The Mammoth Book Best International Crime

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Excited by that idea, he quickened his stride and reached the car, which he had left at some distance from all the others, its nose up against a laurel hedge that marked the edge of the parking lot. He was searching for his keys in the pockets of his jacket when, from the side, the figure of a man stepped out of the shadows, revealed by the flutter of an overcoat. Even before he was able to make out his features, he realized that he was holding a gun in his left hand.

  The man’s voice was deep and emotionless.

  “Good evening, Mr Bertolino.”

  Instinctively the Sloth took a step back.

  “Who the hell …”

  “Shhhhh” the man silenced him. “Don’t make a scene and get in the car.”

  As the Sloth took out his keys and unlocked the door, the man, with the gun still aimed at him, went around the car to get in on the passenger side.

  They climbed in the car and the light from the dashboard fell on the face of the man with the gun. The Sloth had a shitload of bad memories and found himself sifting through them.

  “I’ve seen you before. You’re …”

  The man interrupted him.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is who you are.”

  The Sloth didn’t have the sort of brain that enabled him to do too many things at the same time. He set aside all the questions he was asking himself and began to be afraid.

  “What d’you want?”

  He noticed that what came out of his mouth was a trembling Good Voice.

  With the hand that was not holding the gun the main pointed vaguely beyond the windshield.

  “Let’s take a little drive. Start the car. And drive slowly.”

  As he turned the key in the ignition, the Sloth suddenly felt his throat go dry and was unable to find another word to say with either of his two voices.

  2

  As he made his way through the underbrush, Carlin Bonomo couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed. His son, who talked the way young people talk, would have said pissed off, and maybe it would be the more correct term. If things went on this way, it would be his second night roaming around the countryside in vain. The season had been what it was and the meteorological logic that governed his second job was proving to be an exact science. It had not rained during the summer and the sun and heat had not had any kind of opposition. Thus, according to the accepted rule of thumb, a very good year for wine. And consequently a shitty year for mushrooms and truffles. Carlin recalled the blissful expression stamped on the faces of those who had just harvested a grape capable of becoming a great product over time. He remembered how they rubbed their hands together eagerly while waiting to put their labels on bottles that would end up on the tables of restaurants in Italy, America, Russia and Japan.

  What pissed him off was that there wouldn’t be any of his truffles on those tables, at least not that year. It mattered for his own personal satisfaction and not just for economic reasons, though these however counted for something.

  His vocation of trifulau, as truffle hunters are called in those parts, had over time been a substantial supplement to his work as a car electrician. For years he spent his days in the repair shop changing batteries, replacing burned-out bulbs and restoring electrical systems. Every day from eight in the morning to seven in the evening, in winter, spring, summer … But in autumn, in the right season, every night he took the car and Tabuj, his dog, and went out. He went to places that only he knew about, the secret, exclusive spots that every truffle hunter worthy of the name has on his private map and which he visits only under cover of darkness, to avoid raising a flag that would signal what is in fact an unauthorized personal domain.

  Carlin smiled.

  On television he had heard about a king, he didn’t remember which one, who said that on his lands the sun never set. By contrast, on his small seasonal kingdom the sun never rose. All of a sudden the dog who was walking somewhere ahead of him whimpered quietly. It was their signal. A kind of code established over time by which Tabuj let him know that something had aroused his interest. Carlin’s hope lit up along with his flashlight and both headed in the direction from which the dog’s whimper had come. Carlin saw him sniff the ground and make digging motions with his front paws. The dog stopped almost immediately and turned his head toward him, expectantly. His body seemed to be electrified by a contained frenzy, as Carlin bent down, gently moved him aside and began carefully digging at the spot the dog had indicated.

  Little by little he realized that once again the animal’s nose had not been wrong. Slowly but surely he uncovered a truffle which, held in the palm of a hand that over time had become almost as accurate as a scale, displayed an approximate weight of almost two ounces.

  Not bad at all.

  Given that year’s scarcity it was a fine specimen, which by the end of its journey would end up costing up to seven thousand euros per kilo. He wrapped the truffle in a piece of paper that he always carried with him and put it in the canvas bag he wore over his shoulder. Tabuj stared at him, wagging his tail slowly. He let out another yelp, this time with a different meaning.

  “Okay, okay, I understand.”

  He dipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and the dog’s tail quickened its rhythm. He gave a faint sign of impatience, rising up slightly on his hind legs. Each time Tabuj did his job, Carlin rewarded him with a tasty piece of raw meat. He pulled out the morsel and held it out to him, waiting for him to take it gently between his teeth and chew it slowly. He patted him on the head. A truffle dog could be worth a small fortune and, if it was gifted as his was, the size of that fortune increased significantly.

  However, profits aside, Carlin would never be without his companion, that medium-sized mongrel who over time had enabled him to earn some considerable sums. In this case too economic reasons weren’t the only thing that mattered.

  He had trained the dog personally, patiently, day after day, to make him achieve his present level. They had grown old together and together they would remain, even if that heap of fur were suddenly to lose his keen scent and were no longer able to earn his keep.

