Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer

by Luigi Guicciardi

  ‘It was a long time ago…’

  ‘Please try just the same. He was the first one in your group to graduate…’

  With an elbow leaning on the armrest of the sofa, he looks at her and waits. There is not the smallest sign of impatience in the relaxed composure of his features.

  ‘I… I can’t remember anything. Nothing at all, I’m sorry…’

  ‘Not even what time you left?’

  ‘Not even that, no.’ And now in the pause there is a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

  ‘It’s not important, is it?’

  ‘No,’ says Cataldo, quietly. ‘I don’t think it’s important.’

  He is not sure, as he stands up, whether he was looking to reassure her or to keep her from being suspicious. He knows there are other things he should be asking her, but for the moment this is enough. It has been years now since he last rushed his interviews. Ever since he learnt that his profession really does require large doses of patience.

  She accompanies him to the door and leans on a radiator there. Next to her, on the wall, hangs a reproduction of a still life: Giorgio De Chirico, I Frutti di Nettuno, oil on canvas, late 1920s, recites Cataldo mentally, without pride, because De Chirico is his favourite artist. In silence she follows the line of his gaze. ‘My husband likes it very much,’ she says, before closing the door. And he thinks for a moment, then decides not to. He is not going to tell her that her husband is his next visit.

  The afternoon is almost over and Tecnodomus is probably about to close when Cataldo arrives: there is no one inside, behind the glass doors. A very simple office, he thinks – no more than two or three rooms. The desk is tidy, the computer is switched off, a few brochures on a low table to the right, next to the coffee machine. And there is a moveable noticeboard, a bit like a blackboard, with lots of coloured squares on it, displaying the month’s special offers. He takes a look, out of habit: apartments, second homes, but country homes too – Guiglia, Vignola and Marano. Then suddenly he hears voices. Two men are coming out of a room. He knows there is no good reason, but something leads him not to say hello, not to cough even. He stands there listening. They do not sense that they are observed, they continue to speak. Utterly engrossed, in a low voice, even though they are alone – standing in the corridor, just ten metres away and they still have not seen him. One is tall, thin, wearing jacket and tie despite the heat, and a pair of glasses with heavy frames that make him look older than he is. Glasses for long-sightedness, certainly, since he has a sheet of paper or something in his hand and he continues looking at it as he speaks. The other man is about forty, slightly shorter without being small, but he is more athletic, muscular, with his shirt open to his waist, a handsome face and the confident air of a sportsman or a playboy. It’s the other one who looks more worried, bent forward, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, with that paper in his hand, the paper that he would like to keep hold of and the other one is waiting to see. No, this guy has not come to discuss a house purchase.

  Finally they see him. They move and the shorter one folds the paper and puts it in his pocket as Cataldo advances towards them.

  ‘Signor Zanetti?’

  ‘That’s me. How can I help you?’

  ‘Inspector Cataldo.’ He shows the badge to both of them after which there is a pause, the exchange of glances, the unease. The usual ritual.

  ‘It’ll be about Zoboli,’ says Zanetti, as though speaking to himself. ‘Of course. He’s dead and you’re doing the rounds of his friends.’ Then he looks directly at Cataldo and his voice is louder as he says, ‘Please, come in. Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’ve only just arrived, I was taking a look around.’

  He nods towards the noticeboard with the offers: ‘Interesting…’

  ‘But you’re not here for that. And I don’t want to waste your time. By the way…’ he turns and gestures with his hand. ‘Let me introduce a friend, Professor Ramondini.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Cataldo, shaking a damp and cold hand: ‘Luigi Ramondini?’

  ‘Yes… why?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he smiles. ‘Just that I’ve heard your name mentioned.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ And he does not ask by whom or where, and he does not seem relieved; he appears rather alert, or tense. And there is a deep line, running from his nostrils to his cheeks, which gives the impression of a sad smile.

