A Long Finish - 6 (21 page)

‘As a result of private initiatives I have undertaken, we now have a promising opening which with your support I intend to exploit to the full. I refer, of course, to the death of Bruno Scorrone. The autopsy and forensic examination I have ordered will, I believe, determine that Scorrone did not die accidentally, as everyone had assumed, but was in fact murdered.

‘According to Enrico Pascal, Scorrone went down to the winery that afternoon to pick up a delivery of wine. He didn’t say where it was from or who was bringing it. But when I inspected the site, I noticed a number of flagons of wine standing on a loading dock. They are unmarked, but Pascal tasted the wine and is of the opinion that it was made by the Faigano brothers.’

Caterina Frascana finally released the laugh she seemed to have been struggling to repress.

‘I’d love to see someone trying to make that one stand up in court!’

Her laughter died away in silence.

‘I mean, you can’t hope to make a case against anyone on that basis,
dottore
,’ she added in an exaggeratedly respectful tone.

Zen gazed at her in apparent astonishment.

‘I have no interest in making a case against Bruno Scorrone’s killer. My task is to solve the murder of Aldo Vincenzo. I assumed that that was understood.’

Tullio Legna recrossed his legs fussily.

‘But what’s the relevance of this Scorrone business to Aldo’s death?’ he asked.

Behind a confident smile, Zen was thinking furiously. What
was
the connection? He knew there had seemed to be one the previous evening, as he sat in his room reeling from Carla Arduini’s revelations and trying to anchor himself by getting a grip on work.

‘I was reading in the paper the other day that the beating of a butterfly’s wings in a South American jungle can cause a hurricane thousands of miles away,’ he began.

Caterina Frascana stifled another laugh.

‘Good thing we don’t have cc that size here!’

‘The fruit flies are bad enough,’ murmured Nanni Morino.

Zen did not deign to glance at them.

‘The same thing applies to this situation. There’s no point in our sitting around here trying to do everything by the rules. That would be like a group of eighteenth-century philosophers struggling to understand a world which is only explicable in terms of chaos theory.’

This time, the three officials exchanged a meaningful glance.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,
dottore
,’ said Tullio Legna, with an elegant little bow. ‘But what exactly is your point?’

Alone at the head of the table, Zen gave a disappointed sigh.

‘I assumed that that was obvious to the meanest intelligence. Very well, then, I’ll spell it out for you. Three men have died. My interest is only in the first, but the other two appear to be linked to that event in various ways. The knife found at Beppe Gallizio’s house may well be the one used to kill Aldo Vincenzo. Bruno Scorrone was in turn an important witness in the Gallizio affair.’

‘The forensic tests on the knife are not complete,’ Tullio Legna objected. ‘As for Scorrone, he merely mentioned having seen a truck near the scene. He didn’t make a sworn statement, and the person implicated turns out to have an alibi. With all due respect,
dottore
, I don’t quite see what measures we can take on this basis.’

Zen slapped the table with a force which startled even him.

‘We can stir things up! If we don’t understand the connection between these crimes, neither does anyone else. We can exploit that fact to crack this conspiracy wide open.’

‘Conspiracy?’ queried Nanni Morino with an incredulous grin.

‘Exactly! A conspiracy not of silence but of chatter. Down south, if you try to get people to cooperate with the police, they give you sullen looks and clam up. Here they smile and buy you a drink and you can’t shut them up, but the net result is the same. Everyone knows who killed Aldo Vincenzo, just like they knew that Lamberto Latini was sleeping with the tobacconist’s wife, and their response is to take refuge in garrulous evasiveness. They’ll tell you anything else you want to know, and a lot of stuff you don’t, but not that. Well, we’re going to dig it out of them just the same, and Scorrone’s death is the lever we’re going to use. Any questions?’

This time, no one dared speak.

‘Very good! Now to the details. I want Gianni and Maurizio Faigano brought in for questioning. They are to be transported and detained separately, under armed guard at all times.’

‘On what charge?’ asked Tullio Legna.

‘Suspicion of illicit trafficking in wine without due permits and papers.’

‘But we have no proof.’

