Big Italy (28 page)

The convicted murderer had not moved. Ugo Rubino sat beside the journalist, his face a mask, his lids almost closed and his hands loosely clasped between his knees. Like a laborer waiting for work in a dusty piazza of Puglia. Only the beret and the acrid cigarette were missing.

“Not really?” Trotti repeated mockingly. “You mentioned Signora Quarenghi, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know her. Never had any reason to meet her. It’s not as if she’s had visions of the Virgin Mary or there were stigmata on her hands and feet.”

“You said something about her to Bassi, didn’t you?”

Gennaro Maluccio bit his lip nervously.

“Well?”

“I’m a journalist,” Maluccio said, “and I get to hear various things. That’s all.”

“That’s all what?”

The hand along the zip was moving faster upwards and downwards. Despite the cold, Gennaro Maluccio was now sweating in his tracksuit. He turned slightly on his chair, revealing the sponsor’s logo—Motta, red letters on a white synthetic background.

“Well?”

Maluccio glanced sideways at the other prisoner; Ugo Rubino simply continued to study the worn carpet.

“What had you heard, Signor Maluccio, about Signora Quarenghi?”

“I happened to mention …”

“Yes?”

“I told Bassi what I’d heard from a couple of sources.”

“Please continue.”

“Her husband …”

“Whose husband?”

“I told Bassi I’d heard Quarenghi was under inquiry. Several weeks ago I heard the rumor. An inquiry coming from Milan, an inquiry under the direction of Abete.”

“Judge Abete?”

“Bassi seemed to think the Turellini dossier had been shelved by Abete. That’s why I told him …”

“Told him what?”

“Abete was working on something.”

“Something to do with Quarenghi?”

“Something to do with Quarenghi’s job in Rome—to do with pharmaceuticals.”

Trotti had forgotten all about the cold in the prison director’s office. Like the journalist, he was sweating in his waxed English jacket.

H
E POPPED A
sweet into his mouth. “What do you think, Pisanelli?”

“It’s Saturday and I’m cold and I want to get home. That’s what I think, commissario.”

“Very interesting.”

“I also wish the bastard in the Volvo behind us would keep out of my exhaust pipe. Must’ve been snowing heavily in the hills because he’s got chains on his wheels.”

“Let him pass.”

Pisanelli laughed without conviction. “Gets any closer and we’ll be producing a hybrid of a Volvo and a Citroën.”

“Tell me what you think.”

“About what?”

“A connection between Bassi’s visit to the journalist and his ending up dead a few hours later?”

Pisanelli shrugged.

“And the doctor?” Trotti asked, irked by Pisanelli’s silence. “You think Dr. Quarenghi’s got anything to do with Bassi’s being killed?”

“How d’you expect me to know?”

“You have an opinion.”

“Too tired to have an opinion.”

“What makes you so tired, Pisanelli? You’re half my age.” Pisanelli said nothing.

“You ever heard anything about an inquiry into Quarenghi’s job at the Ministry?”

“Rome,” Pisanelli said mournfully. “A different planet.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m tired, commissario.”

“You were good, Pisa. You were good with that journalist—you asked the right questions without alienating him. I’m grateful. When you put your mind to it, you’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever worked with.”

“Pleased to hear it.”

“Now tell me why you’re sulking.”

“It’s Saturday night, commissario, and I want to get home.” Pisanelli drove carefully, a lot slower than on the trip down to Alessandria, sitting forward in his seat, peering into the feeble yellow beams that the French car cast on to the treacherous road ahead.

They had left the autostrada and were heading towards Zinasco. It was still snowing and towards the middle of the road, between the lanes, were the beginnings of white drifts. It was cold inside the car but Trotti felt strangely pleased. Perhaps it was because he had always liked snow—anything was better than fog. Or perhaps it was because he believed—he did not quite know why—that soon he would know who had murdered Fabrizio Bassi. Then he could leave for Bologna. For Pioppi and the little Francesca.

Francesca. For Christmas he’d buy his granddaughter a teddy like Pioppi’s old teddy bear at home in via Milano, but with two good eyes.

“You don’t feel we’re getting somewhere?”

“Goodness knows why you care so much about Bassi,” Pisanelli retorted, without taking his eyes off the road.

“An old man’s pride,” Trotti responded.

