The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (9 page)

“But you are sure she was more fond of the other one?”

Baldi gave a guffaw and rose to his feet. He produced a bottle of Malvasia and two glasses. “When they’re pitched against self-interest, fine feelings are as much good as a two in a card game. A pretty face has its value, doesn’t it? Why undersell it?”

This time it was the commissario’s turn to shrug. “Money can’t make up for an unhappy life.”

“You get used to anything,” snorted Baldi. “Humans are the most adaptable of all animals.”

“Anyway, the Woodsman took it badly.”

“Very badly. He believed she wanted him. And also because for the first time the companion with whom he had shared so much had stolen something important from him. But what really got him was the realisation that the two of them were different. Palmiro’s thoughts were elsewhere, on his business in the big city, on buying pigs and selling
prosciutto.
The Woodsman, on the other hand, imagined that the bond formed when they both had nothing would never be broken. The result was that he never really grew out of adolescence, while Palmiro became harder and more dour as he focused more and more on his own interests.”

“It’s always that way with people who have feelings and people who only care about things,” Soneri said, his eyes still fixed on the lake and its smooth surface with its light veil of mist.

Baldi gave another laugh. “I’ve never been persuaded by all this talk of feelings. The Woodsman was on heat for Evelina, and she had the same effect on the other two. That’s all there was to it. Nobody in this world ever wants to call things by their proper name, so we have all this drivel about love and rubbish of that sort.”

Soneri reflected for a moment, and was disconcerted to find himself largely in agreement. When he thought of Angela, he could not conceal from himself the physical desire he felt for her, but he had never really understood what love was and where it differed from simple liking. There was no more ambiguous or trite word in the language.

He sat lost in thought for a few moments, while Baldi poured them what was left of the Malvasia and put away the bottle before preparing to close. The commissario looked round the room. The clock on the wall told him it was already one o’clock.

“It’s late. I’ll need to head back down before it’s too dark or too misty to see.”

“You’ve got until four before the dark draws in. With the mist, it’s a more of a gamble.”

At the door, Soneri turned round. “Do you hear the gunshots up here too?”

“Nearly every day. Always from half way down the slope.”

“Do you think it’s poachers, or could it be the Woodsman?”

“Who knows? The Woodsman sets traps and the poachers won’t go out in this mist.”

“So?”

Baldi’s face was expressionless as he gave yet another shrug. “Come back again,” he shouted after him. “I’ll be open for another week at least.”

Soneri struggled to keep his footing. He slipped and slithered downhill towards the huts. The soft ground and the layer
of fallen leaves muffled the sound of his footsteps. He glanced inside as he passed, but there was no sign of a living soul, so he pressed on almost at a run in the direction of the valley until he came to the path over the short grass of the upper mountain. He saw the woods a little way off, and when he entered them, a bank of mist made it almost impossible to see. Everything was a blur, and fear gripped him by the throat. He had no choice but to slow down. He remembered his father’s advice: always keep moving downwards, because every descent leads to a valley where there will be either a stream or a riverbed; follow the water and you are bound to find a house. After walking for about half an hour, the mist suddenly lifted. He had strayed off the path but not by much, so he had no problem finding his way again. He made the best of the remaining daylight, even if it was fading as the afternoon wore on.

He was walking through a copse of chestnut trees when the mist came down again. The drops from the trees were like rainfall, and he could feel the moisture on his moustache. As he was pulling up the hood of his duffel coat, he heard an explosion on the far side of a ridge from which one rock stuck out like a wisdom tooth. The drifting mist parted a little and the commissario quickened his pace to get away from what looked to him like a firing range. He saw a light shining higher up and that increased his alarm. He crouched down, looking in the direction from which the shot seemed to have come, but all he saw were puffs of mist rising, tossing about in the breeze and rubbing against the tops of the trees. He set off again at a run and arrived in Groppo bathed in sweat. When he reached the road, he was exhausted and famished. Back at the
Scoiattolo
, he went straight up to his room.

