‘The housekeeper says he was collecting “his archive”,’ D’Aletto said, coming up behind him. ‘Apparently, he’d been obsessed with it for the last year or so. Since he was decorated in Rome. He’s already loaned the medal to a local museum. He became something of a local hero, after the sixtieth. Talked to school groups, that kind of thing. I’ve had a look at it,’ D’Aletto added. ‘But not in detail, yet. Most of it seems pretty general. You know, newspaper clippings. Excerpts from books. A teaching package he put together for schoolkids, about what life was like in the partisans. It was a nice hobby for him. She says kids liked him. I guess he told good stories.’
Cesare D’Aletto turned away. He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket.
‘The back garden’s out here,’ he said, ‘where she found him. We got it covered last night. But it’s not pristine.’
Through the pebbled-glass panels of the door, Pallioti could see the top of the tent that had been erected over the old man’s body and what looked to be a surrounding piece of lawn. Enzo was in the kitchen, standing at the sink.
‘That’s where she was when she saw him,’ D’Aletto said, looking over his shoulder as he fitted the key into the lock. ‘The housekeeper. Yesterday afternoon, looking out of the kitchen window. She rang on Saturday – I guess she does that regularly – to see what he wants to eat during the week. Didn’t think too much of it when he didn’t answer. By Sunday when she tried again after church and the same thing happened, she was a little worried. Finally, after lunch, around two o’clock, she came down here.’
‘So he lived here alone?’
‘Not at first. Apparently, years ago, she and her husband lived with him. There’s a cottage out behind the house. They stayed there. But when they started having kids, she said he thought they were too noisy, so he bought them a house in the village. Turned the cottage into his office.’
‘So why is his stuff in the dining room?’
Cesare D’Aletto, who had managed to get the door open, looked at Enzo and smiled.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it looks to me like part of the cottage roof fell in about twenty years ago and no one ever bothered to get it repaired. I’d say it’s inhabited now mainly by pigeons and old lawn mowers. By all accounts,’ he added, ‘Roblino liked living alone. He was apparently healthy as a horse. And vigorous. Still rode his bicycle. Walked. Used the town swimming pool in the summer.’
‘So he would have been able to put up a fight?’
‘One assumes so. If he’d wanted to.’
‘Were there any defensive wounds, at all?’
Cesare D’Aletto sighed. For the first time, tiredness showed on his face. In the watery light of the hallway Pallioti noticed the fine wrinkles around his eyes, the smudge on his collar. He had probably been up all night.
‘On first look,’ he said, ‘the ME says no. Obviously, the autopsy may turn something up.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s scheduled about now,’ he added. ‘So perhaps they’ll be able to tell us something when we get back to town. But nothing obvious, no.’
‘Was anything stolen?’ Pallioti asked, suddenly. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Not that we’ve been able to find. At least so far.’
Pallioti looked at him sharply.
‘Nothing?’ he asked. ‘Not, for instance, his wallet?’
Cesare D’Aletto shook his head. ‘His wallet was in his pocket, with seventy euros in it. There was no sign of forced entry, and the housekeeper’s weekly money, which he apparently always got ready on the Saturday, for some reason, was on the kitchen table under the salt cellar.’
‘And what about that, the salt?’
‘I wondered, too – if it had been taken from the kitchen. But according to the housekeeper, nothing appeared to be disturbed. And she did most of the cooking at home and brought dishes in for him, so the only salt kept here was that right there, on the table. No more than a couple of spoonfuls. There’s no indication that Roblino ever owned a gun, either,’ he added.
‘So—’ The rain was patting the kitchen window, overflowing from the gutter and falling in a curtain of grey beads. ‘What do you think happened here?’ Enzo asked.
Cesare D’Aletto took a deep breath. ‘I think someone walked in on Saturday afternoon and shot him.’ He ran a hand over his eyes and shook his head. ‘And I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘it was our fault.’
‘Your fault?’
