A Long Finish - 6 Read online

  But to Zen illness was an enemy he had no idea how to placate or control, a barbarian horde which descended without warning and made life impossible until, just as suddenly, it went off to wreak havoc elsewhere. And as such invasions went, this particular one was not only in the Attila the Hun class, but could hardly have been worse timed.

  He had arrived in Alba the previous night after a six-and-half-hour journey from the capital. He had never visited the town before, indeed had barely ever set foot in Piedmont except for a few trips to Turin during his years at the Questura in Milan. Asti, the provincial capital where he had changed trains, meant nothing to him except the sparkling, fulsomely sweet wine one got offered at weddings when the host was too stingy or ignorant to come up with anything better.

  There had been nothing sparkling about Asti at nine o’clock the previous night, however, with a blustering and buffeting wind and sheets of rain which spattered on the platform like liquid hail. The user-friendly genius of the State Railways had ensured that the two-coach diesel unit which serviced the branch line to his final destination was waiting on a track as far as possible from the platform where the Rome-Turin express had arrived. Trembling and breathless, with aching limbs and a sinking heart, Zen grabbed his bags and ran the length of the dank, ill-lit underpass, terrified that the connection would leave before he could reach it.

  He needn’t have worried. Another fifteen minutes passed before the automotrice finally revved up its engines and nosed off along the single-line track across the Tanaro river and south to Alba. Zen soon fell into a shallow, confused, snuffly sleep, from which he was awakened by a member of the crew, who curtly informed him that they had reached the end of the line. His interrupted dream had been set back in Naples, his last posting, and as he gathered his belongings together and clambered out of the train he braced himself for the crowds, the noise, the vibrant chaos and confusion of that city …

  It did not take him long to realize his error. The rainswept streets were as deserted as the small station, the taxi rank empty, the shops and houses shuttered and dark. Fortunately it proved to be a relatively short walk to his hotel, where it took several minutes of continuous ringing on the bell to rouse the night porter, who seemed to have no idea who Zen was or what he was doing there, or even that the establishment over which he presided existed for the purpose of offering accommodation to travellers.

  But all this had been as nothing to the discovery, next morning, that getting out of bed and going to the bathroom presented a physical challenge roughly equivalent to walking across Antarctica. He was shivering, aching, sneezing, snivelling, coughing and moaning, and felt utterly exhausted and disoriented. Somehow he made it back to bed and lay down for a few minutes, during which, according to the clock, an hour and a half went by. When he finally surfaced, two hours after that, he crawled to the phone, rang for a waiter and arranged for delivery of the ingredients whose preparation he was now embarked upon.

  The remedy was an ancient tradition of the Zen family, a secret nostrum at once venerable and slightly shameful, given its reputed connection with an ancestor who had been Governor of the Venetian stronghold of Durazzo, now in Albania, and who had gone native in such a spectacular way that the Council of Ten had not only recalled him but had had him quietly strangled. For Zen its mystique derived from the fact that as a child he had not been allowed to take it. For his colds he was dosed with aspirin ground up in a spoonful of honey. Only adults got the full-strength, gloves-off, no-holds-barred treatment: a whole head of peeled garlic eaten raw with copious quantities of strong red wine.

  Despite the acknowledged and indeed almost miraculous benefits of this potion, there had been plenty of adverse comments about it from those forced to associate with the patient afterwards. As one uncle had put it succinctly, ‘The symptoms of the cure are worse than those of the illness.’ But to Zen’s mind this merely confirmed its efficacity, on a par with such harsh and primitive remedies as bleach poured over an open wound, or the ministrations of the local self-taught dentist, with his rack of terrifying implements whose application you didn’t want to even think about. Pain could only be cured by pain. Bad power required good power to defeat it, and power of any sort was bound to hurt.

  The cloves of garlic, once stripped and chewed, certainly hurt at first, their crunchy fibrous substance disclosing an astonishing saturated strength of oily, burning intensity which coated every surface in the mouth and throat and then, under the benign influence of the wine, turned into a mild but persistent tingling warmth promising to drive out every foreign body and intruder in short order. He had drunk most of the litre of red wine and was biting into the last but one of the fat ivory cloves when there came a knock at the door.

