Ratking az-1

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘But the murder of Signor Miletti is evidently linked to the other two cases,’ pointed out a well-known interviewer with a television news crew. ‘Why is the same magistrate not investigating all three crimes?’

  Di Leonardo smiled wearily and shook his head.

  ‘You reporters may spin whatever theories you choose. Our task is to weigh the evidence objectively and impartially. At the present juncture there is no evidence to suggest that this crime is necessarily linked to those you have mentioned, or indeed to any others.’

  There was a flurry of protest, which Di Leonardo once again stilled with a gesture of benediction.

  ‘But it is too soon to pronounce on these matters with any certainty,’ he went on smoothly. ‘Should any such evidence come to light in the future we will of course be prepared to review the situation.’

  ‘You mean Bartocci may lose the other two cases as well?’ asked the crumpled man. There was a ripple of laughter.

  A tall woman with the chic, efficient look that spells Milan held up her notebook, and Di Leonardo immediately nodded encouragingly at her. It’s a fix, thought Zen, and he edged back against the wall. Mesmerized by the Public Prosecutor’s performance, no one had yet noticed him, but he had a nasty feeling that this was about to change.

  ‘The Miletti family have made a statement in which they lay the blame for the murder squarely on the shoulders of the police,’ the woman began. ‘They have named a Commissioner Zen, whom they claim demanded to be present when the ransom money was paid, threatening to wreck the pay-off by a show of force if they did not comply. They further assert that in the course of the pay-off Commissioner Zen’s identity was revealed and that the gang were so incensed that they assaulted him. They conclude that the death of their father was a direct result of the kidnappers’ instructions having been disobeyed, and demand that this official be subjected to the appropriate disciplinary procedures. Have you any comment to make?’

  Di Leonardo smiled again. It was a beautiful smile, brimful of wisdom, understanding and compassion.

  ‘I don’t think I need remind anyone of the tragic blow which the Miletti family, and indeed the whole of Perugia, has suffered today. Far be it from me to criticize comments made in the heat of the moment, which should be understood for what they are, cries of unendurable suffering, a passionate outburst of all-too-comprehensible anguish. I am sure I speak for all of us here when I say that our thoughts are with the Miletti family in this ordeal.’

  Di Leonardo paused for a moment, seemingly overcome by emotion. Then he looked up, brisk and businesslike again.

  ‘Nevertheless the fact remains that disciplinary action against officials who may have exceeded their duties or wilfully abused the position of responsibility with which they have been entrusted is a purely internal matter which will be carried out, should the situation warrant it, by the appropriate authorities at the appropriate time. The views and wishes of private individuals, however comprehensible, cannot be permitted to influence whatever decision may eventually be arrived at.’

  ‘Do you accept the family’s account of the events surrounding the pay-off?’ another reporter demanded.

  ‘I have no further comment to make.’

  ‘But this Zen is still in charge of the case?’

  Di Leonardo shook his finger as though admonishing a backward pupil.

  ‘As I have already explained, Dottor Foria is directing the investigation.’

  The crumpled reporter who had started the questioning now sighed theatrically and rubbed his forehead.

  ‘Let’s see, have I got this right? As far as the police are concerned it’s all one case and the same officer remains in charge, but when it comes to the judiciary it’s a completely unrelated development and a new magistrate has been appointed.’

  ‘If you study the answers I have given I think you will find that they are very clear, ‘Di Leonardo returned. ‘Should you have any further questions, I suggest you put them to Commissioner Zen himself.’

  The Public Prosecutor pointed Zen out with one finger, and as everyone turned to look he slipped through the suddenly passive ranks to the safety of his office, closing the door firmly behind him. Immediately all hell broke loose.

  ‘What’s your reaction, dottore?’

  ‘How did it feel finding Miletti’s body?’

  ‘Do you accept responsibility for his death?’

  ‘A spokesman for the family has described your handling of the case as a quote disgraceful and disastrous example of official interventionism unquote. Would you care to comment?’

