The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2)

by Varesi, Valerio

  “I can’t hear you very well,” he said, moving outside.

  “You’re at the Scoiattolo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I might have known.”

  “What do you expect? I feel at home here. I know the owners.”

  He heard a sigh at the other end. “Just think how many better places there must be that you’ve never been to.”

  “And why should I change if I’m comfortable where I am?”

  “One of these days I’m going to come and check up on you,” she said in a good-humoured way. “Is there something up? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

  “No, no, it’s not what you think,” Soneri mumbled, but his denial did not carry conviction. “It’s just that everybody here is talking about a man who’s supposed to have disappeared and then turned up again. Nobody has any idea what’s going on, so there’s no end of rumours and counter-rumours. They know what I do for a living, and they’re all keen to get me involved.”

  “Isn’t it you that’s getting curious?”

  “Well, maybe a little. I want to talk about mushrooms, but everyone I meet is determined to raise this other subject,” the commissario said.

  “Who has disappeared? Someone important?”

  “Paride Rodolfi, the salame and prosciutto manufacturer.”

  “Good heavens! So he is important. I know the lawyer who looks after the company’s affairs, and I can well believe everybody’s talking about it. Everybody there has some connection with the Rodolfis. They either work for him, or they’re suppliers.”

  “I know, but the fact is…” the commissario’s voice trailed off because he had suddenly lost his train of thought. He realised he had no idea why this business seemed so odd to him.

  “Tell me,” Angela said.

  Soneri outlined the facts, chiefly to clarify them to himself. “Some posters have been put up to say that Rodolfi is alive and in good health, but no-one had ever said he was dead in the first place. They all assumed he’d gone off somewhere.”

  “Whenever someone disappears, there’s always a suspicion that they might be dead,” was Angela’s tentative explanation.

  “Certainly, but even after these posters have gone up, noone’s still really sure whether he’s alive or not. One or two people claim to have seen him, but nobody will swear to it.”

  “Good God, Commissario,” Angela murmured, “I’ve never heard you so confused. I hope it’s only because of the heavy meal you’ve just had. Go for a walk and clear your head and then try to get some rest.”

  “I have the feeling that they all know more than they’re letting on, but since I don’t have any facts to go on, I’m getting steadily more puzzled myself. I’m not thinking clearly.”

  “Do you want my advice? Steer clear of the whole thing. Go for a walk in your mountains and let them look for Rodolfi by themselves – if he really is lost.”

  At half past two, the village was still sleeping off its brodo di carne. Soneri went up to his room, put on his wellington boots and slipped out without letting Sante see him go. Just this once, being familiar with the woods and feeling totally at home among them, he was happy to follow Angela’s advice. He took the road to Montelupo intending to climb for a couple of kilometres and then turn into the beech groves. He felt the need to stretch his legs and clear his lungs, so he set off at a relaxed pace, turning back from time to time to watch the village grow smaller behind him. He raised his eyes to the hills only when he reached the reservoir, where there was a small, familiar fountain. The mist was not so much higher above him, no more than ten minutes’ walk away. At Boldara, the point where the road ends, the first wisps began to float around him, and from there on he walked into and out of the swirling greyness of mist and low cloud carried on the wind. Only when he took the path through the beech woods did everything close in on him. The trees and brush all around him, the thick mist pressing down from above and the black earth beneath his feet made him shudder. He was uneasy as he made his way along a tunnel of trees which grew darker with every step. He had the sense that he was not alone. Birdsong and the squeals of hedgehogs alternated with the sound of a large animal not far distant in the woods. The mist and the breeze carried the sounds deceptively in all directions.

  He had walked quite a distance before he began to feel warm. His heart was beating wildly and he was gasping for breath. Were his cigars presenting their bill? He looked down at his boots encrusted with mud and understood. At every step, he was carrying what looked like a kilo of earth. He scraped the boots clean on moss-covered roots. In less than an hour, he reckoned, it would be dark. He went on a little way, but stopped when he heard the sound of breaking branches. It might be a wild boar, he thought, and for a moment he feared it might charge him, but the beast, without emerging onto the path, could be heard racing down a gulley which cut across the slope to seek shelter in the thickets.

  As he was setting off again, a shot rang out. Its echo swelled across the valley like thunder. The bullet passed no more than ten metres ahead of him, allowing him to hear its whistle and the crack of the branches it struck. Instinctively, he crouched on the wet forest floor, waiting for a second shot which did not come. He stayed in that position for a few moments, wondering if the shot was aimed at the boar or at him, and deciding that thinking about it was going to get him nowhere. Twenty minutes later, he came out onto the road, and even before emerging from the mist he heard the band striking up on the piazza below.

  2

  According to tradition, on the feast of San Martino things were taken from houses as a joke and left somewhere in the village where they could be rediscovered. All the various objects which had been spirited away the night before were piled up in a quiet lane behind the church. There were farm implements, bicycles, hats, cars and even a pony, which was feeding quietly from a nosebag. A man was cursing as he attempted to pull an old scooter out of a tangle of rubbish, but just as he had succeeded and was about to move off, the town band turned up and the street was closed off.

