The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (24 page)

“That’s it for today. They’ve got enough problems to be going on with,” Rivara said.

Soneri’s mind was on the document he had discussed with Don Bruno. With all that had been going on, he would need to put off the time when he could seek clarification. He gulped down a glass of Malvasia, and went out to watch the shadow of Montelupo lengthen in the setting sun. He dialled Angela’s number. “The Woodsman has killed one carabiniere and has wounded two others,” he told her.

“In the state he’s in, why should he care about anything?”

“He knows he hasn’t long to live, and he’s not going to give
up. Palmiro took the woman he loved, and took his money as well. Now the carabinieri want to take Montelupo from him, and into the bargain he has cancer and he reckons he has nothing to lose.”

“You still don’t believe that he murdered Paride, do you?”

“I don’t believe he had anything to do with it.”

“So why is he shooting at the carabinieri?”

“They want to take him in. They’re convinced he’s guilty. They think he’s responsible for all the shooting on Montelupo after the Rodolfi bankruptcy. It’s possible that he was responsible for some of it.”

“So what now?”

“He wasn’t the only one firing off shots, I’m sure of that. There have always been poachers wandering about up there, and one of them was Palmiro.”

“A poacher doesn’t shoot a man in the stomach from close range, if what I’ve read about it in the newspapers is accurate.”

“That’s true, but the Woodsman would have shot at Palmiro. He went out on the higher ground every evening with his dogs,” the commissario said, looking at Dolly. At that moment, a new suspicion, something more urgent than a doubt, came into his mind and required him immediately to put everything else aside until he had checked it out.

“What are you thinking?” Angela said, accustomed to his sudden silences.

“I’m thinking about the sort of person who would go for a walk with dogs at night time.”

“At night time? Do you have a suspicion of who it might be?”

“No, but there’s not a very wide choice.”

“Remember you’re supposed to be on holiday, and going into the woods where they’re shooting on sight…”

“I’ve already run that risk, but at night it’s harder for them to shoot.”

“You want to go out at night?” she said in alarm.

“You’re safer in a wood at night than you are in a well-lit street in a city.”

“I’ll phone you later to find out how it went,” she said, but remained unconvinced.

Soneri left the
Rivara
and crossed the piazza, where the light was now sepia-coloured, as though filtered through a dark shade. He walked through the streets up to the Rodolfi factory, where a crowd of workers, some still in their white overalls, were milling about at the gates. He asked for Signorina Gualerzi and being told she was still inside, he decided to wait for her. She was one of the last to leave, on her own. The commissario watched her come towards him with the graceless, heavy gait of the mountain folk, dressed as she had been when he had first met her: flat shoes, thick stockings and long coat, perhaps adapted by an unskilled seamstress. He imagined that her imposing bulk intimidated men.

“Finished for the evening?” he said.

She looked at him distrustfully. “For all we get, we could’ve left earlier.”

“It might have been better for you to have left earlier, but it would’ve been better still if you’d stayed at home. You might have been able to convince your father not to do all these crazy things.”

The woman stopped in her tracks when she heard these words. “What’s happened?” she said anxiously. “He only wanted them to leave us in peace.”

“Today he killed one carabiniere and injured another two.”

Lorenza Gualerzi bowed her head and said nothing. She must have been used to her father’s acts of folly, but this was of a different dimension. “I can’t do a thing about it. No-one can give him orders. All you can do is try and convince him
as well as you can. When my mother was well…”

“Your father is sick too.”

She nodded. “What kind of future do I have? Without money, without work and without my parents.”

The commissario found it hard to fight back feelings of pity for that unfortunate woman who was out of place, out of time and so ill-equipped for a life alone. She faced a lonely life, derided behind her back by her peers because of her ugliness. She was perhaps the perfect image of the village falling back into poverty and isolated in the harshness of mountains where no-one would any longer wish to live.

“Why did he run away? With his condition, nobody could have done anything to him. At least, they would have given him some treatment,” Soneri said.

