And then you die az-8 Page 4

  'Her problem is that she sees me as her vicarious double. She's too stupid to realize it, of course, but that’s the situation all right. Teresa married her childhood sweetheart, a consulting engineer who knows everything there is to know about reinforced concrete. I was once at a birthday party she threw for him where he showed a selection of slides he had taken all over the world showing different types of rebar.'

  'What’s that?'

  Gemma laughed.

  'Be thankful you didn't ask Sandro that question. It's the metal gristle that holds concrete together. It comes in various shapes and forms. Each country has its preferred kind. The differences are slight but extraordinarily significant.'

  ‘I get the picture.'

  Their main course arrived, a succulent mullet grilled to perfection.

  'But Sandro's own rebar seems to have rusted out, judging by various remarks which Teresa let drop in an attempt to get me interested in her affairs. Not that I needed her to tell me. Look at her, sitting over there. Go ahead, stare! Christ knows she and her pals are staring at us. Note the tremulous, pouting lower lip? A sure sign of the unfucked. Sad but true.'

  She drank some wine as though to quench her thirst.

  'Forgive me being so frank. I would have preferred to have carried on with the civilized evening we were having, but since Teresa made those comments about me, I thought I'd better try and put them in perspective.'

  Zen noted that although Gemma had explained why her nemesis had made the allegations about her, she hadn't attempted to deny them.

  'Anyway, at least we know who took my place at the beach and why,' he replied brightly. 'He paid a stiff price, the poor bastard.' He grinned at Gemma.

  'And now let's change the subject, and try and at least pretend to be enjoying ourselves. After all, if that woman was trying to ruin your evening, we don't want to give her the satisfaction of thinking that she's succeeded.' Gemma grinned back.

  'I like the way you think. God this fish is good! They've done nothing to it, just a hint of coriander and fennel. And have you tried the potatoes? Light as a feather.'

  'All right, all right, don't overdo it'

  'So where are you from?'

  'Venice,' he answered without thinking.

  'Really? But no one's from Venice any more.'

  'I am that no one.'

  'That explains why we're both so stubborn. Lucca's the only city in Tuscany that was never conquered by the Florentines, and Venice was never conquered by anyone.'

  'Until the end.'

  'Yes, and when it happened we both chose a championship conqueror in Napoleon, who handed both cities over to his uninspiring but well-intentioned Habsburg in-laws. Not a bad way to finish up, when you look at the alternatives.'

  She pushed her plate aside.

  'Now let’s get out of here.'

  'No dessert, coffee, nothing?'

  "There's a good gelateria just up the road, near where I parked. Lef s go there and get some ice cream and coffee, and then I'll run you home.'

  'I can walk.'

  'I wouldn't mind seeing the Rutellis' villa. From the outside, I mean. Is it nice?'

  'Very pleasant. And you can come in, if you want. The interior's really good. All of a piece.'

  'Well, let’s see how we feel.'

  Zen obviously couldn't use any of his own credit cards, and his minders hadn't gone to the lengths of getting him any in his cover name. They had however provided an ample supply of large-denomination bank notes for his use, and he tossed a few of these on top of the bill before following Gemma outside.

  It was now dark, the air mild and smooth as silk, the streets saturated with people standing or wandering about in animated clusters. Gemma and Zen joined them, she clacking along in her high-heeled beige sandals with delicate straps criss-crossing her feet and encircling her trim ankles. When they arrived at the gelateria they had a spirited argument about the appropriate choice of flavours. Zen attempted without success to enlist the owner's support in favour of his thesis that only fruit-based ice cream was healthy and proper at this time of year, and that by opting for hazelnut, pistachio and dark chocolate Gemma was making a fundamental dietary error which she would be lucky to live long enough to regret.