  Soneri waited until the majorettes and bandsmen, decked out in uniforms, hats and sequins, had passed by. He could not understand why the sound of drums and trumpets in all their solemnity always made him laugh, but as he was thinking this over, Maini emerged from the disorderly crowd shuffling along behind the band, took him by the arm and led him into the body of the procession.

  “So you’ve had a go, eh!” he exclaimed, glancing down at Soneri’s mud-covered boots. He had forgotten to change but no-one in the village would notice.

  “I went to stretch my legs and get a breath of fresh air,” Soneri said.

  “How far did you get?”

  “Up past Boldara, towards Montelupo.”

  “You’ve got guts,” Maini said.

  “Is there someone from around here who goes shooting in the mountains?” the commissario asked, abruptly.

  The din from the band gave Maini an excuse for taking his time. “Did you hear anything?” he asked.

  Soneri nodded, without turning to face him.

  “Where?”

  “I have just told you where.”

  “But do you know where the shot came from?”

  “I only know it wasn’t more than ten metres away when it went whistling past. There must have been a boar in the gulley, judging by the noise coming from there.”

  “These mountains have become very dangerous. I don’t know what’s been going on recently.”

  “There’ve always been poachers in these parts,” the commissario said without much conviction.

  “During the day? With this mist, in a hunting reserve?” Maini’s tone was incredulous.

  “In the mist you can do anything you want. It gives you cover.”

  “True enough, even for a murder. Nobody can see you.”

  Soneri felt a tremor run up his spine, but he said nothing. They were back on the piazza after walking around some of the streets where old women at the windows looked down at the band. A big stall
was serving torta fritta and salame to a crowd gathered hungrily around it. On the other side of the piazza, some volunteers from the tourist office were roasting chestnuts. Delrio, clearly displeased, came up to join them. He was wearing full uniform.

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve got to work today as well,” Maini said.

  Delrio shrugged. “More problems.”

  “What’s up?”

  “One of those damned things…” he said, waving his hands vaguely in the air. “It’s beyond my understanding…”

  “There are many things like that,” Soneri said.

  Delrio gave him a quick look, as though he wanted to enlist his help. “Last night was very peculiar, even for San Martino’s,” was all he said by way of explanation. He was referring to the custom of flitting, or stealing things as a practical joke.

  “The young nowadays carry off things we would never have touched,” Maini said.

  “It’s the first time anyone has ever taken a coffin,” Delrio said. “The thing is that nobody noticed, because it was covered by the Ghirardis’ marquee. It was only when the pony started tugging at the canvas that the coffin came to light.”

  “Where have you put it?” the commissario asked him.

  “Where do you think? In the graveyard chapel.”

  “Is there an undertaker near here?”

  “The nearest one is about twenty kilometres away,” Maini replied.

  “No-one has ever stolen a coffin,” Delrio said again. “The people in this village are all cheerful and good-natured.”

  This time it was Soneri’s turn to shrug.

  “Nobody’s going to tell me all this was dreamed up on the spur of the moment last night,” Maini said.

  The smoke from the roasting chestnuts mixed with the smoke from the fried food. They were passing in front of the stalls where people were queuing up to buy polenta and vin brulé, when the band re-formed and struck up another number.

  “See that? People having good-natured fun,” the commissario said.

  Delrio glowered, supposing Soneri was laughing at him. He moved off in the direction of the band just as the lights went on, in response, it seemed, to how far down the mist had come.

  “He’s a worried man,” Maini said, indicating Delrio, as he was swallowed up by the crowd. “In fact, in spite of appearances, everyone in the village is a bit worried.”

  “I know. It’s because of the Rodolfi case,” Soneri said.

  “Everyone’s livelihood depends on them, and in spite of all their faults…” His voice stuttered to an embarrassed halt.

  “Have you heard anyone criticising them?” the commissario asked.

  “No, no – apart from the usual chatter. You hear rumours here and there … some bits of their business … But there’s so much jealousy around here. Anyway, who knows how much they’re worth? They can toss their money about…”

  “Yes, they can toss it up in the air, or add yeast to make it rise like torta fritta,” the commissario said, as he gazed at the squares of batter swelling up on contact with the hot oil in the pan. Maini was watching too and smiled, but then turned serious once again. “But the coffin … what do you think about that?”

  “I think an empty coffin is always waiting for someone to fill it.”

  Maini looked down and changed the subject. “If you’re planning to go up there tomorrow morning, you’re as well setting off at first light. These are the shortest days of the year.”

  “And the mushrooms are well hidden, unless you know precisely where to go looking for them,” Soneri said.

  “In the woods, nothing’s that precise. You have to search about, like when you’re looking for a place to pee.”

  Soneri stared at him for few moments, noticing the frown on his face. He had been in the village only a few hours and already the tension in the air had got to him. Now that he was plunged into that stressful atmosphere, heavy with unanswered questions, his hopes for a carefree break were already vanishing. Perhaps Angela had been right when she said that worries live inside us, not outside, because we can never be wholly impregnable. And he knew he was too impressionable.

