Dead Lagoon - 4 (19 page)

He watched her rewind the tape once more, disconnect the microphone and press the red button. Then he got his coat and hat and walked out. The existence of any record of his interview with Giulio Bon was now a threat to Zen, since the questions he had asked contained numerous clues to the real reason for his presence in the city. That was why he had been so concerned to stop it falling into the hands of Carlo Berengo Gorin, especially if Zen’s idea about how the lawyer had come to be summoned to the Questura proved to be correct. In that case the fighting was going to get very dirty indeed.

Zen walked quickly downstairs to the first floor, where he stopped to read the montage of typewritten announcements pinned to the staff noticeboard. Most concerned minor changes to rotas and shift schedules, and were of limited interest even to permanent staff, but Zen was apparently so absorbed by them that he did not even glance round when a door opened further along the corridor.

‘… again, Carlo.’

‘No problem.’

‘See you on Saturday, then.’

‘
Ciao
, Enzo.’

‘
Ciao
.’

Footsteps started along the marble flooring. Zen moved his head towards a notice pinned at the extreme right-hand edge of the board. He glanced briefly along the corridor, then turned his back on the two men, closing his eyes to study the image they retained: Carlo Berengo Gorin striding towards him consulting his watch while Enzo Gavagnin rolled up his shirt sleeves and stepped back into his office.

Once the lawyer had started downstairs, humming quietly to himself, Zen walked along the corridor until he heard the unmistakable tones of Gavagnin’s voice.

‘… one more time,
Filippino mio
, just to make quite sure we understand each other. I wouldn’t trust you to be able to find your own arsehole without a map, and I don’t want there to be any mistake about this, know what I mean?’

Just then someone came out of an office further along the corridor. Zen turned and walked away, his lips contorted in a bitter smile.

The sickly light outside was quickly giving up the ghost, and it seemed to have got even colder. Zen turned left, past the separate building occupied by the Squadra Mobile. A pigeon came winging towards him as though intending to smash into his face, then banked aside at the last minute and came to rest on a wall tipped with broken fragments of green glass. Zen crossed the canal, passed a line of plane trees, their bark flaking like old paint, and entered the dingy bar on the corner opposite.

He ordered a coffee, fighting the temptation to ask for a shot of grappa, and sat down at a red plastic table with a view of the entrance to the Questura, where he studied his reflection in the darkening glass. There was no trace of the fury seething within. It was bad enough to have a hundred-thousand-lire-per-hour lawyer stick his nose into a case that had just been starting to show promising signs of getting somewhere. It was even worse to discover that the lawyer in question was ignorant of his client’s name, and must therefore have been retained by someone else. But worst of all was the realization that this someone else was himself a policeman.

It was perfectly clear what must have happened. Enzo Gavagnin had witnessed Bon’s arrival at the Questura, either by chance or because he had been tipped off by Bon. He had taken violent exception to his friend’s detention, and when he failed to bully Zen into backtracking he had called in Carlo Berengo Gorin. That Zen was not prepared to swallow. Being obstructed and frustrated at every turn by politicians, judges, journalists and
mafiosi
was all part of the job, but when your own colleagues started to undermine your efforts that was something which had to be avenged. It remained to be seen just how much damage Zen could do in return, but at least he knew where to start. He glanced at his watch. Just after five. He had about an hour to wait.

By the time the lone figure finally emerged into the harsh brilliance of the security lights mounted above the entrance to the Questura, Zen had consumed three cups of coffee, five cigarettes and read the previous day’s issue of
Il Gazzettino
from cover to cover. The man was wearing a brown padded jacket, jeans and leather work-boots. Zen recognized him at once from the photograph he had seen in the local newspaper that morning. When he emerged on to the quay, the man was almost out of sight in the darkness, but by running along the canal to the next bridge he was able to catch up before they reached the busy streets around Campo Santa Zaccaria.