A sound of irritation. “Even if he was kicked out of the force because he was screwing around, that was his own fault. Bassi was a married man. He had no reason to get involved with another woman.”

“You sound like a priest.”

“Nothing justifies adultery.”

“I can see you’ve never been married.”

“Thanks to you, I’m not likely to be.”

Trotti pretended not to have heard. “Bassi was single. His wife had left him a long time ago. Left him and taken the children.”

“Viscontini’s wife was committing adultery.”

“Perhaps the mayor’s wife was unhappy,” Trotti remarked.

“Signora Viscontini could have gotten a divorce.” Pisanelli briefly took his eyes from the road to appraise Trotti in the light of an oncoming car.

“There was never any talk of her wanting to leave her husband.”

“You ever cheated on your wife?” Pisanelli asked with a sudden earnestness.

“I think tomorrow we’ll have to talk to her, Pisa.”

“You’ll have to talk to her.”

“She’s the key to something.”

“Key to what?”

“No idea but I’m sure you’ll want to accompany me.”

“Tomorrow morning’s Sunday and I’m going to stay in bed.”

Trotti made a dismissive gesture. “You know her?”

“I recognized the photo of Signora Viscontini at Bassi’s place, if that’s what you mean.”

“You met her?”

“Not personally. Not my type. I don’t go for blondes.”

“What do you go for?”

“Thanks to you, commissario, I don’t get either the time or the opportunity.” Pisanelli shook his head and his long hair danced along the collar of the suede jacket. “Even when her husband was mayor—before the Lega Lombarda ever took over the town hall—Signora Viscontini stayed out of the limelight.”

“You knew she was Quarenghi’s sister-in-law?”

“So what?”

“It doesn’t occur to you that there’s a coincidence there?”

“What coincidence?”

“Bassi had been having an affair with Signora Viscontini.”

Pisanelli again raised his shoulders.

“At the same time, the mad Quarenghi woman—Signora Viscontini’s own sister-in-law, her husband’s sister—was possibly the very murderer Bassi was called in to track down?”

“That’s a coincidence?”

“Of course.”

“With such a marvelous coincidence, why did it take Bassi more than a year to identify the murderer?”

“Assuming Bassi did identify the murderer. Which doesn’t necessarily mean Signora Quarenghi killed Turellini.” The heavy zip of his jacket was cold against Trotti’s chin. “But the coincidence seems more than odd.”

“I don’t see any coincidence. Anyway, Signora Quarenghi didn’t fire a gun the day Turellini was murdered.”

“Pisa, there may be a different coincidence. It’s precisely because Bassi took more than a year to get to the truth that he was allowed to live.”

“You’re suggesting Avvocato Regni hired him so that he wouldn’t find the murderer?”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting.”

“You don’t hire somebody to find a murderer and then expect him to do nothing.”

Trotti clicked the sweet noisily against his teeth. “It was precisely when Bassi finally did do something that he got himself killed.”

“You think Avvocato Regni killed Bassi?”

“Just another coincidence,” Trotti said. “Fabrizio Bassi gets killed when he’s found out who killed Turellini.”

“It wasn’t the first time Bassi thought he’d identified the murderer.”

Trotti laughed. “Perhaps at last Bassi’d got it right.”

“He didn’t tell Regni who the murderer was.”

“We’ve only got Regni’s word for that.”

In the distance it was possible to distinguish the overhead lights of Zinasco. They had been repaired since the afternoon’s accident and were now working, beaming their alternating reds and greens through the falling snow.

“Saturday night, commissario,” Pisanelli said wearily. “Why d’you bother?”

“What you need, Pisa, is a good rest. You look terrible.”

“Then perhaps you should stop bullying me into helping you.”

“You enjoy it.”

“An old man’s pride, Commissario Trotti? It’s your old man’s pride that makes you so obsessive about Bassi?”

“I’ve always been obsessive. Or so people tell me.”

“You didn’t always give a shit about Bassi.”

“He came to see me.”

“A lot of people have been to see you over the years. That’s never sent you scurrying across the Po valley in the middle of a snowstorm.”

“Bassi came to see me because he trusted me.”

“I really don’t see what’s so special about Bassi.”

“Bassi was once a cop.”

“The Pavesi couple came to see you about their parents who’ve disappeared. You told them to get lost.”

“Not the same thing.”