D’Aletto nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. You see, last night, early this morning, whenever it was, I pulled up everything we had, have, on Roberto Roblino. Over a year ago, he received a threat.’
Enzo frowned.
‘A letter,’ D’Aletto said. ‘He turned it over to the police. Made a complaint. As far as I can tell, they never did anything. I’ve had a copy made for you,’ he added. ‘Along with the rest of the file, what there is of it. It’s back in my office.’
Cesare D’Aletto looked at the scrubbed kitchen table. At the four chairs pulled up around it. The blue bowl of pomegranates sitting on the counter. ‘No one thought it was important,’ he said softly. ‘Now two old men are dead.’
The garden was walled. A rectangle of immaculately clipped grass was dotted with fruit trees. Espaliered apricots spread their arms along the red wall, meeting the broad leaves of vines. Lemons and oranges lined up in pots. A small fountain, tiled deep blue, sat in the centre of the lawn. Pallioti had never been to Granada or to the Alhambra, but he had seen pictures of it. Suddenly he understood why Roberto Roblino had come here, to the south. The relentless sun, the baked earth, even the white blocks of the villages. All of it was as much Spanish as Italian. Beside the tent was a pomegranate tree.
Cesare D’Aletto went down the steps. ‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘They’re slippery.’ He stepped across the sodden and muddied grass and held back the flap of the tent. ‘This is where they found him.’
In the queasy grey light, the taped outline of the body looked strangely solid. It was stretched away from them, one arm flung out towards the metal chairs that were grouped around a small table. The table’s top was inlaid with red tiles that made an interlinking pattern of stars. White cushions, still sodden, were tied onto two of the chair seats. The third chair had several books piled on it. A rather rumpled panama hat lay on the grass beside it, not far from the outline of the old man’s hand, as if he had been reaching for it. Pallioti bent down. The books were all to do with the war. Their pages were buckled and wet. The glassine covers suggested that they might have come from library sales, or simply been borrowed and never returned.
Pallioti stood up and turned around. A cool feeling spread through his body that had nothing to do with the rain. He looked back at the house. He could see the hall through the still-open garden doors, look straight down it to the front door. Given that someone was careful, or disciplined enough – someone who had been let in, who had been welcomed as a guest, invited, perhaps, to share the last whisper of summer under a pomegranate tree – if the door had been opened for them by their host, they could have come into the house and walked down the hall without touching a thing. They could have followed Roberto Roblino through the already-open back doors and straight out into the garden. Where they had put a gun to his head and ordered him to kneel. Invited him to eat salt. Then fired a single bullet, before turning and retracing their steps, letting themselves out of the front door with a gloved hand, leaving no trace at all. Arriving, killing, and departing as if they’d never been.
On this anniversary of Italy’s Sorrow let it be known to All.
The flame of Truth and Justice is still alive.
It shines in all dark Corners.
All true Italians will know its Light.
Traiters may think they can hide, but they will not be protected from Justice by the false protecshon of their lies.
The cleansing light of purity and truth will seek them out.
The shadows will be vanqished. As long as there are brave men and warriers the Halls of Valhalla will ne
ver be empty.
Traiters will be clensed by the Sword of Purity and the True Glory of Italy will live Again.
You have been warned!
The original had been handwritten in red ballpoint pen. Even through the plastic shell of an evidence bag it had been obvious that the paper was cheap, a dirty pale blue of the sort sold by the pad in newsagents. It appeared to have been faintly lined, as if the writer would otherwise have trouble keeping the sentences straight on the page.
The plane was far short of a plush corporate jet, but it did have a reasonably sized foldout table. With the tips of his fingers Pallioti held down the copy of the letter that Cesare D’Aletto had provided for them and read the text again. Then he lowered his glasses and looked out of the window. At this height, the rain had vanished. The clouds they flew over were tinged with late-afternoon sun. Across from him, Enzo was leafing through the file D’Aletto had given them. It was disturbingly thin. Apart from the usual tax, business incorporation, and car registration material, there was very little on record concerning Roberto Roblino. In fact, if they hadn’t known better, it might have been possible to believe that he had dropped into Italy in 1957, fully formed at age 35. Not that it mattered much; if Cesare D’Aletto was right, the reason he had been killed had nothing to do with anything as rational as a thwarted lover or past business deal gone sour. Pallioti looked again at the threat the old man had received over a year ago.