  They took their overstuffed cones outside and sat licking them like a couple of children, giggling as they bent this way and that to try and avoid the melting ice cream from dripping on to their clothing. But behind Zen's mask of frivolity, he felt a little hollow. It was now clear what the situation was. Assuming that what Teresa Pananelli had said was even half true, men Gemma was a rapid recycler of summer lovers, and indeed possibly came to the beach at least partly with that in view. She seemed to like Zen, and he was certainly attracted to her. If he tried, they would probably end up going to bed together.

  There was of course nothing whatever wrong with that, particularly for someone who hadn't been with a woman for over a year. Even the nuns who served as nurses at one of the sanatoria where he had stayed had started to look pretty good towards the end of his stay. The melancholy he could feel fermenting beneath his superficial gaiety was based on the clear and absolute realization that the affair would go no further than that. It would be a pleasant diversion, but no more. Afterwards they would go their separate ways, and the odds were that they would never meet again. And even if they did, nothing would come of it. Gemma had her own life, Zen his. And at their age, there was no force strong enough to fuse these disparate realities and bind mem together for good.

  When they had finished their ice creams, Gemma led the way back up the street to a blue sports-utility vehicle which she unlocked and then manoeuvred out of a space which from inside seemed slightly smaller than the automobile itself. They threaded their way at a respectful crawl through the crowd of pedestrians taking full advantage of their unwritten right of way, then turned off down a side street and worked their way back to the villa where Zen was staying. Gemma parked and turned off the motor.

  'I think I will come in for a quick coffee after all, if that’s all right'

  'That would be wonderful,' Zen replied.

  Maybe I'm going to get lucky, he thought His gloomy reservations of a few minutes earlier now seemed absurd. Why did he have to make everything so hard for himself? Other people just grabbed whatever they could, enjoyed themselves, and thought no more about it What was he trying to prove by doing otherwise?

  He walked up to the gate and was searching for his keys when a car door opened across the street and a man in uniform got out.

  'Buona sera, signora, signore’ he said in a tone of voice which Zen recognized instinctively. Sure enough, as the man came closer and caught the light of the security lamp on the exterior of the villa, his uniform turned out to be that of a junior officer in the carabinieri. Zen returned the greeting guardedly.

  'Signor Pier Giorgio Butani?' the man continued.

  'Yes.'

  'I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but my superior needs to ask you some questions regarding an investigation we have in progress. I must therefore ask you to accompany me to headquarters.'

  Zen's first thought was that they had come for him, and this was an elaborate charade made necessary by Gemma's presence.

  'Very well,' he said. 'In that case, I take it that you have no objection to Signora Santini going home.'

  The carabiniere peered at Gemma for the first time.

  'Gemma Santini?' he asked.

  Gemma nodded.

  'That s a stroke of luck. You're on the list too, signora. Do you want to take your car and follow me? That way you can go straight home afterwards.'

  'What’s all this about?' Gemma demanded tetchily.

  ‘I expect they'll tell us that when we get there,' Zen told her soothingly.

  He turned to the carabinieri officer.

  'We'll follow you.'

  'Very well. If s not far. Just keep my tail lights in view.'

  Gemma walked back and unlocked her vehicle, then turned
back to Zen, who was still standing where he had been before, staring into space.

  'What's the matter?' she said, as the carabiniere revved up his motor.

  Zen shook his head and walked over to her.

  'I don't know. I just had this incredibly strong sense of deja vu.'

  'Get in,' Gemma said dismissively. 'Never mind your psychic experiences, let’s just deal with whatever bullshit this is.'

  'It can't be anything serious or they wouldn't have let us drive there.'

  'Didn't you say you worked for the Ministry of the Interior? Why don't you show them your documents and tell them to stop messing us about?'

  "These are the carabinieri, cara. Different force, different ministry, no love lost. If I tried to pull rank, they'd keep us there all night. See his signal light? He's turning left.'

  'Yes, I do see it. I like you calling me cara, but I don't like you telling me how to drive.'

  'I'll never do so again.'

  'Yes, you will.'

