“Agente Zani,” Maiocchi said, without taking his eyes from his pipe.
“The questore wanted the whole affair hushed up—to be swept under the carpet.” Trotti made a wry smile. “That’s why he wanted me out of the city. He virtually ordered me to take a holiday on Lake Garda.” He snorted. “Low profile.”
66: Monogamy
Trotti was at a loss for words.
“That’s what I said.”
“Greece?” Trotti repeated incredulously.
“They left yesterday.”
“They? Then Rosanna Belloni is not alone?”
“Of course not.” Boatti smiled blandly and glanced at the other two policemen leaning against the radiator. “People tend to be accompanied when they go on their honeymoon.”
“I don’t believe this.” Trotti shook his head. “You’re telling me—you’re telling us that Rosanna Belloni is in Greece on her honeymoon?”
“She is nearly sixty years old, Commissario. You don’t think she’s entitled to happiness at her age?”
“And her sister? Maria Cristina dead—murdered. Maria Cristina’s not entitled to anything?”
“It’s a lot better for everyone the way things are. Rosanna’s always suffered—can’t you understand?” A gesture of repressed exasperation. “She suffered as a young woman, trying to protect her little sister. Rosanna’s always tried to protect Maria Cristina—and what good’s it done her? For all Rosanna’s care and sacrifice, for all Rosanna’s love, how has the sister ended up? A stupid, promiscuous woman battered to death by the last in a very long list of lovers.”
“You didn’t murder her?”
Boatti ignored the question.
“Why’s Rosanna Belloni in Greece?” There was still disbelief in his voice. “Why’s she on her honeymoon?”
“Because at last—at long last Rosanna Belloni has decided to take her life into her own hands. She’s decided that she wants to live with a man.”
“What man?”
“The man she’s always loved.”
“Who?”
Boatti shrugged, failing to understand Trotti’s incomprehension, “Achille Taleri. Her schoolteacher from Ventimiglia, of course.”
“Then you knew, Boatti?”
“I knew what?”
“You knew where Rosanna was. All along, you’ve known where she was and what she was doing. And you knew who she was with.”
“Of course I knew.”
“And you lied?”
Boatti looked at Trotti coolly.
“You lied?”
“Rosanna needed my help.”
“And effectively you screwed up my enquiry.”
“Not at all—I told you about Rosanna, I told you about the schoolteacher.”
“You lied, Boatti.”
“Rosanna needed protection.”
“Impeding the course of justice.”
“I don’t give a shit for the course of justice, for the course of your justice.”
“And so you invent your own?”
“Rosanna is a good person, she has always made sacrifices for others. For her mother, for her crazy sister—crazy and very promiscuous sister. And now after a long, long time, she finally decides to get married. To get married to the man she’s loved for more than fifteen years . . .”
“The man who screwed Maria Cristina?”
“Errare humanum est.”
Trotti frowned. “She’s married the man she once discovered in bed with her sister?”
“Rosanna is entitled to her happiness.”
“He betrayed her.”
“An adventure isn’t necessarily a betrayal.” Again Boatti ran a hand across his mouth. “It took Rosanna several years to convince herself—and when, in the end, she decided that she was no longer a young woman, it was me”—he tapped his chest—“it was me who got her to see that marriage was the right thing.”
Pisanelli leaned forward, his arms folded. “As a faithful husband, you recommended the charms of monogamy?”
Boatti kept his eyes on Trotti. “I was the only person who knew. Not even her sister in Milan knew that Rosanna was on her honeymoon.”
“All this time you’ve been protecting her?”
“As soon as I discovered the body, I phoned Achille . . .”
“Her husband?”
“But they weren’t at the hotel. They’d gone for a trip into the delta.”
“This Achille Taleri is her husband?”
“Achille and Rosanna are getting married in September.”
Trotti winced. “The honeymoon before the marriage?”
“Afraid that she’ll get pregnant, Commissario Trotti?”
Pisanelli tapped Boatti on the shoulder. “Why did you phone the bridegroom?”
“I needed to tell Achille about Maria Cristina’s death and I wanted him to get Rosanna out of the country.” He did not turn to look at Pisanelli but kept his eyes on Trotti.
“To Greece?”
Boatti nodded. “I didn’t want her coming back here, I didn’t want her to be bothered with her sister’s death. Really, Trotti, Maria Cristina’s death is of no great loss to anybody.”
“It’s a great loss to Maria Cristina.”
“She’s better off dead.”
“You’re joking, I suppose.”
“When Maria Cristina was a little girl, she was molested by her stepfather. That was a long time ago. I believe that, after forty years, Rosanna is entitled to a little happiness of her own. Don’t you?”
“So you lied?”
“Of course I lied.” Again the bland smile. “I lied to you, Trotti, and I don’t give a damn. I wasn’t lying for myself. Rosanna was like a mother to me. More than a mother. My own parents had me late in life and my genetic mother never had very good health. It was Rosanna who would look after me. You accused me of making love with Rosanna.” He shook his head in disgust. “You think a man makes love with his mother? You must be sick, Trotti.”
