A PENGUIN MYSTERY
SHADOWS ON THE LAKE
Giovanni Cocco was born in Como in 1976. Amneris Magella was born in Milan in 1958. They are married and live in Como, Italy.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
PENGUIN BOOKS
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Published in Penguin Books 2017
Copyright © 2013 by Ugo Guanda Editore
Translation copyright © 2017 by Stephen Sartarelli
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Originally published in Italian as Ombre sul lago by Ugo Guanda Editore.
Ebook ISBN 9780698185722
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Cocco, Giovanni, 1976– author. | Magella, Amneris, 1958– author. |
Sartarelli, Stephen translator.
Title: Shadows on the lake / Giovanni Cocco and Amneris Magella; translated
by Stephen Sartarelli.
Other titles: Ombre sul lago. English
Description: New York: Penguin Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016012231 | ISBN 9780143127253
Subjects: LCSH: Police—Italy—Fiction. | Detective and mystery stories. |
GSAFD: Mystery fiction
Classification: LCC PQ4903.O34 O4313 2016 | DDC 853/.92—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design and illustration by Lynn Buckley
Cover photograph by Paul Buckley
Version_1
Contents
About the Authors
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
AUTHORS' NOTE
NOTES
Ministry of Finances Report on the Seizure of Jewish Properties*
MEMO FOR THE DUCE
Re: Seizure of Jewish properties—Situation on 31 December 1944—XXIII
At the end of the first year of the enforcement of the legislative decree of 4 January 1944, XXII, no. 4, which provides for the seizure of properties belonging to citizens of the Jewish race, I hereby submit to you, DUCE, the statistical data relating to the work thus far accomplished.
In all of December of 1944—XXIII, 5768 confiscation orders have been filed with the EGELI, and they break down as follows:
Moveable and immoveable properties 2590 orders
Possessions deposited with third parties 996 orders
Businesses 182 orders
[ . . . ]
Limiting calculations to the seizures reported above, the bank deposits in cash amount to the overall figure of 75,089,047.90 lire; Government bonds to 36,396,831 lire (nominal value); industrial and other securities, valued according to end-of-December listings, to 731,442,219 lire. There are also many other securities concerning the value of which it was not possible to obtain any quotes.
All securities, deposits, and stocks are in the process of being transferred to preestablished entities that provide greater guarantees of safety.
[ . . . ] National Post, 316/1, 3/12/1945—XXIII
1
A light breva was blowing across the lake.
Stefania Valenti crossed the long boulevard that led from the Hotel Regina Olga to the wharf. Not many people about at that hour: a boy with a dog, an old man bundled up in an overcoat, and a slight, bony young woman struggling to carry two plastic shopping bags.
At that time of year, between the end of winter and the start of the warm season, Cernobbio might seem a town like so many others. In a short while the hotels would be back in business, and once they were open, the whole western shore of Lake Como would witness the annual ritual of German, Russian, and American tourists pouring in, the conventions of the rich and powerful, the summer events sponsored by the municipal government, and the appearances of a few Hollywood stars.
She cast a glance at the lake, eyes lingering on the silhouette of the Villa d’Este on the left, and then headed for the Caffè Onda. She ordered a cappuccino and then left in a hurry, lighting her first cigarette of the day.
For once she had managed to get Camilla to school on time, secretly thumbing her nose at the school officials in military pose outside the gate.
Sitting in the backseat of her mother’s Opel Corsa, Camilla had muttered only a few words that morning, engrossed as she was in her Game Boy. They’d said good-bye in a hurry like every morning. Camilla’s last words had been lost in the noise of the slamming car door, and her pink parka had vanished into the already closing entrance door to the school.
Arriving punctually at school was the least of her problems. In the end, even if Camilla had arrived late, the teacher would not have demanded an explanation. Responsibility, blame, merit—and the car keys forgotten in the other purse—were part of their daily morning ritual.
“But doesn’t your dad drive you to school sometimes, Camilla?”
“No, because Dad doesn’t live with us.”
“Ah, right, of course.”
What did she mean by that “of course”? thought Stefania, irritated by the mere thought of the time that Camilla told her about the convoy of blond mothers in SUVs double-parked outside the main entrance of the Foscolo Middle School.
She went back to the car, put on her glasses, and started up the engine, checking the clock display out of the corner of her eye.
Ten minutes to eight.
She ducked into a driveway to turn around.
It was too late to get bread and focaccia at Vago’s, which was just outside the city walls of Como. She would just postpone everything, shopping included, until the afternoon, after she went to pick up Camilla. The supermarket focaccia wasn’t exactly the same thing as the baker’s, but it would have to do.