  They followed the lead car a few kilometres south along the lungomare, finally turning off into one of the uglier developments of what had obviously been coastal marshland until very recently. Signora Pananelli's husband would have been in his element here. Tower-block apartment buildings and hotels divided the space with huge parking lots and supermarkets. They stopped in front of a relatively modest, and by the standards of the place old, two-storey concrete block sporting the carabinieri crest above the doorway.

  Their escort led the way upstairs and into a room where a man in the uniform of a major looked up briefly from the papers he was studying.

  'Signor Giorgio Butani and Signora Gemma Santini,' the man who had accompanied them announced. The officer at the desk nodded. 'Very good, Aldo. You may go.'

  The door closed behind Aldo, but the carabinieri officer made no immediate move. Zen studied him with a professional eye.

  Competent but unambitious, with a huge pool of resentment at having been passed over in favour of more motivated rivals and stuck away here as the holiday cop in a town which, like Brigadoon, only came into existence for brief spells at long intervals, and vanished off the map the rest of the time. He would be pompous, long-winded and a stickler for the rule book. The way to deal with him was to take the initiative, but without getting too pushy.

  'May we sit down?' Zen asked, bringing a chair for Gemma from those stacked against the wall.

  'Of course, of course,' the officer replied without looking up. 'Please excuse me, I'll be with you in a moment. I just have to finish perusing this report.'

  Like hell you do, thought Zen, fetching himself a chair and sitting beside Gemma. He gave her an encouraging smile. She was glaring in a manner which suggested that she might lose her patience very rapidly, which with a man like this would be fatal.

  The carabiniere stacked the papers he had been reading neatly together and looked at them both.

  'I'm sorry to have to bring you here so late…' he began.

  'Your colleague already apologized,' interrupted Gemma tartly. 'What do you want with us?'

  The major gave her a glance evidently intended as a warning.

  'It concerns the death today of one Massimo Rutelli,' he said after a significant pause.

  'We know about that’ Gemma returned. 'I heard that he had a stroke. What’s that got to do with us?'

  'There are various unresolved questions regarding the precise circumstances of the event which we are attempting to clarify. We have therefore compiled a list of all those clients of the bathing establishment where the body was discovered who were present on the beach today, with a view to interviewing them concerning what they may have seen or heard. Both your names appear on the said list.'

  He pulled a notepad towards him.

  'I propose to start with you, Signora Santini. You are resident in Lucca, I believe?' 'Yes.'

  'At Via del Fosso number 73’ 'Correct.'

  'You will be returning there tonight?'

  It was said with just a hint of impertinent innuendo.

  'Of course’ Gemma retorted.

  "Then let us try and get you on your way as soon as possible, after which I will deal with your companion.'

  'How do you know he's not coming with me?' demanded Gemma brazenly.

  The carabinieri major gave her a look which Zen found himself quite unable to decipher. He seemed to be trying to think of a suitable answer to Gemma's question. Failing to do so, he ignored it and asked one himself.

  'What time did you arrive at the beach today, signora?'

  'I got there this morning at about ten and left again just before one, then returned after lunch.'

  'According to the chart of the bagno drawn for us by the owner, Signor Rutelli apparently occupied the place immediately opposite yours.'

  'Well, today he did. But in fact that’s Pier Giorgio's place.'

  She glanced at Zen, who leaned forward and cleared his throat.

  'It is actually rented by the Rutelli family’ he said, 'but Girolamo, the elder brother, is an acquaintance of mine and gave me permission to use it. Massimo Rutelli evidently didn't know about this arrangement, so when he showed up unexpectedly he naturally took their usual spot.'

  The major nodded absently, as this was merely a confirmation of old news.

  'Did you see Signor Rutelli arrive?' he asked Gemma.

  'No. I must have been sunning myself. But when I started sorting out my stuff before leaving, I noticed that mere was someone else in Pier Giorgio's place.'

  'Didn't you recognize him?'

  'How could I? He was lying on his stomach with his face turned away from me. It could have been anyone.' 'So how did you know he wasn't Signor Butani?' Gemma gave a throwaway gesture, as though this was obvious. 'His fingers.' 'What about his fingers?'