“Didn’t Alberto Zani try to make love to her?”
“Alberto Zani is crazy—he needs treatment.”
“You could’ve told me she was at Comacchio.”
“And you would’ve brought her back here? You would’ve got her to give up her honeymoon—something she’d waited almost half a century for? That’s what you want? After she’d spent nearly five years making up her mind to take the plunge? Give everything up to come back here and worry about a sister who never merited all the affection Rosanna gave her. And perhaps destroy forever Rosanna’s chance of happiness.”
“Her happiness is so important to you, Boatti?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And so when you discovered Maria Cristina’s body, you sent Rosanna off to Greece?”
“They didn’t get back to the hotel until yesterday morning. And even then it took Achille a lot of persuading. She’s always loved the delta and she was glad to be there with him. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go to Greece. She loves her walking holidays. Only Achille, like me, realized he had to get her out of the country. Away from the newspapers, away from the television.” A pause. “In his way, Achille is a good man.”
“I hope so,” Pisanelli said.
“A bit limited, perhaps. A southerner. I believe they’re going to be happy together.”
Trotti’s coffee was now cold. He finished it in one gulp, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “And the Fiat Panda?”
“What Fiat Panda, Trotti?”
“The proprietor of the hotel said that Rosanna’d gone off with a man in a Fiat.”
“He really told you that?” The round, damp face broke into a bright grin.
“You were with Pisanelli and me when we got through to the hotel on the phone.”
“Neither R
osanna nor Achille have a car.”
“The Panda was rented.”
“I can assure you, Trotti, there never was any car, Fiat or otherwise.” He raised his shoulders. “A case of mistaken identity. Possibly Rosanna was given a lift by someone—there are a lot of four-by-fours in the delta. Or perhaps the proprietor in the hotel is trying to confuse you.”
“Like you.”
Boatti lowered his head, as if recognizing a compliment. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Why would the proprietor lie?”
“Most probably he didn’t lie. Most probably it was a lift—or a taxi.”
“Rosanna was still in the delta when I phoned? When we got through to the hotel?”
“Achille and Rosanna left yesterday afternoon.”
Trotti nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why you were worried?”
“Worried, Commissario?”
“You knew she would return to the Pensione Belvedere and so when Pisanelli located her, you were afraid?”
“Trotti, I don’t feel guilty in the slightest for what I’ve done.”
Pisanelli grinned. “You’ll be needing a lawyer.”
Boatti raised an eyebrow. “For being too friendly with Signorina Roberti?”
“For withholding evidence, for lying, for prevaricating. And, Boatti, for being a squalid little shit.”
“You frighten me, Tenente Pisanelli.”
“With good reason.”
Trotti gestured Pisanelli to be silent. Looking carefully at the journalist, Trotti asked, “When you went off to pick up your car, you phoned, didn’t you? You phoned the hotel. You wanted to be sure she’d left.”
“Like a mother to me. In a way, perhaps I love Rosanna Belloni more than I love my own mother. I owe her a lot—more than I can ever repay. I haven’t done many good things in my life . . .”
Pisanelli was going to say something but Trotti directed an angry glance at him.
“Protecting her was right—was very right. Achille agrees with me.” Boatti ran a hand along his damp forehead. “If you want to arrest me, really, Trotti, I don’t mind at all. A small price to pay to protect her happiness.”
“That’s what you say.”
“When she comes back in a couple of weeks, she’ll have to learn the truth. But now—now I want her to enjoy—to enjoy to the full—what little happiness life can give her.”
67: Functionary
“You murdered Maria Cristina?”
Boatti ignored the question.
“Did you murder her?”
“Why murder the poor cow? I wasn’t one of her lovers, was I? I never got into bed and climbed over her, put my thing where a thousand other men had put theirs.” He shrugged. “Maria Cristina’d never done me any harm.”
“Other than ruining Rosanna Belloni’s life?”
Boatti nodded.
“And by your own admission, you wanted to protect Rosanna.”
“If I was going to kill Maria Cristina, I wouldn’t do it just as Rosanna at last decided to go on holiday with her fiancé.”
Pisanelli moved away from the radiator and sat on the edge of the desk. “You admit you were in the San Teodoro building on Saturday night?”
For a moment there was silence. Then Boatti sat back in the armchair and crossed his legs. He bit his lips. Trotti offered him a sweet from the tin of English barley sugar. “Well?”
A shrug.
Trotti looked at the tin of sweets in his hand but did not take one. “You were with the Roberti girl, weren’t you? You weren’t with your wife in Vercelli visiting relatives.”
“My wife . . .” Boatti sighed and nervously pulled at his wedding ring. “My wife knows nothing.”
“But she was in the flat?”
“Yes.”
“And the story about Vercelli—she went along with it to protect you?”
“We’re happy together—and we have two lovely little girls.” He paused. “This may sound strange to you, Trotti, but my wife understands.”
It was Pisanelli who spoke. “Understands what?”
“A man . . . she knows that a man can have desires, desires that don’t mean anything, desires that can have no tomorrow, no future. My wife knows that. I don’t say that she’s happy . . .”
“You don’t say.”
