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  ‘But haven’t they already paid up?’

  Crepi made an ambivalent gesture.

  ‘They’ve paid once, back in November. We all thought that was that. But instead of releasing Ruggiero those bastards came back for more. That’s when all the trouble started.’

  ‘How much more did they want?’

  ‘The same again. Ten thousand million lire.’

  Zen made a face.

  ‘God almighty, they’ve got it!’ Crepi snorted impatiently. ‘And if they haven’t there are a hundred ways they could raise it. But they felt they’d agreed to the first demand too easily, and that this time they should strike a harder bargain, arguing over every last lira. Then there was the question of how to raise the money. More problems, more bickering. Exactly what should be sold? Should they borrow? Couldn’t Piero help out? And what about Gianluigi’s idea of doing a deal with a foreign firm interested in acquiring a stake in SIMP? Et cetera, et cetera. I won’t bore you with all the details.’

  ‘What about the police, the judiciary? Are they aware that Valesio is in regular contact with the gang?’

  Crepi waggled his hands again.

  ‘Yes and no. They know, of course. In Perugia everyone knows everything. But officially they’ve been kept out of it. You see, part of the problem all along has been that the investigating magistrate who’s handling the case, Luciano Bartocci, is a Communist who’s got it in for the Milettis on principle. Given half a chance Bartocci would like to use the kidnapping as an excuse to pry into the family’s affairs for political reasons.’

  ‘Couldn’t he be replaced?’

  After a moment Crepi gave another long, loud laugh.

  ‘My answer to that, dottore, is the same as a certain politician gave his wife when they went to the Uffizi to see that Botticelli which was cleaned recently. The wife is in raptures. I can just see it over the fireplace at home, she says. Listen, her husband replies, I can’t do everything, you know!’

  Zen joined in his host’s laughter.

  ‘Anyway, this is really beside the point,’ Crepi resumed. ‘If the family were united, all the Bartoccis in the world couldn’t touch them. As it is, they would starve to death for want of agreeing which sauce to have with their pasta if the cook didn’t decide for them. And meanwhile Ruggiero’s life is in the balance! He’s over seventy years old, dottore, and his health is failing. Ever since the accident that killed his wife he has suffered from bouts of semi-paralysis down one side of his body. Two years ago it looked as though he would have to give up working altogether, but in the end he pulled through. Who knows how he’s suffering at this very moment, while we sit here warm and well fed in front of the fire? He must be brought home! The family must pay whatever is being asked, immediately, with no further haggling! That’s what you must tell them, dottore.’

  To hide his look of dismay, Zen brought the glass to his lips and drained off the last drops of grappa.

  ‘What makes you think they’ll listen to me?’

  ‘I don’t mean the family.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  Crepi leaned forward.

  ‘Your arrival here in Perugia will be widely reported. I’ll see to that! You’ll be interviewed. They’ll ask you about your impressions of the case. Tell them! That’s all. Just tell them.’

  ‘Tell them what?’

  ‘Tell them that you wonder how serious the Milettis really are about getting Ruggiero back! Tell them that the family gives no impression of having understood the extreme gravity and urgency of the situation. In a word, tell them that you’re not convinced that the Milettis are in earnest! Naturally I’ll give you my fullest backing. We’ll shame them into paying! Do you see? Eh? What do you say?’

  But at that moment the phone rang.

  THREE

  As the car leaned further and further into the curve he tensed for the inevitable smash. Cheated again! There was no getting used to it.

  ‘If that’s Valesio with his apologies I’ll tell him what he can do with them!’ Crepi had muttered as he went to answer the phone. ‘Hello? Who? Oh. Yes? I don’t understand. What? No! Oh, my God! Oh, Jesus!’

  He bent over, taking deep breaths.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Crepi was panting as though about to faint. Zen took the receiver from him.

  ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

  The line went dead.

  ‘They’ve killed him,’ Crepi murmured as he lurched towards the door, ignoring Zen’s questions.

  Zen dialled the Questura, but they didn’t know anything. He told them to find out and call him back.

