Big Italy

by Timothy Williams

  “I thought you weren’t there.”

  She wore a beige skirt and blue high heel shoes. The sweet perfume battled with the aroma of coffee. She placed the tray on the desktop, turned and went to the door.

  “Thank you, Giulia.”

  Before closing it behind her the woman spoke almost inaudibly. “I should like to remind you I try to be diligent even if I am a lazy bitch.”

  The Questore blushed to the roots of his glossy hair.

  Silently the door was closed.

  With his hand, Trotti rubbed his lips. He frowned, “Why can’t I work on Bassi’s death?”

  The Questore’s eyes focused anew on Trotti. “Why do you want to?”

  “At the end of my career you can allow me that.”

  “Since the death of the Ciuffi girl …”

  “I do not care to discuss Brigadiere Ciuffi.”

  “I don’t want you on murder. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I identified the killer of the Belloni woman.”

  It was as if Trotti had hit a button. A smile spread across the Questore’s complacent face. He ran a hand through the well-cut hair. “Precisely.”

  “Then why can’t I work on this Bassi killing?”

  “You identified Belloni’s murderer—but you used your own, highly idiosyncratic methods. Against my express will. Against my orders, Piero Trotti. You identified the killer but in so doing, you managed to get another man killed.”

  “A drug dealer.”

  Suddenly exasperated, the Questore slammed his open palm against the desktop, causing the coffee cups to rattle. “It’s not for you to play God. It’s not for you to decide who gets killed and who doesn’t.”

  “The man was a drug dealer, Signor Questore.”

  “He was a human being—and I was answerable to the public of this city when his charred remains were on the front of the Provincia.” The man from Friuli caught his breath. “The answer’s no, Piero. I don’t like having you out in the streets. This isn’t Los Angeles. It isn’t Palermo or even Crotone. A small, middle-class town, getting on with its life beneath the twin udders of the university and the hospital. A city that used to vote Socialist and now—unfortunately—votes solidly for the Lega. Can’t you understand, Piero, that you’re a dinosaur?”

  “Because I’m going bald?”

  “Because you use the wrong methods.”

  “And that’s why you want me to run the Child Abuse Unit?”

  “The wrong methods on the street. But you’re a good man, Piero.”

  “I’d like to believe you.”

  “A good man, because you care. Because you get involved. You’ve done some sterling work with Signora Scola and the others in the past eighteen months.” The Questore gestured to the files against the far wall, next to a Piranesi-like print of the city’s towers. “Glowing reports from the hospital, for heaven’s sake. You’re a gifted policeman—but when you get on to the front page of the paper, I need to know why.” He took the coffeepot and started pouring into the cups. “You’re answerable to me. And I have to carry the responsibility for your actions.”

  “Signor Questore, the answer’s no.”

  “No coffee?”

  Trotti was now standing up. “Your Child Abuse Unit—you know where you can put it.” He turned on his heel and walked across the synthetic carpet. “Just as you know where you can put that Po water that you like to call coffee.”

  Trotti left the office.

  “Get showered and shaved, Piero Trotti, and get changed into some decent clothes,” the Questore called out after him. “We’ll talk about it all once you’ve had a good rest.”

  29: Coffee

  “AH, COMMISSARIO.”

  Trotti squinted against the light.

  “I was looking for you,” Pisanelli said cheerfully. He looked tired.

  “What for?”

  “What did the Questore say?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “I can drive you home, if you wish.” Pisanelli ran a hand across his stubbly chin, repressing a smile. “You don’t look your best in your muddy pajamas. Even with that fashionable English jacket.”

  Trotti shrugged and together the two men stepped through the metal detector and out on to the steps.

  The man on duty gave a perfunctory salute. He was wearing a leather jacket and was stamping his feet to keep them warm.

  They were standing, Trotti and Pisanelli, outside the entrance of the Questura. It was still too early for the sun to break through the morning fog. A couple of university janitors cycled past, smoking and chatting happily on their ancient bicycles.

  Italia Felix, land of saints and heroes, poets and navigators.

  “You found out what the Questore was doing at Bassi’s place?”

  Trotti said, “Take me home, Pisa. I need some coffee.”

  “You need some sleep.”

  “Time for that when I retire.”

  “When are you going to retire?”

  “Probably this afternoon.”

  They went down the steps and around the side of the building to where Pisanelli had left his Citroën. The doors were not locked and Trotti climbed in beside Pisanelli. Pisanelli turned on the noisy engine, and taking the one-way street in the wrong direction, he turned into Strada Nuova. He drove the car over the cobbles, heading out of the city center, away from the white signs of the pedestrian zone.

  “He lives opposite.”

  “Who?” Pisanelli turned, one hand on the wheel, two fingers on the lateral gear lever.

  “The Questore lives in the via Nazioni Unite.”

  Pisanelli shook his head. “When have you known the Questore to do investigative work?”

  “Perhaps he was afraid of finding me there.”

  “He’s afraid of a lot of things.” Pisanelli caught his breath. They had stopped at the Cinema Castello crossing, at the traffic lights, where the overhead red light was much larger than the amber or green. Like the eye of an angry giant. “The Questore’s always been a good Craxi man. That’s how he got where he is. But the Socialists are out of power. They don’t even exist—and, God willing, Craxi should soon be in jail.”