  Fortunately he was distracted by the priest at the head of the procession, cutting his way through the crowd milling about in the piazza. His only followers were elderly ladies, while the altar boys around him had the look of young men who had just been served with their call-up papers.

  “More like a funeral,” was the acid observation of Volpi, who had just come over from the roasted-chestnut stall.

  “At least you won’t find the priest changing his home,” said an ancient at Soneri’s shoulder, repeating an old joke, trotted out each year, about flitting from one house to another on San Martino.

  No sooner had the procession moved on than the mayor appeared alongside the commissario. “Good to see you back. You’ll be here for…” he started to say, but could not get the words out.

  Soneri noted the embarrassment on the man’s face, so reassured him. “I’m only here to pick mushrooms.”

  The mayor smiled. “Well, you know, with all these mysteries…”

  “I’ll steer clear of mysteries for at least ten days.”

  “Someone’s been putting about rumours, whispers, gossip. It’s a set-up. Let me assure you that nothing has happened. A minor mishap which has been blown up into a big story.”

  “You’re all great fans of the Rodolfis, but you worry too much,” Soneri said, with a touch of irony.

  The mayor studied him warily, to make sure he was taking him seriously enough. “It was a mistake to put up those posters. It’s not the first time he’s gone missing.”

  “Couldn’t agree more. Going round sticking up posters is…” Soneri said.

  “Yes. It was an odd thing to do, and it only heightens suspicion. They should have left well enough alone.”

  “It would be better still if he were to appear in public,” the commissario suggested.

  “Certainly, certainly, but he never was particularly sociable. You can understand it, a busy man like him…”

  “What do you plan to do? Maybe you should just try to calm things down.”

  “And what do you think I’m doing? I’m getting out and about as much as I can. I speak to anybody and everybody, but these mountain folk are so distrustful. You should know that, shouldn’t you?”

  “It seems someone saw Rodolfi this morning, or last night.”

  “That was Mendogni, but now he’s not so sure. He saw a man who might have been Paride Rodolfi, but he couldn’t swear to it.”

  Soneri stretched out his arms. “Send for the carabinieri!”

  “On what grounds? Because a man has failed to return home? I’ll get charged with wasting police time.”

  “Talking about wasting police time,” the commissario said, looking over at the piazza where Mendogni, surrounded by a crowd of people anxious for news, had made an appearance.

  The mayor went over to question him, speaking over those who were already talking. He dragged Soneri with him to witness what looked like a public interrogation.

  “They tell me you’re not certain whether it was him or not.”

  “When I first saw him, I was almost certain,” Mendogni mumbled, annoyed at having to repeat his story yet again. “But if you ask me if I am a hundred per cent certain, I’d have to say no. Do you know the path that leads to Campogrande? It’s not that close to the Greppo villa.”

  “Who else could it have been?” someone asked.

  “How should I know?” Mendogni said. “There are so many folk coming and going to that house. You see big cars driving up and there’s no way of being sure who’s inside.”

  The mayor was growing increasingly agitated because Mendogni’s words, far from calming people down, were making them more suspicious. Another voice cut in. “Biavardi’s daughter says he’s still not come back, and that it’s a whole week since they had any news.”

  “They must have had some reason for putting up all those
posters,” someone else said.

  Soneri listened in silence to the hubbub, with images previously seen a thousand times chasing each other around in his head. In the early stages of an investigation, everything was always so confused and contradictory, and that did not mean that the outlook was necessarily any clearer at the end. He had no wish for this to become “his” case, so he took advantage of a lull in the exchanges to move away. He was determined to remain an onlooker.

  The darkness, made more impenetrable by the mist rolling down from the hills, had in the meantime enveloped the village. He walked towards Rivara’s osteria with the intention of ordering a glass of Malvasia, but when he saw how crowded the place was, he walked on towards the old district. As he passed in front of the Olmo bar, he looked in and was reassured by the atmosphere of mid-week calm which reigned there. This was the bar frequented by the village elders, and it seemed to have grown old with them.

  He went in and leaned on the bar to light his cigar. At the table directly in front of him, four men were silently engrossed in a game of briscola.

  “Fireworks tonight,” one of the men said. The others shrugged without raising their eyes from the cards.

  “Who do you think the coffin’s for?” one asked.

  “As long as it’s not for us.”

  Soneri was struck by the stoic indifference of the card-players, but he felt himself being observed. He turned round and recognised Magnani, the owner.

  “If you’re here, it means something really has gone badly wrong,” were his words of greeting.

  “You’re wide of the mark this time. The only investigations I’m doing are in the undergrowth,” Soneri said.

  “In that case you’re going to have your work cut out,” Magnani warned him, as he filled two glasses of white wine without waiting to be asked. He raised his glass. “Here’s to your good health and to the investigation.”

  “To my health, then. I’ll take nothing to do with any investigation.”

  Magnani stretched out his hands, palms open. “I meant your investigations into the state of the mushrooms.”