Big Italy (29 page)

“I told you that after meeting her in her school.”

Trotti clicked the sweet against his teeth.

“I told you it was her voice as soon as we left her English school in Milan.”

Trotti made more clicking noises before speaking. His voice had recovered its normal pitch but there was no affability. “Why should Signora Coddrington phone Bassi?”

“No idea.”

A signpost, caught briefly in the yellow beams, announced a distance of three kilometers to Carbonara.

“You’re right, commissario. I do need a rest.”

Another silence before Trotti unexpectedly tapped Pisanelli’s arm. “That looked like a book of anatomy you were reading in the prison director’s office.”

A smile fluttered across Pisanelli’s weary features. “Two possibilities, commissario. Either Bassi’s death was connected with Turellini’s or it wasn’t.” He held up his thumb. “Let’s assume it was. Now what do we know about Turellini?”

“That he was murdered. Just over a year ago in the suburbs of Milan.”

“According to Bassi, there were two possible lines of enquiry. Either Turellini was murdered for business reasons and his business was essentially among doctors. Or it was a crime of passion. As always, either sex or money.”

“Cherchez la femme.”

Suddenly and surprisingly, Pisanelli laughed very loudly.

“I don’t see what’s funny.”

“The Questore’s hoping to set up his regional child abuse center. He wants it to be a European thing, in direct contact with Interpol in Lyons.” Pisanelli had difficulty in speaking between his laughter. “I suppose he’ll be wanting you to do the liaison work with the French.”

“You see, I can speak French.”

“So I notice.”

“Tartufòn, c’est si bon.”

Against his will, Trotti too started to laugh. He was still laughing after they had been over the railway line and there was a sudden jolt of the Citroën.

“Careful!”

His head was pulled backwards, then forwards.

“What’s that, Pisa, for God’s sake?”

“He’s turned off his lights!”

A sudden, horrid sense of fear.

“The dangerous bastard.”

Fear of a kind that Trotti had almost forgotten about. The fear of his imminent demise and the adrenaline coursing, unannounced and uncalled for, through his whole system as again the car was rammed from the rear and Pisanelli seemed to lose control of the steering.

“The Volvo!”

“What’s he doing?”

“Trying to kill us, heaven help us!”

“Pisa, pull on to the shoulder.”

Pisanelli did not reply but, anyway, there was no shoulder. Trotti knew the road well and, although he could scarcely see through the snow, he knew that there was no stabilized edge, just a few centimeters of snow and then darkness.

A dip, a ditch.

They were less than eight kilometers from the Po but here the
road ran along a dike, built to hold back the flooding. Flooding that came three or four times in a century.

A third, violent shove and he saw the Volvo now edging level. No traffic in the opposite direction. Looking past Pisanelli, gripping the overhead strap, Trotti thought he could make out a faceless silhouette.

“Stop, Pisanelli. The bastard’s going to send us over the edge.”

Trotti remembered that beyond the road and below it there were ranks of plane trees. Trees for the cellulose factories that had been closed down years ago.

Five, ten meters beneath the Citroën, to both left and right.

Perhaps Trotti or perhaps somebody else was shouting. Shouting in uncontrolled, uncontrollable fear.

A few months short of retirement and a good life behind him, wife, daughter and now grandchildren, and he was afraid of dying.

Afraid of dying when Sandro was already dead.

As terrified as the young boy hearing the bombers over Santa Maria on their way to Milan.

Angels of death.

“Where’s your damn Beretta, Pisa?”

A fourth, a fifth violent ramming and this time Pisanelli lost all traction on the icy surface. The rear of the car skidded to the right as the back wheel hit the edge and Trotti felt himself being thrown sideways, being thrown upwards and he was thinking about the little boy in Pioppi’s belly, the boy who would never know his grandfather, who would never know just how much Piero Trotti had loved him.

“C
OMMISSARIO
?”

He was wearing an anorak and he had shaved; he looked plumper than when Trotti had last seen him in Milan.

“Commissario?”

If Magagna had not been wearing his American sunglasses, Trotti would have had difficulty in recognizing him.

“Well?”

He had been sitting on a steel chair. He now stood up and emptied the contents of his pockets on to the bed. “I bought you these.” Half a dozen packets of boiled sweets.

“A rich man.”

