The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (7 page)

“I would have been better escaping to a seaside resort where no-one knows me. I only like the sea in winter when there’s nobody there apart from those who really love it.”

“It’s going to be hard not to get involved now,” Angela said.

“The mayor is on at me to go and see the maresciallo, but I’m going to stay away from him at all costs. The fact is that there’s nothing to investigate. Palmiro hanged himself and his son, so they say, has shut himself up in the house in the woods where he goes to be alone. Actually, it doesn’t seem at all likely to me that he’s there, otherwise the carabinieri would have been able to locate him. Anyway, these are hardly criminal acts, and if they were serious crimes, they would not be left to
a mere maresciallo. Some high-flyer in the carabinieri would have been sent in forthwith.”

“The whole thing stinks,” Angela said.

“Like a rotting carcass. I expect developments.”

“I could work on the lawyer who looks after the Rodolfi affairs, and pass any information on to you.”

“What do you mean, ‘work on the lawyer’?”

“How do you work on a man? You ought to know.”

“Like you’re doing just now, to make me jealous.”

“A waste of time. You never fall for it. However, I have a good relationship with the lawyer in question and I could get him to tell me something. Tomorrow the papers will be full of Palmiro’s suicide.”

“Exactly, and your man of the law will button up.”

“If he stays buttoned up, you’ve no reason to be jealous,” Angela said slyly.

Soneri had no time to put his mobile away before seeing the maresciallo coming towards him. His first thought was to slip back into the bar and pretend he had not seen him, but the maresciallo gave him a wave, compelling Soneri to stop and wait for him.

The officer introduced himself with a jovial smile. “Maresciallo Crisafulli,” he announced with an officer’s precision and a cadet’s stiff pose. He was the same height as the commissario, had dark skin, black hair and bright, sparkling eyes. “They tell me you’re the only man who can find mushrooms in this season,” he said.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Soneri said with a smile, unsure of whether to interpret the remark as friendly or ingenuous.

“I know nothing about them. I can hardly tell the difference between lettuce and tomatoes. I’m a city man, from Naples.”

“So how did you end up here?”

“If you want to get on and earn a bit more, you’ve got to put up with some time in Purgatory. At least it’s quiet round here, and you don’t run risks. Apart from the climate!”

“It’s become a bit more risky of late, has it not?”

The maresciallo glanced over his shoulder before saying, “I
am
a bit worried about this situation.”

“You’ll know more about it than me.”

“Not at all. When I was talking to the mayor, it occurred to me that I ought to ask your advice, seeing you’re from these parts and you’re off duty at the moment. After all, even if they all respect me, I’m still a carabiniere officer from the south of Italy. You get my point?”

Soneri nodded. “Don’t imagine I’m any better off. The only advantage I have over you is that I understand the dialect and I know the names of the mountains and some of the places. I’ve been away from here too long.”

Crisafulli pointed to the
Rivara
. “Would you like a coffee?”

Soneri gave a distracted nod before asking, “Have you seen Paride?”

“I haven’t personally, but my colleagues are out looking for him. The family say he’s in his house, but that he’s too upset over his father’s death and won’t answer either the door or the telephone.”

Soneri made no reply as the barman placed a cup of espresso before each of them.

The maresciallo started up again. “What worries me is not so much what has happened to the Rodolfis. It’s all the rest.”

“The village has the feel of a place awaiting sentence,” the commissario said, lighting upon an image connected with the work of both men.

Crisafulli allowed a smile to flicker briefly on his lips. “They’re all scared shitless. They’re afraid of anything that
might happen to the Rodolfis; and their well-being is tied up with the fate of the Rodolfi family.”

“They’re in deep trouble now that the old man has hanged himself.”

“Palmiro hasn’t been in charge for some while now. It’s his son who’s been running the business.”

“And once he gets over the shock, he’ll pick himself up and it’s business as usual, isn’t that right?”

