“He is all right.”
“And Anna? Where is she? Why is she not at school today?”
“Anna is quite safe and well, signora.”
He could see that she did not believe him.
6
MAGAGNA HAD GONE, taking the Alfetta and the umbrella. It was still raining and Trotti’s feet were cold. There were puddles on the pavement. He walked back to the station and in the small bar next to the second-class waiting room, he bought a packet of sweets. Barley sugar. He undid the cellophane wrapping and placed one in his mouth.
Sitting in the far corner of the bar, beside the window that looked out onto the wet platform and the railway tracks, a man was looking at the dregs of a glass of wine. The face was familiar. Trotti left without the man looking up.
He hailed one of the waiting taxis and sat in the back, his eyes half closed.
“Where to?”
“Via Milano.”
“Mind if I smoke?” the driver asked.
Trotti lived in the suburbs and as the taxi reached the edge of the old part of the city, the car stopped at traffic lights. The driver waited, the meter quietly clicking, while articulated trucks trundled south towards Piacenza and Bologna, blocking the exit roads and filling the air with damp spray and billowing diesel fumes.
“Of course not.”
The driver had a narrow head and sloping shoulders. There was a comic book on the dashboard and beside it an overflowing ashtray.
The man half turned in his seat to offer a packet of Nazionali.
“Care for one?”
“I gave up smoking ten years ago.”
“Wish I could—a packet a day, sometimes more. My wife is worse, mind you—only she smokes the expensive ones.” He snorted his disapproval. “With the charcoal filter. Eight hundred lire.”
The windows of the taxi had misted up and the air smelled of smoke and new plastic seat covers. The windscreen wipers beat rhythmically. Beside Trotti, on the back window, a puppy dog with a spring for a neck stared with mournful eyes while his head wagged faithfully.
The driver was lighting his cigarette as a traffic policeman beckoned them on. The taxi moved forward and the driver raised his hand in a salute. Once out of sight, the driver spat. “Police,” the driver said over his shoulder. “I need them like I need brain surgery. Always there when you don’t want them. And when you need them …” He made a faintly obscene gesture. “They should be looking for those murdering bastard terrorists—the sons of whores—and not competing with perfectly good traffic lights.”
“Not many terrorists in this town.”
The driver gave a cynical cough; smoke spurted through his nose. Small eyes looked at Trotti in the mirror. “There’s crime, isn’t there?”
“Is there?”
“I was robbed a couple of weeks ago. At four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. They stole my takings.”
“You reported it?”
“You’re joking. Go to the Questura to complain and they arrest you. Tax evasion, no license, worn-out tires—they can always find something to stick on you. It’s a mug’s game.” He raised his shoulders. “It was just a couple of kids. They took twenty thousand lire. On a good day I can make that in an hour.”
“It’s still money.”
“Peanuts.”
They took the bridge over the railway sidings. The driver fell silent. He kept his two hands on the steering wheel while the cigarette smoldered between his lips. “Peanuts,” he muttered to himself.
“You can afford to lose twenty thousand? Business must be good.”
“You hear me complaining?” He turned to give Trotti a hurried glance. “I’m voting Communist, if that’s what you mean.”
“For the dictatorship of the proletariat?”
“I’m voting for Mariani. He’s a good mayor.”
“You want to drive tractors on the collective farms?”
“This isn’t Cambodia. Free enterprise. I’m voting for free enterprise and the mayor closed the city center to traffic. What’s good for business is good for me, Communist or not. At least he’s done something for this town. The shopkeepers and the small businessmen were all against it—the biggest pedestrian zone in Europe. They said they’d lose their customers, they said it was the death toll for business in the city. And now look.”
“Yes?”
Again the driver caught Trotti’s eye in the mirror. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? No cars and no motorbikes in the old Roman center. Now it’s a nice place to be in. Piazza della Vittoria used to be a parking lot; now you can go there for a stroll—without choking to death on carbon monoxide—and without some flash lunatic running you over. It’s clean. No petrol fumes. More shoppers and more people. Tell me, when did you last see women pushing prams in an Italian city? And all the cars—such piss-awful drivers—he’s chased them away into the suburbs.”
