Ratking az-1

by Michael Dibdin

  It was not there.

  For thirty seconds he stood quite still, thinking. But though the disappearance of the pistol was both mysterious and annoying, there was nothing whatever to be worried about. He returned to the front door.

  ‘Look, the thing appears to have been mislaid,’ he told Zen, who was now leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. ‘Probably the cleaning lady has put it somewhere. We’ll have a proper look this afternoon or tomorrow if you care to contact me later.’

  He was starting to close the door as Zen replied.

  ‘That’s fine. I didn’t really come about the gun at all.’

  The door opened again.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘There’s been an unfortunate development, dottore. As the result of a tip-off the Carabinieri have arrested most of the gang that kidnapped your father-in-law. Among other things, they’ve been talking about their contact in the Miletti family, the one who left messages tucked in a magazine at that service area on the motorway. The last magazine in the top right-hand row, I think it was.’

  The exotic pain returned to Gianluigi’s chest.

  ‘And what has this got to do with me?’

  Articulating these words was one of the hardest tasks he could ever remember performing.

  ‘Well, it depends how you look at it. On the face of it, all this amounts to is an unsupported allegation by a gang of known criminals. On the other hand, it’s hard to see what they have to gain by lying. We’ve suspected for a long time that there was an informer passing on the strengths and weaknesses of the family’s negotiating position to the gang, but we didn’t know who it was. Pietro was in London for much of the time. If the pick-up point was on the motorway, that excludes Silvio, who can’t drive. As for Daniele, the gang say that the person who left the messages was short and slightly built, so he won’t do. In one sense it’s just a question of who’s left, really.’

  He tossed the butt of his cigarette out on to the gravel of the drive, where it continued to smoulder.

  ‘But there’s more to it than that. Above all, the investigating magistrate is going to be looking for a motive. Now if he had just wanted to beggar the Milettis the informant could have revealed the true extent of the family’s finances straight off, but instead he chose to pass on scraps of information so that the negotiations were drawn out as long as possible. The magistrate will therefore be looking for someone who stood to gain from a delay in Ruggiero’s return coupled with the need for a massive injection of cash to prop up SIMP. Cash from a Japanese company, for instance.’

  The silence that followed was as long and significant as the words that had preceded it. Whatever was said now would have extraordinary resonances, and that knowledge was as inhibiting as the acoustics of a great church.

  ‘I think that you are full of shit,’ Gianluigi finally murmured, slowly and distinctly. ‘I’m going to find out. And if you are, I’ll make sure you drown in it.’

  He walked through to his study, his heart a madhouse filled with the shrieks of despairing wretches, his head a cool and airy library where shrewd men debated tactics. Norberto was the best route to take. As a member of the regional council he knew almost everything that was going on and could find out the rest quickly and discreetly.

  ‘Norberto? Gianluigi Santucci. Yes, me too. I’m sorry, but it can’t wait. Someone’s just told me that there’s been a break in the Miletti case, that arrests have been made. Have you heard anything?’

  Sensing a movement, he looked round to find that Zen had followed him and was now standing in the doorway. For a moment Gianluigi was tempted to get rid of him, but he restrained himself. The news was good. Much better to show himself unconcerned, a man with nothing to hide.

  ‘Nothing at all?’ he confirmed. ‘I thought as much!’

  ‘Get him to check,’ Zen warned. ‘This happened in Florence and the military are keeping it quiet until the magistrate gets there.’

  Gianluigi bit his lip.

  ‘Would you mind just checking that?’ he said into the phone. ‘You’ll call back? Very well.’

  As he replaced the receiver Loredana’s voice rang out from the dining room.

  ‘Christ, not chocolate pudding again! What are you trying to do, poison me? You know I hate chocolate! It brings me out in spots.’