The maresciallo drank his coffee in one gulp, put down the cup and looked out at the dying day. “Commissario, maybe it is as you say, but you know perfectly well that it doesn’t add up. Don’t those posters make you wonder? And wasn’t it strange how the old man disappeared, then turned up, and then hanged himself from a noose he made for himself? And what about those gunshots? We’re not deaf.”

“I was witness myself to one of those shots only yesterday. It missed me by a couple of metres.”

“Where?” said the maresciallo in evident alarm.

“Above Boldara,” Soneri said, noting that the maresciallo had no idea where Boldara was.

“You see? And each time we’ve investigated, we have not been able to find one single clue. Never even an empty shell.”

“Listen, Crisafulli, I agree with you that the whole business is troubling, but you know as well as I do that all this is just so much hot air until you have got proof that someone is actually committing a crime.”

“Of course I know that, and that’s exactly why I am asking you for advice, maybe even to give a hand. I am afraid that something really serious is going to happen here, do you understand?” He spoke in a whisper to prevent anyone overhearing. “Prevention is better than cure, don’t you think?”

Soneri nodded. “If you’re sick, you go and consult a doctor,
but who is there for people around here to consult?”

“No-one. Maybe I worry too much, but if you could see your way to…”

Soneri finished his coffee, pushed the cup out of his way, put his elbows on the table, leaned over towards Crisafulli and said in a low voice, “What do you know about the Rodolfis?”

“I have been hearing that for a good while salaries have not been paid on time, but each and every one of the people who works for them denies that there’s anything amiss. They say it’s always been that way, that there’s more work than ever, both in the abattoir and in the meat-curing plant. There was talk of speculations on the stock market going badly, but nothing has turned up in reports from colleagues who operate in the financial sector.”

“What about Paride’s son? They say he’s a complete wastrel.”

“People exaggerate. He’s a spoiled brat who squanders money on cars and gets up to various kinds of mischief, but I don’t think he’s any different from other rich men’s sons.”

“Well then, what is there to investigate?” Soneri said, with a touch of relief in his voice. “I said as much to the mayor. It looks to me like a familiar situation. A village where gossip is rife and now it has a couple of mysteries to feed on.”

Crisafulli wriggled uncomfortably in his seat, unconvinced but incapable of putting his doubts into words.

Maini, Rivara and his son were all silent too, giving Soneri the unpleasant feeling of being under observation. The maresciallo rose to his feet, picked up his cap and stretched out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said, but there was no concealing his disappointment. “Drop by the police station some time.”

The commissario watched him leave, marching out as though he were on a parade ground. He thought about how deeply feelings counted in an enquiry. The problem was that
even if your feelings kept you focused, they were liable to evaporate under cross-questioning. As he saw Crisafulli disappear in the mists on the piazza, he imagined his state of mind. He himself had often been in that same condition of anxiety, expecting something dire to happen. It was like waiting for a sneeze that did not come, feeling a symptom without an illness or groping for a handhold before a fall.

His stomach rumbled, causing him to jump to his feet. He looked over at the others and saw the bar in a new light, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep. He remembered he had had only a light lunch of parmesan and
prosciutto
, and decided it was time to move on to the
Scoiattolo
.

Half the dining area was sunk in darkness. Two men were immersed in an intense conversation at one of the few tables which had been laid. Sante had the same worried air as that morning and displayed the same awkward concern. After finishing off their dish of wild boar and polenta, the only other two diners left. Sante was now fluttering nervously around Soneri like a planet on an irregular orbit. Finally, he sat down opposite him, looked hard at him and asked, “What did you do with your mushrooms?”

The commissario was taken aback by the question, particularly since it was spoken in a whisper, as though they were in a sacristy. “I threw them into a ditch,” he said lightly.

He had the impression that Sante breathed a sigh of relief. “People believe that they’re a warning of evil times, and with this business over Palmiro … I’ve never believed all that nonsense myself, but you’re the first person who’s found ‘trumpets of death’ this year, and on the very day he put a rope round his neck.”

