'She really wants him put away, then . . .' The Captain wondered at this hatred which was stronger even than family loyalty.
'He may have other faults,' pointed out the Substitute, 'that she didn't care to mention. It's a lonely spot and the husband seems to be away all day with his sheep.'
'Mmm. Well, we'll have him watched but keep our distance. I have hopes of Piladu's telling us something this evening. He's got a stolen donkey to account for so we've got more leverage there.'
'And is there' the Substitute pursed his lips in a smile and drew on his cigar 'a brother in the case?'
'No, but there's a wife who won't be too pleased with her husband. There are two sons but the elder one's no good and won't work on the farm. If Piladu gets put away for stealing that donkey his wife will be left in a real mess.'
'Then we can offer to negotiate.'
'Quite. If you've no objections . . .?'
'None at all. I told you, I shall leave everything to you. Well, here we are. I'm beginning to get quite fond of this little piazza. What we need to know now is what the Brigadier here is going to give us for lunch. After that I have to leave you and get back to Florence.' The Brigadier's red face began to sweat. 'We can start with my ricotta and a flask of good Chianti. What about sending one of your boys across to that overflowing grocer's there to get us a fine Tuscan loaf? I don't eat much at lunchtime myself but we must think of the Captain here who's doing all the work . . . perhaps a string or two of those wild boar sausages—do you think they're local? If they are we must sample them, be an insult not to. Well, Brigadier?'
'Well?'
'Well, it must have wandered in here by mistake.'
'Wandered in ... ? That donkey was stolen fifty kilometres away!'
'Must have fancied a walk—keep still, blast you! Keep still!' The milk sprayed into the bucket in a few short spurts and Piladu pushed the animal forward, let two heavily pregnant ewes push past him and reached out to grasp the wool of a lamb that was trying to jump the rail where the Captain and the Brigadier were leaning. 'Down, you bugger, down! Come here!' He pulled its hind legs towards him, turning on his stool to call to his younger son who was milking invisibly somewhere behind him, 'Leave her! Leave her for me, she's too tricky for you, I'll see to her! And shift that dog!'
The two hundred sheep jostled and complained and tried to jump the queue that stretched deep into an olive grove. The young dog, new to the job, ran about excitedly causing more confusion; the old one, who was an expert, was so very old that he continually rolled over and fell asleep. Every now and then Piladu turned and barked at him to encourage him. The Captain and the Brigadier were getting nowhere.
'That donkey has to be explained,' shouted the Brigadier over the racket of the baaing sheep and the barking man.
'Woof! Ruff! Get up, you lazy sod! You'd better have a talk to it, then. Let the ram through! Gianni! Let him through, he's causing havoc back there! Ho! Ho! Wake up, ruff ruff, Fido, blast you!'
Even so, Piladu knew that once milking was over the facts had to be faced, and faced in the kitchen where his wife would be listening. It was going dark by the time the shepherd and his son shed their ragged leather milking jackets and carried two buckets each up the stone steps to the kitchen, followed by the two carabinieri. Piladu's wife, peeling artichokes in the gloom at the kitchen table, put down her knife and accepted the milk without a word. The kitchen smelled of sour milk and woodsmoke.
'Do you mind if we sit down?' the Captain asked the woman. She nodded towards the far end of the table and then turned her back on them, pouring the milk into two big cauldrons by the fire. Two tiny children appeared from the shadows.
'When are we going to eat?'
'Get out, or else help with the artichokes.'
They got out.
The shepherd poured some wine from a tattered straw flask into four greasy tumblers and the men sat at the oilcloth-covered table. The woman dropped rennet into the two cauldrons, stirred them, and then went on peeling the mound of artichokes in silence.
'Your eldest son's not here?' began the Brigadier.
'Him!' The shepherd drained his glass and reached for th*e flask. 'He's never here.' He had lost his cheekiness now that they were indoors and under the eye of his wife.
'Lucky you've got a good lad like this one, then.'
The second boy was a cheerful replica of his mother, his high, red cheeks almost burying his slanted dark eyes. He looked from one to the other of their faces but knew better than to open his mouth. The only sounds came from the other end of the room where the woman was splitting the artichokes and tossing them with a splash into a big plastic bowl. A big log settled in the fire with a shower of sparks and began to blaze fiercely, brightening the room and darkening its shadows.
'There's a girl missing.'
None of the family spoke or looked at the others. The woman, tight-lipped, turned her back on them and began to slap the milk vigorously with a peeled wand spiked at one end where smaller branches had been lopped off.
'Perhaps she's wandered here by mistake,' went on the Brigadier, determined to provoke an answer.
'You know better than that,' the shepherd mumbled.
'All right, I know better. We know all your tricks and kidnapping isn't one of them . . . The only thing is, we're not so sure about your son.'
Piladu slid a sidelong look at his wife's back. She had thrown the artichoke leaves into a bucket and turned to slap and stir the milk again.
Has he found work in Florence?' asked the Brigadier innocently.
'Florence!' Piladu spat the word, and then, as if to distract them, he snapped at his wife, 'when are we going to eat?'
'The woman said, more to herself than to him, 'How many things do you think I can do at once. Maria!'
