Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  37: Escape

  “I’VE BROUGHT SOME clothes.”

  Trotti could make out her silhouette against the open doorway, the well-kept body and high-heeled shoes. It was dark and the glow of the bedside lamp did not reach the face.

  “Magagna phoned you?”

  “My husband is not a small man.” She stepped carefully past the jars, the vases of flowers and the empty wrappings that littered the floor. She placed a brown parcel on the bed. “You might find them a bit big.”

  Trotti got slowly out of the bed, shivering slightly, and put on the clothes. Good-quality clothes, a silk shirt and bespoke trousers with lining. Shoes from Varese that pinched his toes.

  “How’s the rib?”

  Trotti said nothing.

  “Perhaps you ought to shave, Commissario.”

  “I’ll shave when I get home.”

  The hospital was asleep.

  She took him by the arm and, as they went along the empty corridors, the only sound was the squeaking of his shoes on the rubberized floor. Trotti walked slowly, aware of the pain and trying to ignore it. She supported him with her arm and he could feel the warmth of her body. At the top of the stairs they went past a young nurse who did not even raise her head to look at them.

  The marble of the banister was cold beneath his hand.

  She opened the doors of Surgery and they stepped out into the chill air of the September night.

  “The car’s over here.” Signora Bianchini walked with him across the road.

  “Thanks.” He lowered himself into the passenger seat.

  She got into the car, sitting behind the steering wheel. “The gentleman on the phone said you might be able to help me.”

  “Magagna?”

  “You will help me?”

  The light from the hospital building lit up one side of her face. She turned and faced him.

  “I didn’t ask Magagna to contact you.”

  “Where to, Commissario?”

  The engine came alive with the soft rumble of German engineering. The outside world was dark through the tinted glass of the windscreen. Trotti closed his eyes and, leaning back, placed his head against the rest.

  “Take me home.”

  “I don’t know where you live.”

  “Via Milano.”

  She drove the car through the bright pool of neon light at the hospital entrance. The man on the gate came out of his cubicle, lifted the barrier in silence and then returned to where a portable television was flickering.

  They left the Policlinico San Matteo, and went over the railway bridge.

  Trotti laughed noiselessly. His eyes were still closed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “A lot of people are going to be rather unhappy about my leaving the hospital.”

  “You don’t often laugh.”

  “I don’t have much to laugh about.”

  “You need to rest, Commissario.”

  “I haven’t got the time.”

  “I will look after you.”

  Trotti opened his eyes. “Did Magagna say anything, signora?”

  “Magagna?”

  “The policeman on the phone. He didn’t say that he was going to help?”

  “Help who?”

  “He is a friend of mine. He used to work in the Questura a few years ago. Now he’s with Buoncostume in Milan. I’m going to need all the help I can get if I’m going to find the murderer …”

  “You’re not well—look, you’re shivering.”

  “What did Magagna say?”

  Her eyes were on the road. “He just said that you needed clothes.”

  They went over the canal, past Piazza Castello, which was almost empty, despite the bright cinema lights and the street lamps, towards the Città Giardino.

  “Turn left, signora.”

  Signora Bianchini turned right.

  “I said left.”

  A low, swirling mist clung close to the cobbled surface of the street.

  An empty bus went by in the opposite direction.

  “You’re going the wrong way, Signora Bianchini?

  The headlamps of the Audi were reflected in the window of the florist’s shop in via Petrarca.

  She looked at Trotti. “My husband’s clothes suit you, Commissario Trotti.”

  38: Pisanelli

  “NICE PLACE.”

  “Glad you like it, Pisanelli.”

  “And a charming lady. I’m sure you must be very happy.”

  “I won’t be happy until I’ve found the murderer.”

  “We’re all working on it, Commissario.”

  “All?”

  “Everybody.” Pisanelli nodded. “And Merenda—”

  “I don’t give a damn about Merenda.” Trotti pulled himself into a sitting position. “I need you, Pisanelli. You can help me find the man.”

  Pisanelli was carrying his suede jacket over his shoulder. He let it drop over the back of a chair and he sat down on the edge of the bed. The empty coffee cup rattled on the tray.

  “Oh, this is for you.” He held out a bunch of flowers.

  “Did you bring me some clothes?” He held up a brown parcel as he looked around the room. “Where do I put these things?”

  “I’m counting on you.”

  “You don’t seem too excited by the flowers.”

  “I’m excited at the thought of having clothes that’ll fit me. Listen, Pisanelli, I’m counting on your support.”

  Pisanelli placed the parcel on the floor.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He dropped the flowers—tight-budded roses of delicate pinks and reds—on to the tray.

  “You’ve always worked with me.”

  “As far as the Questore is concerned, Commissario, you are out of things.”

  “Why on earth should I be out of things?”

  “You’re injured and he wants you to rest.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Pisanelli tried to smile. “A lot of people think it would be better if you stayed away from the Questura for a few weeks.” The face was taut, the eyes without amusement.