  'They were thick and blunt. Women notice men's bodies a lot, they just don't notice them in the same way that men notice women's bodies. Pier Giorgio has very fine, tapering fingers. This man's were quite different. You could imagine them building a wall or castrating a horse. You couldn't imagine them caressing your skin.'

  Zen looked away. For the first time he could remember, he was blushing. The major harrumphed.

  'So the victim was present when you left shortly before one o'clock?'

  'Yes.'

  'And when you returned in the afternoon?' 'He was still there.' 'What time was that?' Gemma shrugged.

  'I went to the Bar Centrale and had a panino and some salad. About two, probably.' She turned to Zen. 'What time did you get there?'

  ‘I left home at one,' Zen replied. 'It takes about fifteen minutes to walk. I prefer the beach in the lunch hour. If s less crowded.'

  'He was there when I arrived,' Gemma explained to the carabiniere. 'He'd taken the next place up and looked like he was asleep.'

  'I was. I had lunch at home and finished off a bottle of Vermentino. As soon as I sat down on the beach, the heat just knocked me out'

  The major stood up, as if to impose his authority on this mutual dialogue.

  'Please respect the sequence of questioning,' he said testily. ‘I didn't realize there was one,' Gemma retorted. Don't push him too far, thought Zen, but fortunately at that point the phone rang.

  'Yes?' barked the carabinieri major. 'Very well. Tell them to’ He hung up and turned to Gemma.

  'We have established that, according to your testimony, Signora Santini, the victim arrived shortly before one o'clock and was still there at two. Is that correct?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you notice a towel draped over his back?' Gemma reflected for a moment.

  'No, I don't think so. Wait a minute. There was one when I saw him in the afternoon. I'm not sure about the morning.' 'When did you leave the beach?'

  'About four, earlier than usual. There was a rather unpleasant incident.'

  Everything the major had picked up from his seemingly avid perusal of the chapter on basic interrogation techniques in the training manual now deserted him. He
leaned forward, eyes bulging, all agog.

  'What was that?'

  Having achieved her effect Gemma proceeded to dismiss it 'Oh, nothing really. Pier Giorgio woke up at about three-thirty or so. I was going to get a coffee from Franco's bar, and I asked him if he'd like one too. On my way back, someone ran into me and spilt the coffee all over my bathing costume. I didn't have a spare with me, so there was nothing for it but to go home.' "The man was running? Why?'

  'I don't know. I mean, he wasn't running at first. He was just standing there on the boardwalk down the centre of Franco's strip. I thought he was staring at Pier Giorgio, to be honest'

  A gleam came into the major's eye.

  'Are you sure it was Signor Butani he was staring at? Might it not have been Signor Rutelli, who was sitting in the next chair?' Gemma made a moue of indifference.

  'It could have been. I didn't have time to think about it. The next thing I knew, he'd whirled around and barged into me, spilling scalding coffee all over my belly and thighs.'

  The major reflected a moment.

  'Why did he run?'

  'I haven't the slightest idea.'

  'Was it because he heard you coming?'

  'I don't think so. He was facing the other way, and I was barefoot so he couldn't have heard me. Besides, why should he be frightened of me?'

  The major nodded and smiled the ironic, knowing smile of the master detective who alone has grasped the hidden clue concealed in the witness's seemingly ingenuous answer.

  'Exactly. Why indeed should he be frightened of you?'

  He turned to Zen.

  'Did you notice this man, signore?'

  'I saw him run off after he collided with Gemma, that’s all’

  'Can either of you describe him?'

  'No,' said Gemma decisively.

  'You must remember something!' the major protested.

  'Why? How many people do you think I see every day here? Hundreds, maybe a thousand, none of whom mean anything whatever to me. If I paid enough attention to them all to be able to describe them, I'd go mad. The man who ran into me was young, that’s all I can tell you. And when you've said that, you've said everything. He looked young, he moved young, he acted young and he dressed young.'