The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (3 page)

“True enough, even for a murder. Nobody can see you.”

Soneri felt a tremor run up his spine, but he said nothing. They were back on the piazza after walking around some of the streets where old women at the windows looked down at the band. A big stall was serving
torta fritta
and salame to a crowd gathered hungrily around it. On the other side of the piazza, some volunteers from the tourist office were roasting chestnuts. Delrio, clearly displeased, came up to join them. He was wearing full uniform.

“Don’t tell me that you’ve got to work today as well,” Maini said.

Delrio shrugged. “More problems.”

“What’s up?”

“One of those damned things…” he said, waving his hands
vaguely in the air. “It’s beyond my understanding…”

“There are many things like that,” Soneri said.

Delrio gave him a quick look, as though he wanted to enlist his help. “Last night was very peculiar, even for San Martino’s,” was all he said by way of explanation. He was referring to the custom of flitting, or stealing things as a practical joke.

“The young nowadays carry off things we would never have touched,” Maini said.

“It’s the first time anyone has ever taken a coffin,” Delrio said. “The thing is that nobody noticed, because it was covered by the Ghirardis’ marquee. It was only when the pony started tugging at the canvas that the coffin came to light.”

“Where have you put it?” the commissario asked him.

“Where do you think? In the graveyard chapel.”

“Is there an undertaker near here?”

“The nearest one is about twenty kilometres away,” Maini replied.

“No-one has ever stolen a coffin,” Delrio said again. “The people in this village are all cheerful and good-natured.”

This time it was Soneri’s turn to shrug.

“Nobody’s going to tell me all this was dreamed up on the spur of the moment last night,” Maini said.

The smoke from the roasting chestnuts mixed with the smoke from the fried food. They were passing in front of the stalls where people were queuing up to buy
polenta
and
vin brulé
, when the band re-formed and struck up another number.

“See that? People having good-natured fun,” the commissario said.

Delrio glowered, supposing Soneri was laughing at him. He moved off in the direction of the band just as the lights went on, in response, it seemed, to how far down the mist had come.

“He’s a worried man,” Maini said, indicating Delrio, as he was
swallowed up by the crowd. “In fact, in spite of appearances, everyone in the village is a bit worried.”

“I know. It’s because of the Rodolfi case,” Soneri said.

“Everyone’s livelihood depends on them, and in spite of all their faults…” His voice stuttered to an embarrassed halt.

“Have you heard anyone criticising them?” the commissario asked.

“No, no – apart from the usual chatter. You hear rumours here and there … some bits of their business … But there’s so much jealousy around here. Anyway, who knows how much they’re worth? They can toss their money about…”

“Yes, they can toss it up in the air, or add yeast to make it rise like
torta fritta
,” the commissario said, as he gazed at the squares of batter swelling up on contact with the hot oil in the pan. Maini was watching too and smiled, but then turned serious once again. “But the coffin … what do you think about that?”

“I think an empty coffin is always waiting for someone to fill it.”

Maini looked down and changed the subject. “If you’re planning to go up there tomorrow morning, you’re as well setting off at first light. These are the shortest days of the year.”

“And the mushrooms are well hidden, unless you know precisely where to go looking for them,” Soneri said.

“In the woods, nothing’s that precise. You have to search about, like when you’re looking for a place to pee.”

Soneri stared at him for few moments, noticing the frown on his face. He had been in the village only a few hours and already the tension in the air had got to him. Now that he was plunged into that stressful atmosphere, heavy with unanswered questions, his hopes for a carefree break were already vanishing. Perhaps Angela had been right when she said that worries live inside us, not outside,
because we can never be wholly impregnable. And he knew he was too impressionable.

Fortunately he was distracted by the priest at the head of the procession, cutting his way through the crowd milling about in the piazza. His only followers were elderly ladies, while the altar boys around him had the look of young men who had just been served with their call-up papers.

