Ratking az-1

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘It’s the same. At Milan innocent till guilty, at Rome guilty till innocent, in Calabria guilty till guilty.’

  Zen glanced at his watch.

  ‘I believe that you didn’t kill Ruggiero Miletti.’

  ‘Prison for kidnap, prison for murder. Same prison.’

  He’s always known this would happen one day, Zen thought, and now that it has he feels oddly reassured. And I’m cast in the role of a smart lawyer trying to make Oedipus believe that I’ve found a loophole in fate and given a sympathetic jury I can get him off with a suspended sentence.

  ‘Look, I’ve read the letter Ruggiero sent to his family,’ he told the prisoner. ‘He made it clear that you treated him well. As far as the kidnapping goes you were small fry, manual workers. You’ll go to prison, certainly, but with good behaviour and a bit of luck you’ll get out one day. But if you’re sent down for killing a defenceless old man in cold blood then that’s the end. They won’t bother locking your cell, they’ll just weld up the door. And you’ll know that whatever happens, however society changes, whichever party comes to power, you’re going to die in prison and be buried in a pit of quicklime, because if any of your relatives still remember who you are they’ll be too ashamed to come and claim your body.’

  The prisoner stared stoically at the floor. Zen consulted his watch again.

  ‘Tell me about the day you released Miletti.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘If I’m to help you I need to know!’

  Eventually the deep voice ground unwillingly into action.

  ‘We drive him there and leave him. That’s all.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Before light.’

  ‘On Monday? Four days ago?’

  A grudging nod.

  ‘And when did you phone the family?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Later the same morning? On Monday?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Which number did you phone?’

  ‘The same as before.’

  ‘When before?’

  ‘When we go to get the money.’

  He seemed bored, as if none of this concerned him and he simply wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  ‘And who did you speak to?’

  ‘I don’t speak.’

  Of course. The gang would have picked someone more articulate as their spokesman.

  ‘You don’t know anything about who answered? A man? A woman? Young? Old?’

  ‘A man, of course! Not of the family. Like you.’

  ‘Like me?’

  ‘From the North.’

  Zen nodded, holding the man’s eyes. Time must be getting desperately short, but he didn’t dare break the concentration by glancing at his watch.

  ‘The man who hates the police because of what they did to his brother, how did he know who I was?’

  ‘He say he can smell them.’

  Zen’s foot hooked the man’s ankles and pulled him off balance so that he fell forward with a short cry of pain.

  ‘That was very brave of you,’ Zen commented as the prisoner struggled back to his feet. ‘But we don’t have time for bravery. Who told you I was coming on the pay-off?’

  The man stood motionless, eyes closed, breathing the pain away.

  ‘Some people say Southerners are stupid,’ Zen continued. ‘I hope you’re not going to prove them right. I can’t help you unless I know who your contact was.’

  He moved closer to the prisoner, inside the portable habitat of mountain odours that surrounded him like a sheath.

  ‘Was it one of the family?’

  No response.

  ‘Or someone in the Questura?’

  The man’s eyelids flickered but did not open.

  ‘Someone called Lucaroni?’

  Zen’s gaze swarmed over the prisoner’s face.

  ‘Chiodini?’

  Behind him the doors banged open and boots rapped out across the parquet flooring.

  ‘Geraci?’

  Suddenly the eyes were on him again, pure and polished and utterly empty of expression.

  ‘Everything go all right?’ asked the sergeant, appearing at Zen’s side. ‘Didn’t give you any trouble, did he?’

  Zen turned slowly, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘It went just fine, thank you.’

  The sergeant unlocked the handcuffs and the prisoner straightened his arms with a long groan. Zen buttoned up his overcoat.

  ‘I’ll be going then.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were here,’ the sergeant remarked.

  The Alfetta was parked on the pavement outside, forcing pedestrians out into the street jammed with traffic. Palottino sat inside reading a comic featuring a naked woman with large breasts cowering in terror before an enormous spider brandishing a bloodstained chainsaw. It was drizzling lightly and the evening rush hour was at its peak, but thanks to a judicious use of the siren and a blatant disregard for the rules of the road the Neapolitan contrived to move the Alfetta through the traffic almost as though it did not exist. Meanwhile Zen sat gazing out at the narrow cobbled streets, teeming with quirky detail to an extent that seemed almost unreal, like the carefully contrived background to a film scene. But it was just the effect of the contrast with that other world, a world of carefully contrived monotony, designed for twenty thousand people but inhabited by more than twice that number, of whom several hundred killed themselves each year and another fifty or so were murdered, a world whose powerful disinfectant would seep into the blood and bones of the violent, gentle shepherds who had kidnapped Ruggiero Miletti, until it had driven them safely mad.

  Zen lit a Nazionale and stretched luxuriously. What the Calabrian had told him made everything simple. All he had to do was get in touch with Rosella Foria before she left for Florence and pass on the information he had received and he could return to Rome exonerated and with a clear conscience. The key was that the kidnappers had telephoned on Monday, not on Tuesday, and that the number they had called was the one communicated to them by the family before the pay-off, as stipulated in Ruggiero’s letter. Whoever had answered this telephone call was at the very least an accessory to Ruggiero’s murder and could be arrested at once. The rest would follow.