A girl appeared from the next room. She couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen but her face was thickly painted and her clothes were frivolous, brightly coloured things. A long, glittering scarf was draped round her neck. She began setting out plates and glasses, walking round the two carabinieri as though they weren't there. Her cheap, strong perfume mingled with the sour milk and woodsmoke. When the table was ready she filled a deep pan with water and put it on the cooker, her movements slow and simpering in contrast to those of her mother, who quickly poured olive oil into a big black frying-pan, threw in the artichokes, covered them and rinsed her hands and arms before drawing a chair up to one of the cauldrons and sliding into the curd up to her elbows.
'That donkey,' insisted the Brigadier.
'I've told you—'
'It came here by mistake, yes. But there have been so many of these little mistakes, you see, that we've been obliged to have a warrant made out.'
'Here.' The woman didn't remove her arms from the curd, only nodded at her son and then at the bucket of peelings. He got up and went out to feed the rabbits. 'And you. Put the pasta on and get out.' All the time she was glowering at her husband, the look of fury in her narrow black eyes completely at odds with the gentle action of her arms as she gathered the curd towards herself slowly.
'We don't have to use this warrant, of course,' persisted the Brigadier quiedy, and after a moment's pause he added: 'We found a dose of heroin over at Scano's place yesterday.'
It was possible, even in the flickering half-light, to see the shepherd's shoulders relax a little and then stiffen again.
'What do you want?'
'To know where it came from.' It was the Captain now who spoke.
'How should I know that?'
'Scano's boy is a friend of your son's. They go down to Florence together.'
'They don't bother to tell me where they're going.'
'No. But you could find out.'
'My son's not a drug addict.'
'How do you know?'
'What d'you mean?'
'How do you know he's not? Do you know what the symptoms are? Have you ever looked at his arms? If your boy's on heroin he's not your son any longer
. He belongs to the drug he's hooked on and he'll do anything to get it. Anything—'
'And I say he's not on any drugs. You didn't find that stuff here.'
'No. We found it over at Scano's. And Scano's son is a friend of your son's. Your son knows where it comes from even if he doesn't take the stuff himself. Even if he does, he's safe enough from us as long as he's not pushing. So you could help us.'
The shepherd stared down into his glass in silence, trying to spot the trap. His wife had finished gathering the curd and was wiping her hands on her apron. She went on preparing the supper, her body tense with listening as she tossed the artichokes, stirred the pasta and put half a dozen steaks to fry in another black iron pan. When she returned to the table and began scooping the first of the curd into a mould, they felt her eyes burning into them, all three of them. But still her hands moved in their own private world, turning and pressing the dripping white mound as though they were caressing a baby. Watching her face, the Brigadier said:
'We could ring you tomorrow. If you don't know now you could find out.'
But the shepherd was still trying to scent where the danger lay. Suddenly he said: 'What's all this got to do with a girl being missing?'
'Who said it had anything to do with that?'
'You mentioned it before.'
'We mentioned it, that's all. The only thing we want to know from you is where the stuff we found at Scano's came from.'
But the shepherd had smelt danger and was silent.
'We'll come back tomorrow,' said the Brigadier. 'If you can oblige us with that bit of information you can turn the donkey loose and we'll find it on the road for the man who reported it lost. If you can't help us we shall have to come back with that warrant.'
The Captain and the Brigadier got to their feet.
'Good night, Signora.' She didn't answer but went on turning and pressing, turning and pressing, her eyes bright with rage. Before they had crossed the yard her outburst began, and even the noisy engine of their jeep didn't drown her shrill fury.
'And I can't say I blame her,' remarked the Captain. It was after eight-thirty and in a few minutes the family would sit down to eat while she stood at the end of the table, still working. It would take her until at least eleven o'clock to deal with the pecorino, after which there was ricotta to be made from the boiled up second skimming. After that she would, no doubt, be too tired to eat anything. If her husband went to prison, leaving only the boy and herself to cope . . .'
'You said she goes cleaning, too?'
'Over at "II Cantuccio", eleven to one, five mornings a week after the morning cheesemaking.'
'Good God ...'
It was quite dark now as they bounced along the rough road. A red dot indicated the icon that marked the beginning of Pontino. A little further on dozens of similar dots appeared on the fronts of tightly-shuttered houses.
'You'd better drop me at the hospital.'
'Right you are, sir.'
'Have my car sent up in about fifteen minutes.'
From the hospital foyer he tried to telephone the Substitute who had been in court all afternoon and wanted to hear how things had gone. But there was no answer from the number he rang.
It took a little time to find the girl who had been moved and was not in the room that the Sub-lieutenant had told him how to find. With the help of a night nurse he found the right room and tiptoed in. There was an oxygen tent over the bed and in the dull light that was burning, the young officer's thin face looked deep pink.
'How is she?'
'She's had something of a relapse.' They were whispering. 'She was out of the oxygen tent earlier and her temperature was coming down with the antibiotics but then when she came to . . . she opened her eyes and suddenly seemed to go into a panic. She tried to get out of bed and had to be restrained.'
'She was delirious?'
