Ratking (28 page)

He must have dozed off, for the next thing he was aware of was feeling chilled and anxious. Through the window he could see the upper limb of a huge planet which almost filled the night sky. The collision in which the earth would inevitably be destroyed was clearly only moments away, for despite its appalling size the planet’s motion was perceptible. It was even close enough for him to make out the lights of the hundreds of cities dotted across its monstrous convex surface.

‘Son of a
bitch
!’

The world swerved, veered, straightened up.

‘Fucking lorry drivers, think they own the road,’ Palottino commented.

When Zen looked again the rogue planet had become a ridge blanked in darkly on the clear moonlit sky and its alien cities the twinkling lights of Perugia.

It was only just gone ten o’clock, but the streets were deserted. Palottino pulled into the car park where it was never night and they got out, watched by the guard on the roof of the prison. In the blank wall of the Questura opposite a light showed in Zen’s office on the third floor.

Geraci must have heard his footsteps, for he was standing by the window with a respectful and curious expression as Zen came in.

‘Evening, chief. What’s up, then?’

The Duty Officer had told him to report to the Questura and await further instructions. Motioning the inspector to a chair, Zen went round behind the desk and sat down, rubbing his eyes.

‘I’ve just got back from Florence. The military have taken the whole gang. All of them. Well, not quite all.’

Geraci’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, like the face of someone who has just died. The silence reformed. Zen felt himself starting to slip back into his interrupted sleep and he forced his eyes open, staring intently at Geraci until the inspector looked away.

‘I would never have agreed if it hadn’t been for the boy,’ he said.

‘How much did they offer you?’

‘It wasn’t the money,’ Geraci replied scornfully. ‘We’re from the same place, from neighbouring villages. They simply asked me to help them out. I would gain nothing myself, just the goodwill of certain people, people who are respected.’

He shook his head at the impossibility of a Northerner understanding these things.

‘Anyway, I said no. So they started to use threats, although they don’t like doing that. To them it’s a sign of weakness. But they had asked and I had refused. They can’t allow that.’

He paused and sighed.

‘Just before Christmas I heard from my sister. Her youngest boy, just three years old, a little darling, had been taken. A few days later a letter arrived for me. Inside there was a little scrap of skin and a tiny fingernail. They’d amputated his finger with a pair of wire-cutters. I never thought fingernails were beautiful until I saw this one, it was like a miniature work of art. That evening they phoned me again. The boy still had nine more fingers and ten toes, they said. I agreed to do what they asked.’

Zen pushed his chair back and stood up, trying to dominate the situation again, to rise above the pity that threatened to swamp him.

‘And what was that?’

‘Get myself transferred to the squad investigating the kidnapping and pass on any information which might be useful.’

‘And they gave you the tape-recorder and the crucifix?’

‘Not until you arrived. While Priorelli was in charge I didn’t need it, he was very open about his plans. But no one ever knew what you were thinking or what you were going to do.’

Zen allowed himself a moment to savour the irony of this. He had been uncommunicative with his staff because he thought they were all hostile to him and reporting back to the Questore, if not the Ministry or the Security Services!

‘Where was the receiver?’

‘In the broom cupboard at the end of the corridor, hidden under a pile of old boxes and papers. I played back the tapes at home and noted down anything important.’

‘And the contacts with the gang? Come on, Geraci! I want to get home, go to bed. Don’t make me do all the work.’

‘I put an advertisement in the newspaper offering a boat for sale. The day the advertisement appeared I took a certain train, got into the first carriage and left the envelope in the bin for used towels in the toilet.’

Zen shook his head slowly. His disgust was as much with himself as with Geraci, but the inspector suddenly flared up.

‘I wasn’t the biggest shit in all this! One of the Milettis was in on it too! Can you imagine that? Betraying your own father! At least I didn’t sink that low.’

Zen waved his hand wearily.

‘Don’t waste time trying to do dirt on the family. I’m not interested.’

Geraci got to his feet.