“I never thought of you as superstitious. They’re just mushrooms like any others. And they’re very tasty,” Soneri sought to reassure him.

“A lot of people here in the village pull them out of the ground the moment they see them. They say it brings good luck and wards off misfortune.”

“Rubbish!”

Sante stared at him, doubtful but desperate to be convinced. Soneri took out his cigars and offered one to Sante. They lit them from the same match, turning them slowly around the flame and then sitting in silence to savour the aroma. For the moment, no words were needed, but the silence soon became oppressive, and sitting face to face became embarrassing. If Sante chose to remain there, he must have a reason, but Soneri had no inkling of what he wanted to say. Once again, he was dealing with impressions, the very things which tormented Crisafulli. He was sure there was something Sante wanted to talk to him about, but he knew that if he asked him, he would immediately deny it, leaving the commissario, like Crisafulli, burdened by feelings but having no proof.

The arrival of Ida from the kitchen put an end to the awkwardness.

“Not much doing this evening,” Soneri said.

“Everybody’s in such a rush. There’s not been much work for a few weeks now, but I’ve no idea why.”

“A dead period.”

“Well, who knows? There really never are dead periods, it just looks as though people have given up eating. There are even fewer lorry-drivers around. You would swear they’ve changed their routes.”

“And this all happened only recently?”

The two of them looked at each other in silence, until Ida took the initiative. “The problems started when word got out about the Rodolfis.”

“What have they got to do with it?”

“They’re very important here, for the economy especially.”

Soneri nodded, while Ida looked at her husband with growing anxiety. She was clearly in a hurry, but to do what? Sante peered at her nervously, but something prevented him from speaking.

“The money…” he began, but the words seemed to choke him. He blushed and his voice trailed off.

His wife was obviously keen to take up the story, but she bit her tongue. Respect for deep-seated traditions meant that it had to be the husband who did the talking. Sante made one more attempt, but seemed to be restrained by the complexity of what he had to say as well as by some sort of shame. Finally, his wife burst out, “Come on, tell him the whole story.”

Under pressure, the man started to mumble. “I’ve been trying to tell him ever since he arrived.”

The commissario made a gesture to encourage him to go on.

“It’s to do with money,” Sante said.

Another gesture from Soneri, meaning to convey that he had guessed as much all along. “Money or sex,” was the endlessly repeated mantra of Nanetti, head of the forensic squad: that’s what it always came down to.

“In this village, everyone knows everybody else, there’s trust…” Sante began again, following a delicate line of thought which was probably so intricate it could not be set out without some confusion.

Ida gave her husband an angry look, and Soneri too found himself becoming impatient with this stopping and starting, but Sante still needed a long run up before he was able to leap forward.

“We all trust them,” he said, picking his way with great care.

“The fact is, we gave him some money,” Ida said, with an abruptness which sounded like a slap in the face.

Her husband was grateful for her help. “Have you ever heard of ‘nursemaid’ money?” he asked, finally free of embarrassment.

Soneri nodded. “A form of loan.”

“That’s right,” Sante said, pointing with a finger as though the money were lying in front of them on the table.

“And now you’re all worried about your money?”

“We still have trust, but all these rumours…”

“Did you give him a lot of money?”

Sante looked up at his wife, furrowing his brow as though he had endured a stab of pain.

“Yes, a lot,” he said, without specifying the amount. “And we weren’t the only ones,” he added, as though that were an excuse.

“Who else?”

“Many people, more than you could imagine. But there’s no point in you trying to draw up a list, because they’d never tell you.”

“Why should they not?”

“People never talk about their own affairs.”

“But you have.”

“You’re from these parts, even if you’ve no idea what life around here is like nowadays. Besides, we’re relatives, distant relatives, but still relatives.”

The commissario nodded again, knowing he would never have been able to trace the contorted links between the families.

“In spite of that, it’s not easy for me to talk. It’s that the very thought…”

“I don’t see why.”

“Because I feel I’ve made a wretched mess of everything,” Sante burst out, with despair in his eyes.