He found Sante when he came down. He deduced from his expression that he did not have good news to impart. “A new carabiniere has arrived,” he said.

“Officer or lower ranks?”

“A captain.”

Soneri digested this news for a moment. “Does this mean there have been developments?”

“I know nothing, but if they’ve sent someone important, it means there must have been some big developments. And I have no reason to believe that’s good news for us.”

“Maybe Crisafulli wants to wash his hands of the whole business.”

“Could be,” Sante said, but he sounded doubtful. “In addition to all that, another two lorries were here last night and loaded up without the help of local labour.”

“Who saw them?”

“I did. My head was buzzing with all those things I was telling you about, so I couldn’t sleep. I went up to the loft and looked out of the window. I saw them arrive, load up and set off again. Six men in total. All over and done with in less than three hours.”

“The ones who normally work there know nothing about what’s going on?”

“They say it’s business as usual. No change.”

Soneri shook his head, indicating his bewilderment.

Sante changed the subject. “No mushrooms, then?”

“The only ones I found were the ones you don’t like.”

Sante furrowed his brow. “More ‘trumpets of death’? They’re the only ones anyone’s found this year.”

“You all detest them, but there’s at least one person who won’t leave them for the boar.”

“They’re a harbinger of bad times. And in fact…” Sante’s voice trailed off as he raised his hand in an eloquent gesture.

Ida called him into the kitchen. The commissario stood where he was for a few moments, savouring the smells coming from the pots, then went out into the mist with its very
different scents, the scents of the woods. He walked towards the piazza where he saw Maini in conversation with Volpi and Delrio at the window of the
Rivara
bar. Delrio was in uniform and gesticulating wildly. Soneri walked straight on in the hope of finding old Magnani in the
Olmo
. He could not get the story of the Woodsman out of his head, but before he got there, he ran into Crisafulli in the colonnade outside the Comune.

“Just the man I was looking for,” the maresciallo began. “I went to the
Scoiattolo
, but you weren’t there.”

The commissario now understood how Sante had heard about the arrival of the captain. “I was foraging for mushrooms, and doing my best to avoid gunfire,” he said, with a smile on his lips.

Crisafulli knew at once what he was referring to, and was obviously troubled by it. “We heard it too. At 3.24.”

“Do you record them all?”

“We certainly do. We have a file. So far, we’ve counted sixteen, but there might be more. Whoever does the shooting always picks up the shells. We haven’t yet managed to find even one. All we have are some marks on tree trunks made by large-calibre rounds from a hunting rifle.”

“You’ve obviously looked into it deeply. These bullets are not toys. They’re meant to kill.”

“They’re devastating. You should see the poor beasts when they’ve been hit by one. However, that’s not the real news.”

“I hear they’ve sent a captain.”

The maresciallo looked at Soneri in surprise. “Who told you?”

“You told me to be alert, Maresciallo, did you not? I am only obeying orders.”

“After reading my report, they’ve sent along a Captain Bovolenta.” Crisafulli’s tone made it clear that he had no wish to pursue the subject.

“Crisafulli, you are the very first investigator I have met who doesn’t give a damn about his career. This might turn into a really big case, so you should have played it close to your chest. Do you have any idea of how this could all blow up? You might have ended up on television.”

“I’ve got three children, Commissario. This is a great place to bring them up. They’re happy here, and I’m always worried they might transfer me to some big city.”

“You’re right. Who gives a damn?” Soneri said, beginning to like the man. After all, they saw things the same way.

“There’s another reason why the captain is here,” Crisafulli said.

“I guessed as much. I know the carabinieri, and they would never send in an officer unless there was something more to it than an unspecific fear.”

“It seems Paride Rodolfi can’t pay back a loan.”

“To the banks?”

“The banks in their turn have passed the loan on to their clients. Believe me, I’m out of my depth here. Bonds, defaults … it’s Arabic to me. I can hardly understand my own current account.”

“Nor can I. It’s one of the most complicated things on earth,” Soneri conceded. “Does this mean they’re close to bankruptcy?”

