‘Yes?’
‘Excuse me, Inspector. I’d like to tell you something…’
Muliere has come upstairs with him and stays for a moment. They introduce themselves, shake hands. Then Cataldo tells Muliere to go back down and wait for him in the car, in front of the hotel, tells him it will not take long and his deputy nods in agreement as he leaves.
They are in the other man’s room. He is tall, thin, about forty. And he maybe could be called handsome, with his green eyes, but Cataldo is not interested in that.
‘I’ve heard you were asking about Dr Zoboli the day before yesterday.’
He smiles and says, ‘That’s right.’
‘You said you were his colleague. Is that right too?’
‘I did, but it’s not true.’ He’s no longer smiling. ‘And I imagine I owe you an explanation.’
‘That’s a good idea. Since he’s dead.’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘Already?’
‘They’re already talking about it,’ and with his thumb he points to the floor beneath his feet. ‘Some of the guests and the owner. The same guy who told you about me, of course.’
‘Of course. And did you find him?’
‘Zoboli? No. I asked about him, I got his address, but then I never went there, to his house, and I didn’t get to see him.’
‘Not even last night?’
He shakes his head, then coughs. ‘I was here alone after supper, all night in fact.’ And since Cataldo says nothing: ‘So I don’t have an alibi. Does that matter?’
‘Well… that depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what else you have to tell me.’ And he’s uncertain whether to smile or not, but he does as he says, ‘You really didn’t meet him?’
‘No. But I phoned him in the middle of the night and I sent him a photocopy.’ And now he smiles. ‘I might as well tell you that.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’ve got all the time you need.’
‘Alright then. To start with, my surname isn’t Ferrero, it’s Marchisio. Alberto really is my first name though, and I really do come from Turin.’ He clears his voice, as though getting ready to say something difficult, or preparing to make a jump in time: ‘In Turin, eighteen years ago, on 21 February 1980, there was a big fuss when the Carabinieri arrested two Brigate Rosse terrorist leaders – Peci and Micaletto. Do you remember that?’
‘No, but go on.’
‘On the evening of the twenty-first I was near here, in Vignola… for work. Remember, I was twenty-two years old, I was studying political science and for more than a year I’d been working as an editorial assistant on Lotta Continua, the radical magazine in Turin. I was in Vignola when I saw the news on the television. So I phoned a friend of mine who said there was a rumour going round Turin that the police had found papers with names and addresses. At that point I panicked.’
‘Why?’
‘Firstly because I had met Peci some years previously when I was still at school. It was nothing important – I’d stored some leaflets for him and I’d even put him up for the night once or twice. So I was worried that maybe he might still have my name written somewhere in a notebook, in a diary… among other names, other people very different from me. And then, I did have something on my conscience too.’
‘Yes?’
‘An old charge, for resisting arrest. During a sit-in, or a march… I really don’t remember now. Nothing serious, really, but at the time I didn’t see it that way. To cut a long story short, I was so scared I decided to leave that night, hitchhiking, immediately, I didn’t even think of taking the train…’
He tells this story with a thoughtful voice, without feeling, as though digging carefully through his words. And Cataldo leans back in the armchair, hands clasped, silent.
‘A guy in a dark blue Mercedes 280S picked me up. I remember him as if it were yesterday. He was about fifty, going back home, to Guiglia… distinguished, well dressed, yes… and he spoke very little, but was very kind…’ he coughs before continuing, ‘Perhaps he just wanted company. He certainly wasn’t afraid of strangers…’ and then he adds, quietly, ‘Unfortunately.’
‘Why unfortunately?’
‘Because I was thinking about where I was going – a guest house, a hostel, under an assumed name for two or three days – when at midnight, on the main road to Guiglia, on the Torre bend, we almost crashed into a car that dazzled us as it came in the other direction. It was going fast, too fast, and it was raining a little as well…’
He stops, coughs once or twice and Cataldo continues to wait in silence, concentrated.