“One of the advantages of working for the Polizia di Stato—easy money and good prospects.”

Trotti smiled, then he winced in pain as they shook hands.

“Unwrap one of those sweets for me.”

“What flavor?”

“After all these years you’ve forgotten rhubarb’s my favorite?”

Magagna took one of the packets, removed the wrapping and placed the sweet in Trotti’s mouth. “Looks as if you’ve been in a fight.”

“I walked into a door.”

“Coming back from Piemonte?”

“You can’t be too careful.”

“This is why you shouldn’t go to Alessandria.” Magagna was from Pescara and considered anywhere else as insignificant. The smile vanished. “Who did it, commissario?”

Trotti’s shoulder ached and, as he moved his head, there was a sharp pain in the back of his neck. “Trying to remember.”

“They clearly didn’t like you.”

Trotti clicked the sweet against his teeth and it was then he realized there was a chip in the enamel of what used to be one of his good front teeth. “How did you know I was here?”

“The Polizia Stradale see a Volvo with no lights pulling out into the middle of the road? The sort of thing that goes unremarked?”

“They got the number?”

“It was the snow that saved you. Instead of falling, the Citroën slid down the embankment. Backwards. And hit a tree. If it’d turned over, you’d be dead.” Magagna added, amused, “There were medical books scattered all over the snow.”

Trotti frowned, not understanding. “What’s the time now?”

“I was driving back from Monza. After all these years, I felt you were worth the detour.”

“What’s the time?”

“Unconscious for over forty minutes. And then under light sedation.” The other man looked at his watch. “Half-past midnight.”

“Christ—and Pisanelli?”

The white door opened and a nurse entered. A middle-aged woman with grey hair and a harsh, narrow face. She wore a silver crucifix in the lapel of her spotless laboratory coat.

“You’re not supposed to have visitors.” She placed her hand on the back of Magagna’s chair. “With blood coming from my mouth and what looks like diabetes, I’d make sure I was getting some rest instead of getting excited.” She spoke in a flat monotone.

“Polizia di Stato,” Magagna said lamely and fumbled with his card.

The lips pulled tight, as if activated by a pursestring. She turned on her heel and left the room in offended silence.

“And Pisanelli?”

H
E POURED HONEY
into the herbal tea and sipped slowly while his eyes scanned the parish magazine that Anna Maria had left on the table. The clock, carefully dusted and now set on top of the mantelpiece, ticked noisily. The bedroom door was open. He could hear the sound of Anna Maria’s breathing and he envied her restful sleep.

From time to time a car went past in via Milano, the sound dulled by the snow; no car stopped.

The phone woke him. He must have dozed off, his head lolling forward. He sat up with a jerk and winced with the pain in his shoulder. Trotti looked at the clock. Four o’clock, Sunday, December the sixth.

The chamomile was cold.

“Zio?”

“Yes.”

“Is that you, Zio Piero?”

Trotti ran a hand through his hair. “Who’s speaking?”

“How are you, Zio? Are you all right?”

His goddaughter. “Anna?”

“You’re all right, aren’t you?”

“I was sleeping.”

“Is Pierangelo with you?”

“Pierangelo?”

“I didn’t want to phone you so late, Zio, but a friend just called me from Stradella saying she’d heard about an accident on the radio. It’s not true, is it?”

“I was in an accident,” Trotti said rubbing his shoulder.

“My friend thought she heard Pierangelo’s name. How is he?” she asked and Trotti could hear Anna Ermagni catch her breath on the far end of the line.

“You phoning from Rome, Anna?”

“Zio, please answer me. How’s Pierangelo? You must tell me the truth.”

“Pisanelli was with me. We were in his car and were hit from behind. At about eight o’clock. The car went off the road and slid down the embankment. There was a lot of snow.”

“Where’s Pi?”

“At San Matteo.”

“He’s not dead?”

Trotti gave a little laugh. “Of course not, Anna.”

She began to sob. “Oh, it’s all my fault.”

“Don’t be silly. How on earth can it be your fault?”

“Pi’s going to be all right?”

“Pisanelli? Of course he’s going to be all right.”

“You were beside him? Were you sitting beside him, Zio? Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“It’ll take more than a Volvo to kill Piero Trotti.”

“Tell me about Pierangelo?”