“More like a funeral,” was the acid observation of Volpi, who had just come over from the roasted-chestnut stall.

“At least you won’t find the priest changing his home,” said an ancient at Soneri’s shoulder, repeating an old joke, trotted out each year, about flitting from one house to another on San Martino.

No sooner had the procession moved on than the mayor appeared alongside the commissario. “Good to see you back. You’ll be here for…” he started to say, but could not get the words out.

Soneri noted the embarrassment on the man’s face, so reassured him. “I’m only here to pick mushrooms.”

The mayor smiled. “Well, you know, with all these mysteries…”

“I’ll steer clear of mysteries for at least ten days.”

“Someone’s been putting about rumours, whispers, gossip. It’s a set-up. Let me assure you that nothing has happened. A minor mishap which has been blown up into a big story.”

“You’re all great fans of the Rodolfis, but you worry too much,” Soneri said, with a touch of irony.

The mayor studied him warily, to make sure he was taking him seriously enough. “It was a mistake to put up those posters. It’s not the first time he’s gone missing.”

“Couldn’t agree more. Going round sticking up posters is…” Soneri said.

“Yes. It was an odd thing to do, and it only heightens suspicion. They should have left well enough alone.”

“It would be better still if he were to appear in public,” the commissario suggested.

“Certainly, certainly, but he never was particularly sociable. You can understand it, a busy man like him…”

“What do you plan to do? Maybe you should just try to calm things down.”

“And what do you think I’m doing? I’m getting out and about as much as I can. I speak to anybody and everybody, but these mountain folk are so distrustful. You should know that, shouldn’t you?”

“It seems someone saw Rodolfi this morning, or last night.”

“That was Mendogni, but now he’s not so sure. He saw a man who might have been Paride Rodolfi, but he couldn’t swear to it.”

Soneri stretched out his arms. “Send for the carabinieri!”

“On what grounds? Because a man has failed to return home? I’ll get charged with wasting police time.”

“Talking about wasting police time,” the commissario said, looking over at the piazza where Mendogni, surrounded by a crowd of people anxious for news, had made an appearance.

The mayor went over to question him, speaking over those who were already talking. He dragged Soneri with him to witness what looked like a public interrogation.

“They tell me you’re not certain whether it was him or not.”

“When I first saw him, I was almost certain,” Mendogni mumbled, annoyed at having to repeat his story yet again. “But if you ask me if I am a hundred per cent certain, I’d have to say no. Do you know the path that leads to Campogrande? It’s not that close to the Greppo villa.”

“Who else could it have been?” someone asked.

“How should I know?” Mendogni said. “There are so many folk coming and going to that house. You see big cars driving up and there’s no way of being sure who’s inside.”

The mayor was growing increasingly agitated because Mendogni’s words, far from calming people down, were making them more suspicious. Another voice cut in. “Biavardi’s daughter says he’s still not come back, and that it’s a whole week since they had any news.”

“They must have had some reason for putting up all those posters,” someone else said.

Soneri listened in silence to the hubbub, with images previously seen a thousand times chasing each other around in his head. In the early stages of an investigation, everything was always so confused and contradictory, and that did not mean that the outlook was necessarily any clearer at the end. He had no wish for this to become “his” case, so he took advantage of a lull in the exchanges to move away. He was determined to remain an onlooker.

The darkness, made more impenetrable by the mist rolling down from the hills, had in the meantime enveloped the village. He walked towards Rivara’s
osteria
with the intention of ordering a glass of Malvasia, but when he saw how crowded the place was, he walked on towards the old district. As he passed in front of the
Olmo
bar, he looked in and was reassured by the atmosphere of mid-week calm which reigned there. This was the bar frequented by the village elders, and it seemed to have grown old with them.

He went in and leaned on the bar to light his cigar. At the table directly in front of him, four men were silently engrossed in a game of
briscola
.

“Fireworks tonight,” one of the men said. The others shrugged without raising their eyes from the cards.