‘I’ll deal with that. As soon as the brothers have been taken away, I propose to institute a search under a warrant I applied for before coming here. I’ll either find something or fake it.’

Tullio Legna frowned, then smiled nervously.

‘Is this how they operate down in Rome?’

‘It’s how
I
operate, wherever I may be, when the situation requires irregular measures. I take full responsibility for the means used and the eventual outcome. All I ask of you is prompt and efficient compliance with my orders. Do I have it?’

‘Of course,
dottore
!’ his cowed subordinates assured him.

‘Good. Let’s get going. I want an impressive show, the might of the state in action. Bring in some men from Asti if necessary. Put the fear of God into everyone concerned and give the neighbours something to talk about. I’ll return here as soon as the warrant is signed, and I’ll need a car and driver at my disposal. Any further initiatives will be decided after I have interrogated the Faigano brothers.’

He surveyed the table.

‘Any questions?’

There were none. Zen collected his overcoat from the hook near the door and left. In contrast to the shocked hush he had created in the room upstairs, the street was buzzing with activity and noise. Traffic was backed up by a builder’s truck attempting an almost impossible manoeuvre to reverse into the entrance to a building under renovation, and a variety of horns sounded at intervals like an orchestra warming up. The air was crisp and sunny, but distinctly colder than it had been, the first hint of winter’s rigour making itself felt.

Zen walked briskly up the street to the main piazza, feeling well pleased with his improvised performance. He had been true to his insight. Something had happened. The psychic stalemate he had suffered from for so long had been broken. Life had returned and things were on the move again. What more could anyone ask?

The far end of the piazza was closed off by the sober, restrained façade of the cathedral, a plain mass of brickwork broken only by a rose-window and a few saints in niches. Zen searched the curved portal for Carla Arduini, but there was no sign of her. They had agreed to meet here at ten o’clock, and it was now almost a quarter past. Zen felt a sense of his former paralysis return, like a cloud skimming the sun. He could boss the Alba police detachment about as much as he liked, but if Carla decided not to go through with it after all, there was nothing he could do about that.

He was about to turn away when she appeared from a nearby café, waving and calling out. Still some distance away, she stopped, confronting him.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’

Zen nodded decisively, his sense of energy and purpose flooding back.

‘Absolutely! It’s the only way.’

He led her around the corner, into the sheltered, decrepit courtyard of the Palazzo Lucchese. As before, Irena answered the bell. This time she was fully dressed, but seemed flustered.

‘The prince is playing,’ she announced.

The sweet clamour of some plucked instrument tickled the lugubrious silence of the massive hall.

‘How charming!’ exclaimed Carla Arduini, gliding effortlessly past Irena. ‘I just love music. Is he really a prince, this friend of yours?’

She strode off down the hallway towards an open door at the far end. Irena watched with a look of panic.

‘Wait! You can’t go in now!’

But Carla could and did, followed after a moment by Zen and the distraught Irena. It was a large corner room, spacious and completely bare except for an instrument like a small piano, with a painted lid and a Latin inscription on the body. But the sound which emerged was more like a band of gypsy guitarists than a piano: precise, sexy and urgent, with stabbing chords and rapid passage work in the high range and a dark, sonorous bass which rebounded off the walls and floor like gunshots.

At the keyboard, Lucchese looked imperious and incisive, all his anachronistic airs and graces scorched away by the intensity of the music. There were lots of wrong notes, or what sounded to Zen as such, but they were lost in the sheer impetus of the playing, intent only on completing its preordained trajectory, impervious to flaws and lapses.

At length the cascade of notes ended. To Zen’s horror, Carla Arduini started to clap.

‘Wonderful, just wonderful! I wish I could do that.’

Lucchese pushed back his stool and stood up, inspecting the intruders with a glare whose pedigree bespoke generations of arrogance and condescension.

‘Do what?’ he demanded after a terrible silence.

Zen was about to intervene, to try to save the situation, but too late.

‘Play Scarlatti like that, of course!’ Carla burbled on. ‘And what a magnificent instrument! Is it a Ruckers?’

The prince’s glacial hauteur was instantly replaced by an expression of almost childish pleasure.

‘Absolutely! Originally, that’s to say. It was remodelled by either Blanchet or Taskin a century later, of course.’