“I dislocated my shoulder—nothing very serious. But I was wearing my safety belt as the car went over.”

“Went over?”

“The car went over the edge of the road and down into the trees.”

“That stupid French car—it hasn’t even got a proper roof. I was always telling him to get a proper car. But he’s just like you, Zio. Pi’s so stubborn.”

“The Citroën stayed on its wheels.”

“What’s wrong with him? You’ve seen him? You must tell me, Zio.”

“Pisanelli’s still in intensive care, Anna. He banged his head badly and when I left—”

“Yes.”

“I left San Matteo after midnight and he still hadn’t regained consciousness.”

“Oh, my God!”

“But there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’ll phone the hospital. Give me the number. Never get an
answer out of Enquiries. Give me the number, Zio. I’ll phone San Matteo now.”

“Wait until the morning.”

“How d’you expect me to wait until morning? It’s already morning. Please, Zio, for God’s sake. Just give me the number.”

“I saw the doctor. I was with Magagna—you remember him? Magagna and I saw the specialist. There’s no danger. The doctor says the X-rays are all right.”

“Pierangelo’s unconscious, Zio! How can he be all right?” Her voice was lost in a wave of uncontrollable sobbing. “Oh, God.”

“Pisa’s going to pull through, don’t worry. There are no broken bones. No blood or wounds—he just must’ve whiplashed his head as the car fell. But you know Pisa—”

“I’ll catch the Pendolino now. I haven’t got any money but I’ve just got to come up. I can’t stay here.” More sobs. “It’s all my fault. I should never have left him. I should never have come to Rome in the first place.”

“If you want, I can put you up here, Anna. Don’t worry about the ticket, I can pay for that. I’ll pick you up at the station. Just ring—my cousin’s here from Holland. She’ll take the call if I’m not here and someone’ll pick you up. But you really mustn’t say it’s your fault.”

“I should’ve stayed with him.”

“You’re in Rome, Anna. You’re studying.”

“Pierangelo’s more important than my studies, Zio. Don’t you understand? Pierangelo is everything—Pierangelo’s my life.”

“You still love him, Anna?”

“That’s a stupid question. The most stupid question I’ve ever heard. How can you be so ridiculous? Of course I love him,” Anna Ermagni said. “I’ve always loved him. Ever since that first time—when I was a little girl. That first time when you and Magagna found me at the bus station. Pi was my knight in white armor—always has been. That’s why I wanted him to get out of the police. I was always telling Pi I wanted him to go back to his medical studies. A real job. To get a job that wouldn’t destroy him. That wouldn’t destroy us.”

Trotti could hear her crying. He bit his lip.

“With a father and a godfather in the police, Piero Trotti, I know just how that job can destroy a family. That’s something I couldn’t accept for Pi and me. I told him to change jobs.”

T
HE SOUND OF
women’s voices.

He was coming out of a dream and the voices were talking to him, but when Trotti opened his eyes he was alone. He could no longer recall the dream but he recognized the voices.

He also noticed the ice hanging from the upper edges of the window. The shutters were not completely closed; beyond them, above the plain of Lombardy, the sky was a blue vault.

Trotti climbed out of bed. His body ached. Carefully he put on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen.

He had to lean against the back of a chair. “Buongiorno.”

They turned and smiled hesitantly, like two girls caught by the sacristan while gossiping in church.

“I thought I smelled coffee.”

“You’ve got a nice bruise, Piero,” Anna Maria remarked, regaining her habitual severity.

“A nice bruise that hurts.”

“Which only serves you right for gallivanting across the north of Italy on a Saturday night when most civilized men are at home with their families.”

“Nobody’s ever accused me of being civilized. And my family is in Amer—my family’s in Bologna.”

Simona Scola had been drinking coffee. She stood up from the table—there was a notebook and a rag doll on the Formica top—and came towards him, both amusement and concern on her face.

“How are you, Signora Scola?”

She came closer and Trotti held out his arm, thinking she wished
to shake hands. She ignored the gesture and brushed her fingers against his forehead. “You hit your head, Piero?”

Trotti shrugged. He could smell her perfume, he could see his reflection in the bright, dark eyes. Intelligent eyes. “I lost consciousness. It’s my shoulder that hurts.” He stepped sideways away from the touch of her hand and sat down at the table. “Any news from the hospital?”