‘It’s true, I tell you! I had to pick up his messages at a service area on the motorway and leave them on the train, same as my own. Once I got there early and saw him.’

‘So who was it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Zen snorted his contempt.

‘He was all wrapped up in a coat and a scarf and wearing dark glasses, and I was watching from a distance. I didn’t want to risk being recognized either.’

‘How did he get there?’

‘In a blue Fiat Argenta saloon.’

‘Was there anyone else in the car?’

‘No.’

‘Describe him.’

‘Quite short. Medium build.’

‘How do you know it wasn’t a woman?’

‘He phoned to let me know he was coming. It was a man, all right.’

Zen turned to the window, as though he feared that his thoughts might be visible in his face. Daniele and Silvio were out. Pietro, too. Ivy Cook’s voice was deep enough to be mistaken for a man’s, but she was too tall. Cinzia was the right size, but her voice was almost hysterically feminine. No, there was really only one person it could have been.

‘How many times did this happen?’

‘Four altogether. I can give you the dates.’

Geraci took out his diary and scribbled on a blank page which he then tore out and handed to Zen.

‘Where did he leave the messages?’

‘At the Valdichiana service area on the motorway. The envelope was inside the last magazine in the top right-hand row.’

Zen sighed.

‘So let’s sum up. You claim that an unknown person in male clothing driving a Fiat saloon left four envelopes in a motorway service station. You don’t know who he was, why he was doing it or what was in the envelopes, and you can’t prove any of it. Doesn’t add up to much, does it?’

Geraci looked away in frustration.

‘Ah, what’s the use! It isn’t doing wrong that counts, it’s getting caught.’

The same was even more true of doing right, Zen reflected. The wrongdoer arouses sneaking admiration, but if you want to be merciful or generous without making people despise you then you have to be very careful indeed.

‘Tomorrow is my last day here in Perugia,’ he said wearily. ‘My tour of duty hasn’t exactly been a glittering success and the public disclosure that one of my inspectors was a spy for the gang I was supposed to be hunting would be the last straw. So you’re going to get a break, Geraci. You don’t deserve it, but I do.’

The inspector gazed at him with an immense caution, not daring to understand.

‘My conversation with the kidnappers was private. As far as I’m concerned it can remain private. I’d much prefer to turn you in, but luckily for you I can’t afford to.’

Geraci’s eyes were glowing with emotion.

‘Dottore, my mother will …’

‘Stuff your mother, Geraci! It’s me I’m thinking of, not your mother or anybody else. Now I’m sure someone like you must know a crooked doctor. I want you to take indefinite sick leave starting tomorrow. You can spend your free time writing an application for transfer to the Forestry Guards. You’re not staying in the police, that’s for damn sure! Now piss off out of here before I change my mind.’

Geraci backed up to the door.

‘God bless you, sir.’

The door closed quietly behind him.

‘God help us,’ muttered Zen.

Nine o’clock was sounding as he walked out of his hotel the next morning, sniffing the delicious air enlivened by a frisky breeze. After this, he reflected, breathing the capital’s miasmal vapours would be like drinking Tiber water after San Pellegrino. Halfway along the Corso workmen were setting up a platform, the ringing sounds of their hammers unsynchronized to the movements of the arms which produced them. As he walked towards them the problem gradually corrected itself, as though the projectionist had woken up and made the necessary adjustments. By the time he emerged from his favourite café, having consumed a good frothy cappuccino made with milk fresh from a churn, the foam stiff as whipped egg whites, the same process had taken place inside his head. But any impression that things were finally going his way did not last long.

‘All that material has been transferred upstairs,’ the technician on duty in the intercept room at the law courts told him.

‘What about transcripts?’

The man shook his head.

‘All upstairs with the judges. We’ve finished with that one. The line’s been disconnected and everything.’

Zen hesitated for a moment.

‘May I use your phone?’

‘Help yourself.’

There was an internal directory pinned to the wall by the phone. He dialled Luciano Bartocci’s number.

‘
Yes?
’

‘Well, it did come to the same thing in the end.’

