The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2)

by Valerio Varesi

  “Who told you I was here to gather mushrooms?”

  “Priests get to know everything, sooner than the carabinieri, who in fact come to us for information.”

  “Were you summoned to the police station?”

  Don Bruno made a gesture which was half fatalism, half resignation. “They’re not aware that we have precise obligations.”

  “They didn’t actually ask you for the name of the person who had confessed to the crime?”

  The priest laughed. “Hardly anyone comes to confession nowadays. Maybe that is because we obstinately continue to take an interest in other people and go round sticking our noses into their business.”

  “And they have no idea which saint to pray to.”

  “I understand they are following a definite lead.”

  “Yes. Revenge for the fraud. But so many people have the same motive,” Soneri said.

  “There’s also the question of the gunfire that was heard on Montelupo on the day after the feast, and which you can still hear occasionally,” the priest said. “But it could have been a poacher. There are so many guns around.”

  Soneri looked puzzled but said nothing, so the priest went on. “I’m afraid they’re closing in on the Woodsman. They started digging up things from his past and they’ve uncovered something about an old rivalry over a woman. They must have some sort of proof.”

  Soneri could not help thinking that if he had been in charge of the case, he too would have wanted to know more about the Woodsman. But then, why had he sent his daughter to make that appointment?

  “Who called you in? Was it Bovolenta?”

  “Yes. Crisafulli’s been sidelined.”

  “What did he ask you?”

  “Are you involved in the investigation?”

  “No, I’m on holiday, but everything here brings up personal issues.”

  “Of course. You’re part of this community.”

  “Not any more, Don Bruno. In part because I’ve been away for years and in part because I’m finding everything different from how I remember it.”

  “Bovolenta is expecting some assistance. He likes to appear sure of himself, but he admitted to me that he cannot fathom this village. It’s different for you. You’re from here.”

  “The less I get involved, the better for everybody. My father worked for the Rodolfis, remember.”

  “Of course, and I gather he had a good relationship with them.”

  “What do you mean, a good relationship?”

  “He didn’t see them just as employers. He was happy to work there and was fully committed to the company.”

  “I was only a child then, and later I went off to study in the city. I don’t know much about my father’s work,” Soneri said.

  “Neither do I, but I heard that’s how things were, at least until he threw it all up and moved into the city himself. But there’s no point in asking me what brought that about, because I simply don’t know. Perhaps there was some kind of argument, or maybe he just made up his mind it was time to go. Maybe he got fed up with village life. Or maybe he saw a better opportunity.”

  The commissario thought of his father’s work as an accountant, but also of his love of the woods and of Montelupo and found it difficult to imagine that life in the city would have been in any way better for him. He found his father’s past more and more difficult to understand. He realised they had never spoken about his time as an employee of the Rodolfis. At most, he had thrown out a couple of hints, free of rancour or nostalgia. Any time he mentioned it, he used the phrase, “when I was under the Rodolfis”. Soneri found himself regretting for the hundredth time opportunities missed.

  “Have you seen the Woodsman again?” Soneri said.

  “He never comes down to the village, and if he did he would not come to church.”

  “I know. He’s not a believer.”

  “It’s not his fault. Palmiro wasn’t either. The pair of them were brought up in the Madoni hills among the beasts, and the only object was survival. It’s not much different now.”

  “He lives like a savage and yet he’s the master of Montelupo,” Soneri said, with a trace of envy in his voice.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Up there many strange things go on, and they’re getting stranger by the day. On a clear night, you can see lights that look like fires flare up in the clearings, but they go out quite suddenly only to reappear further up. There are lots of people living on Montelupo now, and they’re liable not to be officially registered.”

  “Foreigners. They come and go from Liguria,” Soneri said.

  “Not only foreigners. There are all sorts who turn up there. They come from far and wide and they don’t look like holidaymakers.”

  “When do you see these lights?”

  “At night, if there’s no mist. All you need is patience, and keeping your eyes peeled. I’m not a good sleeper.”

  “Have you reported this to the carabinieri?”

  “I told Crisafulli some time ago, but he gave me the same answer as when I spoke about the gunfire. There is nothing he can do about it.”

  Dusk was falling rapidly and Soneri regretted he had not made better use of that sunny day. Don Bruno got into his old Fiat, leaving Soneri to stroll back to the piazza. He arrived as the streetlights were being switched on. A stronger light suddenly cut through the twilight, shining a bluish beam onto the surrounding houses. The carabinieri’s Alfa Romeo was coming up the street from the new village on its way to the police station. Soneri recognised Captain Bovolenta in the rear seat.

  “They’ve got someone,” he was told by Maini, who had been watching developments from the Rivara. “They say it’s a foreigner, a dealer who operates on Montelupo.”

  The bar and the piazza were suddenly sunk in the silence of the falling night. The tragedy, with its ramifications of lost money and unexpressed shame, was now unfolding behind closed doors in every household. Soneri glanced at the thin, wiry figure of his friend, remembering races run along pathways and first cigarettes smoked furtively in mountain huts, and felt confident enough to ask him about his own private affairs. “Did you trust the Rodolfis with your cash?”