  The lights changed and the Citroën moved forward.

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with the Questore finding us in via Nazioni Unite?”

  “They wanted to print a stamp with Craxi. You know why they didn’t?”

  Trotti said flatly, “Too many people’ve been licking the back side long enough.”

  For a moment, Pisanelli seemed irked. Then he grinned buoyantly. “We live in a partitocrazia, commissario. You seem to forget that.”

  “D’you ever get the sense of déjà vu?”

  “Déjà vu comprà.” Pisanelli smiled to himself. “The Socialists are a spent force. But the ties remain. There’s something about Bassi that’s seriously worrying the Questore. How on earth did he know so early in the morning Bassi’d been found dead? You don’t believe he just happened to be making a courtesy call? And don’t forget, commissario, it was the Questore who had Bassi thrown out of the Polizia.”

  “You’re saying the Questore’s involved with Bassi’s death?” Pisanelli laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Remember what Indro Montanelli said in his newspaper in Milan? ‘Vote for the Christian Democrats but be sure to hold your nose.’ The Christian Democrats and the Socialists both ran this country ever since the early sixties—and together they had it sewn up, so that they could get on with the serious business of fleecing the entire nation.”

  “What’s that got to do with the Questore?”

  “You said yourself Bassi was a good policeman.”

  “Slow and unimaginative.”

  “A good policeman like the rest of us.”

  They had reached the bus stop opposite the Pizzeria Sans Souci in via Milano. Pisanelli pulled the car on to the edge of the pavement and the two men got out.

  “You never lock your car?”


  “Who’d want to steal anything French?”

  They crossed the road, carefully avoiding the buses and cars that abruptly loomed out of the fog.

  “You’ve got a player, commissario?”

  They went up the stairs.

  “What player?”

  The potted cyclamen lay on its side, spilling dark earth on to the concrete.

  “After all,” Pisanelli said, producing the cassette from the pocket of his suede coat, “you might just understand what Bassi’s message’s all about.”

  30: Scola

  “A POLITICIAN.”

  “Who?”

  “The Questore.”

  “Piero, I’ve got little Priscilla in this afternoon. Do you think you could come again? You saw her on Tuesday morning, with the snake?”

  “Signora Scola, I am very busy.”

  “For a moment I thought we were almost there. Not hard to see she’s conflating the snake with something else. I think the mother would like to help. Sweet enough woman, but ignorant. If only she could stop smoking for a moment.”

  “Signora Scola, you catch me at a bad time.”

  The voice was slightly accusatory. “You weren’t in the Questura yesterday.”

  “I was at a funeral.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” A hesitation. “A friend?”

  “My cousin.”

  He heard her catch her breath. “Ah.” There was an awkward silence. “The Questore thinks …”

  “The Questore’s a bastard. A Socialist and a bastard.”

  “Piero, forget about the Questore. You’ll soon be free. Free to worry about other things.”

  “The other day he was saying he wanted me to stay on.”

  She laughed and, hearing the amusement in her voice, Trotti allowed himself a wry smile. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  “Ever since I’ve known you, Piero, you’ve been complaining about that man, saying he won’t let you do your job, won’t let you carry out your investigations.”

  “Our Questore from the Friuli doesn’t like me rocking the boat.”

  “And now you say he wants you to stay on. Why?”

  “Perhaps his boat’s sinking.”

  He could imagine her, wearing her pale lipstick. The fine, intelligent features and the olive complexion, the exotically slanting eyes. “Piero, I really don’t see why you let the Questore trouble you. Him or anybody else. You can get by without them—you’ve got your friends. Both inside and outside the Questura. And soon you’ll be in your place in the OltrePò.”

  “My place in the OltrePò?” Trotti repeated. “I’m not quite so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know the Questore’s setting up a child protection center.”

  There was a long silence. “What?”

  (From the kitchen came the smell of coffee and toast. He could hear his cousin speaking with Pisanelli. They were both laughing, Pisanelli’s voice deep, Anna Maria’s voice high and rasping.)

  “Council of Europe, Interpol—I don’t know.”

  “Is this another of your jokes, Piero?”

  “Conseil d’Europe,” Trotti said in approximate French, recalling the logo on the sheaf of paper and the accompanying ring of twelve stars. “The Questore’s scared.”

  “That’s marvelous.”

  “Marvelous?”

  (More laughter from the kitchen. It was pleasant to have visitors to the empty house.)

  “Piero, isn’t this what you’ve been working towards for the last two years?” A girlish giggle of delight. “A functioning child protection center—that’s marvelous.”

  “Don’t pin your hopes on me.”

  “With you in charge, Piero? Your pigs and chickens are going to have to wait.”

  “Last night Fabrizio Bassi was killed.”

  “Who?”

  “A private detective. He used to work with me. A bullet in the head. They found his body this morning in a polluted tributary of the Lambro.”

  “And you want to work on the case?”

  “The Questore won’t let me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Signora Scola, he doesn’t want me anywhere near a murder.”

  “You said he needs you.”

