Big Italy (26 page)

“Who?”

“Bianca Poveri.”

“Do I know Bianca Poveri?”

“She runs the women’s prison.”

“Well, that’s good. Ring about what?”

“I need to see Gennaro Maluccio in Alessandria.” Trotti turned, showing a quizzical smile. “You’re still angry with me, Pisa?”

“Why should I be angry?”

“A lot of people are. Apparently they find me difficult and demanding?”

“You, Commissario Trotti?”

Trotti acquiesced by raising his shoulders.

Pisanelli drove the Citroën. He had shampooed his hair and shaved. Perhaps he had even slept. He looked less tired, but that could be an illusion. There was little light within the car. The grey of dusk was fast turning into night.

“At least you’re no longer risking your career prospects.”

“That’s what you tell me, commissario.”

“I’m in on the Bassi inquiry. You saw Merenda, didn’t you?”

“It’s not Merenda who pays my salary at the end of the month.”

“I sometimes wonder what you need a salary for.”

“I’ve got into this habit of eating and sleeping and paying my rent.”

“At the end of the month, what can you possibly spend your salary on?”

“Does that concern you?”

“Not on your car and certainly not on your clothes. And you don’t have a wife and family to maintain.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Don’t forget to get a receipt for the petrol.”

Pisanelli tapped the inside pocket of his suede jacket. “Got it here.”

The fog was getting darker, thicker and colder.

They had driven through Zinasco where there had been another accident—due, no doubt, to faulty traffic lights—and got on to the Milan-Genoa autostrada. Pisanelli kept close to the car in front, exploiting the aerodynamic drag. They were traveling at ninety kilometers per hour and Trotti had to shout over the straining engine of the Deux Chevaux.

“You don’t have to drive so fast.”

“I want to get back to the city before midnight.”

“Saturday night, Pisa? What were you expecting to do on Saturday night?”

“Spend some time on myself.”

“Time enough for that when you retire.”

Pisanelli shook his head in wonderment. “Wasn’t there talk of your retiring?”

“Stay on the autostrada until you get to the Tortona exit.”

Pisanelli nodded glumly and his long hair moved against the collar of his suede coat.

Trotti looked out of the window.

Piemonte.

Trotti had grown up in Santa Maria. It was not in Lombardy but Piemonte, a few kilometers over the boundary into the province of Alessandria. Yet Trotti rarely felt at home in Piemonte. Turin was as much a foreign city for him as Bologna or Bari where he had served several years.

For some reason Trotti saw the Piemontesi as different. He was aware of an atavistic hostility in his blood. Perhaps it was because his own father, an uncommunicative man who had died young from war wounds, came from the Bassa, from the lower Po valley. Even in Mantua, such a distant Lombard city, with a different, awkward and ugly dialect, Trotti felt more at ease than in the city of Alessandria where the people were much more like his friends and family in the OltrePò.

Pisanelli spoke and Trotti came out of his reverie. “Three kilometers to the Turin-Piacenza exit.”

Trotti asked, “What did Merenda tell you, Pisa?”

“Said you were now with us on the Bassi thing.”

“He knew you were with me yesterday in Milan.”

“Yesterday in Milan was a day off.”

“And you’re not working tomorrow. It’s a good life, Pisa.” Trotti nestled down lower in the flimsy bucket seat. “Like everybody else, Merenda’s scared.”

A draft worked its way inside the French car and the heating failed to reach his feet. Perhaps he ought to take Pioppi’s advice and buy thermal underwear. Like Avoccato Regni. “He knows the Questore’s on his way out. Merenda knows the Socialists are going to be flushed out. Out of government and out of the Questura. Why else d’you think he comes looking for me at the hospital. Why else, after all these years, does Merenda suddenly decide he wants to talk to Commissario Trotti? Commissario Trotti, persona non grata?”

“Perhaps he thinks you’re a good detective.”

“Merenda could have thought of that five or six years ago when he got me chucked out of my office.”

“Chucked you out but you insisted on keeping your awful furniture. You could’ve had a fax, a phone and something to replace those terrible armchairs.”

Trotti clicked his tongue. “Merenda needs me.”

“Needs you?”

“Needs me on the Bassi case more than he needs the Questore’s approval.”

“And you’re doing him a favor?”

“I don’t do favors, Pisa.”

“Never?”