  Maini turned quickly, blinking rapidly in embarrassment. He gave him a wink, but on his face the commissario could read deep hurt mingled with a plea for absolution. Again Soneri felt ill at ease, but Crisafulli, with his prancing gait, turned up at that moment to spare them further awkwardness. “Good evening, Commissario. The captain would like to see you.”

  Soneri nodded to Maini, whose expression was growing more and more melancholy.

  “Am I under suspicion?” a decidedly displeased Soneri asked the maresciallo. He could not stand anyone interfering with the planning of his days. He liked to be in charge and decide for himself, moment by moment, how the day should go.

  “Oh no! What do you mean? We’ve got somebody.”

  “So what?” Soneri said, brusquely.

  Crisafulli turned to him, shaken by this reaction. “Was that an important conversation?”

  “A business matter,” Soneri said.

  The maresciallo did not pursue it any further. “A Romanian. We found Paride Rodolfi’s mobile on him.”

  The commissario shrugged.

  “Isn’t that an important clue?” Crisafulli asked.

  “It’s a clue of sorts, but I’d proceed cautiously.”

  “Bovolenta, I have to say, is taking it very seriously.” Crisafulli winked at the commissario.

  There was something treacherous in that remark which did not go down well with Soneri. “How did you get him?”

  “Luck. You need a bit of luck, don’t you? We sent a fax to all the police forces in the Apennines, and we came up trumps.”

  “Where was he picked up?”

  “In Sarzana. He sells things in the street to camouflage other kinds of dealing, if you see what I mean. Maresciallo Zanoni gave him the once over and found the mobile hidden in his car.”

  Soneri nodded to say
he had understood. They were at the police station and Crisafulli accompanied him to Bovolenta’s office.

  When they were seated, the captain looked disapprovingly at Crisafulli, then turned to Soneri. “No doubt the maresciallo will have informed you…” he began, with a touch of irony in his voice.

  “Yes, the Romanian.”

  “Exactly, the Romanian. That’s why I asked you here. When you found the body, did you do a search of the surroundings? Even the most cursory of searches?”

  “No, it was nearly dark and I didn’t want to grope around too much. I only took out the wallet to ascertain the identity.”

  To Soneri’s annoyance, the captain uttered an “Ah”. It was not clear if this was a reproach or merely an aside, so he added, “It was completely empty.”

  Bovolenta paused for a moment to reflect. “The man we have arrested claims to have found the mobile in the woods. From his description of the spot, it would not seem to be not too far from where the body was discovered.”

  “Was he the one who removed everything from it?”

  “Probably, but he’s never going to admit it. His story is that he found the mobile by chance, as though someone had lost it. He swears he never set eyes on the body.”

  “There are so many people wandering about on Montelupo.”

  “Exactly, so many. That’s why I have my doubts as to whether…” but he left the sentence unfinished.

  “If I were in your position, assuming your doubts refer to the Romanian, I would share them.”

  “But he talked at great length about Montelupo. And, as you said, there are lots of people moving about up there.”

  “Always have been. But in the old days, they were a different type.”

  “I know what you mean. But it’s not only foreigners. The Romanian spoke about a huge, tall fellow with a beard, who goes about armed and sometimes fires off his gun. He and his friends are terrified.”

  “There are plenty of people who fire guns.”

  “I know that too. But this is an Italian, a local man. We know his name, Gualerzi.” Bovolenta’s expression was almost venomous, an Inquisitor’s expression. “Do you know him?”

  “Of course I do. The Woodsman. But what’s he got to do with it?”

  “Do you think it normal for someone to go round armed, firing when he feels like it? The Romanian claims that twice, on separate occasions, bullets passed very close to him.”

  “He’s a man of the woods. He’s spent his life on Montelupo, and as for poaching, they’ve always done it up there.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, he lives in the Madoni hills,” Soneri said, feeling he was taking on a role which he had not initially wished to assume.

  The captain turned to Crisafulli, having no idea where the Madoni hills were.

  “Drop it,” the commissario said. “This is a matter for gamekeepers.”

  Bovolenta stared at him intently. “We can’t afford to neglect any angle.”

  “And the Romanian?” Soneri said.

  “He’s in custody. He had stolen objects in his car. For the moment, we’ve got him for handling stolen goods, and meantime we’ll proceed with this line of enquiry.”

  Before the captain could make a move, Soneri jumped to his feet as rapidly as a private soldier.

  “The invitation to dinner is still open,” Bovolenta said.

  The commissario nodded and said goodbye. Crisafulli went with him to show him out. At the front door, looking over his shoulder to make sure no-one was within hearing distance, the maresciallo, as though offering an excuse, said to Soneri, “He’s new. He’s still got a lot to pick up.” As he spoke, he waved his hands eloquently in the air, as only a Neapolitan can.

  For some ten minutes, Soneri wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets, still sunk in a tense silence. When he came out on the piazza, he noticed a bright light. It was coming from a fiercely burning fire, near a house outside the village, on the road to Montelupo. Livid flames engulfed the tops of the chestnut trees some way higher up. A few moments later the fire exploded and the flames leapt up towards the skies. He heard the carabinieri rush from the station, and imagined the curses of Crisafulli, forced out his office chair. Shortly afterwards, the strident sirens of the fire engines filled the valley, violating the peace of the evening. No-one in the village made a move, as had happened in times of war, when the curfew protected the solitude of the victims.