‘Our car skidded, came off the road and the man who’d given me the lift ended up hitting his head on the windscreen…’
‘And you?’
‘Completely unharmed. I realized that straight away.’
‘You were lucky.’
He doesn’t reply, because there’s no irony in Cataldo’s voice. ‘So I looked at him for a moment, I saw that he was bleeding, but he was still breathing. So I got out of the car, instinctively, to look for help…’
‘But you didn’t call for help.’
‘No.’ He lowers his eyes, and his voice, ‘Because I was frightened…’
‘And then?’
‘And then I ran off, across the fields, but I turned round and I saw the lights of the other car turning back and I thought, That’s good, they’ll help him…’
He stops to get his breath and Cataldo notices his shirt is soaked, under his armpits.
‘I wandered around all night, not knowing where to go. In the dark, in the rain. They caught me almost immediately, in the morning… I hadn’t gone that far, not knowing the area…’
Cataldo closes his eyes and imagines the scene: the wet hair, the stink of sweat, the sweat of fear. And a stranger. Of course they wouldn’t have believed him, even if he had had a clean record. When he opens his eyes, he nods.
‘You see, don’t you? I didn’t deny having been in the Mercedes… and the dead man had a wound on his forehead that matched the description of the accident, even though he died from loss of blood and hypothermia. They could certainly have charged me with abandoning him… just as they could have charged them, in the other car.’
‘If they’d found them…’
‘How do you know they didn’t?’
‘I didn’t. I just imagined what might have happened.’
‘You imagined, yes, okay.’ He looks down at the floor, at a point between the window and Cataldo’s armchair, then he lifts his head and his voice as he looks straight into the Inspector’s eyes: ‘Do you understand? He died like a dog, alone, and maybe he could have made it… we’ll never know… if only they’d done something, phoned a hospital. But they did nothing.’
‘They disappeared.’
‘But there’s something else. Something more serious.’
Cataldo manages to conceal the first little flash of insight he has had since the story began.
‘There was seven hundred million lire in the Mercedes, in a suitcase. The money was never found. And this changed everything.’
‘Of course,’ Cataldo guesses. ‘From failure to assist to murder and robbery.’
‘They took my record into account, together with the fact that I’d run off. They said I must have hidden the money somewhere during the night, or that I had an accomplice and that it wasn’t true I didn’t know the area, since I’d been in Vignola for a few days. It was a quick trial, just a few months, a straightforward one with no doubts, no questions. They sent me down for twenty years, reduced to eighteen for good behaviour. I got out last week.’
There’s just one question left now and Cataldo asks it immediately:
‘Why did you come back?’ And since Marchisio says nothing: ‘For the money?’
‘No. I’m innocent.’
‘For revenge then?’
‘No, for justice.’
Cataldo sig
hs, ‘And what is your idea of justice?’
‘Justice is a power that never pays for the mistakes it makes. But I meant another type of justice.’
‘But it will never repay you for all those lost years.’
‘Then let’s say that I’ve come back out of pain.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I learned inside that pain doesn’t grow old. It floats in your soul, it never sinks.’ And after a moment’s pause, ‘But it’s being resigned to pain, to injustice, that kills us for ever.’
Cataldo sighs again as he decides to change the subject.
‘Let’s get back to the money, if you don’t mind. The man, the dead man… what was his name?’
‘Cristoni. Walter Cristoni.’
‘Okay. What was he doing with all that money?’
‘At the trial his wife gave evidence. She knew exactly how much he had with him and she provided proof of the withdrawal from the bank. He was buying an old villa, which was actually worth three times as much, from an estate agency run by a cousin of hers, Tecnodomus it’s called.’
‘It still exists. Did you see the suitcase?’
‘There was a suitcase. He moved it from the passenger seat to the back when I got in. But I don’t know what was in it.’ And after a pause he adds, ‘Really.’