  ‘Well?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of half-chewed garlic. Probably the cleaner wanting to make up the room. The service was never there when you needed it, but whenever you wanted a bit of peace and quiet …

  The door opened cautiously to reveal a plump, dapper, well-dressed man of about Zen’s age carrying a large manilla envelope. He took in the scene and coughed in an embarrassed way.

  ‘Ah! Excuse the intrusion, dottore. I’ll come back later, when you’re more …’

  Zen took another leisurely swig of wine.

  ‘Are you the manager?’ he demanded. ‘About time, too. I’ve complained twice about the heating, and that lump of scrap metal over there is still about as warm as yesterday’s bath.’

  His visitor surveyed the dishevelled, unshaven figure huddled in his dressing-gown on the rumpled bed, gulping wine and chewing raw garlic.

  ‘I think there must be some mistake,’ he said.

  ‘I certainly hope so!’ Zen retorted. ‘The principles of central heating have been known in this country ever since Julius Caesar was wetting his knickers, yet your establishment is apparently incapable of …’

  The newcomer closed the door. He strode to the phone, set his envelope down on the table and dialled.

  ‘Front desk? Room 314, Vice-Questore Tullio Legna of the Commissariato di Polizia speaking. I have come to pay my respects to a very important visitor from Rome who is staying here as your guest. I understand that he has complained about the inadequate heating in his room, but without effect. I suggest that you rectify this situation without further delay, lest I find it necessary to close the entire hotel pending a full investigation, a process likely to take some considerable time.’

  He hung up and turned back to Zen.

  ‘Please accept my apologies, dottore. We don’t get many visitors out of season. They must have been trying to cut costs by turning the boilers off.’

  Zen unrolled a strip of toilet paper from the spare roll he had removed from the bathroom and blew his nose loudly.

  ‘I feel dreadful,’ he said, rising painfully from his bed, one hand extended. Realizing belatedly that he was still holding the soggy tissue, he looked about vaguely for the waste-basket.

  ‘You’re ill,’ Tullio Legna observed.

  ‘No, no. I mean, yes, I suppose I am. But that’s not … Dreadful about receiving you like this, I mean. What must you think?’

  ‘I think you have a bad cold.’

  Zen waved at the open wine bottle and the remaining clove of garlic.

  ‘An old family cure. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  He gestured Legna towards the lone chair in the room and collapsed soggily on the bed, pulling the dressing-gown about his legs.

  ‘I tried phoning, but there was no reply,’ the local police chief replied, sitting down. ‘Since I happened to be passing, I thought I’d just drop by in person.’

  Zen coughed, sniffed and lit a cigarette.

  ‘And found what looks like a flop for homeless alcoholic derelicts,’ he said, pushing the remaining clove of garlic about the bedside table like an extracted wisdom tooth awaiting the proverbial fairy. ‘But it does work. At least, so I’ve been told.’

  ‘The curative powers of garlic are, of course, well-attes
ted,’ Tullio Legna remarked sententiously. ‘But here in Alba, at this time of the year, I think we may be able to do better. Will you allow me to order you lunch? Not from the kitchens here, God forbid. There’s a good place a couple of streets away. I’ll have them send it up to the room. What are you drinking?’

  Zen passed him the bottle. His visitor inspected the label, sniffed the contents, and handed it back.

  ‘No,’ he said decidedly.

  ‘Not good?’ queried Zen.

  ‘Not even bad.’

  Tullio Legna wiped his hands together as if to remove a contaminating stain.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘In an hour, shall we say? The sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be back on your feet. Which brings me to my reason for coming, apart, of course, from the pleasure of making your acquaintance.’

  He pursed his lips and gazed thoughtfully at Zen, who felt the full force of his disadvantage for the first time.

