. A small-town kidnap like that. This wasn’t England where they had to dig and scrape for drama. Here they had the government dying and resurrecting itself every day and the mafia shifting more arms than the whole of the Warsaw Pact put together. So what did they want with Massimina’s story? Morris regained his stride and hurried back towards the pensione. Mental laziness on Marangoni’s part, that was all it was. He had a feeling though that they should get out of Rimini as soon as possible. It wasn’t a good idea being seen too much in the same place. People began to recognize you, to place you.
‘Ehi! Eh là!’
Morris had reached the end of the main drag and was cutting through the more ancient side streets when he heard the sound of steps, half running, half hobbling behind him.
‘Morris!’
Before he could even turn, a hand clasped his naked arm. And it was Giacomo. Gammy Jackie. Morris found he was trembling. The slightest thing.
‘I was going to go over to the pensione, but then when I saw you . . .’ Giacomo was out of breath and held on to Morris a moment for balance. Morris’s mind hunted back and forth at the speed of light for some reason why Giacomo might want to talk to him. To apologize perhaps? For what a pig he’d been last night.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, you know you said Massimina had run away.’
‘She said.’
‘Right, well. What’s her surname?’
Morris barely hesitated. He looked Giacomo straight in the dark eyes, his own cold and blue, as if confronting destiny. ‘Trevisan,’ he said. ‘Massimina Trevisan.’
‘From Quinzano? On the hill above Verona?’
‘Right.’
And Giacomo started to laugh. ‘But they think she’s been kidnapped, man! Didn’t you phone them or something to tell them she’s okay?’
‘What?’
‘They think she’s been kidnapped,’ Giacomo insisted. ‘Abducted, carried
off. Look, I picked up an Arena this morning, by a miracle, the last one in the newsagent’s, and there’s an article about Massimina being kidnapped.’
‘No!’ Morris pushed a hand through blond hair, covering his face a moment. If only he’d bought both copies! ‘But she telephoned. And then we’ve written. I posted the letter myself. There must be some mistake.’
‘I don’t know.’ Giacomo was excited. He obviously thought it was all wildly amusing. ‘Come back to the hotel and have a look at the paper. Maybe she was just too scared to telephone, you know what girls are, and then the post being what it is the letters mightn’t have arrived yet. When did you post them?’
Morris was already falling in step with Giacomo in the direction of his hotel. His face was slippery with sweat and his limbs felt like wax. Think, think, think! He ran his front teeth back and forth along his lower lip.
‘Right away. Saturday morning. We . . .’
Giacomo was roaring with laughter. ‘It seems they’ve got half the police force in the Veneto scouring around Vicenza because they found a tracksuit there they thought was hers.’
‘Oh no.’ Morris was planless, in an abyss.
‘You’d better phone the police or the family or something as soon as possible. You can phone from the hotel.’ Giacomo turned a moment, laughing, eyes bright, and he clapped Morris on the back. ‘Hey, no need to worry too much. You’ve gone pale as hell, man. It’s her fault if she said she’d telephoned and then didn’t. Anyway, you can sort it out in a second in a call to the police.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Thank God there’d been no mention of himself in that particular article.
Giacomo and Sandra were staying in the Albergo degli Ulivi, a name which appeared to be entirely unjustified by the broad flat street planted here and there with maritime pines and lined with the same modern ten-storey apartment blocks and hotels that filled every side street within five minutes’ walk of the sea.
‘Very apt,’ Morris said with a grin and was faintly pleased with himself. He was still alive. He could still notice things, make dry remarks. And then when Giacomo leaned over the hotel desk and asked for his key, he registered the obvious at once. Sandra must be out! He turned abruptly away from the receptionist. Mustn’t catch her eye.
‘Where’s Sandra?’ he asked innocently as they stood in the elevator. Sweating blood.
‘Out. She thinks she needs a new bathing costume for some reason, you know women. Doesn’t like the straps on the present one. As if new straps could give her a pair of tits.’
And then Giacomo began to talk rather unpleasantly about women. He wasn’t really serious about Sandra at all, he said. It was just a fling. And frankly, that was all women were good for. Otherwise they interfered with your work, with their marriages and homes and babies, and then wanted to make you feel guilty the moment you stopped paying a hundred per cent attention a hundred per cent of the time, or they’d dash off to flirt with other men in the hope it would bother you. His wife was a bitch, pure and simple, that was all there was to it. You could never live in peace and quiet with women. And so he was separating and would live on his own and work alone and save up his sex life for the odd fling like this with a lusty ticket like Sandra. She may not have much tit, poor girl, but once you got her between the sheets, God she was a goer. Oh yes! A real squeeze.
It was precisely the kind of conversation Morris had always avoided in male company. ‘Does she know?’ he asked politely. ‘I mean, about you not being serious.’
‘Sandra? No, she thinks she’s going to come and live in Verona and play the artist’s mistress game.’ He laughed. (And the man was ugly as sin, Morris thought. Small, gammy, hairy as hell with a chewed southern toffee of a face. A real runt.)
What in Christ’s name was he supposed to do?
‘But I don’t have any trouble telling them. You know? You have to be cruel to be kind sometimes, that’s my motto. What about you and Massimina? Nice girl. Quite a pair.’ And with barely a pause for Morris to reply, he said, ‘Not interested in sharing and all that, are you?’ His face lit up in a boyish, self-excusing little grin. ‘I mean, we could all go on holiday together in a foursome, share and share alike. Sandra’s quite into that kind of thing and she likes you. She thinks you’re sweet. She was saying what a change you are from the snoots she’s used to. We could even take some photos if you like. No holes barred. Share the profits. Have a hell of a holiday, I can promise you.’
