Black August

by Timothy Williams

  “They don’t give you much to eat here,” Trotti said truculently, taking a forkful of risotto.

  “A cousin of mine runs the place. He worked for several years in Switzerland.”

  The vast terrace—where previously river fishermen used to congregate to down a bottle of wine over a noisy game of briscola or exchange boastful stories—had been transformed into a restaurant welcoming each day wealthy diners who drove down from Milan in order to eat the new cuisine “all’italiana.”

  “In a savings bank?”

  Boatti frowned.

  “Your cousin worked in a savings bank in Switzerland?”

  Boatti appeared surprised. “I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor, Commissario.”

  “Who told you I was down here?”

  “I’m a stringer for several national papers.”

  “A stringer?”

  “I have contacts and when some interesting story comes up . . .”

  “A suicide in the Po?”

  Boatti nodded.

  “That’s why I get a free lunch?”

  “Not very gracious, Commissario.”

  “At my age, I have no time for hypocrisy.”

  “Last night, you were a lot less aggressive.”

  “Aggressive?”

  “I imagine there are people who like you, Commissario. I imagine you have friends.”

  “Imagine whatever you like.”

  “I’m glad to have found you.” Boatti sat back in the armchair—modern, exotic wood, with a high, dark back—and his face was pale, the nostrils pinched. He raised his glass and sipped his wine before speaking. “I was thinking that perhaps we could collaborate.”

  “The service is slow here.”

  “That’s the whole point. Slow food.” He used the English words.

  Trotti frowned.

  “Both rice and frogs in the surrounding fields—from here to the Adriatic. But this is the Italian answer to American fast food. You don’t like it?”

  “I’m glad I’m not paying.”

  “Rare for a policeman to pay for a meal, isn’t it?”

  “Collaborate, Signor Boatti?”

  “I thought we could work together—you and me.”

  “Nobody can work with a policeman.”

  “Collaborate to our mutual advantage.”

  Trotti finished the plate of risotto di rane. He wiped his fingers and looked at Boatti, dropping the pink serviette on to the white tablecloth.

  “I’m a writer, Commissario. I do some journalism, but that’s not really what I’m interested in.”

  “And all your political stuff?”

  “Gave that up years ago. It keeps neither the wolves nor the Politica from the door.” A laugh. “I see you’ve checked up on me.”

  “Force of habit.”

  “I want to write a book, Trotti.”

  Remembering the shelves and the rows of Mondadori yellow-backs, Trotti said, “A detective novel?”

  “Faction—something between fact and fiction. Like Truman Capote.”

  “Who?”

  “A book that is about a real murder case.” A boyish grin and Boatti poured more wine into the glasses. Behind him, through the window, the city was silent and motionless, beneath the heavy sky. The wide panorama could have been a photograph. The city was reflected in the slow, muddy water of the Po. “Didn’t get to bed last night. You see, I was very fond of Rosanna. Her death . . . I don’t want her to have died in vain.”

  “You want to write a book and make money.”

  The eyes came into sharp focus. “Money and kickbacks—if it was that sort of thing I wanted I could have become a politician.”

  “Too intelligent, Signor Boatti.”

  “Or a cop.” A moment’s hesitation before Boatti leaned forward, pushing his plate and the thin white frog bones aside. “A book. I would like to write a book. About Rosanna and her death. And about the police procedures.”

  “I’m off the case.”

  “What?”

  Trotti looked about. “The service here is very slow.”

  A hard edge to his voice. “You’re off the case, Trotti?”

  “If you want, Signor Boatti, I can give you the phone number of Commissario Merenda . . . the same policeman you spoke to last night.”

  11: Loyalty

  “What are you going to do?”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “You’re going to let Rosanna’s murder drop?”

  “Merenda’s in charge of the Reparto Omicidi. The questore doesn’t want me in Merenda’s way.”

  “That’s going to stop you?”

  “Yes.”

  “People seem to think you’re a good cop, Trotti.”

  “Perhaps I used to be.” Trotti shrugged again, turning his head to look for the waiter. “I’m now sixty-two years old. My career as a policeman is behind me.”

  “You could find Rosanna’s murderer while Merenda is still cleaning his teeth.”

  “His teeth are perfect. They don’t need cleaning.”

  “Last night you seemed to care about Rosanna. You said she was your friend.”

  Trotti turned back to look at Boatti. “That was last night.”

  “Some friend.”

  “I knew her—that’s all,” Trotti replied.

  When Trotti finally managed to catch the waiter’s eye, they ordered a dessert of peach melba, coffee and grappa.

  “It’s all an act, of course,” Boatti said, as the tip of his tongue searched out the lingering drops of grappa along his lips.

  “What’s an act?”

  “Your misanthropy. You could have retired years ago, Commissario, but you’ve stayed on in the Questura because you like your job too much.”

  “You know a lot about me.”

