Black August

by Timothy Williams

  “Because I’m in the Provincia Padana?”

  The questore allowed himself to relax slightly.

  “You don’t think you’re overreacting, Signor Questore?”

  The questore lifted his thigh and sat edgeways on the side of the desk. The linen of his trousers touched the photograph of Pioppi. “We’re a team here, Piero—and we must work as a team.” A second time he tapped the newspaper with his knuckles. “Perhaps you didn’t give an interview. As I understand it, Maiocchi is in charge of the enquiry.”

  “I spoke to Maiocchi. That’s all. I went down to the river yesterday—but I didn’t stay more than ten minutes.”

  “You were on the phone to him a moment ago.” The questore gestured towards the telephone.

  “We’re colleagues. We collaborate.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “You don’t want me to collaborate?”

  “I suspect this silly woman’s disappearance is no more than a hoax.”

  Trotti was silent.

  “I like and respect you, Piero Trotti.” Absentmindedly, the questore started to play with the photograph of Pioppi, running his fingers along the perspex edges. “But I can’t have this.”

  “I know nothing about the article, Signor Questore.”

  “No stars, no prima donnas. You’re not Ceausescu. We work together as a team. You understand?”

  “I’ve never tried to be a star.”

  “You’ve never tried to be part of the team, either.” He gave a preemptive smile. “Teamwork doesn’t interest you because you despise your colleagues.”

  “You’ve no right to say that.”

  “You despise Commissario Merenda—and I genuinely believe you despise me.”

  Trotti was silent.

  “You don’t know how to work in a team—do you, Piero? You don’t know and you don’t care.”

  “You’ve just told me off for collaborating with Maiocchi.”

  “You need Maiocchi’s help—you seem to think there may be a connection between the missing woman and the Belloni killing.”

  For a long moment, Trotti did not speak. There was silence in the small office except for the cooing of the pigeons and the faint noises of the somnolent city beyond the Questura.

  “I hope you’re letting Merenda get on with the Belloni affair.”

  “I’ve never interfered with Merenda.”

  “I’ve already told you to drop the Belloni killing. And leave Tenente Pisanelli alone.”

  “Rosanna Belloni was a friend.”

  “You let friendship cloud your judgment.”

  “I liked Rosanna Belloni—she once helped me in an enquiry.”

  “That is irrelevant. You’re a policeman, a public servant.”

  “I’d like to know who killed her.” Trotti paused, his eyes on the photograph of his daughter at her first communion. “You have chosen to call me off the case.”

  “And I want you staying off. It’s best for everybody that way.”

  “Best for the killer?”

  “Sometimes, Trotti, your arrogance astounds me.”

  Trotti held up his hand. “As you wish.” He kept his eyes on the photograph—it had been taken outside the Duomo at the foot of the Torre Civica. He shrugged his acquiescence. “I’m a policeman. I obey orders.”

  “Orders?” A dry laugh.

  “I obey orders—even if it means sitting here doing nothing.”

  “Doing nothing, Piero? You think I was born yesterday?”

  “I don’t think anything.” Somewhere there was the sound of tires screeching. “A public servant—I’m not paid to think.”

  “What were you doing last night at the railway station?”

  Trotti was silent.

  “At the station, Trotti?”

  “Who told you I was there?”

  “In front of hostile witnesses, fooling around with informers? What have you got to say about that, Piero Trotti? Informers that Narcotici have taken years to build up. What do you think you were doing?” The questore shook his head. “No, Trotti—perhaps there’s no cult of the personality. Maybe it’s just the pleasure of stirring shit.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Whatever your motives, you clearly have no time and no consideration for your colleagues.”

  “Signorina Belloni was a friend. I was hoping . . .”

  “You merely care for what you want. With your eyes on your goal, you fail to see the obstacles. And you fail to see all the people whose feet you trample on.”

  A pigeon cooed noisily.

  “A holiday, Trotti. You’ve got a villa on Como.”

  “On Lake Garda, Signor Questore.”

  “I want you to take a holiday. It’s nearly Ferragosto. Take a holiday—go up to the lake. At Gardesana, isn’t it? Go with your wife and your daughter.”

  “I don’t feel the need for a rest.”

  “I want you out of the Questura for a couple of weeks. A rest. Go to Gardesana, Trotti, and perhaps you can get things into perspective.”

  “My wife is in America, Signor Questore. You know that Pioppi is in Bologna and expecting a child any day.” Trotti could hear the rising anger in his voice and there was little he could do to control it. “Just say you want me out of your hair, out of your Questura. You don’t want me on the Belloni case.”

  “You take time to understand.”

  “I’m a policeman, I’ve got to be doing something.” Trotti banged the table with the flat of his hand. “Do you really just want me to sit around, collecting my salary?”

  The questore raised an eyebrow. “Ah.” He slid his thigh from the table.

  Trotti ran his tongue along the edge of his dry lip. “Twiddle my thumbs and wait for my retirement?”

  “A rest, Piero Trotti, and then in September we can have a long chat about your future.”

  27: Nazionali

  “Where are you going, Trotti?”

  “The hospital.”