  “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Commissario …”

  “Pisanelli, I’m counting on you.”

  A sudden gesture of impatience. “No.”

  “But you can tell me what’s happening in the Questura.”

  “I’ve told you. Merenda’s in charge. An all-out search for Ciuffi’s murderer.”

  “But where have you got with the enquiry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Commissario, I tell you I don’t know.”

  “The bullet’s been identified, for God’s sake?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What do you mean, perhaps?”

  Pisanelli stared at the counterpane.

  Signora Bianchini had drawn the curtains apart when she had brought Trotti breakfast. Beyond the window, the foothills of the Apennines were turning brown. The air was warm.

  “What exactly do you mean, Pisanelli?”

  Pisanelli continued to stare at the bed. “You’re better off here, Commissario. Stay here and rest. Let the charming lady look after you—she seems to like having you here.” He shook his head and the long hair rose slightly from his temples. “Don’t you understand that you worry too much? And by worrying, you’re not going to solve anything?”

  “Galandra killed her.”

  Pisanelli looked at him. “Galandra?”

  Trotti could not repress the triumph in his own voice. “Without me, you know nothing. You and Merenda and all the others—you don’t know what Ciuffi and I were working on, you don’t know why we were seeing the old man. How can you conduct your enquiries when you don’t know anything about the case?”

  “Who’s Galandra?”

  “The man who watered down the plasma at the hospital. It was thanks to Vardin’s testimony that he and his wife were sent to jail.” Trotti raised a
shoulder—and immediately felt the jab of pain in his ribs. “He got out of jail a few months ago. While you were running up and down the hospital, Ciuffi was putting a file together.”

  Pisanelli’s face seemed to harden, little wrinkles formed around his eyes. “There was a reason for my going to the hospital.”

  “Galandra threatened Vardin—and knifing his daughter was part of the revenge. Only it wasn’t enough.”

  “Enough, Commissario?”

  “Galandra’s the murderer—of that I am now sure. Because he had the motive. The motive to hate Vardin enough—to hurt his daughter and then to shoot at him. Only he didn’t hit Vardin. He hit the girl.”

  “But Commissario, there were people in Borgo Genovese.”

  “Eyewitnesses?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “Where were they?”

  “On the other side of the river.”

  “And what did they see?”

  “Nobody heard the gunfire—or rather those people who did hear something just thought it was a car backfiring. But you know Borgo Genovese, the road that runs along the river is a cul-de-sac. It turns into a path.”

  “What did these people see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “My God.” Trotti thumped his hand down on to the bed and the cup jumped, toppled and the dregs of the coffee ran on to the stalks of the roses. “What eyewitnesses are they supposed to be if they didn’t see anything?”

  “But that’s the point.”

  “Don’t talk in riddles.”

  “A man would have been noticed. Anybody going to Borgo Genovese would have had to go past several houses. And all the witnesses are agreed that they saw nobody.”

  “The gunman must have run off in the other direction … along the path.”

  “Possible.” Pisanelli shrugged. “But not very likely. Where would he have left his car? Or do you think that he would have left his car a kilometer away and walked all the way along the river? With a rifle under his arm?”

  Trotti shook his head.

  Pisanelli lifted the bunch of flowers and carefully wiped their stalks with a soggy paper napkin.

  “I know Galandra killed Ciuffi—and I’m going to find him. And I need you, Pisanelli. I can’t drive in this state and I’ve got to go to Verona.”

  “Why Verona?”

  “That’s where Galandra was in jail.”

  “Some rest, Commissario—that’s what you need.”

  “Don’t you care about Ciuffi? Don’t you care that she was slaughtered like an animal?”

  “You must rest.”

  “You never did like Ciuffi, did you?”

  “You’re not acting rationally, Commissario.”

  “Galandra attacked the child. Of that I am sure. And in trying to kill Vardin, he murdered Ciuffi. And nearly murdered me.” Pisanelli shook his head. “No.”

  “Pisanelli, I need you.”

  “Galandra never attacked anybody.”

  “All part of his revenge against Vardin.”

  “Yesterday, Colonello Vincenzo had one of his men arrested. A conscript with a record of rape and physical violence on women.”

  “Not possible.”

  “And they found the knife he used on the little Vardin girl. It was under his mattress in the Cairoli barracks.”

  39: Meeting

  “YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE lied.”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  They were sitting in the public gardens behind the civic museum.

  Little children played on the grass and in the balding sandpit. Mothers watched or talked or read photo romances.

  Signorina Podestà had crossed her ankles and was looking at her shoes. She did not wear stockings and her legs were very white. Red spots showed where she had taken a razor to the leg hairs.

  “Signorina, you were not attacked. There was no rapist.”

  She turned her head. “What do you know?”

  “Still not enough. That is why I am trying to get at the truth.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “I know that you can.”