Her job, her daughter, and the separation from her husband had made Stefania—or at least part of her—extremely practical. Going to the shopping center (a big prefab building made of little red bricks and cement as far as the eye could see at the far end of the northern suburbs of Como, easily accessible from the road to the lake) was not only, deep down, a pleasant task because she would find everything she needed there. It was also part of the everyday ritual she shared with Camilla. Where else could she find bread hot out of the oven at eight P.M. or batteries for her television remote early on Sunday morning?
Her calculations as to her work hours were interrupted by an electronic version of the melody of The Blue Danube.
Where the hell had that come from? Stefania wondered. Then she remembered that Camilla had been playing with her cell phone the previous evening. It wasn’t the first time she’d changed the ring, Stefania thought with a smile.
The voice of Lucchesi, as usual three octaves higher than necessary, boomed in her ears.
“Inspector, when you come in, you should know that the assistant prosecutor was looking for you. As was Chief Inspector Carboni.”
“Got it, Lucchesi, don’t worry. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She was lying shamelessly and knew it. With the insane rush-hour traffic and the queue of vehicles that had formed between Cernobbio and Villa Olmo, it would take her at least twenty minutes to get to police headquarters. She turned the button of the car radio, tuning to Radio 105, which at that moment was presenting the news.
After an exchange of hostilities with a Swiss-plated BMW—the typical border dweller having descended into Italy to go shopping, thanks to the favorable exchange rate—she stepped out onto Viale Innocenzo, leaving the police parking lot behind her, where she’d parked her car in the middle of the courtyard. Seeing Marino in the guard’s booth, she tossed him the keys with a wink.
“Inspector!” the guard shouted.
“Give me just one minute, Marino, then I’ll move it. And I’ll buy you a coffee.”
Dashing up three flights of stairs, she arrived at the vending machine just in time to find Chief Inspector Carboni right in front her, coming out of his office, necktie loosened and shirtsleeves rolled up in a slightly overweight version of an American sheriff from a TV series.
“Come into my office for a minute, Valenti,” said Carboni.
Stefania was thinking of the hot cappuccino and croissant with jam she would eat in the bar behind headquarters. That morning, once again, she hadn’t come in early enough to treat her colleagues to breakfast.
“We just got a call from the Lanzo station. Some workers demolishing a cottage above San Primo have found some human bones. The worksite has been shut down for the time being, since the cottage is right along the new road they’re building. They’ve all been left hanging. Assistant Prosecutor Arisi will also be going there. I want you to go up there with Piras and Lucchesi in the four-by-four.”
Carboni, normally a rather measured, phlegmatic sort, seemed to have an electrical current running through him that morning. Arisi, on the other hand, was known as one of the most feared prosecutors, a straight-shooting Friulian who was serious, trustworthy, and determined. Stefania wondered what could have driven a prosecutor as elderly as he to venture all the way up to San Primo and get mud all over his fancy loafers.
A pile of bones in a tumbledown cottage, she thought. What’s the big deal?
Usually she settled such trifles, as well as ordinary administrative matters, over the telephone. She would get the opinion of the local Carabinieri station and then, at the most, authorize the confiscation of the evidence. Normally, in these situations, it ended there.
Then something else occurred to her.
Maybe Valentini Roadworks, the road-building firm, had a few saints in heaven and wanted to be sure that the whole thing would blow over quickly. Who knew how much it cost them, she wondered, to shut down a project like that?
Searching her memory, Stefania saw a fleeting image of a nearly uninhabited village perched on the mountainside: a few stone houses, some wooden Alpine huts, a few scattered stables, a handful of cows grazing, an old road climbing up in endless curves to the top, to the mountain pass that crossed over to Switzerland. She must have gone there with her father as a little girl one summer many years ago.
The perfect background for a chocolate advertisement, she thought.
Too bad the tunnel of the new road had to run through that very spot on its way to the customs barrier. Five minutes later, there was Switzerland and a bridge to send shudders down your spine, with the environmentalists all having conniptions.
And now we have to go up there, naturally, and negotiate all those curves ourselves, she thought. If Piras drives, I swear I’ll throw up.
By eleven-thirty Arisi still hadn’t shown up. Unexpected engagements at the courthouse.
Screw the hurry, thought Stefania.
Meanwhile she’d managed to drink a cappuccino from the machine and scarf down a brioche from another automated vendor.