He rubbed his cold chin. “Or if I do, I do them for my friends.”

“What friends?”

“Precisely.”

Pisanelli sniffed.

“Merenda’s interests and mine happen to coincide over Bassi. It’s no more complicated than that.”

Pisanelli braked sharply as the rear lights of the car in front came on.

The fog was thickening along the autostrada.

“I wish you didn’t drive so fast, Pisa.”

“Scared of dying?”

“I’ve been paying into my pension scheme long enough.”

Pisanelli laughed as he allowed the car in front to pull away. “I still don’t understand why you care so much about Bassi’s death. You never liked him, commissario. A womanizer and a fool.”

“Perhaps it’s a habit I’ve gotten into.”

“Habit?”

“Perhaps I don’t like people I’m associated with getting murdered.”

“You were interested in the Turellini thing before Bassi got killed. That’s why I came out to via Milano—I knew you were getting involved in the Turellini inquiry.”

“Bassi came to see me. He offered me money to help him.” Trotti added, “And now Signora Lucchi wants to pay me.”

“What for?”

“Her lawyer was in my office and he pulled out a fat pen and an even fatter checkbook. Signora Lucchi wants me to continue where poor Fabrizio Bassi left off.”

“Where did Bassi leave off, commissario?”

“In a ditch off the Provinciale 22 to Melegnano, a bullet in the head. That’s where we found him on a cold winter’s morning. Remember?”

H
IS NAME WAS
Ugo Rubino, he was from Taranto and he was serving a life sentence for murder.

Rubino had scarcely spoken since entering the office, just a few mumbled words of presentation to Trotti and Pisanelli. He had not smiled, nor had he held their glance for more than a fraction of a second. Dressed in drab clothes, he was a small, narrow-shouldered man with a swarthy complexion.

He had, however, nodded when the director proposed a shot of grappa with his coffee.

Gennaro Maluccio spoke. “I’ve got to protect myself.” The journalist held a cup between his narrow hands. “There was a killing in this place only three weeks ago.” A pause. “Another killing.”

“A high percentage of the prisoners are from Puglia.” The director—a small Neapolitan in a three-piece suit and a very large orange tie—nodded unhappily from behind his desk. “Santa Corona Unita.”

“Nobody’s safe, Trotti.”

“Twenty years ago I used to live in Bari. At the time, everybody maintained there was no organized crime in Puglia. They said Bari was the Milan of the South—honest and hard-working, the moral capital of the South.” Trotti allowed himself a wry smile. “At the time, a lot of people were being killed. While a lot of other people were making a fortune from the Cassa del Mezzogiorno. I was glad enough to get back north to Lombardy.”

“It appears,” the director remarked, “the Santa Corona Unita followed you.”

They were in the director’s office. It was nearly six o’clock and the temperature had dropped sharply. Despite the concealed heaters, Trotti felt cold. Outside, snow had started to fall in the prison courtyard and he could see the flakes swirling in the beams of light that swiveled in relentless, revolving arcs.

Casa di reclusione, Alessandria
.

The director finished his coffee in a hurried gulp, then coughed politely. “You can ask Signor Maluccio your questions, Commissario Trotti.” A gesture. “Please go ahead.”

Trotti turned back to the journalist.

Gennaro Maluccio appeared tired, more tired than in the photographs Trotti had seen at the
Vissuto
offices. The pale skin appeared puffy. Yet the eyes were bright and they had never left Trotti’s face.

Maluccio was wearing a red Milan AC tracksuit over a T-shirt, running shoes and white socks. “I was expecting the worst when I came here,” he said.

“I can understand that.”

“The other inmates have been very considerate towards me. At least, so far.” One hand played nervously with the zip of the tracksuit. “They seem to think I’m from a different planet.”

“Perhaps you are.”

“Nothing but kindness which I have tried to repay in my own way.” Gennaro Maluccio looked sideways at Ugo Rubino sitting on the same sofa.

Rubino’s dark eyes remained on the synthetic carpet.

“A lot of people here can neither read nor write. I was astonished. I was equally astonished by their gentleness towards me. If I can be of use to my fellow inmates in taking down letters they wish to send home, I’m only too happy.”

“There are classes in literacy,” the director said, addressing Trotti. “It’s just not always easy in getting teachers. The prison service isn’t a high priority in Rome, I need not remind you.”