The date, 28 April, and a series of Roman numerals, LXXXIII, were printed in the top right-hand corner. There was no return address. At the bottom of the page, instead of a signature, there was some kind of stamp. It was dark and smudgy, and looked like something Tommaso might have made for one of his playschool craft projects. Pallioti guessed that it had been carved out of a pencil rubber. He had several such masterpieces carefully stuck to his refrigerator. He examined it more closely and saw that it was a thick cross with upturned edges enclosed in a circle.
‘The Celtic cross,’ Enzo said without looking up. ‘It’s used by Italian and Spanish neo-Nazi groups.’
Pallioti raised his eyebrows.
‘In an effort to prove their, quote, unquote, purity.’ Enzo put the tax papers he had been reading down on the table. ‘It’s their answer to their Austrian and German counterparts, who accuse them of having “tainted” Latino blood. They claim they’re actually Celts.’
Pallioti nodded, pretending he knew what Enzo was talking about while marvelling, yet again, at what a bizarre storehouse of information he was. But, he thought, undercover policemen were like that. They hoarded facts to trade among themselves, like kids with marbles.
‘And the date?’ he asked. ‘Italy’s sorrow?’
‘28 April – the anniversary of Mussolini’s death; 2005,’ Enzo added, ‘is 83 in Fascist. The purists date from 1922, the glorious dawn when Il Duce took power.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes.’ Enzo looked at the letter for a moment then made a face.
‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘It appears it wasn’t just smoke.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve already called ahead. We’re starting with known right-wing extremist groups and working outwards. And we’ve got the reporter coming in again. And anyone else we can dig up who knows anything about this kind of stuff. We’ll shake the tree and see what falls out.’
‘Good.’
Pallioti put the letter down and cleared his throat. The plane might have a table, but it did not stretch to mini bottles of vodka, which at the moment was rather too bad. The fact that they might finally have a real lead was nothing but good news. But he had something else on his mind. Ever since this morning when he had seen Roberto Roblino’s collection of partisan souvenirs carefully laid out on his dining-room table, he had been feeling particularly guilty.
‘I have something to confess,’ he said. He reached into his inner pocket, where he had taken to carrying Caterina’s little red book, and placed it next to Enzo’s file. ‘I borrowed it,’ Pallioti muttered. ‘From Giovanni Trantemento’s belongings. From the safe.’
Enzo nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, pulling a paper out of the file, ‘I know.’
‘You know?’ Pallioti looked at him, aggrieved. He had dutifully summoned the courage to confess, only to be short-changed. Enzo didn’t seem to care about the humble pie he’d been preparing to eat. The apology for his presumption. The assurance that he had not been ‘pulling rank’, and that of course he had intended to report at once if it contained anything even remotely germane to the investigation. ‘You know? How do you know?’ He wondered if Enzo was just being clever.
Enzo smiled.
‘I saw you take it.’
Pallioti sighed. That was the problem with working with ex-Angels. Very little got past them. They were professional watchers, all but state-sanctified peeping toms. Even with his ponytail, it was sometimes too easy to forget that Enzo had led some of the city’s most delicate, and most successful, undercover jobs. And all at Pallioti’s behest. Which more or less added insult to injury.
Enzo put the paper down.
‘It’s a diary, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Pallioti said. ‘One of Trantemento’s souvenirs. From the war. Written by a woman he knew.’
‘A girlfriend?’
‘Possibly. I’m not sure. I haven’t got there yet.’
‘Is it important?’
Pallioti shrugged. ‘I doubt it.’