  ‘When it was announced that a Criminalpol officer was being transferred here to open an investigation into the Vincenzo case, the news naturally excited much comment,’ Legna continued in a studiously neutral voice. ‘This case had been in the hands of my Carabinieri colleagues – we had had no hand in it – and they had made an arrest. There has therefore been a considerable amount of speculation as to why the Ministry should suddenly have decided to take a hand, and at such a high level.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Zen replied in an equally bland tone.

  Tullio Legna smiled sympathetically.

  ‘I don’t want to burden you with questions when you’re unwell, dottore. But it would considerably facilitate my position if you would, however briefly, clarify yours.’

  Semi-recumbent, half-drunk, stinking of garlic and feeling like death partially defrosted, thought Zen.

  ‘My position?’ he repeated.

  ‘Your interest, let’s say.’

  ‘In the Vincenzo case?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Zen put out his cigarette in the dregs of wine remaining in his glass.

  ‘I have no interest in it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It’s a question of someone else’s interest.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘To ensure that the Vincenzo wine gets made.’

  Legna looked probingly at Zen for a moment, then smiled ironically.

  ‘And who on earth is this well-connected intenditore?’

  Zen lit another Nazionale. When it became evident that he was not going to reply, Tullio Legna nodded gravely.

  ‘Ah, like that, is it? Excuse my indiscretion, dottore. We’re just simple country people here in the Langhe. I’m not accustomed to the Roman way of doing things.’

  Zen gestured feebly.

  ‘It’s I who should apologize. You’ve been very kind, and I’m not trying to play games. I can assure you that the identity of the person who was instrumental in having me sent here is of absolutely no relevance to the case or to my assignment.’

  ‘Which is to get Manlio Vincenzo out of gaol,’ Legna remarked expressionlessly.

  Zen shrugged.

  ‘I understand that this year’s wine promises to be exceptional.’

  The Alba police chief got up and crossed over to the window. He opened the curtains, then wound up the external metal shutters. A bleak, pallid light reluctantly made its presence felt in the room. From the bed, Zen could see nothing but a section of rain-drenched plaster on the building opposite.

  ‘Not if this keeps up,’ Legna commented. ‘Until a few days ago, it looked like being one of the best years of the decade, possibly even the best since 1990. So the growers decided to delay picking and try to squeeze a little more flavour into the grapes. Now they’re out there clearing leaves and thinning clusters and praying that the rain lets up in time to save the harvest.’

  He turned back to face Zen.

  ‘Well, I won’t tire you any more, dottore. You’ll need to be fully recovered if you’re to have any hope of getting Signor Manlio released in time to oversee the vintage. In my humble opinion, it’s a very tall order indeed.’

  ‘You think he’s guilty, then?’

  A silent glance passed between the two men. Tullio Legna walked back to the bed.

  ‘The real problem is that there are no other suspects. Short of someone else coming forward and confessing, I can’t see any way of bringing it off.’

  He paused, as though about to take his leave, then continued in a quieter tone.

  ‘And even if you did, it might not make any difference.’

  Zen stared up at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  Legna eyed him acutely.

  ‘This is a small, tightly-knit community, dottore. Aldo Vincenzo may not have been the most popular member of it, to put it mildly, but to die like that! It’s the sort of atrocity which people remember from the war years, but which they never thought they’d witness again. Feelings are running very high.’

  He placed the envelope he had been carrying on the bedside table.

  ‘All the information we have on the case is in there, together with a map of the district. But, as you no doubt know, Manlio and his father had a public row at the village festa on the evening in question. They were seen leaving the family house together later that night, and as far as we know Aldo never returned. If Manlio walks free without clear proof of his innocence, I’m afraid it may only be a matter of time before he … meets with an accident, shall we say?’

  The two men confronted each other in silence for a moment.

  ‘And now I’ll go and order your lunch,’ Tullio Legna exclaimed in a loud, hearty voice. ‘Eat it all up, and try to get as much rest as you can. You’re going to need it.’

