The red face hardened, the lips pursed. “I have a minimum of common sense.”
“So do I, Signor Colonello. But I also have a city to protect. You do understand. Somewhere in the city is a rapist—and the identikit and this buckle are the only clues I have to go on. It is not much and please smile if you choose. By all means laugh if you think that the PS is no more than a bunch of stupid civilians—I won’t stop you. But I ask you for just one thing. Not for me, not for the PS, but for the city—for the women of this city. Signor Colonello, I ask for your help. For your cooperation.”
30: Pizza
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND why you don’t want to look for Vardin.”
“There’s no hurry.”
“But he took his gun. Without telling his wife.”
Trotti played with the starched napkin. “There are a lot of things a man doesn’t tell his wife.”
“You think Vardin has been receiving threats.”
“Perhaps.”
“I don’t understand you, Commissario.”
“A minute ago you were calling me Piero. I was beginning to get used to it.”
“At last we’ve got a motive for the attack on the little girl. But all of a sudden, you seem to lose interest.” She shook her head, as if she failed to understand Trotti’s obduracy. “Galandra comes out of jail after a seven-year sentence. Seven years is time enough to work out a way of getting revenge. Revenge on the man who put him there in the first place.” She stopped, ripped the end off the packet of grissini and started nibbling nervously at the long stick of bread. “You’re not listening, are you?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You’re thinking about something else.”
“I don’t think I really like pizza.” He shrugged.
She sat back and folded her arms. Her chest rose and fell. “I’ve been working for you for nine months.”
They were sitting on the terrace, beneath the awning.
Trotti turned and looked towards the interior of the pizzeria. A cook in a singlet and a paper hat on his head stood in front of the open oven. From time to time he slid his flat spade under the embers and removed a pizza that he placed, perfectly round and steaming, on to a marble tabletop. Nimble-footed waiters—short-sleeved white shirts and thin bow ties—ferried the pizzas to the diners waiting in the red-tinted shade of the stretched canvas outside.
“Nine months, Commissario. Why this sudden interest in me?”
Trotti turned to face her.
“I know it’s not for professional reasons—because you don’t listen to a word I say.”
“This sounds to me like a quarrel.”
“You think I’m a silly little girl.”
“You are a very good policeman.”
“Then today both breakfast and a pizza lunch. I’m being spoiled, Piero. Why?”
Trotti looked at her and there was surprise in his eyes. For a moment he was silent. “Drink up, Brigadiere.” He poured mineral water into the two glasses. “We’ve got a lot to do this afternoon.”
A lopsided smile, but she did as she was told.
They sat in the shade. Just past one o’clock and it was nearly as hot as the month of August. The sun was overhead and battered down on to the empty piazza and on to the deep-red awning of the Pizzeria Bella Napoli. A feeble breeze rustled the potted plants.
“Why are you spoiling me like this, Piero Trotti?”
“You are hungry, Brigadiere?”
“Why don’t you answer my question?”
“Are you hungry?”
She shrugged. “I don’t get much time to eat.”
“Let me take you somewhere proper one evening.”
Her laugh was cheerful. “This isn’t proper?”
“There are restaurants up in the hills—places where the food is cooked specially for you. Not fast food but real country cooking.”
“Like truffles … and good wine?”
His face broke into a grin. “You told me off for laughing at you. Now you’re laughing at me.”
“Not at all.”
“You don’t like Signora Bianchini, Brigadiere Ciuffi?”
“Why don’t you call me Ornella?”
Trotti placed the end of a grissini into his mouth to hide his smile. “What have you got against Signora Bianchini?”
“You could never return to the hills, Piero. Not for good. You’d be lonely away from this town, away from all your friends.”
“Answer the question, Ornella.”
“You like to pretend you’re above things—but, like all men, you’re fascinated by other people, fascinated by all the gossip. You need to have your friends around you.”
“I have no friends.”
“Your friends in the Questura, your friends in this city you pretend to despise so much—without them you’d be lost.” A little laugh of private amusement. “In Tarzi or Santa Maria, you’d be so lonely, you’d sit by the telephone and you’d spend your measly pension on phone calls.” The young, mischievous eyes watched him carefully.
“I’ve spent enough money in my time phoning my wife in America.”
The young smile vanished. “I thought you were getting divorced.”
He shrugged.
“A new life, Piero.”
A waiter brought the two pizzas. Trotti was no longer hungry.
A screech of tires.
“That’s what you need. A new life—with children. And with a woman who can look after you.”
The Alfetta pulled into the piazza. It came to a halt only a few centimeters away from the potted plants.
Pisanelli climbed out.
He ran his fingers through the long hair at the side of his head. He was grinning as he gave Trotti a little wave.
31: Raffaele Arzanti
TROTTI HELD A half-eaten grissini in his hand. “Good to see you’re still alive, Pisanelli.”
Pisanelli looked at Trotti and grinned. A hurried, cold glance at Ciuffi. He took a glass from a nearby table and, without being invited, sat down beside them. He poured himself some mineral water and drank thirstily.