  “An institution in this city. That’s what you thrive on—being wanted, being respected. And last night, you really cared.”

  “What does misanthropy mean?”

  “The questore can read you like a book.”

  Trotti laughed. “The questore wants me well out of the way.”

  “I don’t believe you’re going to let Rosanna’s death go by.”

  “You can believe what you want.”

  “You’re very stubborn.” Boatti clicked his tongue. “You’re also irritable and rather ignorant.”

  Trotti smiled without looking at Boatti.

  “Commissario, you have one redeeming feature.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “You’re loyal. Loyal to your ideals—and to your friends.” Boatti paused. “Politically, I should hate you. I suspect that you’re still a Fascist.”

  “The Fascists killed my brother.”

  “At heart, you’re not a political animal at all. I don’t think you’ve got much time for ideas. What you care about—despite this surly exterior—is friendship.” Boatti laughed through his nose. “Fairly obvious the questore can see through you. Divide et impera.”

  Trotti’s spoon stopped and was held motionless between the plate and his mouth. His glance went from the city beyond the window to Boatti’s eyes. “I beg your pardon.”

  “The questore knows you, Trotti. He knows you’re loyal. And very stubborn.”

  “Which is precisely why he wants me out of Merenda’s hair.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gone against orders from the top.” Boatti grinned. “The questore knows you despise Merenda.”

  The spoon was placed into his mouth and Trotti ate the ice thoughtfully before answering. “Merenda is a very competent policeman.”

  “You don’t like Merenda because he belongs to the new generation of policemen. The kind of man who knows all the answers, top of the class at Pisa, but who’s never done the footwork, who�
��s never stayed up all through a winter’s night, who’s never frozen his balls . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Merenda’s a university man. Clever and educated. But he doesn’t have your experience.”

  “I don’t have his qualifications.”

  “Which is why the questore’s quite happy about you going off on your own personal enquiry. A private vendetta.”

  “There’d be no point.”

  “It worked with the Ciuffi woman.”

  Trotti’s face whitened. “You know a lot about me, Boatti.”

  “Like you, Commissario, I check up.” A laugh. “Force of habit. You see, we have a lot in common.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You knew Rosanna and . . .”

  “So what?”

  “The questore’s safe.” An amused shake of his head. “After all these years, you’ve still not understood the nature of power?”

  “An unimaginative policeman.”

  “The questore wants results—but above all, he wants to hang on to his position. And the power it confers upon him. There’s been a nasty murder and, of course, he wants it solved. If you come up trumps, everybody’s happy. You and the questore both get to have your photograph in the Provincia. And since you’re near retirement, the questore doesn’t need to worry about you. You’re no threat to him, not at your age.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Whereas if you screw up, Trotti, he just disowns you. But Merenda is young. He’s in charge of the new Reparto Omicidi. Any success of Merenda’s can be a threat to the questore. That’s why the questore’s hoping you’ll get there before Merenda and his Reparto Omicidi.”

  “Not very likely.”

  “Very likely indeed. With me helping you.” Boatti winked an intelligent eye. “With information that Merenda doesn’t have.”

  Trotti said nothing. His dark eyes seemed to grow smaller.

  “Information that can make all the difference.”

  “What information?”

  “More grappa?”

  “What information, Boatti?”

  He seemed to hesitate. “Merenda doesn’t know what you know, Commissario Piero Trotti—that Signorina Belloni had a secret lover.”

  12: Silver Spoon

  Trotti was surprised. “Signorina Belloni told you that?”

  “Rosanna was discreet. She didn’t talk very much. And she rarely talked about herself.”

  “But she talked to you about her past?”

  “I didn’t threaten her. As a man, I didn’t frighten her.”

  “How long had you known her for, Boatti?”

  Boatti shrugged. “She didn’t have much experience of men. Rosanna looked after her mother until she was well into her forties. Then she had to deal with her sister.”

  “Maria Cristina?”

  “Other than professionally, I don’t think Rosanna knew many men.” Boatti paused, bit the fleshy upper lip. “Perhaps she thought of me more like a son.”

  “She could have had children of her own.”

  “Her pupils were her children—that’s what she always said.”

  Trotti clicked his tongue impatiently. “Did she ever tell you why she never married?”

  “First her mother, then her sister—what time did she have for her own family?”

  “She must’ve had a lot of free time since her retirement.”

  “Rosanna retired at fifty-five—that’s a bit old for a woman to be starting a family. And it’s only recently Maria Cristina—Rosanna’s sister has been in a special home.” Boatti paused. “Maria Cristina used to work. She was a secretary with a bank in the city. From time to time she would have a nervous breakdown. It was up to Rosanna to look after her. A full-time job. She never complained. And she never got married.”

  “But she got herself a lover?”

  Boatti’s eyes narrowed. “You are judging her, Commissario?”

  Trotti smiled. “As a policeman, I gave up judging people a long time ago.”