  When the dog first appeared, snuffling and scratching at his door, Bruno Scorrone had a moment of weakness. Between thirty and forty million lire were staring him in the face, not to mention pawing at his knee, whining confusedly and surveying his hallway as though sighting invisible beings.

  Somewhere safely far away – north of Asti, for instance, up in the Monferrato – Bruno could easily have disposed of a trained tabui like this for cash with no questions asked. But he had quite enough legal worries already, and knew exactly how much the hound meant to its owner. This made it all the more remarkable that she should be running around loose, her leash trailing behind her, at the mercy of less scrupulous and responsible citizens than Bruno, of whom there was no shortage in the locality. In the end he loaded the reluctant, hysterical Anna into his car and drove the two miles along back roads to Beppe Gallizio’s house. The rain had finally stopped, at least for now. The air was cool and slightly hazy, yielding a diffident, diffused light.

  When he reached the house, on the outskirts of the village, there was no sign of Beppe. His car was there, but the front door was locked and Bruno Scorrone’s increasingly irritated thumping produced no response. Anna was behaving oddly, too. She circled the yard continually, sniffing and searching, running back to Bruno, planting her nose on his shoes and pawing the ground, then scuttling off to one side, where a path led down the hill. Bruno’s only interest in dogs was to scare off intruders and undercover tax agents, and in terms of their cash value as sniffers-out of truffles. He had no time to play whatever childish game the bitch was proposing. Fetching a length of rope from the barn, he tied one end to the leash dangling from her collar and the other to a spike protruding from the wall of the house, and then drove away.

  Several hours passed. There is no way of knowing what this interval might mean to a dog, let alone one desperate to communicate urgent and terrible news. One of our days? One of our years? At all events, by the time Lamberto Latini showed up, Anna had worn her neck to a bloody mess in her frantic efforts to escape. Appalled at her condition, he freed the dog, which immediately displayed the same behaviour as she had with Bruno Scorrone, sprinting to and fro between Latini and the path winding down the hill between Beppe’s vegetable ga
rden and a neighbour’s ploughed field.

  Like the previous visitor, Lamberto rapped impatiently at the door, then tried the handle. He glanced at his watch. Just past ten. That was the time that they had agreed. By eleven at the latest he’d need to be at work back at his restaurant, which had been booked for lunch by a convention party from Asti who were being taken out for a ‘Traditional Langhe Country Meal’. But where the hell was Beppe? If he didn’t come through, Lamberto was in deep trouble. The cut-price dealings in truffles which took place in the back streets of Alba would be over by now, and if he had to pay the official price, including commission and tax, he’d hardly break even on the day.

  Lamberto stood looking around in growing annoyance. Beppe had never let him down before. It was an excellent arrangement for both of them: truffles for cash, with no extra cut for middlemen or the fisco. Since Anna was there, he must have returned from his nocturnal hunting and gathering. Also there was the dented, mud-spattered old Fiat 500 which Beppe had cannily refused to trade in for something more comfortable and ostentatious, even though the sum Lamberto had paid him for a particularly fine specimen a couple of months ago would alone have paid for a new car. Whatever Beppe did with his money, it was nothing that might attract attention.

  The dog was still mewling and worrying Lamberto’s shoes, making little forays towards the path leading down the hillside, then returning with a series of high-pitched whines. This increased the mystery of Beppe’s absence. Even if he’d been called away unexpectedly, or suddenly been taken ill, he would never have left his invaluable truffle hound tied up outside the house like one of her poor cousins, the half-starved watchdogs of the region.

  Unlike Bruno Scorrone, Lamberto Latini liked dogs, to the extent – regarded locally as eccentric, if not perverse – of keeping a spaniel purely as a pet. So when he followed the increasingly distraught Anna round the side of the house, it was purely as a reflex action born of habit. But once they reached the back of the house and the bitch scampered off down the path, encouraged by this first glimmer of comprehension in the dim yet dominant species she had to deal with, Lamberto did not follow. He had no clear idea how to resolve the problem of Beppe’s dereliction, but taking his dog for walkies was certainly not it.