“It’s good for business.”
“Sure—and what’s wrong with that?” The tone was slightly querulous. “Only buses and taxis have access. Sure it’s good for business, but not only mine. The shopkeepers have never had it so good. Believe me: inside the polling booth, where nobody can see them, they’re going to be voting Communist.”
“Against their principles.”
The driver laughed. “Principles—that’s a word for politicians—or schoolteachers. The rest of us, we’re just pragmatists. Like you and me. That’s the way it is today. Principles—try clothing and feeding your wife and family on principles.” He laughed again.
The road curved, past the sprawling Fiat showrooms; the driver had to swerve to avoid an old woman—dressed entirely in black—on a bicycle. “The old bitch.” He turned his head towards Trotti. “We’re pragmatists because in this world, you’ve got to look out for yourself. Nobody owes you a living—and enough parasites are trying to live off what you earn.” He snorted. “Pragmatist, my friend.”
Trotti leaned forward and pointed through the windscreen. “Over there, next to the new pizzeria.”
The taxi stopped and Trotti got out.
“Two thousand and fifty lire.”
“As a Communist, you won’t be wanting a tip.” Trotti held out the money but did not release his hold. “One other thing.”
The shadow of worry in the driver’s eye.
“Ermagni—Luigi Ermagni. Does that mean anything to you?”
“He plays with Juventus.”
“A taxi driver. He’s not a football player.”
The man thought for a second. “A large man, a bit overweight? With a face that always needs shaving?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes,” the driver said cautiously, “I know him. What of it?”
“He’s a friend of yours?”
“Friends? I’ll have time for friends when I retire.”
“But you know him?”
“We’re in the same business, aren’t we?” He paused. “What do you want to know for?”
“I was his friend once.” He released the three thousand lire. “I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“His wife died,” the man remarked without sympathy. “He’s got a kid—that’s why he prefers to do night work. And why I don’t often see him.”
“Why night work?”
“To be with the kid, I suppose.” He leaned forward and tucked the notes into a grey metal box attached to the dashboard and closed with a padlock. “Not the sort of person I get on with. I like to earn a day’s wage and he’s unreliable. He’s got a nasty temper. He can get angry like a child in a tantrum. The sort of person I can do without.” Disparagingly, he added, “He used to be a policeman.”
Trotti thanked him and the yellow taxi surged away; there was a gap in the traffic and the driver executed a neat U-turn. The car stopped.
“You should ask his friend,” the driver called from the other side of via Milano. “Ask Pistone.” He threw the cigarette onto the wet tarmac. The exhaust pipe vibrated as the car headed back to the city.
Trotti went into the house.
He lived on the first floor of a detached building above the garage. There was an outside staircase, an iron banister and plot plants, geraniums and cyclamen, to each concrete step. On fine days, the flowers caught the afternoon sun; now they looked bedraggled, battered by the rain.
He did not ring. The door was locked; he turned the key three times and the bolt moved heavily and as the door came open, he was greeted by the familiar smell of wax and fresh linen. The hallway was dark; the blinds were drawn and from beyond the window came the soft murmur of traffic along via Milano.
Two eyes gleamed; Pioppi’s ancient teddy bear stared down from the top of the bookcase. In the kitchen, the breakfast plates lay unwashed in the sink.
The house was empty.
He changed his socks, first rubbing his pale, cold feet. He then put on a heavier pair of shoes. He made a pot of strong coffee; the kitchen filled with the pleasant smell and he added a thimbleful of grappa. He felt better and was about to pour a second cup when the phone rang. He reached the receiver on the third ring.
“Pronto.”
Silence.
“This is Trotti here.”
A click; the line died.