  He walked over to the hearth, picked up a log and threw it on the embers. Some dried moss and a section of ivy still clinging to the bark flared up. Gradually the wood itself took hold, first smoking furiously and then bursting into flame.

  A ladybird appeared from a crack and began exploring the surface of the log, now well alight. Zen took a splinter from the hearth and lowered the end of it into the path of the little creature, which promptly veered away. Again and again he tried to tempt the ladybird to safety, until his hand began to ache from the heat. Just as he had finally succeeded, the phone rang again. The insect fell and flamed up on the glowing embers at the front of the grate.

  ‘ The Carabinieri are handling it and they’re not giving much away. The gist of it seems to be that someone’s been killed out near Valfabbrica.’

  He walked downstairs calling for Palottino, who emerged from the kitchen where he’d been watching television. It wasn’t till they were getting into the car that Crepi appeared, looking for the first time like the old man he was.

  ‘I’m coming too.’

  It had been his contact in the Carabinieri who had called, he said. Ruggiero Miletti had been found murdered in the boot of a car.

  The night was still mild and luminous, but a big gusty southerly breeze had sprung up and was pushing the clouds along, and when they cleared the moon the landscape was revealed, distinct and yet mysterious, in a way that made daylight seem as crudely functional as neon strip-lighting. Then the clouds closed in again and it was night, the headlights punching holes in the darkness. Black metal bicycle torches gripped tight as they ran shrieking barefoot through the sand dunes. At the Lido, it must have been, with Tommaso and that lot, more than forty years ago. To think that single memory had lain undisturbed in some crevice of his brain all these years, lovingly, uselessly preserved.

  ‘There it is!’

  Crepi’s voice was uncomfortably close to Zen’s ear. He just glimpsed the blue and white sign reading ‘Valfabbrica’.

  The main street was dark and tightly shuttered. Outside the Carabinieri station three men in uniform were chatting beside a dark blue Giulietta. A burly individual with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve responded to Zen’s request for directions by jerking his head at the open doorway behind him, but before Zen could get out Palottino leaned across him and started speaking in tongues. The sergeant said something in return and then got into the Giulietta.

  ‘He’s going to take us there,’ the Neapolitan explained.

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  Palottino shook his head. The emergency was having a relaxing effect on his manners.

  ‘He’s from Naples, I recognized the accent. Says this is the first interesting thing that’s happened here.’

  ‘And what exactly has happened?’

  Wonderful, thought Zen. I’m reduced to getting my information on the dialect grapevine.

  ‘Somebody found shot in a car.’

  Crepi groaned as though knifed.

  About a kilometre outside town they turned left on to a dirt road winding through a desolate landscape created by the seasonal floods of the nearby river. After a while the Giulietta slowed, lights appeared ahead and the road was blocked by vehicles parked at all angles across it.

  The scene was illuminated like a film set by a powerful searchlight mounted on a Carabinieri jeep. As they got out Zen made out a g
roup of men standing talking near a large grey car. Then everything disappeared as the searchlight went out.

  ‘Till tomorrow, then!’

  ‘Excuse me!’ Zen called.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’m from the police.’

  The silence was broken only by the incomprehensible squawks and crackles of a short-wave radio.

  ‘You’re rather late.’

  Someone laughed.

  ‘As usual!’

  ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘And we’re off.’

  ‘Is it true, then?’

  It Was Crepi’s voice, just in front of Zen.

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Antonio Crepi. Who are you?’

  Someone drew in their breath sharply.

  ‘Forgive me, Commendatore, I had no idea! For God’s sake, Volpi, tell your men to put that light back on. Ettore Di Leonardo, Deputy Public Prosecutor. My apologies, I thought you said you were from the police.’

  ‘I’m from the police,’ Zen began. ‘Commissioner Aurelio…’

  ‘Answer me!’ Crepi repeated. ‘Is he dead?’

  The searchlight crackled back into life and they all covered their eyes.

  ‘Unfortunately, Commendatore. Unfortunately.’

  ‘The first murder victim I’ve ever seen,’ said a younger man with a full black beard. ‘And it wasn’t a pretty sight, I can assure you.’