Then he ran the back of his hand across his lips. “Feeling better?”
Pisanelli nodded.
“Good.”
“Somebody in the car, Commissario, that you had better talk to.”
“I am having my lunch.”
“So I see.” Pisanelli took another thirsty gulp. Another brief glance at Ciuffi.
“Brigadiere Ciuffi and I are not going to be free for twenty minutes. Perhaps you would care for a pizza.” A thin smile. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Not the time. Our friend”—a gesture towards the car—“thinks he’s under arrest. I had difficulty in getting him to talk. However, if you feel …” Pisanelli shrugged.
“You always choose the most opportune moments.”
“Just doing what I see to be my duty.”
Trotti threw his napkin down. A grimace of apology to Ciuffi as he stood up. Then he followed Pisanelli to the car.
“Couldn’t you have chosen a better time?”
“Commissario, I didn’t know he was going to break down and cry.” He added, “And I didn’t know you were having a tête-à-tête with our resident policewoman.”
Trotti got into the back seat.
It was hot inside the car and there was an almost tangible smell of fear. Trotti pulled the door shut. Pisanelli sat behind the wheel and put the car into gear.
“Well?”
The young man had been doubled forward as if he had received a sharp blow to the belly. He now slowly drew himself up into a sitting position. He blinked, his eyes red and unaccustomed to the light. He breathed through his mouth.
Pisanelli spoke over his shoulder. “He didn’t want to speak. All he would say was that he was with Riccardo Bianchini.”
The boy’s eyes looked at Trotti for sympathy. “That’s what he told me.” There were the dry traces of tears on his cheeks. He was overweight, with pale flesh and d
ark, long hair that fell forward over a round, young face. The irises were colorless, except for the flecks of yellow. A tennis shirt that was new but already crumpled. He had breasts like a woman’s.
Trotti said, “You’ve nothing to be afraid of. If you tell the truth.”
Pisanelli snorted. “A little liar.” He turned the car into Corso Cavour, now empty at lunchtime. “A couple of nights in the Questura and—”
“What’s your name?” Trotti asked softly.
“I didn’t realize …” A gesture of his chin. “I didn’t realize the gentleman was from the police.”
“Never seen a police car before?”
“Quiet, Pisanelli.” Trotti felt hot and sticky. He wanted to get back to Ciuffi. “What is your name?”
“I am Raffaele. Raffaele Arzanti.”
“You are a friend of Riccardo Bianchini?”
“We go to school together.”
“And you are friends?”
The boy did not answer.
“Is Riccardo Bianchini your friend?”
“I don’t have many friends.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Not many people like me.”
“But Riccardo likes you?”
“Papa bought me a computer. I don’t mind sharing it with Riccardo. Sometimes we get on well.”
“How old are you, Raffaele?”
“Seventeen.” A hesitation. “Seventeen and a half.”
“And was Riccardo at your house last Saturday?”
“I live in the AGIP flats—near the river. Riccardo comes sometimes when he wants to work on the computer. He is good at programming.”
“And he came round on Saturday?”
“He’s supposed to be preparing his exam. But lately he’s been working on a program of English verbs. He thinks he can sell it. It is quite good, actually.”
Trotti had not paid attention to where they were going. Now Pisanelli pulled the car up on to the pavement and Trotti realized they were by the old moat of the castle, only a few hundred meters from the Piazza Castello. He had parked the car in the shade. There was virtually no traffic. It was still hot in the car but a breeze came through the open windows.
“Did Riccardo come round last Saturday?”
The boy’s eyes seemed to glisten.
“Well?”
“I told everything to the other gentleman.”
“If you can tell Pisanelli, you can tell me.”
“I don’t want to get anybody into trouble.”
“You can get yourself into trouble by lying.”
The smell of fear, of sweat—and the taste of grissini still on his tongue. The boy looked at Trotti and Trotti felt sorry for him—a boy who could have been his own son.
“You have nothing to be afraid of. Just tell me what you told Pisanelli.”
“I don’t want—he will be angry with me …”
“Riccardo?”
Raffaele nodded unhappily. The hair was now unkempt, but it had kept its straight, neat parting.
“There is nothing Riccardo Bianchini can do to you. He is in enough trouble.”
“Riccardo is … he is my friend.”
Trotti placed his hand on the boy’s knee. “Lying—being deceitful—that is not the way to have friends.”
“But I did it to help him.”
“To help him?”
Raffaele raised one shoulder. “So that his mother wouldn’t get upset. You see, he really is good at programming.”
“Riccardo?”
Raffaele nodded impatiently. “But it is in the afternoon that he comes round. That’s when he works on the computer—it’s an Apple, and although it only has a sixty-four-K memory …”
“Riccardo comes in the evening?”
“In the afternoon.” A hurried shake of the head. “But it’s in the evening that his mother rings and that’s when I say that he’s busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
“She worries about him and wants to know if he is coming home. Once or twice he has slept at my place.” The smile broke through the pale complexion. A schoolboy sharing his guilty secret. “I tell her that he is working on a program and that he can’t come to the phone.”