'No, she was just terrified—perhaps, finding herself in bed in a strange place, she thought she was still captive.'
'A bit odd, even so. There was nothing in the room that might have frightened her? No one else was here?'
'Nothing. Nobody. The florist came up earlier but she was asleep, and he didn't even come into the room, just put his head round the door and left her some flowers; the night nurse has put them out in the corridor, I think . . .'
'And she hasn't said anything?'
'She sometimes calls for her friend and she's still worrying about the phone call she should have made. You can see ...'
They leaned over the sleeping figure and saw through the polythene tent the hand on the counterpane closed in a tight fist.
'She still has the token. I've tried a few ways of getting it off her . . . offering to telephone for her and so on, thinking she might improve if that was off her mind . . .'
'I understand.'
'They say she'll sleep through the night. They gave her something . . .'
'Do you want to come back to Florence with me and get some sleep?'
'No, I'd rather stick it out. I can sleep a little here, if necessary, but I want to be sure I'm here when she wakes up.'
'I'd like to know just what frightened her.' The Captain looked round the bare room, frowning. 'It couldn't have been you, I suppose?'
'No, sir. It couldn't have been me. She was looking the other way and didn't see me.'
CHAPTER 5
When she did see him it was without his knowing it. She hadn't moved or made a sound, just opened her eyes in the red-tinged darkness and seen him there without surprise as if she had been aware of his presence ever since he arrived. His head had fallen forward a little and his face was in shadow. She could see a sliver of white shirt, the braided collar of his black jacket, a star on his epaulette, the hand that rested along his crossed knee. Her eyes left him and examined the rest of the room. A loaded trolley had a white cloth that looked pink draped over it and an oxygen cylinder was just visible in a dark corner. The girl's eyes swivelled to the left and stared at the locker-top where the officer had left his hat, then to the right, watching him. He was trying to keep awake, forcing his eyelids open slightly every few minutes. Even so, he was asleep. Her eyes ran down the black jacket to where the man's watch was half hidden by a white cuff. Then her eyes closed again. For more than two hours their quiet breathing was the only sound in the small room.
The next time the girl opened her eyes the young officer was staring straight into them, his face strained and anxious. She asked him: 'What time is it?' as if they had been in the middle of a conversation.
'Three-thirty.'
'In the morning?'
'Yes.'
It was still dark and the red nightlight was still burning. A blustery wind was sending light flurries of rain against the window.
'I ought to call the nurse.'
'Not yet . . .' Her eyes moved to the left again to look at the locker. 'I don't want anybody to come. I'm so tired '
'The doctor wanted you to sleep through the night.'
They were whispering for no reason except that the dim light and the sense of being awake when everyone else was asleep suggested it.
'I can go back to sleep.'
She spoke good English with only a trace of accent. The officer resisted the urge to take out a notebook, to ask questions. She seemed calm enough but the fit she had thrown on first wakening was fresh in his mind. The hospital staff wouldn't thank him for provoking another. Besides, any interrogation had to be left to the Captain, who had enough experience to separate the half-truths from the lies. The truth never came out until the fear wore off. So he sat still and let her talk, murmuring answers to the few questions she asked him, trying to memorize details that might be important. The hand lying on the white counterpane still clutched the telephone token but neither of them mentioned it. She talked in brief spurts in between which her eyes became glazed, probably as a result of whatever drug they had given her. Oddly enough, it was not during one of these silences but while she was talking that her eyes closed an
d her shallow breathing became deeper. He watched her closely for a long time but there was no further flicker of consciousness. Nevertheless, when he shifted noiselessly and settled back in his chair she spoke, apparently in her sleep, murmuring: 'You won't go away?'
'No.'
'Good
'Captain? I hope I haven't rung too early . . .'
'That's all right. Go on.'
'There isn't all that much because she soon fell asleep again but at least I've got their names. She's called Nilsen and she's Norwegian.'
'And the other girl?'
'Maxwell. Deborah Maxwell. They'll probably both have a police permit since they study Italian at the University.'
'They're registered as full-time students?'
'Not on a degree course but at the Cultural Centre for Foreigners where they've been going since last September. '
'And they live . . .'
'She talked about "Debbie's flat" not "our flat" so I assumed that they don't live together. I haven't got their addresses because I just listened to what she told me. I thought I shouldn't ask any questions until you . . .'
'You did right. Go on.'
'As far as I can make out from the little she said about what actually happened, the man who kidnapped them, there was only one at that point, was hidden in the back of their car when they got in. She doesn't know how he got through the main doors and an electronically operated gate to get in to the courtyard where the car is always left unlocked. I got the impression that the car actually belongs to the American girl but I'm not certain. The man must obviously have been armed to have kidnapped two adults single-handed but she didn't say so. I thought it best not to press her.'
'Good. It was one of the girls then that drove the car out of Florence?'
'Yes, the Maxwell girl. Somewhere past Pontino, the last village she remembers seeing, they were told to turn into a narrow lane where they were met by a small truck. They were made to lie down on the floor in the back. The truck later delivered this girl to the place where she was dumped on the outskirts of Pontino. The injury to her knee she did herself by falling against a tree in the dark.'
Death in Springtime Page 4