After that it was easy. The man walked steadily, without stopping or looking round, until they emerged from the network of alleys on to the broad promenade of the Riva degli Schiavoni. Here he crossed to one of the ACTV kiosks and bought a ferry ticket. Zen followed him down the walkway to the landing stage, where a crowd of passengers stood clutching bulging shopping bags, holding children or reading papers. He took up a position directly opposite the man he was following, making no attempt to conceal his presence. The man was in his early thirties, quite short and slight, with a shock of greying hair, protuberant ears and a perpetually surprised look. He moved with the fluid, restrained, vaguely simian gestures of the sailor, as though the ground might start to pitch and roll beneath his feet at any moment.

A waterbus bound for the railway station lurched alongside, but the man stayed put. He and Zen were one of only five people left after the number 8 set off towards the distant lights of San Giorgio, passing the incoming number 5, which they both boarded. The man took a seat in the bow section. Zen sat on the bench opposite. The man looked him over without interest. The
vaporetto
continued its circuit of the city, calling at the Arsenale, the gas works at Celestia and the hospital just beyond. The next stop was Fondamente Nove, where the man got off.

The quayside was packed with commuters on their way home. Zen stuck close to his quarry as he shouldered his way through the throng towards the lights of the bar. Here he consumed a ham roll and a glass of beer, while Zen had another coffee and a cigarette. Again their eyes crossed, and this time the man held Zen’s gaze briefly. The television behind the bar showed puffs of smoke rising from a small town set in a wooded, mountainous landscape.

‘… brought to fifty-five the number of deaths in the Muslim enclave during the recent fighting,’ the news-caster announced. ‘A spokesman for the Bosnian Serbs denied allegations that a new campaign of ethnic cleansing was underway …’

Outside, a ship’s hooter sounded a long blast. The man finished his beer and made for the door. He barged through the crowds to the gangway marked 12 and boarded the white steamer moored there. He made his way to the forward saloon and sat staring straight ahead while the vessel shuddered off across the shallow strait towards Murano. As they cast off from the quay by the lighthouse, he got up and went out on deck.

In the far distance, a train moved slowly across the invisible bridge to the mainland like an enormous glowworm. The man took out a packet of cigarettes, extracted one and put it between his lips. He was still fumbling in his pocket for his matches when a flame suddenly appeared in front of his face. He whirled round, his eyes full of terror.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Aurelio Zen released the catch of his lighter, restoring the darkness.

‘What did you tell them,
Filippino mio?’
he murmured.

‘Nothing! I told them nothing!’

The words were spat out. Zen produced the flame again and scrutinized the man’s face.

‘Yes, but did they believe you?’

Filippo Sfriso laughed bitterly.

‘The cops don’t give a tinker’s fuck what happened to Giacomo!’

Zen applied the flame to the tip of the man’s cigarette.

‘Then why pull you in, Filippo? Why hold you so long?’

Sfriso inhaled deeply.

‘To make sure I got the message.’

‘What message?’

This time Sfriso’s laugh had an even more mordant edge.

‘You should know!’

Zen lit one of his own cigarettes. The two men eyed each other in the brief interval of light.

‘Don’t play games with me, Filippo,’ murmured Zen menacingly.

‘Games? You’re the one who’s playing games! Pretending not to know what’s going on when you’re the ones pulling the strings!’

He broke off, gasping for breath.

‘Enough, all right?’ he went on dully. ‘You’ve made your point. Do you think I wouldn’t hand the stuff over if I knew where it was? What am I supposed to do with something like that? I don’t know how to sell it or what to charge. What do you think I should charge? How much is my brother’s life worth? What’s the going rate?’

His voice rose again, a ragged yelp raw with pain and hatred.

‘You bastards! You never believed him, did you? You thought he was playing games too. Bastards! Giacomo was my brother. I know when he was lying, and this was no lie. What he said was true! He saw a dead man standing up as straight as you or I, with rats gnawing his chest and a mess of maggots in his eyesockets. He lost his nerve, just as you or I would have done if we’d seen something like that, in that place, at that time of night. He dropped the stuff and ran for his life, and neither of us have been able to find it again. That’s the
truth
!’

He broke off again, near to tears. When at length he resumed, it was in a raucous whisper.