  ‘Come on, let’s sit down,’ says Zanetti, cordially, even a bit too cordially, and, as though to confirm his willingness to speak with Cataldo, he goes to the glass door and locks it. ‘In any case, that’s it for this afternoon…’ he says, smiling, as he returns. Then he takes two metal chairs, moves them in front of the desk and gestures invitingly with his hand. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asks before sitting down.

  So they have a coffee from the machine, all of them sitting close to one another, like people who have taken a friend to the train station and are staying until the departure time out of good manners. Some slight embarrassment, perhaps even diffidence. Until Cataldo breaks the silence.

  ‘Can you guess where I’ve just been, Signor Zanetti?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Your house. I’ve just spoken with your wife.’

  ‘With Katia? Really? And how did she take that?’ he says, smiling. ‘Did you scare her?’

  ‘No… why should she be scared?’

  ‘Are you married, Inspector?’

  Cataldo smiles now: ‘Unfortunately I haven’t had your luck.’

  ‘Well… I’m not sure luck comes into it. But if you were married you’d know that women are a bit strange. My wife once had a fit when the traffic police stopped her, just imagine her reaction to a Detective Inspector… that’s what I meant.’

  ‘She seemed a bit worried, yes. But not scared. And maybe worried isn’t really the right word.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  ‘For her, but not for me. She wasn’t really of much use.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well… she doesn’t remember much about your friend’s graduation party…’ And he gestures towards Ramondini, turning to look at him, to involve him in the conversation. But the professor says nothing, he just leans forward after a few seconds, rubbing his palms on his knees, almost as though his hands are sweating.

  ‘Why that supper?’ asks Zanetti, speaking up for his friend. ‘It was so long ago…’

  But he does not seem surprised, or at least really surprised and Cataldo decides to provide a brief summary, with one or two added details.

  ‘The thing is… be it suicide or not, Zoboli is dead, but the strange thing is that he died straight after the arrival of Signor Marchisio here in Guiglia. Perhaps the name means nothing to you… or perhaps it does. He’s the hitchhiker who eighteen years ago was convicted of the murder of a businessman, Cristoni was his name, and of the theft of seven hundred million lire from Cristoni’s car. All this took place at the Torre bend, 21 February 1980. At midnight.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘So that’s where you come in. First, because that evening, just a few kilometres away, you were all celebrating the professor’s graduation…’

  ‘That’s true,’ says Ramondini, eventually.

  ‘Ah… so you do remember?’

  ‘Of course I do…’

  ‘And what do you remember precisely?’

  ‘That I left when the waiter was clearing the table. I was the last to go…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Because I had to pay the bill…’

  ‘Of course, it was your treat.’ And Cataldo laughs heartily, followed by the other two. ‘That’s good to know.’

  Then he turns serious again and picks up on where he had left off in the story: ‘The thing is that Marchisio has said something very interesting… he maintains that Cristoni came off the road because he was dazzled by a car that was travelling towards Vignola. He didn’t see who was driving, but he did see Zoboli in the passenger seat. And that
’s not all…’

  ‘No?’ asks Zanetti, but says nothing more. Ramondini, in the meantime, has pulled out a cigarette and has tried twice to light it, but with no joy and in the end he puts cigarette and lighter back in his pocket.

  ‘No. Marchisio says that the car turned back, while he was running away, having left Cristoni dying in his car.’

  ‘And do you believe him?’ asks Zanetti spontaneously. ‘You believe a man who runs away, leaving another man more dead than alive?’

  ‘Yes… yes, I have to believe him. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come back here.’

  Suddenly silence falls in the office. When Zanetti eventually speaks, his voice is different, almost hoarse.

  ‘And what has he come back to do?’

  ‘To look for the driver.’ The answer this time has come from Ramondini, quietly, patiently. Now he looks at Cataldo and adds, ‘Am I right?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re intelligent. And you already understand that the driver stole the money from the car. The driver, together with Zoboli.’ Cataldo pauses and stares at both of them. ‘And now Zoboli is dead.’