Gennaro Maluccio continued. “I’m willing to talk to you, Trotti, although I don’t see what good it can do. Bassi’s told me about you and if the devil himself can get me out of here, I’m willing to do business with him.” A pause. “With you.”

Trotti lowered his head in a gesture of acknowledgement.

“I have to insist on the presence of Signor Rubino.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not a stool pigeon, as Signor Rubino can witness. I certainly
don’t wish to end up with a homemade knife stuck between my shoulder blades. Signor Rubino’s my guarantee of good faith before the other prisoners.”

“We’re most grateful to Signor Rubino,” Trotti said.

“In return for Signor Rubino’s presence here, the director’s generously agreed to resolve a couple of minor grievances that’ve been detrimental to the interests of my fellow prisoners.” He added, “Grievances of a purely logistic nature.”

The director from Naples coughed, gave a small smile and glanced at Ugo Rubino.

In his ill-fitting clothes, with his gnarled hands and his prematurely wrinkled skin, his taciturn manner and his motionless features, Ugo Rubino could have been a shepherd from Sardinia. In fact, Ugo Rubino had been born in Bari Vecchia and was believed to have murdered three people, including his half-brother, found dead in a well amidst the dusty vineyards of Noicàttero, his palate perforated and his brains blown out. A palate perforated by a gun inside the mouth. The Santa Corona Unita disposing of someone who had spoken out of turn.

In bocca chiusa non entrò mai mosca
.

The director coughed again simultaneously pulling at his unfashionable tie. “Commissario, kindly proceed with your questions.”

It was Gennaro Maluccio who spoke. “I’m not a criminal, although nearly everybody seems determined to consider me as such.” He grimaced, “Everybody knows the cocaine found in my car was put there to incriminate me.”

“By whom?”

“Your colleagues here in Alessandria. By the flatfeet of the Polizia di Stato.” Jerkily he ran the fastener of the zip up and down the tracksuit. “I want to get back to my wife and children.”

“Of course.”

“My imprisonment’s even harder on them. The little girls.” He caught his breath. “And I need to get back to my job.”

Trotti nodded.

“I’m not a criminal, Trotti. I’m a freelance journalist and while I’m here, I’m not earning money. There’s no insurance for this sort of thing, you know.” He paused. “No insurance for wrongful arrest.”

The director stood up—he was very small, one meter sixty-eight at most—and took the coffeepot from the table. He offered more coffee to everybody.

Pisanelli, sitting in a far corner and apparently reading a book, accepted. He also accepted a shot of grappa.

There were lithographs on the wall and a couple of photographs on the desk, one of Turin, another of Alessandria, yet the place, with its government furniture, grey cabinets and ugly carpeting, was soulless.

Unlike in the office of Bianca Poveri, there were no cut flowers.

It was getting a lot colder.

“More coffee, commissario?”

Changing his mind, Trotti held out his coffee cup and like Pisanelli, he took a few drops of grappa.

“I’d like you to tell me about Fabrizio Bassi, Signor Maluccio,” Trotti said. “You’ve spoken to him?”

“Not for several days. Why not speak to him rather than to me? I scarcely know him.”

Trotti gestured with his free hand.

A frown. “Where is he?”

“Bassi’s dead.”

Gennaro Maluccio’s face visibly paled. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“But I spoke to him—two days ago, I spoke to Bassi. He came here to see me.”

“What did you speak to Bassi about, Signor Maluccio?”

“Dead? How can he be dead?”

“Fabrizio Bassi was murdered in the hours following his visit to you, here in Alessandria.”

“That’s not possible.”

“He went home and later that same evening Bassi was murdered. Somebody shot him in the head and the body was left in a tributary of the Lambro at Melegnano.”

Maluccio’s nostrils were pinched and very pale. “Who’d want to murder Bassi?”

“I was hoping,” Trotti replied, “you could answer that question for me.”

Gennaro Maluccio seemed to be having difficulty in breathing. “Why me?”

“You were among the last people to speak to him.”

“I scarcely knew him. We’d met just a couple of times.”

“When did you first meet?”

“When I wrote the article.” Gennaro Maluccio, his face now
very pale, raised his hands in a movement of bewilderment. “Bassi contacted me, said he wanted to get the Turellini murder into the magazine. He thought I could help him—and, for once, an article of mine wasn’t spiked.”