  As they hit the motorway, surging forward into the rain-filled darkness, Zen suddenly felt slightly lightheaded, and he told Palottino to stop at a service area so that they could get something to eat. Ten minutes later they were sitting at a formica-topped table in a restaurant overlooking the motorway. Zen was chaffing his driver about a toy panda he had bought for his brother’s little daughter, a great favourite of his. Palottino produced a number of photographs of the child, which they both admired. Encouraged by his superior’s good humour, the Neapolitan asked how things were going, and Zen felt so relaxed and obliging that he told him what had happened in Florence. Palottino laughed admiringly at the clever ruse Zen had used to gain access to the kidnappers, and at his description of the languid young captain who had fallen for it. But when it came to the prisoner’s revelations he unfortunately got the wrong end of the stick.

  ‘Called another number on another day!’ he jeered. ‘Oh, yes, very clever! What do they take us for, idiots?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, I mean no one’s going to believe that, are they? Not when there’s a recording, logged and dated, of them actually making the call on Tuesday. I mean, it’s a clear case of pull the other one, right?’

  Zen stared at him. He seemed to be having difficulty focusing.

  ‘No. No, you don’t understand. They called another number, not the Miletti house. On Monday.’

  Quickly reading the signals, Palottino did an abrupt U-turn.

  ‘Oh, I see! You mean you know they did. Oh, well, that’s different! Sorry, chief, I didn’t realize that. I thought it was just their word against the official record. And like we say in Naples, never believe a Calabrian unless he tells you he’s lying!’

  Zen gazed d
own at the surface of the table gleaming dully under the flat neon light. He stood up abruptly.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the toilet. I’ll meet you in the car.’

  As Zen washed his hands he gazed at his face in the mirror above the basin. How could he have failed to see what was obvious even to a knucklehead like Palottino? How could he have imagined for a second that the kidnappers’ unsupported assertions would be taken seriously by anyone? On the contrary, they would be indignantly dismissed as a feeble and disgusting attempt by a gang of ruthless killers to add insult to injury by smearing the family of the man they had just savagely murdered.

  It was Thursday evening now. His mandate in Perugia ran until midnight on Friday. That gave him just over twenty-four hours. He phoned the Night Duty Officer at the Questura in Perugia and then, since he had some tokens left, dialled Ellen’s number in Rome. But as soon as it began to ring he pushed the rest down with his finger, breaking the connection.

  He must have dozed off, for the next thing he was aware of was feeling chilled and anxious. Through the window he could see the upper limb of a huge planet which almost filled the night sky. The collision in which the earth would inevitably be destroyed was clearly only moments away, for despite its appalling size the planet’s motion was perceptible. It was even close enough for him to make out the lights of the hundreds of cities dotted across its monstrous convex surface.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’

  The world swerved, veered, straightened up.

  ‘Fucking lorry drivers, think they own the road,’ Palottino commented.

  When Zen looked again the rogue planet had become a ridge blanked in darkly on the clear moonlit sky and its alien cities the twinkling lights of Perugia.

  It was only just gone ten o’clock, but the streets were deserted. Palottino pulled into the car park where it was never night and they got out, watched by the guard on the roof of the prison. In the blank wall of the Questura opposite a light showed in Zen’s office on the third floor.

  Geraci must have heard his footsteps, for he was standing by the window with a respectful and curious expression as Zen came in.

  ‘Evening, chief. What’s up, then?’

  The Duty Officer had told him to report to the Questura and await further instructions. Motioning the inspector to a chair, Zen went round behind the desk and sat down, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I’ve just got back from Florence. The military have taken the whole gang. All of them. Well, not quite all.’

  Geraci’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, like the face of someone who has just died. The silence reformed. Zen felt himself starting to slip back into his interrupted sleep and he forced his eyes open, staring intently at Geraci until the inspector looked away.

  ‘I would never have agreed if it hadn’t been for the boy,’ he said.

  ‘How much did they offer you?’

  ‘It wasn’t the money,’ Geraci replied scornfully. ‘We’re from the same place, from neighbouring villages. They simply asked me to help them out. I would gain nothing myself, just the goodwill of certain people, people who are respected.’

  He shook his head at the impossibility of a Northerner understanding these things.

  ‘Anyway, I said no. So they started to use threats, although they don’t like doing that. To them it’s a sign of weakness. But they had asked and I had refused. They can’t allow that.’

  He paused and sighed.

  ‘Just before Christmas I heard from my sister. Her youngest boy, just three years old, a little darling, had been taken. A few days later a letter arrived for me. Inside there was a little scrap of skin and a tiny fingernail. They’d amputated his finger with a pair of wire-cutters. I never thought fingernails were beautiful until I saw this one, it was like a miniature work of art. That evening they phoned me again. The boy still had nine more fingers and ten toes, they said. I agreed to do what they asked.’

  Zen pushed his chair back and stood up, trying to dominate the situation again, to rise above the pity that threatened to swamp him.

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘Get myself transferred to the squad investigating the kidnapping and pass on any information which might be useful.’