  ‘Isn’t it true that during the Moro affair you were transferred from the active list of the Rome Questura to a desk job in the Ministry following a disciplinary inquiry? Would you describe today’s events as a further setback to your career?’

  As the lights glared, the cameras whirred and the microphones thrust and jabbed, Zen finally understood why he had been summoned to the law courts.

  ‘If you study the answers the Deputy Public Prosecutor has given, I think you will find that they are very clear,’ he told them. ‘I have nothing further to add.’

  The reporters didn’t give up so easily, of course. But stolid stonewalling makes for poor copy and dull viewing, and eventually they let him go, although even then a few of the younger and hungrier among them followed him down the wide staircase and out into Piazza Matteotti, hoping for a belated indiscretion.

  It was dusk, and the evening was as still and airless as the previous one when, impatient for news, Zen had gone out for a stroll. It was strange now, walking through the same streets, to know that by then it had already happened. But even on a cursory examination the doctor had been in no doubt.

  ‘Rigor mortis is complete but there’s no sign of it passing off. Body temperature almost down to the ambient level. He’s been dead at least eighteen hours, more likely twenty-four.’

  Zen had hardly heard him at the time, shocked by the sight of the man he had been summoned to Perugia to save lying naked on a plastic sheet with a thermometer sticking out of his anus. Ruggiero Miletti had been killed the day before, on Monday morning, and yet the gang had waited until this morning to alert the family with a cruel message of hope! In all his experience Zen could remember nothing like it. Kidnappers could be violent, but in the easy, unashamed manner of men to whom violence was natural and legitimate. If they had killed their victim to teach the Milettis a lesson they would have said so, even bragged about it. But this crime, and above all the manner in which it was mockingly announced, had a twisted sophistication, a kink in the logic which Zen would have said was quite alien to a gang of Calabrian shepherds.

  But he impatiently dismissed this line of thought. Little enough was left him now, but at least his dignity remained, though no one but himself could see it. If he were to start clutching at straws, hoping against hope for a way out, then even that would be lost.

  Back in his office he reached for the phone and dialled his home number. As usual, Maria Grazia answered and then yelled to his mother to pick up the extension phone by her chair, in the deep underwater gloom of the living room. The connection was especially good, almost as if they were face to face, and Zen found himself resentful that he should be deprived of the usual screen of interference on an occasion when he could find nothing to say.

  ‘Happy birthday, mamma. Did you like the present?’

  ‘ Is this going to take long? Crissie’s having her baby and I don’t want to miss that. Wayne will be livid when he hears. And that half-brother of hers, do you know what he’s done? Sold the property over their heads! That couldn’t happen to us, could it? ’

  ‘No, mamma.’

  ‘ Why not? ’

  Was she having a sly laugh at his expense, talking nonsense and then cornering him with a sudden question?

  ‘ Is it because you’re in the police? ’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, mamma. They wouldn’t dare do anything like that. You see, there are some advantages after all
.’

  ‘ What? ’

  ‘To being in the police! You’re always telling me that I should have got a job on the railways. Anyway, if you’re still watching when the news comes on you might see me. I’m…’

  ‘ Oh, I haven’t time to watch the news. There’s the dolphins on Six right afterwards. They’ve kidnapped them, the bastards.’

  ‘Who, the dolphins?’

  ‘ Anyway, if you were on the railways we’d get free tickets wherever we wanted to go.’

  ‘I already get free travel, mamma.’

  ‘ I don’t! ’

  ‘But you never even leave the apartment any more!’

  ‘ That’s what I’m saying. If you had a nice job on the railways maybe I could get out and about a bit.’

  There was a knock, the door opened and Luciano Bartocci appeared.

  ‘May I?’

  After a moment’s hesitation Zen waved him forward.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said into the phone. ‘Happy birthday. See you soon.’

  He hung up.

  ‘Sorry if I disturbed you,’ Bartocci went on. ‘I was just passing, and I thought I’d…’

  He took off the heavy overcoat he was wearing and laid it across the top of the filing cabinet.