  ‘Show a little respect, for Christ’s sake!’ Crepi protested angrily. ‘He was my friend!’

  The younger man shrugged.

  ‘Mine too.’

  ‘You, Bartocci?’ Crepi’s tone was bitterly sarcastic. ‘A friend of Ruggiero Miletti? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Who said anything about Ruggiero Miletti?’ asked the older of the two civilians.

  ‘I was referring to the murdered man, Ubaldo Valesio,’ explained his bearded colleague.

  Crepi looked at the third man, a major of the Carabinieri.

  ‘But I was told that it was Ruggiero who had been killed!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘There was initially some confusion as to the identity of the victim,’ the officer replied smoothly.

  The older civilian had turned his attention to Zen. He was short and stout, with a face as smooth and featureless as a balloon, and he glared at everyone, as though he knew very well how foolish he looked and had decided to brazen it out.

  ‘You’re from the police? Di Leonardo, Deputy Public Prosecutor. I’m by no means happy with the way this investigation has been handled. In my view the police have shown a lack of thoroughness bordering on the irresponsible, with the tragic results that we have seen tonight.’

  Zen shook his head vaguely.

  ‘Excuse me, I’ve only just arrived…’

  ‘Quite, quite. This is in no sense intended as a personal reflection on you, Commissioner. Nevertheless I find it quite incredible that no attempt has been made to exploit the dead man’s contacts with the gang, really quite incredible. If his movements had been monitored much might have been learned. As it is we now have a corpse on our hands without being any closer to tracing either the gang or Ruggiero Miletti’s whereabouts. It is most unsatisfactory, really most unsatisfactory indeed.’

  Zen gestured helplessly.

  ‘As I say, I’ve only just arrived here, but I must point out that electronic surveillance of the kind you mention requires the cooperation of the subject. If no such attempt was made it’s presumably because the police were respecting the wishes of the Miletti family.’

  The Public Prosecutor waggled his finger to indicate that this wouldn’t do.

  ‘The constitution states quite clearly that the forces of the law operate autonomously under the direction of the judiciary. The wishes of members of the public have nothing whatever to do with it.’

  ‘But the police can’t be expected to contradict the wishes of the most powerful family in Perugia without specific instructions from the judiciary,’ Zen protested.

  Major Volpi intervened, holding out his hand as though he was directing traffic.

  ‘I cannot of course speak for my colleagues in the police,’ he remarked smugly, ‘but I can assure you that in this case as in any other my men will at all times do whatever is necessary to ensure a successful outcome, regardless of who may be involved.’

  A fierce rivalry had always existed between the civil police, responsible to the Ministry of the Interior, and the paramilitary Carabinieri controlled by the Defence Ministry. Indeed, it was deliberately cultivated on the grounds that competition helped to keep both sides efficient and honest.

  ‘There you are, you seel’ Di Leonardo told Zen. ‘You can’t expect us judges to do all your thinking for you, Commissioner. We expect to see some initiative on your part too.’

  With that he turned away to speak to Antonio Crepi. The Carabinieri officer went off to supervise a tow-truck which had just arrived from the direction of the main road. Bartocci, the young investigating magistrate, was standing beside the car in which Valesio’s body had been found, a grey BMW, almost new by the look of it. Zen walked over and looked down into the open boot. There was nothing to be seen except a small dark pool of blood held back by the edge of a plastic pouch containing an instruction booklet on the use of the jack.

  ‘His wife’s very close to my sister,’ Bartocci remarked. ‘She’s only thirty-one. They’ve got three children.’

  Zen had enough sense to keep quiet.

  ‘The worst of it is that this wasn’t his line at all! Ubaldo was a labour lawyer. Union disputes, contracts, that sort of thing. A good negotiator, of course.’