As she quickly dealt with her outstanding correspondence, Stefania realized that she would have time to go to the supermarket that afternoon. She would have the afternoon free after four-thirty. She would pick up Camilla, and together they would see the latest Harry Potter episode at the Cinema Astra, the only one left in town, followed by pizza and maybe a few cuddles on the sofa.
But everything seemed to be going wrong these days.
When they got to the scene it was almost one o’clock. They all seemed in a bad mood. Arisi had been silent the whole way there, beside her in the backseat. Lucchesi and Piras had traded quips about a brawl among drunken immigrants along the lakeshore drive that they’d had to break up the day before. None of the four had had lunch yet. Stefania was hoping that this might be the key to her getting out of there early, since the prosecutor and the other two were not, unlike her, in the habit of skipping lunch. They pulled up the four-by-four in the middle of the worksite, right in front of a group of laborers sitting and smoking and another bunch just setting their shovels down.
The site foreman, a man of about fifty, all muscles and beard, pointed at a steep slope marked with crawler tracks.
“We were told not to move from here,” he said. “The marshal is up there with a doctor. They’ve already been waiting a while. Five minutes, straight up in that direction,” he added.
It was a beautiful day.
And a good thing, too, thought Stefania; otherwise they would have had to trudge through the mud.
They climbed the stripped hillside, following the furrows left by the excavators. Panting heavily, they came to a grassy open field, at the far end of which began the woods, which in that area were not very dense. Through shrubs of hazel and leafless chestnuts you could see patches of meadow and small cottages built in the gray stone typical of those mountains.
If not for the stakes planted here and there amid the felled trees and the ribbons of white-and-red plastic tape extended between the stakes, the spot would have looked like a normal, deserted Alpine pasture getting ready for spring. Cows and goats would arrive before summer, followed by farmers, children’s voices, milk, cheeses.
“There they are,” said Lucchesi, the first to notice the small group of people above them waving their arms, trying to get their attention.
“This is Sergeant Corona, and this is Dr. Sacchi of the medical administration,” Marshal Bordoli said solemnly. “We’ve been waiting for you. We’ve already done our initial searches of the place, with photos and all the rest. And we’ve spoken with the workers at the site. They’ll be coming into headquarters tomorrow to sign their depositions,” he added. “We can go to the cottage now, if you like.”
The marshal apparently wanted to appear professional in front of his counterparts from the city and the assistant prosecutor, who limited himself to nodding affirmatively.
A few minutes later, after stepping over tree trunks, piles of sawn branches, stacks of planks and round iron bands, they reached the spot where the human remains had been found. More than the scene of a crime, it looked like a place that had just been hit by a hurricane, and even the big yellow excavator, sitting still with boom and stick resting on the ground, looked as if it had fallen straight out of the sky.
“This is the cottage. Be careful, there’s a big hole. You, too
, signora, be careful.”
Signora.
As if she were just passing through, Stefania thought bitterly. What bloody cottage was he talking about, anyway?
All they could see in front of them was a pile of rocks with freshly moved earth, and another pile of rocks covered with ivy, moss, and wild fig roots. At best, and with a bit of imagination, you could call it a ruin of a wall.
“Nobody’s been through here for years,” Bordoli added. “Snow and bad weather probably brought the house down, like so many others—or it may even have been burnt down during the war. We really have no way of knowing.”
Arisi and Stefania examined the site carefully.
“This morning one of the Valentini workers started the demolition,” the marshal continued. “At a certain point a big chasm opened up. A lot of these cottages have a nevera under them, which is what we call a cold storage cellar. But here you can’t see anything. Who knows how long it was all buried there? When the worker realized there was a collapsed nevera underneath, he kept digging until he found that,” he concluded, pointing at one point in the pit.
“Be careful, Inspector,” said Arisi, “it’s slippery.”
They found themselves peering down into a sort of underground well. Its vaulted lid was almost completely collapsed, revealing a cubicle not more than two by two meters in size, with walls of blackened rough-hewn stone and rocks.
“It looks like a sheepfold,” said Piras, who was from somewhere near Nuoro, in Sardinia, “the kind where they keep kidnapping victims or where bandits hide.”
Stefania shrugged. She’d spent her childhood summers in mountains just like this and knew perfectly well what a nevera was. She’d seen many of them. Often when playing hide-and-seek she would go into one and shiver, partly from the cold and partly because it was scary. At the time, however, the worst she might have encountered in there were the smells of milk and mildew. Whereas outside she would find the comfort of her father, a silhouette in sunlight smoking a cigarette.
“The door, Piras,” Stefania said to her colleague, who had gone down into the pit. “See if there’s a door with a padlock or bolt. A small, wooden door,” she added, handing him the flashlight.
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