  ‘Just a moment… this guy, this… what’s his name?’

  ‘Marchisio.’ Cataldo and Ramondini both say.

  ‘Right. Him,’ Zanetti almost shouts. ‘But what proof does this Marchisio have? After so many years?’

  ‘Forget that.’ says Ramondini, tiredness in his voice. ‘Rather, what chance is there of identifying the driver… as he says… after so many years?’

  ‘Very little chance, of course. But I’m trying.’

  ‘Are there any witnesses?’

  ‘There is one, yes.’

  ‘Can I… can we…’ he looks at Zanetti, who nods nervously, ‘… know who it is?’

  ‘Of course. It’s Zoboli’s widow.’

  ‘Miriam?’

  ‘Yes, Miriam. Are you surprised?’ They do not reply, so he adds: ‘She says she was driving, because he’d drunk a bit, at the supper. Do either of you remember that?’

  ‘I don’t,’ says Zanetti.

  ‘I don’t either,’ says the other. ‘So then…’

  ‘So then where’s the problem, you mean? Well, there is a big problem. Because Miriam admits to having driven, but one hour before the accident took place. She maintains she left the party at eleven, not at twelve o’clock. And that doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaims Zanetti now, and the other two both look at him in surprise. Something has passed across his face, suddenly – amazement or sudden interest, or who knows what. For a moment it is as though he is trying to recall, to drag up some memory. Then his expression relaxes, and he smiles once again.

  ‘Has something come to mind?’

  ‘Yes. Miriam and Giulio really did leave together. But I know nothing more than that… I mean, I don’t know if it was eleven… just as I don’t know if Giulio was able to drive or not. I didn’t realize he was drunk…’

  ‘Just a bit merry, in truth.’ Cataldo sighs. ‘And you, Professor?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Do you remember anything of that evening? You might be able to. After all, it was your party.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He concentrates (or is he pretending?). ‘Nothing in particular.’ And then, after a pause, with a smile, ‘Is that serious?’

  ‘That depends on Marchisio.’

  He notes Ramondini’s questioning, smiling look and then adds, as he stands up: ‘Because if he’s told the truth and if he continues to do the rounds here in town, someone else could be in danger.’

  The smile, be it of embarrassment or momentary light-heartedness, has died on Ramondini’s lips and the line between his nose and his jawbone becomes deeper, darker. He is worried, but he deserves to be, and if he knows something he would do himself a favour by spitting it out. And it is just as well he still has time to do so. That’s what Cataldo thinks as he takes his leave, the other two men left staring at his back.

  In the heat of the late afternoon as he walks towards the car park, Cataldo now has the same thought that often comes to him after an interview or a meeting, one of those that leave him dissatisfied, without really knowing why. It really would be great to be a fly on the wall, or a god – someone who picks up on everything that has to do with other people. Even their dreams and their memories and the loves of their lives… their cowardly actions, their ignoble scheming. Everything.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The shadows of the past

  At eight in the evening the heat is still oppressive, so heavy it is almost tangible. He feels he could make good use of a fan when he gets out of his car in Piazza Gramsci, but it would clash somewhat with his inspectorial dignity. He starts walking, takes off his jacket and almost goes back to leave it in the car, but then he changes his mind, folds it and carries it over his shoulder with two fingers hooked under the collar – a bit uncomfortable. Fortunately he does not have far to go to reach Via Roma, and just as he is thinking this he sees the place there in front of him. A small garden without a gate, a building that used to be a primary school – two or three steps, no bell, but a big, pretentious plaque with two lines printed on it:

  TOURISM ASSOCIATION

  GUIGLIA TOURIST OFFICE

  He knocks and waits, then pushes the door slightly, realizes it is open and walks in because all the lights are on.