  Luciano Bartocci provided the strongest possible contrast to his senior colleague from the Public Prosecutor’s office. They had both been called out unexpectedly, but while Di Leonardo was turned out immaculately in a suit, pullover and tie complete with gold pin, the younger man was wearing a skiing jacket, open-necked shirt and jeans. He was about thirty-five years old, athletic and vigorous, with a frank and direct gaze. His beard almost hid his one weakness, a slight facial twitch, as if he were constantly restraining an impulse to smile.

  ‘Why should they do such a thing?’ he murmured.

  ‘Perhaps it was a mistake.’

  Zen was hardly conscious of having spoken until Bartocci rounded on him.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen him! They put the gun in his mouth, it blew the back of his head clean off. There was no mistake about it.’

  ‘No, I meant…’

  But before he could explain Bartocci was called away by Di Leonardo. All the vehicles were revving up their engines ready for departure. Without warning the searchlight went out again.

  Zen hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings and at first he was afraid to move a step in case he walked into a ditch. But as his eyes adjusted he started to make his way towards the Alfetta, slowly at first, then with growing confidence. He was moving at almost his normal pace when he ran into someone.

  ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Sorry!’

  He recognized Bartocci’s voice.

  ‘Is that the Police Commissioner from Rome?’ the young magistrate asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Listen, I’d like to see you tomorrow morning. Can you come to my office?’

  The voice was moving away.

  ‘I’ll have to break the news to his wife,’ Bartocci continued, more and more distantly. ‘I don’t know how long that’ll take. Shall we say nine o’clock? If I’m late perhaps you could wait.’

  ‘Is there anything in particular you want?’

  There was no reply. Zen walked cautiously forward, hands outstretched before him, but when the moon came out again he found that he was alone.

  The Uncle of Italy, Sandro Pertini, looked down with his inimitable air of benevolent authority on Aurelio Zen, who stared blankly back. This apparent lack of respect was due to the fact that
he was not looking at the President of the Republic but at the glass covering the photograph, which reflected the doorway open to the adjoining room where his two assistants were sifting through the mound of documents that had been removed from Ubaldo Valesio’s home and office that morning. Or rather, that is what they were supposed to be doing: the glazing of the presidential portrait revealed that in fact one of them was engaged in an intense whispered discussion with the other, punctuated by furtive glances in the direction of Zen’s office.

  Zen’s face was even paler and more drawn than usual, and his eyes glittered from the combined effects of too little sleep and too much coffee. It had been after three o’clock before he’d finally got to bed. He awoke four hours later with the taste of blood in his mouth, the tip of his tongue aching fiercely where his teeth had nipped it. That was a bad sign, a sign of tension running deep, of nerves out of control. He got out of bed and opened the window for the first time. The noise of traffic from the broad boulevard directly below rushed in along with the icy pure air. In the middle distance two churches marked the route of a street running out of the city through a medieval suburb. The nearer was a broad structure of rough pink stone with a solid rectangular bell-tower, squatting amidst the cramped and jumbled houses with the massive poise of a peasant woman in the fields. The other, by contrast, was a complex conglomerate of buildings topped by a tall, slim spire. Far beyond them both, fifteen or twenty kilometres away, a mountain as round and smooth as a mound of dough rose from the plain. Zen had never seen it before, but he had the oddest sensation that he had known it all his life.

  He had got up and searched through his luggage, still scattered untidily about the room, until he found the little transistor radio he took with him on his travels. The news had just begun, and he listened with one ear as he shaved. A minister had decided to respond with ‘dignified silence’ to calls for his resignation following claims that his name appeared on a list of those involved in a kickback scandal involving a chain of construction companies. The leader of one party had described as ‘absolutely unacceptable’ a statement made the day before by the secretary of another, whom he accused of ‘typical arrogance and condescension’. A senior police officer in Palermo had been shot dead as he left a restaurant. The Pope had announced a forthcoming tour of ten countries. Flights were likely to be disrupted later that month by a planned strike by air traffic controllers. An accident on the Milan-Venice motorway had left three people dead and eleven more injured and had strengthened the calls for the building of an extra carriageway. The murder of a lawyer in Umbria had been squeezed in just before the weather forecast; the Carabinieri were said to be investigating, but there was no mention of Ruggiero Miletti.