  ‘And they gave you the tape-recorder and the crucifix?’

  ‘Not until you arrived. While Priorelli was in charge I didn’t need it, he was very open about his plans. But no one ever knew what you were thinking or what you were going to do.’

  Zen allowed himself a moment to savour the irony of this. He had been uncommunicative with his staff because he thought they were all hostile to him and reporting back to the Questore, if not the Ministry or the Security Services!

  ‘Where was the receiver?’

  ‘In the broom cupboard at the end of the corridor, hidden under a pile of old boxes and papers. I played back the tapes at home and noted down anything important.’

  ‘And the contacts with the gang? Come on, Geraci! I want to get home, go to bed. Don’t make me do all the work.’

  ‘I put an advertisement in the newspaper offering a boat for sale. The day the advertisement appeared I took a certain train, got into the first carriage and left the envelope in the bin for used towels in the toilet.’

  Zen shook his head slowly. His disgust was as much with himself as with Geraci, but the inspector suddenly flared up.

  ‘I wasn’t the biggest shit in all this! One of the Milettis was in on it too! Can you imagine that? Betraying your own father! At least I didn’t sink that low.’

  Zen waved his hand wearily.

  ‘Don’t waste time trying to do dirt on the family. I’m not interested.’

  Geraci got to his feet.

  ‘It’s true, I tell you! I had to pick up his messages at a service area on the motorway and leave them on the train, same as my own. Once I got there early and saw him.’

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Zen snorted his contempt.

  ‘He was all wrapped up in a coat and a scarf and wearing dark glasses, and I was watching from a distance. I didn’t want to risk being recognized either.’

  ‘How did he get there?’

  ‘In a blue Fiat Argenta saloon.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in the car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Quite short. Medium build.’

  ‘How do you know it wasn’t a woman?’

  ‘He phoned to let me know he was coming. It was a man, all right.’

  Zen turned to the window, as though he feared that his thoughts might be visible in his face. Daniele and Silvio were out. Pietro, too. Ivy Cook’s voice was deep enough to be mistaken for a man’s, but she was too tall. Cinzia was the right size, but her voice was almost hysterically feminine. No, there was really only one person it could have been.

  ‘How many times did this happen?’

  ‘Four altogether. I can give you the dates.’

  Geraci took out his diary and scribbled on a blank page which he then tore out and handed to Zen.

  ‘Where did he leave the messages?’

  ‘At the Valdichiana service area on the motorway. The envelope was inside the last magazine in the top right-hand row.’

  Zen sighed.

  ‘So let’s sum up. You claim that an unknown person in male clothing driving a Fiat saloon left four envelopes in a motorway service station. You don’t know who he was, why he was doing it or what was in the envelopes, and you can’t prove any of it. Doesn’t add up to much, does it?’

  Geraci looked away in frustration.

  ‘Ah, what’s the use! It isn’t doing wrong that counts, it’s getting caught.’

  The same was even more true of doing right, Zen reflected. The wrongdoer arouses sneaking admiration, but if you want to be merciful or generous without making people despise you then you have to be very careful indeed.

  ‘Tomorrow is my last day here in Perugia,’ he said wearily. ‘My tour of d
uty hasn’t exactly been a glittering success and the public disclosure that one of my inspectors was a spy for the gang I was supposed to be hunting would be the last straw. So you’re going to get a break, Geraci. You don’t deserve it, but I do.’

  The inspector gazed at him with an immense caution, not daring to understand.

  ‘My conversation with the kidnappers was private. As far as I’m concerned it can remain private. I’d much prefer to turn you in, but luckily for you I can’t afford to.’

  Geraci’s eyes were glowing with emotion.

  ‘Dottore, my mother will…’

  ‘Stuff your mother, Geraci! It’s me I’m thinking of, not your mother or anybody else. Now I’m sure someone like you must know a crooked doctor. I want you to take indefinite sick leave starting tomorrow. You can spend your free time writing an application for transfer to the Forestry Guards. You’re not staying in the police, that’s for damn sure! Now piss off out of here before I change my mind.’

  Geraci backed up to the door.

  ‘God bless you, sir.’

  The door closed quietly behind him.

  ‘God help us,’ muttered Zen.

  Nine o’clock was sounding as he walked out of his hotel the next morning, sniffing the delicious air enlivened by a frisky breeze. After this, he reflected, breathing the capital’s miasmal vapours would be like drinking Tiber water after San Pellegrino. Halfway along the Corso workmen were setting up a platform, the ringing sounds of their hammers unsynchronized to the movements of the arms which produced them. As he walked towards them the problem gradually corrected itself, as though the projectionist had woken up and made the necessary adjustments. By the time he emerged from his favourite cafe, having consumed a good frothy cappuccino made with milk fresh from a churn, the foam stiff as whipped egg whites, the same process had taken place inside his head. But any impression that things were finally going his way did not last long.

  ‘All that material has been transferred upstairs,’ the technician on duty in the intercept room at the law courts told him.

  ‘What about transcripts?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘All upstairs with the judges. We’ve finished with that one. The line’s been disconnected and everything.’