  While he waited for Norberto to get through to his contact, Gianluigi thought back to that other phone call, in the days shortly after Ruggiero was kidnapped. The gang had been given the Santuccis’ number as a ‘clean’ telephone line on which to communicate. At first Gianluigi had played it absolutely straight, but when the gang’s modest demands were swiftly met and it began to look as if Ruggiero would be released within days, it occurred to him how convenient it would be if the old man’s return could be delayed. The whole question of the deal with the Japanese was hanging in the balance, and with it Gianluigi’s future, for if it went through he was a made man. So when the gang next phoned he’d expressed slight surprise that they’d asked for so little, given the family’s ability to pay. If they needed more information on this subject, he implied, this could be arranged. It had been a risk, of course, but very carefully calculated, like all the risks he took. The kidnappers could pose no threat unless they were caught, a possibility so remote that Gianluigi had discounted it.

  The phone rang.

  ‘ Well, you seem to be better informed than I am, Santucci! The gang have indeed been arrested. A magistrate went to Florence this morning to question them. Hello? Hello, are you there? ’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m here. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’

  I’ll never see Loredana’s children grow, he thought, never take Sergio hunting. But this uncharacteristic weakness lasted no more than a moment. Then he strode to the end of the room and opened the sliding door to the terrace, beckoning to Zen to follow him.

  The terrace was covered by a pergola whose vines were just beginning to put out shoots. It was sunny, still and surprisingly hot.

  ‘So you’re accusing me of collaborating with my father-in-law’s killers, is that it?’ Gianluigi demanded point-blank.

  Zen looked taken aback.

  ‘Not at all, dottore! I just wanted to warn you of certain developments which could potentially cause problems unless steps are taken now. That’s all.’

  ‘What kind of steps did you have in mind?’

  Zen held up his hand, shaking his head.

  ‘That’s your affair, dottore. I don’t need to know anything about it. But whatever you decide, it’ll take time, and time is precisely what we don’t have at present. Rosella Foria is questioning the gang in Florence at this very moment. We must act right away.’

  So that was the way of it, eh? Thank God for human nature, thought Gianluigi, rotten to the core!

  ‘Excuse me, but what’s in this for you?’ he queried pointedly.

  Zen made a small gesture of embarrassment.

  ‘About four years ago I had a misunderstanding with my superiors in Rome. They transferred me from active service and stuck me away in the Ministry doing bureaucratic work. At this stage of my career I haven’t got much to look forward to except retirement anyway, but my pension will be pegged to my rank. Before this thing happened I was in line for promotion to Vice-Questore, but now…’

  Gianluigi nodded and smiled.

  ‘And you’d still like that promotion.’

  Zen shrugged, his eyes discreetly lowered.

  ‘You spoke of taking action,’ Gianluigi went on. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Well, there’s another factor involved. The kidnappers admit shooting Valesio, but they deny the Miletti murder. Moreover, one of the SIMP Fiats was observed near the scene of the murder, driven by a woman with blonde hair. I identified the car that day you found me at the garage, and later I had it stolen and subjected to a forensic examination.’

  Gianluigi was silent. A display of outrage seemed a bit beside the point under the circumstances, and anyway, he nee
ded to save his energy.

  ‘Several long threads were found,’ Zen went on. ‘Threads from a blonde wig. It almost looks as though someone was trying to frame your wife, particularly since Ruggiero was shot with a pistol similar to hers which you now tell me is missing. But the point is that all this presents us with both a risk and an opportunity.’

  Gianluigi almost missed this last remark. A blonde wig, he was thinking. A blonde wig,

  Feeling that the silence had gone on long enough, he murmured, ‘A risk for my wife, you mean?’

  To his surprise Zen laughed rather nastily.

  ‘No, dottore! Look, Ruggiero was killed on Monday, twenty-four hours before the phone call saying he had been released. Only the kidnappers knew where he was then, so if they didn’t kill him they must have told the person who did. And only one person was in touch with the gang.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him!’

  Gianluigi’s voice swooped from a scream to a whisper as he realized that he might be overheard.

  Zen nodded earnestly.