‘
Who is this?
’

‘I’m going back to Rome tomorrow. But first I’d like to have a word with you. About ratkings.’

There was a silence.

‘
I’m very busy
.’

‘It’ll only take a few moments.’

The technician was busy fitting a new leader to a reel of tape. His work probably left him little interest in listening to other people’s conversations, but Zen kept his voice low.

‘It’s vitally important.’

Zen spoke slowly, stressing each word, giving Bartocci time to think.

‘
In about half an hour. On the roof of the market building
.’

Zen pushed past the women selling doughnuts and flowers and through a group of African students giggling at the photos they had just had taken in the machine. The terrace on the roof of the market was deserted except for a flock of pigeons and the two Nordic girls, one of whom was sketching the view while the other basked in the sun, her head on her friend’s lap. The puddle under a leaky tap near by had frozen overnight and not yet had time to thaw, so that the pigeons slipped and skidded as they came to drink.

When Luciano Bartocci appeared, tense and wary, Zen wasted no time.

‘I need to consult a document.’

‘Ask Foria.’

‘She’s not here. It’s urgent.’

Bartocci shook his head.

‘Out of the question.’

‘I just need a copy of the transcript of the call the gang made to tell the Milettis that they had released Ruggiero.’

‘Why?’

‘The Carabinieri in Florence have arrested the kidnappers. I’ve been to see them. They didn’t kill Ruggiero.’

‘What’s that got to do with you? Or with me, for that matter? Rosella Foria is investigating the Miletti murder. Let her investigate. That’s her job. Or do you think you’re cleverer than she is?’

‘I think I understand the situation better, thanks to you.’

Bartocci smiled at this clumsy attempt at flattery.

‘Remember what you told me about ratkings?’ Zen reminded him. ‘How each rat defends the interests of the others and so the strength of one is the strength of all? Well, I think there’s one case where that doesn’t apply, where the system goes into reverse and the rats all turn on each other.’

‘And that is?’

‘When they sense that one of their number is damaged.’

The magistrate shook his head.

‘They would simply destroy the damaged rat.’

‘But suppose they don’t know which one it is?’

Bartocci considered this for a moment.

‘It all sounds a bit theoretical.’

‘I agree. What I want to do is to test the theory. And that’s why I need to see that transcript.’

One or two pigeons were already scrabbling about at their feet, their beady eyes skinned for a hand-out. Bartocci would clearly have liked to tell Zen to go to hell, but he was trapped by the relationship which he himself had been at such pains to create, and which he wasn’t quite cynical enough to disavow now that it served not him but the other person. It was less trouble in the end just to give in.

‘You remember the bar we went to in Piazza Matteotti?’ he asked. ‘Be there later on this morning, about midday. If there’s anything for you read it there and then, seal it up and hand it back. If there isn’t then go away. And stay away.’

On the Corso the hammering had stopped and the platform was being decorated with flags and bunting and posters proclaiming a political address the following day. By then, Zen thought, I’ll be back in Rome, whatever happens. He found this oddly comforting.

The civic library was staffed by the usual sullen crew, as though it were a branch of the prison service. Since Zen was not a registered member it took his police identity card even to get him past the door. He climbed up to the periodicals room on the second floor and announced to the female attendant that he wished to consult back numbers of the local newspaper.

‘Fill in a request form,’ she replied, without looking up from her knitting.

There were no forms to be seen, but one of the other inmates explained that they were kept in the corridor on the next floor up.

‘And the accession number?’ the woman demanded when Zen brought his form back. The tip of her steel knitting needle hovered over a space as blank as Zen’s face.

‘I don’t know what the accession number is.’

‘Look it up!’

‘Can’t you do it?’

It’s not my job to fill in the forms. You have to look in the card catalogue.’

The card catalogue was in the basement. It took Zen twenty minutes to locate the section dealing with the newspaper he wanted. Since each month’s copies had a separate accession number he then had to make out six different forms, which meant going back to the third floor and copying out his name, address, profession, and reason for request twelve times.