  “Leave me alone, can’t you? Why did you send that woman to find me? And why are we talking here?”

  “Because I wanted to save you the embarrassment of being interrogated in front of your colleagues in the insurance office.”

  “I would have come to the Questura.”

  “It’s now that I have to speak to you. I can’t wait—or perhaps you don’t understand.”

  “I understand that you are accusing me of lying. You are intimidating me. You are preventing me from getting on with my job. I don’t like your attitude. I am a woman of the twentieth century and I am not going to put up with this kind of bullying from a man.”

  “The young policewoman who interrogated you is now dead.”

  Signorina Podestà blinked her bulging eyes.

  “Murdered, signorina. Murdered in cold blood.”

  “I must get back to the office.”

  A squirrel had come out from hiding behind the granite memorial to Garibaldi and was worrying at a twig. It looked at Trotti with small brown eyes and twitched its nose in disapproval. “Are you going to answer my questions?”

  “You can’t make me.”

  “Or do you want to be involved in a murder enquiry?”

  Trotti was surprised to see that there was a hint of rouge on the pale cheeks.

  “There’s nothing I can tell you.”

  “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

  She did not answer. “How long have you been sleeping with Riccardo?”

  She had started to blush—a deep crimson blush that moved upwards over the pale face. “Mind your own business.”

  “Riccardo Bianchini.”

  A moment of hesitation, the eyes blinking. “I know nobody of that name.”

  “He has been sleeping with you these last few nights, hasn’t he?”

  She looked down at her hands, loosely clasping the handbag.

  “It doesn’t worry you that his own mother doesn’t know where he is—that she worries because he no longer comes home?”

  “My private life has nothing to do with you.”

  “Or perhaps you really believe that it is love.”

  “Love?”

  “Perhaps you really believe that there is something between you and a boy half your age. Perhaps you really believe that there is a future for you—and that is why you are willing to perjure yourself, perhaps even risk a jail sentence.”

  “Riccardo …”

  “Riccardo is still a child—he is only just eighteen.”

  “Eighteen and no longer a minor.”

  “You admit you know him?”

  “I admit nothing. And I don’t like the way—”

  “I don’t give a damn. Believe me, I don’t give a damn what you do or what you think or who you are in love with, who you want to sleep with. But I do give a damn about Signorina Ciuffi—because she was a friend of mine and because she is now dead.” He added, “Murdered.”

  Trotti caught his breath and then they sat in silence on the cold stone bench. It was nearly four o’clock and the sun had lost much of its harshness. A couple of wool-like clouds in the sky. Garibaldi stood with a foot forward and his eyes staring towards the city, his red shirt transformed into a dark grey granite.

  Two little boys were shrieking in the sandpit, while a dog watched them in silent envy. The distant hum of traffic.

  Beyond the park gate, Trotti could just make out the white Audi.

  “The lady who came to fetch you in your office—she is Riccardo’s mother.”

  “Riccardo is an adult.”

  His ribs hurt—a dull, sullen pain. “He is her only child.”

  “Riccardo loves me.” She turned her head and Trotti was surprised by the calmness that the woman showed. “You can’t understand that, can you, Commissario? You can’t understand how a young man can be interested in an older woman. But Riccardo is. Riccardo loves me, y
ou see. And I love him.”

  “And that is why you lied? That is why you invented your rapist?”

  “We are going to get married.”

  “I am pleased for you.”

  Signorina Podestà blinked.

  “But I don’t think you can have much faith in him if you feel you have to lie.”

  “Riccardo is in love with me.”

  “You know that he used to be friends with the Vardin girl. And you don’t trust him. You love him, but you don’t trust him.”

  “Of course I trust him.”

  “Then why the lies?”

  “Lies, Commissario?”

  “It is precisely because you think he attacked the girl that you try to protect him. And the best way of protecting Riccardo is by creating another rapist.”

  “I love Riccardo.”

  “I don’t care who you love or what you do or anything. Do you understand? I don’t care. I just don’t want you to lie to me.”

  “I never lied. I am a woman of my word.”

  “Of course you lied.”

  “I love Riccardo, Commissario.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “Are you looking for the girl’s killer—or Riccardo?”

  “I need to know why you felt you had to protect him.”

  “Riccardo is impetuous.”

  “You read about the little girl in the Provincia—and you must have known that Riccardo had been seeing her sister. But why go to all the length of inventing your little story.”

  “Commissario, I am entering my fifth decade. I am no longer the young and dynamic woman that I once was. Even though I consider myself as a woman of my epoch, I have made mistakes and I cannot afford to waste any more time. Before long, I will be losing my beauty—you know that life is not kind to women. Perhaps Riccardo is young, perhaps he has still to grow up. But he loves me. He is old enough and intelligent enough to see in me a woman of her century—an emancipated and intelligent woman.”

  Trotti nodded.

  “His love is something that I cannot afford to throw away.”

  “You suspect him of attacking the little girl?”