“And where is he?”
“She always seems to believe me. It must have happened half a dozen times—and I’ve expected her to want to speak to him. But she never does. She just says ‘all right’ and then she hangs up.”
“What do your parents say?”
He raised one shoulder again. “They are rarely at home.”
“And where is Riccardo?”
“You see, he asked me to say that. I know it was lying—but he’s older than me, and … and sometimes he can be very nice. Sometimes we get on very well.” A little smile. “It is as if we were brothers. And sometimes he really does stay the night—and I like that. We talk late into the night.”
“Where was Riccardo on Saturday night?”
A shrug.
Trotti said, “It is very important. And I know you want to help your friend.”
“I like Riccardo.” The heavy eyelids started to flutter. The breathing grew heavier.
“And I like Riccardo, too. That’s why you must tell me.”
“But I don’t know.”
“Raffaele,” Trotti said, “it is very important.”
The boy turned away, glanced at Pisanelli and then out of the window of the car. At the dancing shade of the plane trees on the empty road—at the weathered billboards on the far side of the street. At the fading graffiti, handed down from a different era.
“Raffaele, where does Riccardo go?”
The boy lowered his head.
“Well?”
“He has a girlfriend.”
“The girl in Piazza Castello?”
Raffaele looked up. “Netta Vardin—the girl at school? She’s a stuck-up little snob—all she’s interested in is clothes and older men. And anyway …”
“Yes?”
Raffaele blushed, a girlish blush that ran across the pale features.
“What about her?”
“Riccardo doesn’t like her. Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because she won’t … because she won’t go to …”
“Because she won’t sleep with him?”
He nodded, relieved. “She says they must wait until they’re married.”
It was almost silent. The rustle of a light wind in the trees, the distant sounds of the somnolent city.
“Where was he on Saturday night? He wasn’t with the Vardin girl?”
“Of course not.”
“Then where was he?”
“He has …”
“Yes?”
“There is a woman. She is a lot older than him—but he likes her a lot.”
“A woman?”
“He says that she is nearly forty—but he prefers mature women. He prefers older women because they understand him.”
“What’s her name?”
A shake of the young, large head.
“Tell me, Raffaele, who is this woman?”
“I only saw her once. I think she works as a medical secretary. And she lives near the Cairoli barracks.” He added, “She has bug eyes.”
32: Decision
“AND ABOVE ALL, we can’t all hope to find a beautiful young wife to share the evening years of our lives.”
Spadano’s words ran through his head and as the car stopped in the piazza—there were the first bicycles of the afternoon and people were talking in the cool arcades—he caught sight of Ciuffi behind the potted plants. She was still sitting at the table, an empty plate in front of her and her back straight. There was about her a natural severity; yet the face was young, gentle and innocent. A beguiling freshness.
Trotti got out of the car.
Pisanelli glanced towards Ciuffi and grinned.
“I’ll see you in the Questura, Pisanelli. Be there at four—I need to talk to you about Bettina.”
> Pisanelli placed his arm over the top of the passenger seat. “Vardin’s niece, you mean?”
“You spoke to her yesterday—before she left for Ovada.”
Raffaele was sitting on the back seat. The boy had lowered his head and seemed to be sleeping.
“What do you want to know?”
Trotti nodded. “Four o’clock, Pisanelli. Try and be on time for once.”
“I am always on time, Commissario.”
“Really?”
“Although I’d love to be able to take time off for intimate lunches. But I’m a mere flatfoot. Beautiful women aren’t interested in men like me.”
“Ciao, Pisanelli.” Trotti took his hand from the car window.
Pisanelli grinned; there was no humor in his eyes.
The exhaust pipe rattled. In the back seat, Raffaele looked over his shoulder and gave Trotti a wan smile. Through the rear window, his face looked old.
The car turned into Corso Cavour.
Trotti rejoined Ciuffi.
“Ah! Piero.” Ciuffi looked up, unable to repress her wide smile.
Trotti made a hushing sound. “We’re in a public place.” As he sat down, Trotti added, “You seem to be very fond of my Christian name.”
“I’m fond of you.”
Trotti coughed. “He may be a phallocrat …”
“Who?”
“Pisanelli has the makings of a good policeman. When he puts his mind to things.”
“If he puts his mind to things. He should do that rather than using mine.” She turned and looked towards the interior of the pizzeria. Already many of the customers had left. Two of the waiters were talking to the cook. The dark bow ties had lost their crispness and were no longer straight. Neither waiter noticed the wave from Ciuffi. Trying to catch their eye, she said, “I told the man to keep your food warm.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“A man in the prime of his life, Piero. You must eat.”
Trotti clicked his tongue. At the same time he smiled.
“Where did Pisanelli take you?”
“I think we had better go and see our young friend Bianchini this afternoon.”
Ciuffi’s face clouded. “I thought we were going to find the old man.”
“Old man, Brigadiere?”
“Why don’t you call me Ornella?”
“This is a public place. And a lot of people know me here.”
Persona Non Grata Page 13