  “I’ll give you a lift.” Gabbiani leaned across the front seat towards the handle of the passenger door of the grey Innocenti. “I can see you’re in a foul mood.” Gabbiani took a carton of Nazionali cigarettes and threw it casually on to the back seat. “Try smiling.”

  Trotti climbed into the car beside him.

  Trotti had a mathematical turn of mind, neat and rigorous when possible. He liked order and he liked to group things into categories.

  In particular, he liked to be able to categorize people. For Piero Trotti there was family, there were those people he liked, those towards whom he was indifferent and there were those people he disliked.

  (With age, when he should have been growing more tolerant, Trotti found that the category of people he disliked increased daily.)

  “I didn’t know you were in the city, Gabbiani.”

  Gabbiani was one of those rare people Trotti could not place.

  Trotti’s fifth category.

  Trotti added, “I thought you were on holiday.”

  “I am on holiday, Trotti.”

  Physically, he was handsome. Dark hair that had kept the luster of youth, a regular face and a generous mouth. Grey, intelligent eyes, with long, dark eyelashes. Gabbiani dressed more like a big city journalist—corduroys and a checked shirt, good quality casual shoes—than a provincial policeman.

  There were frequent rumors about Gabbiani, head of the Questura’s Narcotici.

  Personable, intelligent and efficient, he had been with Narcotici for two years after several years spent in Geneva, apparently with Interpol. Gabbiani was generally believed to be doing good work. It had been his idea to liaise with the university health service—on the assumption that prevention is better than cure—to inform the student population of the dangers of drugs and drug addiction And for those addicts
wanting to throw the habit, he had introduced a toll-free telephone line.

  For a university city, the drug-related AIDS and hepatitis rates were impressively low. On several occasions, Gabbiani’s photograph had appeared in the local paper.

  “Cult of the personality.”

  “I beg your pardon, Trotti.”

  “The questore has just accused me of indulging in a cult of the personality.”

  “The questore prefers us to work as a team. That way we share the workload. And he gets all the kudos—and his photograph in the paper.”

  Trotti shook his head and settled into the low bucket-seat of the car as Gabbiani took the Innocenti over the cobbles, heading out of the city center, away from the white signs of the pedestrian zone.

  “He wants me out of the way—and it’s still too early for him to pension me off.”

  “He wants everybody who’s not a Socialist out of the way.”

  “What?”

  “The questore got where he is because he’s a good Craxi man. But now that the Socialists are out of government, he’s very sensitive. We live in a partitocrazia, Trotti—you seem to forget that. Rule by political party. And at the present moment, the poor questore finds that he’s not on the winning team. The Socialists are out of power in Rome—and here, the city’s being run by the Christian Democrats and the Communists. He’s scared. And he doesn’t like to see potential rivals jockeying for his place.”

  “I’m not a rival.”

  “You’re not anything, Piero.” Gabbiani laughed. “You’ve never understood power politics—too honest. Too honest for the Polizia di Stato.”

  The air was windless and already very hot.

  “Why the hospital, Piero?”

  “Autopsy.”

  The rumors about Gabbiani—Trotti had heard them from various sources. He did not pay them much attention. Like most policemen, Trotti was cynical, believing very little until he had been able to check for himself. “You’re like St. Thomas,” Magagna used to say, “you’d insist on seeing Christ’s scars—and then you would demand a report from Scientifica.” Trotti knew about professional jealousies within the Questura.

  Gabbiani drove well, one hand on the wheel, two fingers on the gear lever. “The Belloni affair?”

  Trotti turned to look at Gabbiani. “I suppose you’re pissed off with me.”

  Gabbiani braked, keeping his eyes on the traffic lights. The city was virtually empty for the mid-August holidays, but the lights changed with a maddening slowness. “Too professional, Trotti, to be pissed off.” A slow, indulgent smile.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I’m not sure I can get excited about my work anymore. This isn’t Milan or Rome or Naples. Marking time, Trotti. I’m marking time.”

  “I wish I still had your youth.”

  “You really believe that, Trotti? Being the grand old man of the Questura gives you a lot of advantages.” Gabbiani turned the grey eyes towards him.

  “Perhaps that’s why the questore wants me out of his hair.”

  “I’d like to know why you’re getting into mine. Last night you were on my turf. Perhaps you’d like to tell me why.”

  “You were waiting for me outside the Questura?”

  “We need to talk,” Gabbiani said.

  “Nice of you to give me a lift.”

  “What exactly did you think you were doing last night, Piero Trotti?”

  “I thought you were on holiday, Gabbiani.”

  Gabbiani raised an eyebrow. “And so you move in on my informers?”

  “I need any information I can get.”

  “Why?”

  “Merenda is on the Belloni case—and the questore wants me to go on holiday.”

  “Then go on holiday, Trotti.” A dry laugh. “You’ve got bags under your eyes, you haven’t been sleeping and your shirt is crumpled.”

  Trotti lowered the anti-glare screen and glanced at his reflection in the small mirror. His face looked back at him—a thin face, a narrow nose and closely set eyes. His dark hair oiled and no longer as thick as it once was. White hair at the temples, thin creases running down his cheeks.