‘One more thing. That night… could you have been dazzled deliberately?’
‘I’ve thought about that. It’s certainly possible. But to be honest I don’t think it was deliberate. Why do you ask?’
‘Just an idea.’
It’s hot in the room. Cataldo gets up, opens a window and looks outside. Now, under the porticoes, through the glare from the sun and the groups of people, there comes to the hotel the aroma of coffee and voices from the television. And there’s a strange atmosphere to it all – tourism and old-town life, a bit sweet, a bit sad.
‘Why did you speak about “them” before, when you mentioned the other car?’
He is back in the armchair, having left the window open.
Marchisio smiles slightly, ‘So you noticed.’
‘Yes. You said “they” and then “them”. Why?’
‘Because there were two of them. And I saw one face. Just a split second, of course, but I saw it well.’
‘Even though it was raining?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes… I’m telling you, I’m sure!’
‘Alright. Calm down. Which one? The driver?’
‘No, the other one. The passenger.’
‘And…’
‘So in prison I took out a subscription to the Resto del Carlino, the edition with news from Modena. The hope was that sooner or later I would find that face, the one that’s printed here in my mind…’ and he touches his forehead with his index finger, ‘all through those long days with plenty of time for thinking.’
‘I see. And so you found it?’
He nods, then smiles. ‘Two years later, when I’d given up all hope.’
Marchisio gets up, goes to the wardrobe, takes out a bag and puts it on the bed. From the bag he pulls out a bulging green folder and when he opens it Cataldo sees it’s full of newspaper clippings. He takes one and hands it over: a small article from 1982, from the provincial news section – a party celebrating a graduation, a first class degree with distinction at the age of twenty-four. While Cataldo looks at it, Marchisio moves to his side and points to a face.
‘Him?’
Giulio Zoboli, newly graduated, looks out from the photograph – his shirt sleeves rolled, a cigarette held between his fingers. It doesn’t take much to understand what happened.
‘So you thought that by frightening him with the article about the accident and then tormenting him, he’d take you to the other guy from that night…’
‘Yes. We’re like snails, didn’t you know? We leave trails behind us. And even my car must have frightened him, must have struck some chord. It’s the same type, the same model as the one from that night. I searched for it deliberately, to make him react. People had to notice it in town, it had to set alarm bells ringing, so that they’d get in touch. That was what I wanted. Because they must have taken the money, if there was money.’
‘And have you found the other man?’
‘No, not yet. Because Zoboli died before I could. He shot himself, that’s what they were saying downstairs.’ He nods, in silence, his gaze lost in his memories. And after a while, almost as though changing subject: ‘I read a book in prison. By a poet from Sarajevo, by the name of Osti… I liked it. One poem in particular.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well… it says that perhaps one day all those left without a grave will come back… one day…’ and he coughs during the pause. ‘Well… that’s what I’ve been. A dead man without a grave, for eighteen years. But now I’m back.’
‘Quite.’
‘And my return is a stone thrown into the pond – who knows how far the ripples will go?’
‘I see that you like poets.’ Cataldo looks at him, without smiling. ‘But there’s another one. One who said: “Let the dead past bury its dead…”’
‘No. I can’t do that. I can’t come between myself and my past. I can’t do that anymore. Because the ghosts have come alive now.’
‘Which means?’
‘It means that I’m out of prison. And now someone else is in prison. In the prison called fear.’
The inspector says nothing, so Marchisio adds:
‘Fear and remorse. These are the things that give people insomnia. But remorse on its own isn’t enough to settle things.’
A fine plan, Cataldo thinks, but full of risks. Even for an intelligent man like this, and with all his patience. Because the truth is like fire, as someone once aptly said: it illuminates, but it also burns. Who knows if Marchisio would understand…
‘Do you believe me?’