“Who do you think the coffin’s for?” one asked.

“As long as it’s not for us.”

Soneri was struck by the stoic indifference of the card-players, but he felt himself being observed. He turned round
and recognised Magnani, the owner.

“If you’re here, it means something really has gone badly wrong,” were his words of greeting.

“You’re wide of the mark this time. The only investigations I’m doing are in the undergrowth,” Soneri said.

“In that case you’re going to have your work cut out,” Magnani warned him, as he filled two glasses of white wine without waiting to be asked. He raised his glass. “Here’s to your good health and to the investigation.”

“To my health, then. I’ll take nothing to do with any investigation.”

Magnani stretched out his hands, palms open. “I meant your investigations into the state of the mushrooms.”

“What can you tell me?”

“I’ve never taken much interest in them. They tell me that this year the outlook is grim after the dry summer we’ve had. You could search higher up in the hills, where it’s always a bit cooler. Assuming there are any left, that is.”

“They’ve picked the lot already?”

Magnani made another eloquent gesture with his hands. “There are some who are up there every day.”

“They’re not afraid of the gunfire?”

Magnani stared hard at Soneri, and in that one moment a complete understanding was established between the two. “It’s a big, high mountain and there’s space for everybody.”

“Where do you go for the licence?”

“The usual place, the Comune,” Magnani said before adding: “You’re looking well. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Nothing has changed here either,” Soneri replied, looking around the bar with its dated furniture and the wallpaper peeling where the chairs had rubbed against it.

“That’s not true. Everyone here’s growing old. After a while, the years begin to take their toll.”

“You’re an institution.”

“So is the cathedral. And we’re about the same age.”

The four men continued their game, interrupting the silence only for brief comments on the hands they were dealt.

“The one advantage age gives you is that you can stand back and look at what’s happening without getting too upset. And I’m really keen to see how it’s all going to end,” Magnani said.

“Do you mean here in the village?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Do you believe there is something behind this disappearance?”

“I think somebody is cheating, and that this little game is likely to end badly,” Magnani said, looking at the cards which were piling up in the centre of the table. “I have the impression we’re sitting on a powder keg.”

Soneri listened to the old man’s words and remembered how confused he had been when he had tried to explain to Angela what was going on. He was just as confused now, but every time he tried to seek explanations, everyone became evasive, so it was no surprise when Magnani said, “There’s so much going on … it’s not easy for someone who doesn’t live here.”

The door opened, letting in a gust of wind and rain. An elderly man, slightly out of breath, stood in the doorway and, raising his walking stick in front of him, announced, “Now Palmiro’s gone missing as well.”

The four men around the table let their cards drop and turned round quickly. The elder Rodolfi was evidently much more popular than his son.

“What is this? Some sort of plague?” Magnani muttered.

“He went out this afternoon for a walk with his dog, but it turned dark and there has been no sign of him since. The dog came back without its master.”

“Are they out looking for him already?” the commissario said.

The old man nodded. “The carabinieri and teams of volunteers are out on the hills.” Magnani stood rooted to the spot, lost in his own thoughts. None of the others said a word, and the silence was expression enough of their disconcerted astonishment. Soneri went out into the mist now swirling across the streets of the village like clouds on mountain tops. The trepidation among the people standing under the flickering light of the lamp-posts on the piazza was almost palpable. The Comune was open and people were walking up and down under the narrow colonnade at the entrance. An ambulance with its emergency lights flashing, but proceeding very slowly, passed by.

“Either there’s no-one inside, or else for the person they’ve got on board there’s no point going at speed,” said Rivara, who had also come out of his bar onto the street.

“An hour ago someone said they’d heard a shot,” Maini said.

“Where did it come from?”

“From the direction of Gambetta, near the Croce path, but I couldn’t say if that’s true or not. Other people didn’t hear anything.”

“Are you saying it could have been a rifle shot from …?” Rivara asked, but he seemed afraid of finishing the sentence.