‘Of course,’ nodded Carla.

There was a brief pause.

‘And to whom do I have the honour …?’ Lucchese began.

‘My name’s Carla Arduini, and this is …’

The prince shot Zen a sour look.

‘I know who he is.’

‘… my father,’ Carla concluded.

‘Your father?’

‘We think so,’ Zen put in. ‘Now we want to find out.’

A beam of sunlight projected into the room between them. On the other side, Lucchese’s dim figure moved around the harpsichord and emerged into the glare.

‘First, let’s talk about this absurd charge that’s hanging over my head for having mutilated Scorrone’s corpse.’

Zen gestured languidly.

‘No problem. I’ve subsequently ascertained that you were merely carrying out a recognized medical procedure at the request of your deceased cousin. All charges have been dropped.’

Lucchese glanced at him.

‘Very well. I fancy the bass needs a tune-up, Irena.’

‘So do I!’ retorted the latter, stalking out of the room.

Lucchese shook his head sadly.

‘These highly strung modern instruments are so hard to keep sweet. So you want a blood test, is that it?’

‘If that’s what it takes,’ Carla replied.

‘Oh, and I want these stitches removed,’ added Zen. ‘If one more person tells me that it’s a nasty-looking cut I’ve got there, and quite fresh, too, by the look of it, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Then give me your bill and I promise never to disturb you again.’

Lucchese led them towards the door.

‘Ah, but I may still have to disturb you,
dottore.
Remember our agreement? Until that matter is resolved, my charges remain pending.’

‘What if I just run off without paying?’

Lucchese turned to him.

‘You’ve been doing that all your life,’ he said, his delicate fingers exploring the scar on Zen’s brow. ‘Look where it’s got you.’

Minot was under his truck, completing an oil-change, when Anna started barking. He listened intently to the sound of the approaching vehicle, then gave a satisfied nod. He’d been expecting this visit all day.

‘Basta!’
he yelled at the dog, which subsided into repressed whimpers.

Minot crawled out from under the truck as the Carabinieri jeep drew up alongside. The door opened and Enrico Pascal clambered out with ponderous gravity.

‘Minot,’ he said.

‘Marescià.’

The two men stood looking at each other, trying to divine the exact nature of the silence, the shape and heft of their unspoken thoughts.

‘Good thing you came by,’ Minot began. ‘I was going to call you anyway.’

‘You were?’

‘I’ve had a word with the friends I was out truffling with that night we were talking about.’

Enrico Pascal appeared to reflect.

‘Ah, yes. And?’

‘And they say it’s all right.’

‘Do they?’

‘Yes, they do.’

Enrico Pascal swept his eyes up and down Minot’s faded check shirt and corduroy trousers.

‘Nasty stains you’ve got there.’

Minot pointed to the truck.

‘I’ve been changing the oil.’

‘It looks more like wine to me. You didn’t have a demijohn break on you, did you?’

Minot hesitated just a moment.

‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

Pascal shook his head.

‘Temperamental buggers. Sometimes you can set them down with a wallop and nothing happens, other times they crack apart if you just look at them the wrong way.’

He sniffed deeply.

‘Over at Bruno’s, was it?’

Minot flashed him a look of genuine shock.

‘Bruno’s dead!’

The
maresciallo
nodded morosely.

‘Shame about the funeral. It’s this busybody we have up from Rome, you see, on account of the Vincenzo business. He decided to start throwing his weight around, and there was nothing I could do.’

‘So why did you mention Bruno?’

Pascal looked up at the cold blue sky.

‘Well, shortly before he died Bruno took delivery of a consignment of wine. We think it came from the Faigano brothers, and I naturally assumed that you handled the carriage for them. You normally do, right?’

‘Not this time. I didn’t even know about any delivery. You’ve probably got the wrong supplier. Bruno used to buy wine from all over the place.’

‘That’s true.’

A silence fell.

‘Well, I can always check with Gianni and Maurizio, I suppose,’ Pascal remarked, as though to himself. ‘I don’t know when I’m going to find the time, though. This man from Rome has really stirred things up, I can tell you, what with impounding Bruno’s body and ordering an autopsy …’