  ‘I know, dottore. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m just pointing out that the investigating magistrate is bound to assume that the gang’s informant and Ruggiero Miletti’s murderer are one and the same person. That’s a risk we shouldn’t underestimate. But it also provides a way out of the original problem. Because if the informant and the murderer are assumed to be one and the same person, then providing we can persuade Rosella Foria that one of the others committed the murder, she’ll naturally assume that person was also the informant.’

  After a moment’s silence Gianluigi burst out laughing, as if he had just been told a story about the bizarre customs of a foreign country.

  ‘You know, Zen, I think I’ve been underestimating you,’ he said.

  ‘We have an unfair advantage in the police. Everyone assumes we’re stupid.’

  Gianluigi’s smile abruptly disappeared.

  ‘But it won’t work! Do you think these magistrates are children? How can you hope to implicate one of the family in Ruggiero’s murder? It’s preposterous!’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. The point is just to create as much fuss and confusion as possible, to send the shit flying in every direction. And then while Rosella Foria is busy trying to clear it all up there’ll be plenty of time to take whatever steps you feel are appropriate to bring about a satisfactory and lasting solution of the problem. But I don’t need to know anything about that. What I do need are those photographs of Silvio.’

  Once again Gianluigi lost his head.

  ‘Who put you up to this, Zen? You’re not big enough to be operating on your own. Who’s behind you, eh? What’s the game?’

  A dark suspicion suddenly took form in his mind as he remembered the look Zen and his wife had exchanged. Yes, it had to be her. No one else knew about the photographs.

  He stepped forward furiously.

  ‘Look here, you fuck off! Just fuck off out of here right now!’

  But Zen stood his ground, gazing at him with the stolid confidence of a dog or horse that knows its owner will see reason sooner or later. And Gianluigi immediately realized that he was right. He would deal with Cinzia later, in private. He mustn’t make it a public shame, still less allow it to compromise the successful resolution of the appallingly dangerous situation he found himself in. To do that would be the folly of an impetuous amateur, not the astute and hardened professional that he was.

  ‘What are you going to do with the photographs?’

  His voice was as calm as marble, and as hard.

  ‘Don’t you think it might be better if I didn’t tell you?’ Zen replied. ‘They’re going to question you, you know. I think it would be best for you to know as little as possible. It’s amazing what people give away without even realizing it. When I mentioned the blonde wig, for example, you reacted. A magistrate would notice that. As you said, they’re not children. What was it about the wig, by the way?’

  Gianluigi eyed him for a final long moment before deciding.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  He went back into his office, opened the wall-safe and took out a yellow envelope. There were nine prints in all. He selected two, snipped the corresponding negatives from the strip of film and attached them to the prints with a paperclip. The other prints and negatives, the pick of the set, he put back in the safe. They would still do their job when the time came. Indeed, this could be a useful try-out, to see how Silvio reacted to being blackmailed.

  When he re-emerged Zen had his back to the house, gazing at the view Gianluigi greeted exultantly each morning on rising with the thought, ‘I bought you!’ He handed over the envelope and watched with undisguised amusement as Zen studied the first photograph. It showed Silvio, naked to the waist, dancing in a crowded discotheque. His hairy chest and smooth shiny belly were bare and a leather dog-lead dangled from each of his pierced nipples. His head was covered in a startling profusion of long blonde locks.

  ‘The wig,’ murmured Zen.

  Gianluigi nodded.

  ‘Where was this taken?’ Zen asked him.

  ‘In Berlin.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. Home of Gerhard Mayer.’

  Gianluigi decided that it was time to remind his new employee of the realities of their relationship.

  ‘So you know about that too, do you? Very clever. But don’t get so clever that you forget what’s what, will you? Because if you do I promise that you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. And I don’t make empty threats, Zen.’

  Zen looked at him with an expression brimming with earnest sincerity.

  ‘Dottore, please! I’m one hundred per cent on your side!’

  Gianluigi nodded.