7
LIKE OLD LOVERS, Gino and the Principessa had grown to look alike: the same watery eyes and the same loose flesh to the jaws. The Principessa was now half asleep, her white paws sprawled out before her on the marble floor.
“A couple of phone calls for you, Commissario,” Gino said as Trotti stepped out of the lift. Trotti had often wondered how the old man could recognize him; a highly developed sense of hearing perhaps. Trotti approached the desk. He now felt warmer and he had put on another sweater. The rubber soles of his shoes creaked on the floor.
“Important?”
Gino smiled. “They always are.” He lifted his head to give Trotti a wan smile. The eyes were large behind the thick lenses. “A man called Ermagni.”
“And the other?”
“Avvocato Romano.” The fingers ran across the Braille typing. “He said it was urgent. He wanted to speak to you personally and he would ring back.”
“Thanks.”
“One other thing.” The old man put out his hand and found Trotti’s elbow. He pulled the younger man towards him. “Leonardelli,” he whispered. “He’s looking for you. Very polite, of course; but he’s been out of his office four times.”
Under the table the Principessa stirred.
“What does he want?”
“No idea.” There was spittle at the corner of Gino’s cracked lips; there was a distinct smell of wine on his breath. “No idea,” he repeated, shaking his head.
“Is there any news from Magagna?”
“He’s still waiting for the medical results.”
Trotti thanked the old man and patted his shoulder.
“Commissario,” Gino said softly, still holding Trotti by the elbow. “Be careful. Leonardelli is an ambitious man.”
“I know.”
The blind man released his hold and slumped back into his chair. Trotti went into his office. It needed dusting. He opened the window and called through the open hatch to Gino to give him an outside line; just as he picked up the phone, there was a knock on the door.
“Ah, there you are.” Leonardelli smiled.
“Good afternoon.”
“If you are not too busy, Commissario, could you come along to my office? I’m afraid something—something important—has come up and …” He paused and smiled again. “Unless of course you are on a particular enquiry …”
Leonardelli waited and then slipped his arm through Trotti’s.
Together they walked along the corridors of the third floor. “You’re still coming to work on your bicycle?”
“It’s my wife’s idea,” Trotti said. “She says it’ll keep me fit.”
“I must say you’re looking well.”
“Unfortunately, when I’m in a hurry to get home—or when it rains—I have to take a taxi.”
“But a bicycle is healthy. I think I’ll have to follow your example. There’s no excuse now that the center of the city is free of cars.”
They came to the office; the Questore pushed the door open and, standing back with his arm outstretched, he beckoned Trotti to enter.
“Please sit down.”
The room was large and bright, like something out of a magazine. A large desk stood on the white carpet, almost empty except for an ashtray and a couple of white telephones with push-button dials. Two low armchairs of white, plump leather. Leonardelli pushed one towards the desk. “Please,” he said softly and took his own seat on the other side.
Trotti sat down; the chair was lower than Leonardelli’s.
“I’m sorry to have to call you away from your work.” As he spoke, Leonardelli took a cigarette case from the breast pocket of his jacket. Trotti shook his head at the offered cigarette. “A drink perhaps, Dottore?”
Leonardelli was a couple of years younger than Trotti but already he was going bald; at the temples, the grey hair had been allowed to grow and was neatly brushed back. Black, thin-framed glasses. Well dressed in a double-breasted suit, a white shirt and a dark tie, Leonardelli looked like a middle-aged athlete; broad shoulders and a trim waist. Bench-grade shoes imported from England.
“A cup of coffee.”
Leonardelli pressed a bell somewhere beneath the desk. Then, smiling—his lips were thin and rather bloodless—he said, “This is a hectic time for us all.”
Trotti nodded.
“I don’t wish to pry. You have—indeed since your arrival you have always had—my complete confidence. I admire the Squadra Mobile and the way you run it. I know that despite considerable difficulty, you manage to run a highly organized and efficient team. Financial difficulties, logistic ones, human ones—difficulties that we all have to live with but which must be a particular burden for you.” He paused for an instant. “I have always been aware of your competence, Commissario, and I needn’t remind you that I was instrumental in getting your transfer here.”