Cataldo hears the question, and does not reply, but inside he thinks he does believe him. If he is a murderer, or even if he is just a thief, why come back to show his face? Why not simply recover the hidden money and flee? And there was another thing, something even a blind man would have seen.
‘Can you lend me your file?’ pointing to the folder on the bed. ‘For two or three days… no more than that.’
‘Of course, go ahead… I know it all by heart.’
And he shakes his hand, sweaty but energetic, and Cataldo is already thinking about the phone call.
He makes it a minute later, in front of the hotel, from the car with Muliere by his side. Just to confirm.
‘Was your husband left-handed?’
The answer is almost a whisper, Miriam’s yes. There really was no need to ask. After all, Cataldo had just seen the photograph of Zoboli, with that cigarette burning between his fingers.
CHAPTER SIX
School mates
Cataldo has given Muliere a summary of the conversation he just had with Marchisio, up in the hotel room, and he asks:
‘What do you think?’
‘Of him?’
‘Of him and what he’s just told me.’
Muliere clears his voice, almost as though he were about to give a speech rather than have a quiet chat with his superior in the car in the shade, Cataldo still with his mobile in his hand. ‘To tell you the truth, that Marchisio… I don’t know why, but as soon as I saw him there was something I didn’t like. Don’t you ever just like or dislike someone? On first sight I mean…’
‘No. I’m just curious about new people.’
‘And as for all the rest, if Zoboli was left-handed and the bullet hole is in the right temple… well, this might actually incriminate Marchisio, rather than clear him…’
‘Go ahead.’
‘He comes back to get revenge, but he doesn’t know that Zoboli’s left-handed… which is only logical since they didn’t actually know each other. So he kills him in cold blood and tries to make it look like a suicide. Or not?’
‘No.’
Cataldo shakes his head, without smiling. ‘Apart from the fact that Marchisio had a photograph of Zoboli – I’ve got it here with me – which makes it clear he’s left-handed. Just imagine how many times he must have looked at it while he was inside. And revenge is something that’s carried out in silence, out of the blue… you don’t announce it with phone calls or messages in the mail box. An assassin doesn’t usually give two days’ notice of his intentions.’
‘That’s not necessarily true,’ Muliere objects. ‘For someone who’s full of hate, the satisfaction of killing is just too quick. It’s better seeing the victim suffer, destroying him slowly with fear…’
‘That’s right… slowly. Sometimes it works like that, but done slowly it would be over much more than two days and it doesn’t add up this way either.’ He puts his hands in his pockets, looking for something he cannot find, perhaps his cigarettes. ‘And then there are two other things.’
‘Which are?’
‘The first is that it’s unlikely an outsider like Marchisio would have been able to get in to see Zoboli so easily – already worried and suspicious, and that evening he was on his own – and then shoot him in his own home and with his own pistol.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘By killing Zoboli he’d have lost forever any chance of finding the second guilty man.’
‘Unless he’d already found him.’
‘Without telling me? Yes, it’s possible.’ He thinks and looks Muliere in the eye, ‘But you know what that means?’
‘Sure. Soon we’ll have another dead man on our hands.’
‘Either Marchisio or the other guy. Exactly. We just have to see who’s fastest.’
He gestures with his hand, as though chasing away a nasty thought, but in fact he is just saying goodbye. Behind him, from the open door of the car, comes Muliere’s voice:
‘Shall I have him kept under surveillance?’
‘Yes, that would be best… for the moment at least. I’m going back in to get something to eat and to have a word with the owner. I’ll be in touch with you later.’
There is a quiet room just off a courtyard and it’s quite cool in there. Cataldo is sitting at a table with Marchisio’s folder in front of him and he is leafing through the cuttings… some of them are very yellowed and fragile, like dried leaves. He has eaten a sandwich and has been here for more than an hour when there is a knock at the door – the hotelier has brought him a beer and hangs around hoping to get a look at the papers. Cataldo closes the folder, puts it away, and then smiles at the other man:
Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer Page 5