  ‘Then we’ll say no more about it. Now let’s see just how clever you are. What do you make of this, eh?’

  The second picture apparently showed Silvio leaning back against a tiled wall. But what was that gleaming white mass of vaguely rump-like curves looming above his chest? And why did he have that expression of ecstatic martyrdom?

  Gianluigi turned the print on its side, observing Zen’s puzzlement with a knowing smirk. It really was very difficult if you hadn’t seen some of the later and more explicit shots.

  ‘Does that help?’ he prompted.

  Now Silvio was seen to be lying supine on a white tiled floor beneath the white structure. It might almost have been an altar of some sort. Certainly the scene had a ritual air about it, as though it formed part of a ceremony whose exact significance was revealed only to initiates.

  ‘What’s this?’ Gianluigi asked teasingly, pointing out the white object.

  Zen shook his head.

  ‘Well, what does it look like?’

  He was having his fun all right, getting his money’s worth!

  ‘To be perfectly honest, it looks like a toilet.’

  Gianluigi applauded ironically.

  ‘Bravo, my friend. It is a toilet. But a rather special toilet. It’s not connected to a sewer, it’s connected to Silvio. He’s waiting for someone to come along and use it. One of the places our Silvio goes when he visits his boyfriend in Berlin is a club for people who like to be crapped on, and vice versa of course. Don’t you wish you’d thought of it, eh? What a goldmine! They both pay for their fun, and you’ve got a flourishing little business in top-quality garden manure on the side.’

  Zen laughed and replaced the photographs in the envelope. Gianluigi clapped him familiarly on the back, pushing him into the house. Now he must get rid of him quickly. He needed peace and quiet in which to think. It was no use alerting his usual contacts. For them to be effective they would have to know the truth, and if they knew the truth they would abandon him. There were limits to what you could get away with, and he was well aware that he’d overstepped them. It was a pity the judiciary were already involved. Magistrates were so bloody-minded that they would often pursue their investigations even when it had been made perfectly clear to them that it was against their own best interests. Tha
t sort of stubbornness was something that Gianluigi absolutely despised. As far as he was concerned it was an aberration like religious or political fanaticism, something quite out of place in a modern democratic society.

  ‘I need to talk to Silvio as soon as possible,’ Zen remarked as they reached the front door. ‘Could you get someone to persuade him to go to Antonio Crepi’s house this afternoon? Crepi himself needn’t know anything about it.’

  Gianluigi stared at him, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘You’re asking an awful lot and giving very little in return,’ he observed sourly.

  ‘I’m doing it all for you, dottore!’ Zen exclaimed with a hurt expression.

  After a moment Gianluigi broke into loud laughter.

  ‘All for me, my arse! You’re doing it for your pension, my friend, and don’t think I don’t know it.’

  Zen shrugged awkwardly.

  ‘Oh well, that too, of course.’

  ‘What now?’

  Silvio silently echoed his driver’s exasperated murmur as he caught sight of the patrolman waving them down. What now, indeed? Another annoyance, another setback, another delay.

  As the taxi slowed to a halt beside the unmarked police car parked at a bend in the road a massive sigh began its slow progress up from the bottom of Silvio’s chest. For this was not the first vexation which the day had dropped on him, not by a long chalk! In fact it had been nothing but trials and tribulations from the moment his clock-radio had turned itself on at five o’clock that morning, shocking him into consciousness. It had been supposed to wake him from a nap the previous afternoon in time for an appointment with a young friend, but he must have set it wrong, for having messed up his evening by failing to go off, it had then ruined his sleep into the bargain. So there he was, wide awake at the crack of dawn, with no more chance of going back to sleep than of getting a turd back where it came from, as dear Gerhard used to say.

  He really must get in touch with Gerhard soon. One of the most unpleasant features of the last few months had been having to suspend his trips to Berlin, but now everything was satisfactorily resolved he would be able to slip away again sometime soon. As Ivy pointed out, Ruggiero’s death was not without its consolations.