“You’d been a friend of their father’s. More of a friend than you’d ever been of Bassi’s.”

“The father’s a shit. A loser, a sycophant and a shit.”

“You refused to help his daughter.”

“Nice girl with big tits, Pisa? Is that what you mean?”

“Why not help the girl look for her parents? The Pavesis are rich.”

“Bassi used to work for me.”

Pisanelli laughed cynically. “Fabrizio Bassi was a fool and you know it, commissario. An idiot who watched more American rubbish on television than was good for him.”

“Bassi was a cop—not a loser with political pretensions.”

“Let’s just suppose Bassi was thrown out of the PS simply because of the Questore’s intervention.” The aggressive tone had disappeared from Pisanelli’s voice. “You know as well as I do Fabrizio Bassi wasn’t exactly the ideal functionary of the state. Never had the reputation of being particularly honest. Or diligent. Not of course that that makes him any different from the rest of us.” A snort of cold amusement. “But in addition, Bassi was a womanizer and a fool. Divorce work was about all he was capable of doing without shooting off his big toe. Or his oversized prick.”

“He’d worked for me.”

“And when he came to see you he offered you money for your help.”

“So what?”

Pisanelli went on. “You didn’t like him, commissario. Like most other people in the Questura, you despised the man. Bassi’s womanizing and his big prick were just part of the problem. Just part of the problem.” Pisanelli hesitated before adding, “Wasn’t there talk of his having an affair with Brigadiere Ciuffi—with your good friend Ornella Ciuffi?”

“Absurd idea.”

“You say you don’t have friends but there are a few people you like.”

“And there are many, many people I don’t like.”

“It was always quite apparent you couldn’t stand Bassi. At the time I thought it was because of Ornella Ciuffi.”

“If all the people I disliked got murdered, the Questura’d be a pretty empty place.”

“Italy’d be a pretty empty place.”

“For your information, Brigadiere Ciuffi was killed long before Bassi left the Questura.”

Pisanelli again glanced hurriedly at Trotti. “As I understand it, Bassi told you there was good money to be earned with the Turellini enquiry.”

“He wanted me to collaborate with him on a permanent basis. I replied I’d be happy enough with my state pension.”

“What you replied to Bassi was before you ever found out about your cousin’s death.”

Trotti laughed.

“Signora Lucchi has a lot of money, commissario.”

“So what?”

“Money that could be useful.”

“I don’t need her money.”

“Money that’d let you buy back the place in Santa Maria.”

“What are you trying to get at?” Trotti laughed awkwardly. “I told you Avvocato Regni offered me money. He even pulled out a fat checkbook.”

“Hope you accepted, commissario.”

Trotti said nothing. He could feel blood rising to his face and he was glad the darkness hid him from Pisanelli’s eyes. “You’re joking, Pisa.”

“You accepted?”

“What do you think?”

“Gave up thinking a long time ago.”

“But you didn’t give up asking foolish questions.” Trotti could not suppress the tremble in his voice which seemed high-pitched and out of character. “I’d like to remind you it was you, Pisanelli, who pulled me out of my warm bed at four o’clock on Friday morning because Bassi’d got himself killed.”

“Sure.”

“Now you’re surprised I continue with the inquiry?” His voice was getting more shrill. “Or perhaps you don’t understand me.”

“I understand you, commissario.”

“For the last few years, I’ve been shunted off to dealing with molested children. Persona non grata, Pisa. But molested children are not what I trained for. That’s not what I’ve got experience in.
That’s not what I am good at—despite what the Questore may say. Despite what that shit Merenda’d like to think. I’m a detective, Tenente Pisanelli. I’ve done some useful work in my time. Now that I’m about to leave the Questura for good, I …”

“You know if you really needed money for your place in the OltrePò there are always ways of getting it.” Pisanelli glanced at Trotti but his companion had fallen silent and was now biting his lip as he stared at the approaching traffic lights.

“Ever thought of marrying some rich widow, commissario?”

“I
STILL THINK
it’s the Englishwoman,” Pisanelli said respectfully.

Trotti did not answer.

“Signora Coddrington, commissario. It’s her voice on the tape. I recognized it.”

Piero Trotti continued to look out of the window as Zinasco fell behind, engulfed in the night. The wipers battled noisily with the large flakes of snow that now struck the windshield.