  ‘I won’t stay long.’

  The smile trembling to be born at the corner of his mouth was even more active than usual.

  ‘The thing is, you see, I realize that I’ve been rather stupid, and rather selfish, and I’d like to apologize.’

  Zen stood staring at the younger man in considerable embarrassment. He had no idea how to deal with the situation. A judge apologizing to a policeman! What were we coming to?

  ‘I asked you to collaborate unofficially,’ Bartocci went on. ‘That was irresponsible. You could have refused, of course, but it was a choice I shouldn’t have forced you to make.’

  Zen watched the younger man circling the office, inspecting the fixtures and fittings as though they were evidence at the scene of a crime. He’s not apologizing to me, Zen realized. He’s apologizing to himself, for letting himself down.

  ‘My entire strategy was incorrect from the start,’ the magistrate continued. ‘It’s mere bourgeois adventurism to think that the conspiracies of powerful vested interests can be defeated by individual efforts. I should have known better. The ratking is self-regulating, as I told you before. The strength of each rat is the strength of all. Any individual initiative against them is doomed from the start. The system can only be destroyed politically, by collective action, a stronger system.’

  The distant smile was in place on Zen’s lips. By a bigger and better ratking, he thought.

  ‘Did you actually hear the recording of the message the Milettis received this morning?’

  For a moment Bartocci appeared slightly confused.

  ‘Hear it? Why?’

  ‘Is anyone sure it was really the kidnappers who phoned?’

  There was silence while Bartocci thought through the implications of this remark. Then he smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I see what you’re getting at,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid it’s not on. You’ve been away from active duty for a while, haven’t you?’

  Evidently the rumours about Zen’s past were beginning to catch up with him.

  ‘All interceptions are now subjected to voiceprint analysis as a matter of routine,’ the magistrate explained. ‘If the one this morning hadn’t matched the pattern I’d have been informed. No, I’m afraid we must accept that Miletti was murdered by his kidnappers.’

  ‘All right, perhaps they pulled the trigger. But there’s still the question of how they knew I would be there at the pay-off. Ubaldo Valesio reckoned that someone in the family was passing on information. Isn’t it possible that the informant deliberately told the kidnappers I would be there, knowing what the consequences were likely to be?’

  ‘You mean that one of the family got the gang to do their murder for them? I doubt very much whether you’ll be able to interest Rosella Foria in such a theory.’

  ‘Why? Is she…?’

  He paused, significantly. Bartocci shook his head.

  ‘No, no, Rosella’s straight enough. But she does everything strictly by the book. She has to. There still aren’t many women in the judiciary, so everything they do tends to get scrutinized by their male colleagues, and not only those on the Right, I’m afraid to say. If a woman makes the slightest mistake it’s pounced on as evidence of her general incompetence. The result is a natural tendency towards caution. And after what’s happened to me Rosella’s going to be treading very carefully indeed.’

  For a moment Zen wondered whether he should tell Bartocci about the photocopy of Ruggiero’s letter. Since the death of the writer the insults and threats he had dealt out to each member of his family took on a new significance. But in the end he decided against it. That letter was a card up his sleeve, the last one he had.

  ‘What has happened to you?’ he asked instead.

  ‘I’ll have to look for a new posting.’

  ‘You’re being transferred?’

  ‘Nothing as simple as that. The judiciary only resort to disciplinary action in the most blatant cases, where the alternative would make us look even worse. All I’ve done is offend one or two of the wrong people, it’s not the end of the world. No, nothing has changed. I’m quite free to stay in Perugia for the rest of my life, as an investigating magistrate. But if I want to move up the ladder I’ll have to go elsewhere.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why the Milettis didn’t try and stop you handling the investigation in the first place if they feel so strongly about you.’

  ‘They did try! But they went about it the wrong way. It was Pietro’s fault. He’s been away too long, lost his touch, forgotten how things are done. When I was assigned to investigate Ruggiero’s kidnapping, Pietro made a statement to the press drawing attention to my lack of experience and my political views and demanding that I be replaced immediately. After that I couldn’t be touched, of course. This time they went about it correctly, which is to say incorrectly. A few discreet phone calls and suddenly I find myself shunted into a siding while the investigation into Ruggiero’s murder passes me by.’