  “You don’t judge me?”

  “Signor Boatti . . .”

  “Call me Giorgio.”

  Trotti took a sweet from the almost empty packet. “I have better things to do with my time than judge you or anybody else.”

  “The son of a rich politician—a left-wing journalist from Lotta Continua, born with a silver spoon in his mouth—that’s not how you judge me?”

  Trotti put the sweet in his mouth. “Who was Signorina Belloni’s lover?”

  Boatti shook his head. “You don’t answer my question.”

  “A policeman’s job is to ask questions.” Trotti held out the packet of Charms. “Take one. And don’t ask questions when you know you’re not going to like the answer.”

  Boatti took a peppermint Charm, carefully unwrapped the sticky cellophane.

  “Who was her lover?”

  Boatti lowered his head and gave a small smile, admitting defeat.

  “Well?”

  He placed the sweet on his tongue. “One Christmas—it must have been a couple of years ago—I went down to see Rosanna. I’d got her some fresh honey from the Stelvio. And for the first time ever, I had the impression that she was lonely. I think she must have been drinking a bit. Oh, nothing serious—half a glass, at most one glass of wine. She was glad to see me—she had prepared Christmas presents for the girls. She offered me some Barbera and she started talking about her past.”

  “Why a lover? She was attractive. There must have been a lot of men who would’ve been only too happy to marry her.”

  “Family commitments. By the time her mother died, it was already too late . . . or that’s what she told me. Over forty and she believed she was past it.”

  “The best years of your life.” Trotti smiled. “If my memory serves me.”

  “Sex wasn’t something that interested her. She said sex was all that men wanted. And that she wasn’t going to give it to them.”

  “Yet she had a lover?”

  Boatti sat back, folded his arms. “She had a male friend. Whether she actually went to bed with him I don’t know.”

  “A minute ago you used the word lover.”

  “Too discreet—too shy to talk about that.”

  “You believe they went to bed together, don’t you, Giorgio? She was an attractive woman—and she looked after her body.”

  “You noticed that, Commissario?”

  “I am a man, Boatti.”

  “You found her attractive?”

  “Rosanna Belloni was . . . I found her beautiful.”

  Boatti put his head to one side while he noisily sucked on the sweet beneath his teeth. “You two could have made a fine couple.”

  Trotti looked away, stared through the window.

  “You don’t think so, Commissario?”

  “Signorina Belloni is dead.”

  “You don’t answer my question.”

  “I knew Signorina Belloni in 1978. At that time my wife was still living with me—after a fashion.”

  “That was more than ten years ago, Commissario. Since then . . .”

  “Other times, other preoccupations. Who was her lover?”

  “You’re going to find her murderer, Commissario?”

  “Stubborn and ignorant—have you forgotten, Boatti?”

  “Stubborn, ignorant and irritable. And also devious, Commissario Trotti.”

  “Tell me about her lover.”

  Boatti shook his head. “She never told me who it was.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Rosanna simply said that she had a friend—a false friend. She said that he pretended to be a genuine friend, but that all he wanted was her body. To do his dirty things.”

  “So they did go to bed together?”

  Boat
ti shrugged. “I don’t know. She never got to that part of the story—but somehow I doubt it.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “She told me she broke off with him about five years ago—after having been friends for nearly ten years.”

  “He was married?”

  “Separated—and was living with his son. Rosanna never mentioned the wife—although she did say she understood why she had left him.”

  “Then when Rosanna broke off with him, there was acrimony?”

  “One thing at a time.” Boatti held up his hand. “She was living in via Mantova. The family has a house there. Rosanna lived on the ground floor with her mother. Her sister lived upstairs and she had a separate entrance.” He paused. “Rosanna came to live in San Teodoro about five years ago. Before that, she was with her sister. They lived apart but Rosanna could keep an eye on Maria Cristina, in case she had one of her depressions.”

  “What did she do during her depressions?”

  “I met Maria Cristina a couple of times at the Casa Patrizia.”

  “Where?”

  “The home she stays in—near Garlasco. Highly strung—you can see that she’s Rosanna’s sister, but she has none of Rosanna’s calm, except when she goes into one of her terrible, black depressions. Although she was a spinster, Rosanna was very feminine. She dressed well, she looked after her body, as you point out. Very coquettish, very human. She loved children, she was always kind. Maria Cristina—she’s about ten years younger than Rosanna—appears much harsher, more masculine.”

  “Not attractive?”

  Boatti shrugged. “She could have been. Now her body is beginning to sag. She’s overweight. Rosanna said it was the hormones that they put her on. And a shiny, bulbous face. No attempt at make up—nothing. And yet . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “He screwed her.”

  “Who?”

  “It’d been going on for years. Perhaps it was Rosanna’s fault. Perhaps she wasn’t giving him what he wanted. A man needs physical companionship just as much as he needs friendship.”