“No, the family lawyer put out a statement saying that they will be able to pay. He says it’s only a cash-flow problem and he gave an assurance that the money is there.”

“What’s the name of the Rodolfis’ lawyer?”

“Mario Gennaro.”

“Is there not a managing director, or a chairman?”

“The chairman was Palmiro Rodolfi, and the managing director is his son, Paride.”

“And where is he?”

“To be honest, I have no idea. His wife is still saying he’s in their house in the woods, but I think she’s been lying to us from the outset. Either that, or she doesn’t know herself, considering her stormy relations with her husband. Apparently they went weeks without seeing each other. Their lawyer thinks he might have gone somewhere to resolve this question of the bonds. He believes the company has money in a foreign account in one of those countries where you don’t pay taxes, and he has gone to sort things out.”

“Is it possible that no-one knows anything? Have you spoken to the people who work for the Rodolfis?”

“They say that everything’s above board, and they do seem extraordinarily calm. I had a quiet word with the managers of the branches of the banks in the village and they all insist that the Rodolfi company is in solid shape and that if it gets more funds, it will be in a position to start expanding again. As recently as yesterday, they were selling bonds issued by the company and they were going like hot cakes.”

“It’s either one hell of a mess or else it’s a bubble,” Soneri said.

“At the moment, it’s a bubble, but I’m going to leave it to Bovolenta. That way, if it bursts, he’ll scuttle off, keeping his head down. If it’s a mess, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces,” Crisafulli said, winking at Soneri.

The commissario had believed he was dealing with one of life’s innocents, but now found himself facing a Neapolitan on the make.

The fragrance of the atmosphere in the
Olmo
was a pleasing mixture of the wood fire and the unfiltered cigarettes Magnani was smoking as he dozed behind the bar. This time there were more people there, some leaning their backs against
the wall as if they were in the piazza in summer. When the commissario came in they all fell silent, like schoolboys at the appearance of the teacher. Their expressions were a combination of respect and distrust and that made him feel even more of an outsider in the village where everything made him think of his parents and his childhood. He looked around at faces he recognised, but on which time had laid a crust of suspicious hostility.

“No shortage of customers this evening,” Soneri greeted Magnani.

“In these parts, there’s no hospice so the
Olmo
takes its place,” Magnani sniggered, with a touch of bitterness. “As for me, I’m half-way between the two.”

The commissario waved away this solemn line of thought.

“I’m not much younger than your poor father,” Magnani said.

The phrase struck Soneri. He saw himself once again as a boy in a bar full of young people, holding in his hand the chocolate ice-cream his father would buy him on Saturdays. He bent almost double, as though he had just been punched, and anxiety brought on a pain in his chest like an ache from a bruise, leaving him struggling for a moment to catch his breath.

Magnani noticed this and remained silent, waiting for it to pass. In the room, all the others had gone back to chatting or playing cards.

“This is the first day there’s been no talk of the Rodolfis,” Magnani said, to take Soneri’s mind off his sorrows.

“Has the son been seen?”

“His wife has. She was at the pharmacy and it seems she said Paride would be back in a matter of days. He had to leave suddenly to attend to some urgent business, but he would rather have spent a few days on his own after his father’s death.”

“He’s got problems repaying some loan or other,” the commissario said.

“Huh, that’s a risk we all run…” but he stopped short as another thought darkened his mood. “Last night, three youngsters were killed in a village near here.”

“What happened?”

“Car accident. They were out their minds with drugs. Is there a more stupid way to die?”

“They had their whole lives ahead of them…” the commissario said, in a fatalistic tone. “And then they take some of that stuff…”

“So I’ve heard. I blame the immigrants who’ve brought us nothing but trouble.”

“They can only sell what other people want to buy. I didn’t know that sort of thing went on here.”

“They’ve got everything they could want, but they get bored. The television does their heads in. They’ve never walked as far as the woods in their lives, and they won’t even think about taking up their parents’ businesses. As soon as they can, they’re out of here, and the only ones that stay are the idiots, and not all of them either.”