  If it’s true that man does not live by bread alone, it was equally true that he does not live by truffles alone …

  Sighing he shut off the flashlight and let the dog roam about as he pleased. He waited for his eyes to become reaccustomed to the brightness of the night with its waxing gibbous moon. He raised his head up toward the sky and that shining crescent, one of many in his lifetime, was impressed upon his eyes. Through quarter moons and new moons, the time had passed almost without him being aware of it.

  Now, to use an expression in his dialect that he generally resorted to, l’era pù nen in fanciot, he was no longer a kid. He was nearing the time when he would leave his small auto repair shop to his son. He was a good boy and had learned the trade well. Now it was almost time for him to stand on his own two feet. Carlin, over the years, had built up a modest pension and had put aside a tidy nest-egg that would see him and his wife through any kind of difficulty. He owned the house in which they lived and had a couple of shops rented out that ensured additional income.

  The extra earnings represented by that part-time evening job in search of what they called “white gold”, besides being an enjoyable pastime, could still guarantee him many enjoyable and profitable nights, now that his wife slept more and more and he slept less and less. He turned onto a path and headed towards a thicket covered by the leafy branches of a group of trees. When he reached it, he had to switch the flashlight on briefly to make out the trail he intended to take. A glittering on his right stirred his curiosity. He aimed the flashlight in that direction and a car appeared in the beam of light, half-hidden among the boughs. The light reflected off the rear window. Carlin hastened to turn off his light source. It was a maroon colored compact in pretty rundown condition and its presence in that area could only mean one thing. It was certainly not another trifulau. A fellow truffle hunter would hardly have parked in that area. He wo
uld do what he did. He would leave his car far away from there, in a rest area along the road, so as not to disclose his presence. It was probably a young couple who had gone out of the way in search of that privacy that only darkness and the steamed up windows of a car could provide for adolescents who didn’t have the money to be able to afford the comfort of a motel.

  He went away trying not to make any sounds. He didn’t want to alert them to his presence for a number of very good reasons. The first was that he wasn’t keen on being taken for a maniac. A friend of his, a fellow truffle hunter in a similar situation, found himself facing a hefty bruiser who mistook him for a voyeur and gave him a sound beating. All the other reasons decidedly paled compared to the possibility of returning home with two black eyes. At that instant, somewhere to his left, Tabuj began barking furiously.

  Strange.

  Habit had made him a silent dog, during the truffle search. The dog sensed, in a way that Carlin could not explain to himself, that it was better not to make their presence known. The only sound he allowed himself was the quiet, funny whimper when he scented a truffle under the thick layer of soil. And over time, he had proved to be entirely indifferent to the wild animals that they occasionally encountered during their nocturnal wanderings. An instinct for the chase was not part of his store of talents.

  Carlin set off in the direction of the barking, working the button of the flashlight and sending brief flashes of light into the darkness to avoid putting his foot into a hole.

  “Shhhhhhhh. Be quiet!”

  He issued the command in a low voice toward the spot where the barking was coming from, but Tabuj continued his frantic doggery undeterred. When he reached the place where the dog was, he saw him under a tree, barking, turning in circles, pausing only to rise up on his hind legs every so often, his snout pointed up, as if that little acrobatic feat helped him better express his agitation toward something that was above him.

  Carlin pointed the beam of the flashlight up above and felt faint. He leaned against the trunk of the tree closest to him and felt his legs go limp, as if there were no more bones inside. A reflux of acid rose to fill and defile his mouth. He struggled to keep down the remains of his supper, which was trying to rise back up the walls of his stomach.

  Before him, caught between the light of the moon and that of the flashlight, which vied for the openings between the branches, was the body of a man, hanging by the neck with a rope tied to a sturdy limb.

  3

  Where until recently there had been darkness, there was now a blaze of lights. The police squad that had arrived on the scene had mounted floodlights that lit up the site as if it were day. Commissioner Marco Capuzzo lit a cigarette. For the moment he was satisfied to remain on the sidelines, observing the spectacle of composure and frenzy which together usually animated the scene of a violent death.

  For the moment it was premature to call it a crime scene.

  As he watched, the men from the crime lab completed their data collection and began removing the body from the tree, swift shadows caught against the violent glare of the floodlights. From his vantage point he could see the man’s face, which was swollen, the wanton open mouth revealing a glimpse of tongue.

  The Commissioner turned to Lombardo, the agent who was his close aide and who was standing to his right, like him waiting.

  “Who found him?”

  Lombardo nodded vaguely towards a spot to the right.

  “A trifolao.”

  The Commissioner smiled despite himself. Regardless of his geographically indicative name, Lombardo came from southern Italy, and no matter how many years he’d spent in the north, continued to have an unresolved personal conflict with words in the Piedmontese dialect. Not that it was important but at times, in the past, Lombardo had been a source of very amusing phonetic interpretations.

  “He was out with his dog and found him there, hanging that way. He called us right away, with his cell phone. He seems to be a good man and almost dropped dead when he saw this sight in front of him. Bussi is questioning him now.”

  Capuzzo pointed to the body that had now been placed on a stretcher.