  “That was Tuesday. And that was for the child protection sector.”

  “You tried to bargain with the Questore?”

  “A deal’s out of the question. I told him I’d run this child center if he’d let me come in on the murder. Assist Commissario Merenda, if I had to.”

  “I don’t see why you want to get involved in another murder inquiry.”

  Trotti said nothing.

  “So you’re not going to take it? The child center—you’re not going to take it?”

  “I don’t owe the Questore any favors.”

  “And me?” Over the telephone line Signora Scola gave a sigh of irritation. “You don’t want to run the center, Piero?”

  “I gave up wanting things a long time ago.”

  “I don’t understand you. Child abuse, violence towards children—it’s been your obsession these last eighteen months.” She added more softly, “Remember—that’s how we met. The Barnardi child?”

  “I remember.”

  “You’re being offered what you’ve always wanted. On a silver platter, Piero.”

  He shook his head slowly. He was sitting on his bed. For once it was neatly made. With Dutch precision. Anna Maria had pulled the white sheets tight and carefully turned down the edges. She had changed the pillow case, plumped the feathers.

  “Getting what you wanted on a platter, Piero. What we wanted—both you and I.”

  Trotti was silent.

  “Sometimes I think you’re the most exasperating man I’ve ever met.” She moved her mouth away from the handset. “Precisely what you always wanted. Why does this Bassi’s death mean so much to you?”

  “If I can’t do what I want, then I won’t do anything.”

  “I’ve never heard you mention Bassi.”

  “Bassi was a colleague. Not excessively intelligent and not particularly honest. But he worked for me, he came to see me a couple of times. Wanted my help on a murder in Milan. And now he’s dead, assassinated in cold blood, a bullet in the head. I think I owe him something, don’t you?”

  “You owe the children something, Piero Trotti. Other people can carry out the murder inquiry. Perhaps as well as you. You’ve got no stomach for corpses—that’s what you told me not so long ago. But the work we’ve been doing with all these children—that’s something that only you could have brought about.”

  “Me? I scarcely ever see the children. It’s you who’s done it all.”

  “Without you, I’d never have got into the Pediatria, among all those balding, arrogant old men.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The interviewing room at San Matteo, the camera equipment. And the support from the university. The contacts—all that is thanks to you.” She lowered her voice, bringing her mouth closer to the telephone, “You’re the only policeman I’ve ever known to care about children. To understand children.” She paused, “And to understand women.”

  Trotti looked up.

  Anna Maria had entered the bedroom, carrying a steaming bowl of coffee on a tray—the steam had misted the Cavour glasses. She slid the tray on to the bedside table.

  “Your breakfast, Rino. Three sugars in the coffee.”

  “You can make a new start whenever you want.”

  “Signora Scola, please don’t talk to me again about a new start,” Trotti said testily. “I’m not interested in any new start.”

  She caught her breath. “You say that because of that Ciuffi woman.”

  “Brigadiere Ciuffi’s dead. So I don’t know why you bring her up.”

  “You’re going to turn down this … this … this marvelous opportunity?”

  Trotti snorted. “Marvelous opportunity?”

  “You don’t want people to like you, do you, Piero Trott
i?”

  “People can do as they please.”

  “And if they do like you, you sulk. You’re a proud and arrogant man.”

  “You’re not the first person to mention that.”

  “You’re being offered a beautiful job. But like a little boy, you’re sulking. You want to hurt the Questore—and you don’t give a damn about anybody else.”

  “Bassi worked for me.”

  “You’re right, you don’t care about children. Just your very private sense of honor. You live for yourself, you live in the past. You only think about your friends, about the wonderful Brigadiere Ciuffi. But Brigadiere Ciuffi’s dead, Piero, and perhaps you ought to give a little more thought to the living.” Again a slight hesitation. “And I hope your present girlfriend can make you better coffee than me.”

  31: Widow

  SHE CAME TO the door of the apartment. Her nervous glance went from Trotti to Pisanelli. She set a hand to the two rows of necklace that hung from her neck and over the top of a blue lambswool jumper.

  “Signora Turellini?” Trotti was expecting a younger woman. Doctors tended to marry pretty nurses half their age.

  “My name is Lucchi,” she said coldly.

  “Polizia di Stato,” Pisanelli announced, smiling while briefly showing his identification. “We’d like to talk to you.”

  “About my ex-husband.” It was not a question. She nodded unhappily. There was something birdlike in the movement. She took a step backwards. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  The floor was of highly polished parquet and the walls were decorated with various paintings, all in ornate ormolu frames. There was a smell of floor polish and dry flowers.

  They followed her into a large living room that gave on to the street and the grey Milan sky.

  “Please be seated.”

  The decorations reflected the taste and wealth acquired over generations of good living. Trotti observed Pisanelli admiring several of the paintings, many of which, despite their old-fashioned frames, were modern. In a style that meant nothing to Trotti. Greens, blues and lots of reds.

  “Can I offer you something, gentlemen?”

  “We’re here on an official inquiry.”

  The same movement of the hand to her necklace. She was a small woman with delicate features. Her small frame only added to the impression of a delicate bird, now aging. She must have been in her fifties.