“Thank you.”
Leonardelli folded his hands on the desk, the cigarette held between two fingers. “I must ask you for a briefing.”
He used the English word. Trotti frowned.
“A briefing on the present state of progress in the Squadra Mobile.”
Trotti answered in a neutral voice, “Of course.” A short, awkward silence.
“You must understand that there have been developments—political developments that can affect us all. You understand.”
The door was opened by an officer in uniform who entered carrying a tray. He placed the tray on the desk—cups and tray, Trotti observed, of matching porcelain—saluted and left.
“Sugar, Commissario?”
“No thank you.”
“You don’t smoke, you don’t even take sugar. You are a man without vices, I see.”
“Sometimes I take grappa in my coffee—but not on duty.”
Leonardelli laughed without taking his eyes off Trotti. He placed his cigarette in the ashtray—the same, delicate porcelain—and handed Trotti a cup. The dark eyes continued to watch Trotti with interest.
Leonardelli propped his chin against two fingers and a thumb. In the other hand, he held his cup of coffee. Slight wisps of smoke danced and writhed towards the ceiling. He made a few discreet sips.
They drank in silence. The coffee was foul—hot water and powder out of the vending machine at the end of the corridor.
“We’re involved with what looks like a murder,” Trotti said, placing the cup back on its saucer.
“Murder?”
“A couple of children were swimming in the river yesterday. Just beyond the lido. There is a natural beach there with a few bushes at the edge. Sometimes, when the river is full, it covers the bushes completely. The two children saw a dark object stuck among the branches and as one of the boys was swimming past he noticed what looked like a hand. In f
act it wasn’t a hand; it was a human foot.”
Leonardelli grimaced.
“It had been stuck in a plastic bag—one of those plastic bags that people put their rubbish in.”
“Can it be identified?”
“The bag? They’ve got it up at forensic now. As for the leg—there was nothing else, it had been severed off at the thigh—it’s been taken up to the hospital. Magagna’s at Medicina Legale now, waiting for the report. There’s not much we can do until we’ve got more information.” Trotti added, “It looks like a woman’s leg, but it’s too early yet to be certain.”
Leonardelli had not moved. “Murder, in your opinion?”
“It is just possible that rather than be buried or cremated, it was the victim’s last wish to be cut up and put in refuse bags.”
Leonardelli raised an eyebrow.
“We’ve put out a general ID, but until we get the medical report, there’s not much that we can do.”
“I understand.”
The rain clouds were scudding away towards the east and the sky presented large patches of blue; an unexpected shaft of light came through the window, casting a square of warm, afternoon sunlight on to the white carpet. At the same time Trotti noticed the portrait on the wall. The president of the Republic, rotund and Neapolitan, smiled with avuncular goodwill from behind a dull, steel frame. Apart from the portrait, the wall was white and quite bare.
Leonardelli sipped again at his cup; by now the coffee was cold. “And the others?”
“What others?”
“There are ten men attached to the Mobile. Normally I wouldn’t request …” His voice died; he nudged at the black frame of his glasses.
“Eight men,” Trotti corrected. “Since the Moro kidnapping, I have lost two men to general duties.”
“And what are they doing, these eight men?”
“Routine matters.”
“Such as?”
Trotti hesitated, glanced sharply at Leonardelli. “Benedetto and Galli are involved with stolen cars—probably a gang, probably based in Milan and working out in the surrounding provincial cities. There’s been a forty percent increase in car theft since March. And a sixty percent increase in the number of cars broken into—radios, cassette recorders. It’s possible that we’re dealing with an organization that uses children—but as yet we have no definite lead. Several other cities—Vercelli, Novara, Brescia, Alessandria and up on the lakes as well—seem to be having a similar increase. That’s in fact what I should be working on but these last few days I’ve been involved with the gypsy camp.”
Converging Parallels Page 4