  “Do we know who he is?”

  “We haven’t examined him yet. We were waiting for the crime lab guys to finish up, before going over there. So as not to contaminate the scene.”

  Capuzzo smiled again, this time with a trace of bitterness. That was CSI language. Agent Lombardo watched too much TV. Still, the Commissioner had to reluctantly admit that sometimes you could learn more from a television series than from the Police Academy. He stubbed out the remaining half of his cigarette and stored it in the empty packet.

  So as not to contaminate the scene …

  He sighed.

  “Let’s go see who this poor devil was.”

  They approached the body. Capuzzo pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, and as he bent over the corpse, he had the impression that he had seen the face of that lifeless man on the stretcher before. Death had altered the features a little, but not enough to prevent this feeling.

  He rummaged through the pockets of the leather jacket, then quickly continued his search in the inside pocket.

  Nothing.

  “Turn him on his side.”

  Finally he found what he was looking for, a worn leather wallet that was difficult to extract from the pocket of the tattered jeans. Inside there were only a couple of ten euro bills and a creased driver’s license. Commissioner Capuzzo unfolded the document, turning it toward the floodlight behind him.

  “Lucio Bertolino” he said quietly, with a trace of a question mark at the end of it.

  That name and the crumpled face in the photo said something to him. Something that had to do with his work. At that moment he couldn’t remember, but if the man had been a previous offender it wouldn’t be difficult to find out who and why at a later time.

  He was about to straighten up again when a detail attracted his attention. The collar of the dead man’s shirt was stained with blood at the back of the neck. He ran a hand through the man’s hair and withdrew it smeared with red. He examined the body more carefully and discovered a laceration on the scalp, which seemed to have been caused by a blow inflicted with a blunt instrument. He raised his head to study the branch from which the body had been hanging shortly before. It would have been quite difficult for him to have caused his own death. The corpse had been hanging too far from the tree’s trunk and the length of rope was too short to assume that its swaying had sent him banging into the trunk. Capuzzo got up, took off his gloves and relit the cigarette butt that he had slipped into the packet.

  He sucked in a mouthful of smoke and for an instant remained lost in thought. If it was true that every policeman harbors an animal instinct, his at that moment had its nose to the ground and was sniffing the scent of trouble.

  Lombardo’s voice roused him. The aide had remained silent the entire time the body was being examined.

  “Parked a little further on is an old Polo. It’s probably the car which he used to drive here. We haven’t inspected it yet because we were waiting for you.”

  The Commissioner nodded to show his approval.

  “Good. Let’s go take a look at the car. Then we’ll talk to the crime lab guys to see what they’ve found. Footprints and such.”

  As they walked over to the car, Lombardo allowed himself to voice an opinion, perhaps feeling authorized by the Commissioner’s silence.

  “Of course it’s odd that someone would leave Asti and come all the way here just to commit suicide.”

  The Commissioner seemed to reflect for a moment, as if he couldn’t decide whether to compromise himself or not by making a premature assessment.

  “I’m not entirely sure that this poor devil really had such a strong desire to die …”

  He left the sentence hanging for Lombardo to pick up on.

  The agent turned toward him, a puzzled expression on his swarthy face. He knew the Commissioner for far too long to know that it w
as unlike him to make rash assertions.

  “What do you mean?”

  The Commissioner looked at him with a bitter smile on his lips.

  “If you ask me, there was someone with him who suicided him, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  4

  Back in his office, Commissioner Capuzzo was going over the summary results of the lab analysis with Superintendent Vanni and Bertone, the director of the crime lab. It was the latter in fact, a young, stocky man whose incipient baldness made him appear older, who was explaining what had emerged from their findings.

  “It appears from initial assessments, that the footprints on the ground reveal the presence of a single individual. The soil was quite soft and from a summary examination the prints appear to have been those of the dead man’s shoes. They begin at the car and go as far as the tree. There are no footprints of any kind going in the opposite direction, other than those left by the dog and the man who found the body.”

  “No traces of any kind?”

  “Not a one.”

  The Superintendent stroked his graying whiskers with his fingers. He glanced over somewhat uncomfortably at Capuzzo, who was leaning against his desk, his arms crossed and an impassive expression on his face.

  Sensing that he was being watched, he turned and went to the window. He remained silent, gazing at the traffic, practically nonexistent at that hour, on Corso XXV Aprile.

  The Superintendent continued exchanging information with Bertone.

  “So you’re saying that the suicide theory remains the most probable.”

  Bertone, as far as he was concerned, did not burden himself with opinions that went beyond his expertise.

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m simply reporting what we found at the scene of the . . .”

  He stopped himself an instant before uttering the word “crime”, which in itself would have been an expression of a specific opinion.

  “… around the body,” he concluded evasively.

  “And the head wound?”

  “You’ll have to talk to the medical examiner to get a more accurate opinion on that. The autopsy will certainly clarify a number of things. As far as we’re concerned, we found signs of slipping on the ground along the way and traces of blood and hair on a rock. Probably the dead man fell and struck his head as he was heading for the tree from which he hung himself.”