‘But you didn’t believe him. So you tortured him, holding him down in a tub of water for minutes at a time, until you overdid it and he drowned. And then you set your bent policemen on me to make sure I went along with your story that his death was an accident. Just fuck off, will you? Kill me too if you want, but while I’m still alive let me grieve in peace.’

He tossed his cigarette overboard and strode back to the lights and warmth of the saloon, leaving Zen alone in the seething dark studded with faint, misleading beacons.

It was late when Zen got back to the city. He walked home feeling tired, cold and dispirited. Despite his best efforts, everything kept going wrong. His encounter with Filippo Sfriso had merely served to emphasize the degree to which he was out of his depth. The idea had been to shake Sfriso till he rattled and see what tumbled out, in hopes of uncovering something he could use to get even with Enzo Gavagnin. But in the event it had been Zen who had been shaken to the core by what Sfriso had told him, and still more by what he had evidently assumed Zen already knew.

At best Zen had been hoping to come up with some information which, given the right presentation and packaging, would make Gavagnin look foolish or incompetent in the eyes of his superiors at the Questura. Valentini had remarked that Gavagnin had gone out on a limb over the Sfriso case; Zen’s idea was to saw through the branch behind him. Gavagnin was already vulnerable to a charge of procedural irregularity in wresting the case away from a colleague and then detaining the brother of the drowned man for two days without any apparent evidence that foul play was involved. All that had been needed to complete his discomfiture were a few piquant details such as Filippo Sfriso should have been well placed – and amply motivated – to supply.

Instead of which the Buranese, assuming that Zen was one of the people ‘pulling the strings’, had turned the official version of the case inside out. Not only had Giacomo Sfriso been murdered, but Enzo Gavagnin was apparently acting on behalf of his killers. That was not at all what Zen had wanted. His intention had been to leave Gavagnin with egg on his face, not facing disciplinary proceedings which might result in a fifteen-year jail sentence. Besides, nothing could be proved. Even if Filippo Sfriso could be persuaded to make public his allegations, it would still come down to the word of a common fisherman against that of a senior police officer.

Zen entered a small square whose sealed well had been replaced by a standpipe. The tap was dribbling water into a red plastic bucket from which a mangy cat was drinking. The animal fled as Zen approached, cowering in the shadows to watch him pass. Suddenly a church clock started to strike the hour, nine clangorous blows which served to turn Zen’s thoughts to the evening before him.

It offered little consolation. His arrangement with Cristiana had clearly fallen through. He had warned her that he might be late, but at the time he had had no idea just how much he would be delayed. There was nothing to eat or drink in the house, and by now the shops were all closed. Even the restaurants would be starting to shut their doors, except for the youth-oriented
pizzerie
such as the one he and Cristiana had visited the night before, and the prospect of going there without her seemed too grim to contemplate.

He unconsciously slowed his pace the closer he got to his destination, as though trying to delay the inevitable. But all too soon he found himself standing before his own front door. Having tried and failed to think of any alternative, he dug out his keys and went in. The air inside reeked of the damp seeping up through the stone flooring from the waterlogged soil beneath the houses. Zen checked the metal letterbox, which contained an advertising flyer and a dead leaf, and then stomped wearily upstairs. He had not felt so low since the night he arrived.

He opened the door to the living room and was about to switch on the light when he noticed that the darkness in the room was not quite complete. The woman sitting on the sofa laid down the book she had been reading and rose to her feet with a smile.

‘Cristiana!’ he cried.

He smiled with pleasure and amazement.

‘You
are
late,’ she said, in a tone devoid of reproach.

‘I had no idea you were here or I’d have phoned,’ he said, taking off his coat. ‘But I thought you’d have gone home ages ago.’

‘I don’t really have a home.’

‘At your mother’s, I mean.’

She shrugged, walking towards him.

‘Mamma is wonderful, but I feel like a child around her.’

‘You’re not a child.’

She nodded, holding his eyes.

‘And while being an adult has its drawbacks, the great advantage is that you can do what you like.’