  As Bartocci took his coat, the crucifix which Zen had laid on top of the filing cabinet the previous evening fell to the floor.

  ‘Where you’re concerned the Milettis got it wrong again,’ the magistrate remarked to Zen as they stood at the door. ‘The Ministry would have been only too happy to hand you over stuffed and pickled if they’d been asked in the proper way. But once Pietro started sounding off to the press they had to stand by you to avoid charges of bowing to pressure.’

  ‘I expect it’ll come to the same thing in the end,’ Zen told him as they shook hands.

  The crucifix had been broken by its fall. Zen wandered over to the window, trying to push it back together again.

  One effect of the years of terrorism had been to abolish night in the vicinity of prisons, and the scene outside was bleakly bright. Every detail was picked out by the floodlights mounted high up on the walls behind protective grilles. Remote-control video cameras scanned back and forth, while up on the roof a nervous-looking teenager in grey overalls went his rounds, hugging a machine-gun for comfort.

  That was another slight anomaly about Ruggiero Miletti’s death, Zen reflected. Like Valesio, he had been shot through the mouth, but this time the only sign of damage was a single discreet exit wound in the back of the neck. The bullets fired into the victim’s cranium were still lodged there. When the projectile that had escaped turned up in the mud all was explained: it was a 4.5mm, low-power ammunition for a small pistol. This choice of weapons seemed rather bizarre. The negotiating cell of the gang had brutally dismantled Ubaldo Valesio’s skull with a submachine-gun while the hard men who had executed Ruggiero had done so with a small handgun, a bedside toy for nervous householders.

  As Zen stood there fiddling with the crucifix,
the end of the upright suddenly came away cleanly in his hand and he saw that it was hollow and that the lower part of the shaft contained a heavy rectangular pack about two centimetres long connected to a wire running back into the shaft and disappearing through a small hole into the figure of Christ. This figure was painted in the same syrupy pastel shades as the rest of the crucifix, but when Zen tapped it the head resounded not with the dull thud of plaster but with a light metallic ring.

  He’s been away too long, Bartocci had said of Pietro Miletti. He’s lost his touch, forgotten how things are done. He wasn’t the only one. Zen clearly remembered the occasion when he’d felt that some detail in his office had altered. He’d thought that it was just the calendar which had been turned to the correct month, but something else had been changed too. The original crucifix had been much smaller, too small in fact to contain whatever it was he was now cradling in his hand. And to think he hadn’t noticed! At this rate he couldn’t even count on keeping his Housekeeping job much longer. People would be auctioning off whole police stations under his nose.

  The broken fragments of the crucifix looked like some bizarre act of desecration. He laid them out on the desk, got a plastic bag out of the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and swept all the bits and pieces into it. Then he put on his overcoat and pushed the package deep into the pocket.

  It was almost eight o’clock, and the streets were dead apart from a little through traffic. While he was still undecided as to what to do a bus appeared round the corner and slowed to a halt near by. The doors opened and the driver stared at him expectantly, and Zen got in. The bus wound its way through the ring of nineteenth-century villas on the upper slopes and the post-war apartments below them, down to the modern blocks and towers on the flat land around the station, where it pulled up. The engine died and everyone got out.

  Zen went over to the row of luggage lockers, laid the plastic package in one, dropped in three hundred lire coins, locked the door and pocketed the key. On the wall opposite there was an illuminated display listing the tourist attractions of the city. The word ‘cinemas’ caught his eye, and one of the names seemed familiar. He gave it to the driver of the taxi he found outside, who whisked him back up the hill again, back through time to a medieval alley smelling of woodsmoke and urine. A more unlikely situation for a cinema was hard to imagine, but the driver pointed to a set of steps burrowing up between two houses and explained that it was as near as he could get in a car.