Chapter Eleven
8 January 1944
Christmas was so sad and strange, so empty, that I almost forgot about it. I spent most of the day at the hospital, where I am living almost all the time now, lying down to sleep when I can in my little coffin cupboard. With the door closed it does not matter if it is night or day, and sometimes I lose track. The worst thing is that when I dream, I no longer dream of Lodo. Just as I no longer hear his voice. Instead, as if I am damned to relive what I have done night after night, I dream of Dieter’s lips. Of the cold of snow. The pant of breath. And his hands on my body. But in these dreams I do not see his face. Instead I see the face of that young woman, sitting on the floor of the ambulance, holding her little girl, smiling with terror in her eyes.
I have not seen Il Corvo, or had to face the checkpoint again, since that last night. It was, thank God, the last run in the ambulance. At least until the snow melts again in the spring. And who knows where we will all be then. Or if we will even be alive.
Issa is here, in the city. She does not stay at the house, but I know she goes there, to see Mama and Papa. I know not because she has told me, or because they say anything, but because after she has come and gone, our ration cards are missing. And, as often as not, some of my clothes. Even one of my spare uniforms. For whatever she is doing, I am sure it comes in handy. Carlo and Rico are somewhere in the city, too. But I have not seen them at all. I understand the need for this, but I would like to hear Rico’s voice. I wouldn’t even mind him ordering me about, if it made me feel that everything was not so broken. But I know it is not a good idea. There can be no ‘casual visits’. Since 25 November, when the final ‘amnesty’ for Italian troops officially ran out, they are fugitives. From the Germans, from the Fascists, from everyone. They can be shot as deserters or partisans or ‘enemy combatants’. It’s quite a choice.
Issa says they move almost every night, and of course I have not asked her where. We live in closed little worlds now, each of us knowing only what we need to know. No one ever says it, but we all understand that this ignorance of each other is a perverse kind of gift – the only protection we have. That if we are arrested, we will be able to throw our hands in the air, and say, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Deny each other three times before dawn.
It is in the interests of this that I do not even know Issa’s name – the name the others call her in what I have come to think of as ‘her other life’. They have come down from the mountains for the winter, all of them, to work with GAP. The Gruppi di
Azione Patriottica. Issa says that the way she says Carlo’s name, as if it is another lover. GAP, she says, will ‘bring the fight to the enemy’. She has not told me, and again, I have not asked her, exactly what she means by this – but I have a fair idea. The head of the Fascist party in Ferrara was assassinated last month. His body was left on a road outside the city.
I am sure that was a triumph. But if we have learned anything in the last few months, it is that everything has its price. Sugar. Tea. Bread, or a human life. Ferrara, it turns out, is a very expensive place. The next day, the Fascistoni chose eleven people at random, arrested them, marched them to the castle walls, and shot them. Their bodies lay uncovered until the Archbishop could no longer bear to look out of his window and finally demanded they be buried.
I dream of that, too – of bodies. They lie in the snow. They look up into the sun with wide dead eyes and clowns’ smiles. Any one of us has already done enough to be among them.
But bullets are not all that kills. The influenza that has been expected has arrived, an unwelcome guest in time for Christmas. It does not seem to be as virulent as we had feared, but it finds plenty to attack, in the old, and the weak, and the hungry. And God knows, there are enough of those. At the hospital we have food, and at home Mama and Papa are saved by the black market. But others are not so fortunate. Ration cards do not go far, especially in this cold, and without fuel there are plenty who may die without any help from pneumonia or the flu. On Christmas Eve, they brought in a girl who reminded me so much of Issa that, for a terrible moment, I thought it was her. Then I looked into her face, and saw Issa but not Issa – Issa with the flame inside of her snuffed out.
The girl’s name is Donata Leone. She does not appear to be that ill, but already death has lodged itself in her features. She comes from Genoa. Her family was bombed, all of them killed – she was only saved because she was not at home at the time. She fled to Florence because she was able to get a job here and because she thought it would be safe. And now she will die too, and she knows it. I sat with her on Christmas morning. I held her hand while we listened to the bells.
The Villa Triste Page 19