“You can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to. It’s never been possible. He’s got no respect for authority. He grew up without parents, and now he feels these people are doing him a wrong. He says he knows nothing about Paride’s death. If anything, his quarrel was with Palmiro, because he felt betrayed.”

“Because of the money…”

“He left us ruined. We haven’t even enough money to pay for my mother’s treatment.”

“Do you really believe he’s got nothing to do with it?”

Lorenza summoned up all her courage. “I don’t know. I believe him, but…”

The commissario used the pause in the conversation to light his cigar, then he looked at her once more, signalling to her to go on.

“I know he fired some shots on Montelupo, and at strange hours. My father was never one for the subtle approach. How am I supposed to know if he was hunting a boar, or something else?”

“He went looking for Palmiro, isn’t that right?”

Once again she trembled and seemed overcome by awkwardness. “As I said, he ruined us. What my father really couldn’t bear was the fact that he’d cheated him, of all people, putting him on the same level as all the others. They had grown up together and in spite of all that had happened between them, they carried on seeing each other. Sometimes, when old Rodolfi came up to the Madoni hills, I would watch them talk and I got the impression that the years had rolled away. At times my father would laugh uproariously in a way I never saw him do with anyone else.”

“Palmiro never went out without his gun either,” Soneri said, deep in thought.

“And he used it. He knew Montelupo well. When it came to getting things done, my father and Palmiro were equally single-minded. Sometimes they acted like savages, but when I thought of their childhood and the poverty they’d suffered, I was able to understand.”

“How long do the doctors give your father?”

“Six months, perhaps a bit more. He’s already lost a few kilos. But he won’t live that long, because he’s said from the start that at the first spasms of real pain…”

Lorenza burst into tears very suddenly. She covered her face with her hands and bent forward until the commissario reached out to support her. He had the impression she was looking for a shoulder to lean on, but Soneri, who was shorter than her, did not feel able to draw her close to him. “I’d like to prevent that happening,” he said, in an attempt to console her, “but your father will never be captured. No-one will get near him.”

“He wouldn’t listen to anyone in the village and he’s always hated the carabinieri on account of their support for the Fascists. He’ll not change his mind now. It would take a man like your father. He had a lot of time for him, ever since they were together in the partisans.”

“Do you think I should try?”

“Probably you’re the only one who could.”

“I’ll go to Badignana and if he’s still there, I’ll try and persuade him to come down.”

“At the very least, I’d get to see him during his last days,” Lorenza sobbed.

It was dark when Soneri returned to the piazza. The crescent moon, its outline blurry in the mist, was rising over Montelupo. The commissario’s stomach was protesting, demanding nourishment. Delrio was standing outside the
Rivara,
smoking a cigarette. “What was it like when the Woodsman shot the carabiniere? They told me you were there,” he said.

“I was too far away. Volpi had a better view through his binoculars.”

“He’s dead. The bullet shattered his ribs and tore away half his lungs. There’s a hole the size of a water pipe in his back.”

“Large calibre bullets, for boar hunting. You must know the sort of thing,” Soneri said.

Delrio nodded. “The Woodsman doesn’t fool about. If you ask me, he won’t stop at one carabiniere.”

Rivara came over and Soneri ordered dinner. “Have you anything with mushrooms?”

“It’s been a bad year. All you can find are ‘trumpets of death’,” Rivara said, touching himself between the legs in a superstitious gesture which annoyed the commissario. He opted for
tortelli di patate
and while he was waiting, Rivara brought him a plate of cooked pears and chestnuts. He remembered that autumnal dish, when the two fruits were put in the one pot and left to boil together.

“How are the other two?” Rivara asked Delrio.

“They’ll be O.K., but if I were them I would go and light a candle to San Martino.”

“They obviously didn’t expect to find him lying in wait for them, otherwise they’d never have gone strolling like daytrippers over the stony ground where there was no cover,” Rivara said from behind the bar, but it was clear he had overheard someone else make that comment, because Delrio gave him a look of indifference before replying, “Ah well.”