  At first sight it looks more like a private apartment than an office. In a spacious room there is a sparkling chandelier, a television that is switched off, a desk with a lamp and then another room – the library certainly, because he can see the bookshelves through the open door. Cataldo notices these things then transfers his attention to the man who stood up on seeing him come in and has walked round the desk to where he is standing now, just two metres away.

  ‘’Evening.’ He looks at Cataldo with curiosity, and then adds, ‘Please come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can I help you? Are you looking for a book… a newspaper?’

  ‘Not really.’ And Cataldo smiles as the other man tries to guess.

  ‘Are you doing some research?’

  ‘No. Let’s say I was searching for you.’ And since the other man is evidently surprised he adds, ‘You must be Nunzio, right?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘You don’t understand. That makes sense. In fact, I’m sorry… I haven’t introduced myself. Cataldo, Detective Inspector.’ And he pulls out his badge, as he always does, and shows it to him. ‘I’d like to have a word with you.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘Yes, just a few questions…’ he says, proceeding into the room while the other, slightly worried, walks backwards, ‘… about something that happened many years ago. But don’t worry… you’re not involved. It’s just that you might be able to help me. In fact, you’re the only one who might be able to help me.’

  Perhaps he is flattered, perhaps it is just innate curiosity. In any case, Nunzio’s attitude changes immediately. He is relaxed and willing now: ‘I understand… but please take a seat.’

  He points to the chair in front of the desk and then moves to sit in the chair on the other side, opposite Cataldo, and he switches the lamp on, almost as though he can’t see very well in all that light.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be open,’ says Cataldo, to get things going.

  ‘Indeed,’ Nunzio confirms. ‘I’m only open three evenings a week – Monday, Wednesday, Friday, from nine o’clock. And that’s only really for the few tourists that are around. In June there’s hardly anyone.’

  ‘Not many customers then?’

  ‘No. And yet we have a good collection of books here – local history, folklore, traditions… from all over the Apennines, not just Guiglia. People used to come even from other towns, people working on dissertations. We’ve even got a few antique editions, or at least very rare ones…’

  ‘But now no one comes?’

 
‘Not often. At the most someone turns up looking for a thriller…’

  Cataldo feels like laughing, but he does not want to lose his concentration now. So he leans over the desk and puts his hands together at the fingertips.

  ‘That’s not what I’m looking for,’ he smiles, looking into his eyes. ‘I’m here, let’s say, to find some news about an event in the past. A graduation party, to be precise. Eighteen years ago.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A small article about it appeared in Guiglia Oggi, or at least I think it did.’

  Nunzio does not understand, but he looks interested.

  ‘Who was the graduate?’

  ‘Professor Ramondini.’

  ‘And did it take place here in Guiglia?’

  ‘The supper? It was nearby, at the Tre Lune restaurant.’

  Cataldo leans back with his ankle on his knee, pressing his shin against the desk. Nunzio scratches his earlobe.

  ‘I don’t remember, but if you know the date…’

  ‘21 February 1980.’

  ‘That’s no problem then. We have a complete set of Guiglia Oggi. I keep the older ones at my house, because there isn’t much space here.’ He opens his arms and looks around. ‘Just these two rooms, though they’re quite big. I only keep more recent years on the shelves…’

  ‘And you’re sure you have 1980?’

  ‘Oh yes, bound in a book. I just have to pull it out and bring it here. It’s no problem,’ he repeats. Then he pushes his chair back and scratches his head, almost as though to encourage the development of an idea. And then, after a second or two: ‘I’m certain. It’ll be in the attic. That’s where it is, the year you’re looking for.’ He opens a drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper and a pencil. ‘February 1980 you said?’

  ‘Yes, 21 February.’

  ‘The actual day isn’t important. The magazine was quarterly or thereabouts…’ He winks in complicity. ‘It’s always been run by volunteers like me, from the Tourist Office. Unpaid work, of course. But some of the articles were really very good…’

  ‘I understand. And now?’

  ‘Now?’