Trotti lost his temper. “Pisanelli, for God’s sake, shut up.”
“This man’s a shit, Commissario.”
“Not your problem Pisanelli.”
“He’s got a wife and two daughters—what’s he doing screwing a young student, young enough to be his daughter?”
It was Trotti who smiled. “Pisanelli, I’d’ve thought you’d learned by now”—he took a sweet from the tin and placed it in his mouth—“that we’re not here to pass judgment. Our job is to execute the orders we receive, the directives we receive. We are functionaries of the state and . . .”
“All this time he’s been playing with us, Commissario. A shit.”
“Moderate your language.”
“A cock and bull story about wanting to write a book.”
Boatti swung an outstretched hand around and pointed at Pisanelli. “Don’t worry about my book, Tenente Pisanelli—it’s going to be written. And I can assure you that I will tell the truth, all the truth about your very unprofessional behavior.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“No more than you’re threatening me, Tenente Pisanelli.”
Trotti held up his hand. “Silence.”
“It stands to reason, Commissario, he murdered her. How else did the murderer get into the building and into Rosanna Belloni’s flat?” Pisanelli looked at Trotti, gesturing towards Boatti with his thumb. “He has the key and he murdered the woman. He’s a maniac and . . .”
“A maniac?”
Pisanelli swung around on Boatti. “Of course you’re a maniac, a frustrated sex maniac. You don’t care who you hurt or damage or kill just as long as you can gratify your lust.”
“And so I went into the flat and struck Maria Cristina Belloni over the head?”
“She was going to tell your wife. She was blackmailing you. Maria Cristina was blackmailing you.” Pisanelli glanced at Trotti, glanced at Maiocchi. He slid off the desk and moved round to stand in front of Boatti. “She was going to tell your wife and . . .”
Boatti rose in the armchair. “You’re a pain in the backside, Tenente Pisanelli.”
“You’re a maniac.”
“I bashed the poor cow’s head in?” Boatti slumped back into the seat. “A maniac.” The anger had vanished.
There was a long, awkward silence in Trotti’s office.
“I bashed her head in? That’s what you really think, Commissario?”
Trotti shook his head. “Nobody bashed Maria Cristina’s head in, Boatti. She was drowned. There was water in her lungs.”
Boatti’s bloodshot eyes were now focused on Trotti. “And the bruises?” His lips trembled.
“The beating round the head was not the cause of death, according to Dottor Bottone. Maria Cristina was drowned in water—in river water.”
“Here? Here in the city?”
Again Trotti shook his head. “Scientifica says that the water can’t’ve come from the river here because it wasn’t sufficiently polluted. According to Maserati, if the water in Maria Cristina’s lungs came from the Po, it must’ve come from somewhere upriver.”
“Like Garlasco?”
“Bad luck.” Pisanelli shook his head in mock suffering. “Garlasco isn’t on the river, Boatti.”
A feverish grin. “Perhaps not. But the Casa Patrizia is.”
“What?”
“The Po runs past the grounds of the Casa Patrizia. Beyond the plane trees.”
68: Half Plus Seven
“Marry h
er, Pisa?”
It was late afternoon and the air still hot. Trotti sat in the back seat and shivered. He did not listen to the conversation between Pisanelli and Maiocchi. He felt slightly depressed. Perhaps he had been eating too many sweets.
Maiocchi sat in the front seat. He clenched the pipe between his teeth and let the air through the open window pull at his thick hair. Pisanelli could not hide his excitement. He was laughing and talking loudly, like an adolescent.
“Marry her, Pisa? She’s half your age.”
Pisanelli shrugged. “A man should always marry a woman half his age plus seven years.”
The building stood at the top of a small hill. A discreet house, built at the beginning of the nineteenth century, in an amalgam of Austrian and Italianate styles, with a broad, red brick facade that dominated the surrounding flat countryside which ran down to the line of plane trees, standing like sentinels along the bank of the Po.
Another day without rain; not a cloud in the sky.
“She’s in love with me—says she wants to have my children.” Pisanelli turned left and entered a long drive. There was an unlit neon sign announcing the Casa Patrizia. The drive was lined with chestnut trees. Old people sat or stood in the shade, taking no notice of the passing car. It was past five o’clock and the afternoon was beginning to lose its heat. Again Trotti shivered; he was sweating.
Pisanelli parked in front of the building. The three men got out of the car. Trotti went up the flight of stairs and through the glass doorway that Maiocchi held open for him.
Trotti felt apprehensive, a tightness in the belly.
The familiar smell of floor polish, medication and muted suffering.
The same small, pretty, unsophisticated face behind the reception desk with too much makeup under the eyes. The girl stood up. She wore a white blouse and blue cotton skirt. There was no brassiere. She smiled, revealing uneven teeth and dark gums. “Commissario Trotti?”
“I wish to speak to Dottor Silvi.”
The dark eyes went from Trotti to Pisanelli and Maiocchi. “If you could . . .” She picked up the telephone.
Trotti caught her hand. “Where is Dottor Silvi? I wish to speak to him. Immediately.”
Black August Page 26