Morris was quite shocked and had to swallow hard. It was the kind of horrible thing you read about in the worst magazines. (There’d been something like it in Cartuccio’s Penthouse come to think of it—three people contorted together while somebody else took a photo. Awful.)
‘What d’you think?’ Giacomo had started talking again. ‘It’s a pretty big turn-on doing it with more than one,’ he laughed, ‘sucking and fucking, oral and anal, you . . .’
‘We’re very much in love, actually,’ Morris got out, positively croaking. He felt nauseous. ‘Really, we . . .’ The lift stopped suddenly, shifting his stomach. He made a great effort to hold himself straight, to remain in perfect control of body and voice. ‘We mean to get married just as soon as it’s her eighteenth birthday. In six weeks’ time.’
Don’t touch anything in the apartment. Nothing. Nothing!
‘Oh well then, congratulations, if that’s the situation.’ For some reason Giacomo made an absurd little bow, then changed the subject abruptly: ‘I hope the police don’t give you any bother over this kidnap business. There’s the paper, look. I’ll just go and mix a couple of drinks. Martini okay for you?’ He went through a door into what was presumably the bathroom. Morris looked quickly round the room. What, where, how?
But there must be some other way, some . . .
‘Pretty amazing, eh? Would you believe it?’ Giacomo called over the sound of tinkling glasses. ‘We’ll have to phone directory enquiries to get hold of the Verona Questura. Phone the local police and they won’t even know what you’re talking about. All they ever do here is arrest nudists on the beach.’
The paper was on the bed, open at the accusing page. Morris picked it up and deliberately rustled. Table lamp, no. Chair, no. Radio, no. The room was so sparsely furnished. A copy of Il Fotografo with a dirty nude on the front. And he only had a few seconds! Dear God, there must be something. A paperweight? Paperweight was the classic. Wasn’t one.
(Something to do what? What was he going to do? Morris!)
‘With vodka or without?’
‘With.’ His voice was a croak. He should be making comments on the newspaper. He should be shouting, ‘Oh no, but this is amazing, and some cranky bastard’s gone and sent them a ransom letter.’ The plant pot, the plant pot, it was the only thing. What a farce!
There was a tropical plant in the corner in a ten-inch deep earthenware pot. He lifted it carefully. It was certainly heavy enough. But could he wield it properly? No, he hadn’t meant to do this at all. Morris Duckworth, always first in class, Mother’s boy, a pansy his father used to . . .
He was behind the bathroom door now. Giacomo was putting glasses on a tray. Absurd. Television farce. Bad taste. He lifted the thing over his head, gritted his teeth and tried to tense his trembling arms. But instead of yesterday’s heat, he was shivering. Muscles and tendons refused to tighten. His buttocks felt soft and wobbly.
The top leaves of the plant rustled and broke against the ceiling. And then as Giacomo’s curly head appeared, he brought down the pot hard, with absolutely everything he had. Everything. The pot went into fragments and Giacomo fell to the floor in a mess of broken glasses and scattered earth. He hadn’t even cried at all, but he twitched now and rolled to one side, then let out a long, low groan. Not dead. Morris cast about desperately for something else to hit him with. You couldn’t kick with sandals. It was like having a live trout in the kitchen and the rolling pin nowhere in sight. Till finally in a flash of genius (because he was a genius) he turned and dashed to the bed. The pi
llow. Of course. The pillow!
He rolled Giacomo over, gasping and whimpering, and covered his face with the lemon coloured pillow. Then pressed down for all he was worth. The body offered only the feeblest resistance, twitching and at one moment lifting a weak hand. Morris looked at his watch, counted two whole minutes and then eased the pressure. Barely a trickle of blood from the head. He took a wrist and felt for some pulse. Nothing. Ten seconds, twenty, nothing. He stood up. He wouldn’t take the pillow away from his face though. He could do without seeing that. Feeling utterly weak and exhausted, he stumbled over to the bed and lay down flat on his back, eyes closed, fighting back a sudden nausea.
Five minutes later, less, and he was on his feet again. He’d have to get out before Sandra came. Or no? Or wait for her? It was quite mad. Thank God they weren’t nice people. Partner swapping! ‘She’s into that kind of thing . . .’ Scum. ‘She was saying what a change you were from the snoots she’s used to.’ Filth. Go, stay? His hands were trembling violently. And Massimina? God only knew what Massimina mightn’t be getting up to. Go then. But first he’d have to make this mess more plausible.
He went over to Giacomo and felt the front pockets of his jeans. Material didn’t leave prints, did it? Nothing there. He slipped a hand under. The wallet was in the back pocket and tight. He held down the pillow over the face and tried to heave the body over. It seemed impossibly heavy. He had to take the hand away from the pillow and use all his strength to move the dead weight. The pillow came away, but the face was pointing down now. He snatched out the wallet and put it in his own pocket. Then to the desk drawer by the window. He pulled it out and spilled cosmetics, perfume and small change over the floor. Nothing of value. But cameras and camera equipment in the cupboard beneath. A glance out of the window into the street showed a clearing sky with thin sunshine that came and went. A plastic bag, that was what he needed. He looked all round. Nothing. Then into the bathroom. They had hung up a plastic bag on the handle of the little cupboard there to put tissues in and the like. Used rubbers. Pigs. Morris emptied the lot onto the floor. Water. He needed water, water, water. He was drinking directly from the tap when he realized he might have left fingerprints on the desk. Damn. He should find a cloth and rub the thing hard. A cloth. Sheet from the bed. He picked up the plastic bag, went back into the main room and loaded in the cameras, then the wallet too. Just wipe out the fingerprints and . . .