Soneri thought of the Woodsman in Badignana, hiding in one of those summer cabins reopened off-season, or sheltering for the night in some paddock, reflecting on life as it slipped away from him. Perhaps he was focusing on the last days in which he would really feel alive, up there, fighting them off, gun in hand. The commissario made every effort to get under the Woodsman’s skin, but concluded that perhaps he neither reflected deeply nor tormented himself enough. Perhaps he was a man who simply took destiny and its judgments as they come.

As his main course, he had some very ordinary roast beef and began to feel nostalgic for Ida’s cooking, but that was now a thing of the past. He got up and decided to go and keep the moon company. Rivara and Delrio watched him go out, but neither addressed him.

Dolly welcomed him, jumping up and putting her paws all over his duffel coat. He stroked her head and brought his face close to hers. They had an important matter to attend to. He wandered through the village with no fixed destination in mind. His route took him past the carcass of the burned-out car, and his nostrils were once more filled with the stench of melted plastic. He stopped to look down at the new town in the lower valley and at the headlights on the road leading to the Pass. As he walked back, he bumped into the man in the wheelchair, pushed as ever by his imperturbably zealous wife. Soneri was tempted to turn away, but the man had
spotted him and even from some way off began talking. As he had done before, he babbled on about his adventures with Palmiro, until his wife made a sharp turn and took him in another direction. The commissario watched him vanish into the uncertain light under the lamp-posts, and thought wryly of yet another life descending into dementia.

He left the village and walked in the direction of Villa del Greppo, but turned off the road at a point where he knew he could pick up the path. As soon as they were near it, Dolly began wagging her tail and raced off in the direction of Croce so rapidly that the commissario had scarcely time to call her back. She seemed to be falling into a well-established routine. He made her sit, stroking her gently and speaking to her quietly in an effort to calm her. Dolly eventually settled, even if she was provoked by the many scents surrounding her. They did not move for some time. Soneri watched the moon move slowly across the sky, while the freezing cold embalmed the woods and fields in hoar frost. To keep Dolly calm, he placed his hand inside her collar. Every so often, the dog would give a shudder, and sit bolt upright, causing Soneri some alarm. An animal passed a very short distance from them, making the lower branches sway, but Dolly had already smelled it from a distance before it came within range of her hearing.

More time went by before Dolly began once again to show signs of agitation, but on this occasion she appeared unworried. Her tail began to beat against the commissario like a whip, and he had to hold her to prevent her making any noise. After a few seconds, a terrier appeared before them. The dog, attracted by Dolly, sniffed her from a distance and began to bark. Dolly did the same and Soneri withdrew behind a bush just in time to make out a hooded figure walking smartly towards Croce. He allowed him to draw close, but not before checking he had his pistol with him.

When he stepped out of the trees, he noted to his surprise that he was completely calm, perhaps because at that point he knew who he was dealing with. It was the other man who became alarmed and let out a shriek which caused the two dogs to bark in chorus. He made as if to run off, but Soneri stood blocking his way on the valley side, and flight through the Croce woods was obviously not an inviting prospect. Judging by his actions, he was already in a state of terror.

“It’s an unusual time to be out for a stroll,” Soneri said. “And you don’t appear much at your ease in the dark.”

The Philippino from the Rodolfi house mumbled something which the commissario did not pick up. He was wearing a heavy, corduroy overcoat with a hood which came down over his forehead, partially hiding his face.

“I walk dog,” he managed to say.

Soneri laughed and the Philippino appeared disconcerted.

“I’ve never met anyone who walks his dogs at night.”

“Signor Palmiro, yes. He come back late.”

“Of course he did. He was out poaching. So where is your gun?”

The Philippino ingenuously turned out his pockets, and Soneri almost felt sorry for him, a poor soul sent out into the woods at night and perhaps not even paid as well as the other Rodolfi employees

“Why does she send you here?” Soneri asked peremptorily.

The Philippino bowed his head and did not speak for a few moments, then, having no answer to give, turned and made to run off. Soneri grabbed hold of him. He was so light he had no difficulty in pulling him back. He seemed to have got one sleeve caught in a tree.