  “Why do you care so much, Trotti?”

  “Care?”

  “About everything. You carry this city on your shoulders.”

  “What else have I got?” Trotti laughed.

  “What do you care about the Belloni killing?”

  “Rosanna Belloni was a friend.”

  “You still believe in friendship?” Gabbiani gave a tight smile. “And so you piss in my garden? You elbow in on my informers?” The lights turned to green and with an unwarranted surge, the car moved forward, a squeak of tires and a sharp wrenching at Trotti’s neck. Despite Gabbiani’s relaxed manner, the knuckles on the wheel were white.

  “I was told you were in Switzerland.”

  (In town, Gabbiani ran around in his little Innocenti.

  The rumors claimed that he had a big, German car that he kept up in the hills, along with a luxurious villa at Pietragavina. The rumors claimed that once out of the Questura, Gabbiani had a standard of living that could not come out of a policeman’s salary.)

  “You could have spoken with di Bono or Fattori.”

  “Gabbiani—I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not sorry, Trotti. You’re never sorry.”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  “You’re not impulsive. Before doing anything, you carefully weigh up all the pros and cons.”

  “I didn’t know you were in town, Gabbiani.” A pause. “I need help.”

  “You need a rest.” A brief, mocking glance at Trotti that was not devoid of genuine affection. “You’re obsessive, Trotti—obsessive about something that’s really not important. The Belloni woman’s dead—you’re not going to bring her back to life. You can forget about friendship, think about yourself. Let Merenda get on with it, let him sweat out the Ferragosto. Think about your own life—enjoy life, while you’ve still got your health. Forget Rosanna Belloni.”

  “By putting a bit of pressure on a dealer, the African . . .”

  “Carpe diem. Enjoy yourself. We’re all getting old.”

  “The dealer, Beltoni . . .”

  Gabbiani banged the steering wheel in a sudden outburst of exasperation. “For God’s sake, Trotti, leave the poor bastard alone. You know what Beltoni is like? You cause a commotion, you get the whores screaming at you. Beltoni is a poor shit—an eternal student who’s never been able to move on. And who hasn’t got the balls to give himself the final overdose.”

  “He has his contacts in the city.”

  “Beltoni?” Gabbiani had regained his calm. He said softly, “Beltoni is a poor shit, Trotti. But you can cause him trouble. Leave him alone.”

  “It’s possible that Rosanna Belloni was murdered by her sister. I haven’t been able to locate Maria Cristina Belloni, but it’s likely that she’s schizophrenic. She’s been out of her home for nearly three weeks.”

  “What home?”

  “In Garlasco—Casa Patrizia.”

  Gabbiani raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s possible that Maria Cristina wanted uppers—and that she needed money.”

  They went along viale dell’Indipendenza, following the old branch railway line that had been cut into the ground behind the Sforzesco castle. With his left hand resting on the steering wheel, Gabbiani changed gear smoothly.

  Trotti asked, “What did you tell the questore, Gabbiani?”

  “Tell the questore?”

  “It’s not every day we see you hanging around the Questura.”

  “It was you, Trotti, that I was looking for.”

  “What did you tell the questore?”

  “You think I’d tell that pompous card-carrying Socialist bastard from Friuli that you were shitting
on my informers?”

  “How else did he know?”

  “He knew that you’d been pestering Beltoni?”

  Trotti nodded and Gabbiani laughed.

  Trotti said, “Somebody must have told him—and it wouldn’t have been the whores.”

  The smile on Gabbiani’s face disappeared. “What the hell did you want with Beltoni?”

  “Somebody wanting money fast, somebody in need of ready cash. It’s possible that money was the motive behind Belloni’s death and . . .”

  “You believe that?”

  “People who need money fast are the sort of people who have an expensive habit to pay for.”

  Gabbiani brought the car to a standstill outside the hospital.

  “Terminus.” He leaned backwards to the back seat. “You’d care for a packet of Nazionali’s, Trotti? A present from Customs.”

  Trotti shook his head. “I’ve smoked three cigarettes in the last twelve years.”

  “Doubt if you’ve been laid much more, either.”

  Trotti fumbled with the door handle. He had to pull himself out of the low seat. “Think what you like.”

  “Leave Beltoni alone. If you need information, come to me.” Gabbiani took his hand from the steering wheel and held up a finger. “It’s just possible that I may know what you need.”

  “Meaning?”

  Gabbiani laughed and the Innocenti pulled out into the traffic.

  28: Maryland

  “Bottone makes my flesh creep.”

  The sensation of heaviness in his belly had been getting worse—Trotti felt angry and unhappy. Gabbiani—and the questore—were right: he needed a holiday.

  Right now he needed a coffee.

  “Been waiting long?”

  Boatti had parked his car at the back of the hospital, in the small piazza between the psychiatry ward and the morgue. Folly and death.

  The journalist’s pale face was pinched. He held the small dictating machine in his hand; he stood in the shade of a plane tree.

  Already browning leaves had started to fall to the ground. Trotti ran a hand along his forehead and wished for the coolness of autumn—rain along the Po.