  The vehicle of the municipal police, with Delrio at the wheel, moved off from the Comune. The usual group of evening customers was gathered outside the Rivara.

  “Is that the Branchis’ farm?” Soneri said.

  “They’ve been gone a good while. It belongs now to a family called Monica,” Rivara said.

  “They burned the Branchis’ barn in ’65,” Volpi said.

  “And in ’44. But that was the Germans,” Ghidini said, with an exaggerated precision which sounded malicious.

  The flames were now through the roof, and already the fire-fighters were working from the neighbouring fields which were as bright as day. Someone was running to free the desperately bellowing cattle tied up in the stalls. One cow was running in terror towards the woods, while others were scattered over the slopes.

  “Poor beasts. It’s not their fault,” Volpi said.

  Soneri would have liked to enquire exactly whose fault it was, but the profound indifference he saw etched on every face made him decide that this was not the best time. Maini took him by the arm and led him away from the group.

  “They hate the Monicas here,” he said, when they had moved far enough away.

  Soneri made a questioning sign with the fingers holding the cigar.

  “The son is one of the Rodolfi accountants, and they say he’s salted a lot of the money away.”

  “So it’s revenge?”

  “Probably. Burning barns is an ancient custom.”

  The commissario remembered various tales told locally, especially one about a house outside the village where a blackened skeleton lay for many years.

  “Monica himself went to school with Paride. They dabbled in finance – investments in the stock exchange, shares, assetstripping, that sort of thing. They were the first generation in a poor village who’d gone to university, and they thought they were untouchable,” Maini said.

  “You thought you were too.”

  “I believed in Palmiro. How could anybody know it was all built on a fraud like this?”

  “You’re right. When you get down to it, it’s always hard to believe how appalling reality is. It invariably takes you by surprise.”

  Neither man had anything more to say. They watched the barn burn down in spite of the best efforts of the fire-fighters, and contemplated the senseless tragedy of the fire as it rose diabolically up against the indifferent bulk of Montelupo. From time to time, a light breeze carried towards them gusts of tepid air and the scent of burning hay, creating an improbable spring-like heat.

  The commissario turned towards the houses and became aware of furtive movements behind the shutters. He could detect the malevolent joy of revenge on faces fleetingly visible in a glimmer of light behind curtains or grilles. Bells began to toll like hammer blows, but the village remained imperturbable.

  “It’s gone. They could divert the river Macchiaferro onto it and they still wouldn’t extinguish the blaze,” Ghidini said.

  The flames seemed longer, higher and unaffected by the water, which had as little effect as if it were tumbling down a crack in the rocks. No-one bothered any more to make an effort to save the barn, except for a few dispirited firefighters holding the hosepipes. There was only one man who had rolled up his sleeves and it seemed he wanted to leap into the burning building. There was no longer any sign of the animals. They must have all run off, perhaps up the mountain path they had only recently been brought down.

  “The embers will smoulder for two days,” was Rivara’s reckoning, delivered with a sarcastic
half-smile.

  The breeze dropped quite suddenly and a shower of ash fell on their heads.

  “Is it Ash Wednesday again?” Ghidini sniggered.

  “I don’t see any sign of penitence,” Soneri snapped.

  “It wasn’t us.”

  “No, but you’re all quite pleased just the same.”

  Maini looked at him sternly but imploringly. Soneri was setting himself up against them all, and he did not care. Ghidini and the others did not react. They held their peace, but exchanged sharp glances.

  “As you sow, so shall you reap. Monica’s son was one of those who did the accounts up there,” Ghidini said, pointing to the salame factory. “He knew everything that was going on, but he got above himself with the money he’d stolen. If you play dirty, sooner or later someone is going to make you pay. He’s lost this hand.” He looked around, expecting the approval of the group.

  “Playing dirty suited you all,” was all Soneri said by way of reply.

  “The people in the village were not responsible. The banks should have put a stop to it once they’d run up all those debts. They could see the whole game,” Rivara said.

  “The banks are hand in glove with the politicians, and the Rodolfis wallowed in political schemes,” Ghidini said.

  “You voted for those politicians, don’t forget. Who was it who returned Aimi with majorities hardly seen outside Bulgaria?”

  Soneri’s tone was calm but biting. Maini stayed on the sidelines, trying unsuccessfully to move the conversation to safer ground, even after it had turned bitter. Rivara stuttered that they were not all in agreement and that many had understood only now, but he did not carry conviction. The debate dragged on and ended in a hostile silence. The commissario was familiar with that state of mind among the mountain men, because at least in part it was his own. He was only too aware that when faced with a direct accusation, they invariably preferred evasion. Their silence transformed the words they would have liked to voice into apparent indifference and detachment.

  The siren from a fire-engine winding its way along the twisting road in the valley had a mournful sound. It was sufficient to ease the tension which had been created.

  “Another one on the way,” Volpi said.