Persona Non Grata (15 page)

“Did you get anything from her?”

“From Ciuffi?”

“Did you get anything from the raped woman?—Signorina Podestà?”

“Not an ideal witness, I’m afraid. Best to use the kid-glove approach.”

“You think she was raped?”

“Ciuffi does.”

They were standing at the entrance of the Questura. Outside the sun shone on the city. A couple of students—girls who had primly tucked their skirts under their saddles—cycled slowly along Strada Nuova.

Italia felix.

Maserati touched Trotti’s arm and said, “Shouldn’t take more than five minutes …” For a brief instant their eyes met.

“As much time as you want, Maserati.”

They went back into the building and took the new lift. The two men stood in silence without looking at each other. There was the smell of mint on Maserati’s breath. Then the sliding doors drew apart and, from the interior of the lift, Maserati unlocked the heavy door.

“I’ll also be needing a general search put out.”

“Who for?”

“An old partisan …” Trotti let the breath escape noisily from his lungs. “Who hasn’t even got a record.”

They entered the basement and Maserati’s antiseptic World of Science.

“What do you want him for?”

“Somebody thinks he might be connected with a series of killings. Killings up in the hills.”

“A bit out of our jurisdiction, Commissario?”

Trotti did not reply. In the last year, the basement had been completely reorganized and renovated. The archives had been put on to microfiles and in the place of the old shelves—Trotti could remember them bulging with beige files gathering dust—there were now metallic cupboards, painted a functional, impersonal grey.

They had also installed several fire extinguishers and a telephone on the wall.

Maserati walked across the rubberized floor and sat down on a stool in front of a screen. He turned on a switch and the console bleeped.

He typed out several words on the screen. Trotti recognized the name Vardin.

The air-conditioning was chill.

“Somebody’s been lying.” A little laugh. “If you want my opinion.”

“I would have thought, with all the wonders of technology, it shouldn’t be difficult to find out who’s lying and who’s telling the truth.” Trotti pulled up the stool beside Maserati. He noticed that the younger man’s clothes had acquired the same antiseptic smell as the basement.

“Lie detectors? You can’t really trust them. The Americans went overboard for polygraphs. But of course the polygraph doesn’t actually detect lies—it simply detects signs of emotion. You can pick up the same signs in facial expressions, gestures and voice. To be fair, the polygraph can give a better than fifty-fifty chance of determining if somebody is lying. But that means you can be fifty per cent wrong.” He shrugged. “After a while the Americans realized they were sending too many innocent people to the electric chair.” A series of electronic bleeps, signals that exploded and then vanished from the screen. “Here. This is the picture we got of the attacker.”

“Wasn’t there talk of your going to America for a course?”

“Who needs America, Commissario? When we Italians put our minds to it, we don’t need Americans.”

Trotti looked at the green image on the screen. “The attacker of the Vardin girl? You’ve already given me copies.”

Maserati gave an imperceptible nod. His eyes were on the monitor. “Laura’s father said he didn’t see the attacker properly. But once Cardano and I started asking him questions, he managed to remember well enough. He was a good witness to work with …”

“But?”

“I couldn’t help wondering if he was making things up. Just to please us.” He tapped the screen where a face had already appeared. “If you want, we can move the face around, get a different angle.” He pressed one of the keys on the computer.

“Impressive.”

“An Italian program. For once it’s us who are selling to the Japanese and the Americans. Devised by the criminology department at the University of Pisa.” He nodded enthusiastically
towards the screen. “You see, if you want, this is a picture of the whole body—it gives an idea of the man’s age and build.” On the monitor, there appeared the silhouette of the human figure. “And this is the composite picture we’ve sent out. Over the phone.” He got up and went to a filing basket that stood on the tabletop. Maserati had forgotten about his lunchtime appointment. His entire attention was upon the work in hand. He gave Trotti a sheet of paper on which the screen picture had been printed.

“You’ve already given me copies,” Trotti said.

“But this is the other picture.” He returned to his seat and the screen went blank. “The identikit from the girl … Signorina Podestà.” He turned and gave Trotti an unnatural leer. “I felt that Podestà’s own face could do with a bit of rearranging.” He tapped the computer. “With this program, you’ve got five degrees of exorbitant eyes.” A laugh that Trotti found unpleasant. “Poor thing, I could make her a bit more presentable—with this Pisa program. Straighten out the nose, put the eyes back into her skull. And a completely different figure. Then perhaps she could find a man who’d give her what she needs. And she’d stop bothering us with her sexual fantasies.”

The picture had come up on the screen.

He shook his head. “She says she threw the attacker off her and then he got up and escaped.” Maserati laughed. “Woman of the twentieth century—that’s what she called herself.”

Trotti nodded.

“Of course, there was little to go on. Both Cardano and I felt that she was making things up. But not like Vardin—it wasn’t that she was trying to please us. It was more … I don’t know … more personal.”

Trotti waited.

“Here’s the printout.”

Trotti took the second sheet of paper that Maserati handed him and compared the two faces.

“You see, Commissario—either one of them is making things up. Or else there are two rapists at large in this city.”

T
HE GATES OPENED
and, turning slightly, Trotti glanced at Ciuffi sitting in the car. She gave him a little smile and a wave as he entered the barracks.

A conscript in ill-fitting trousers and heavy boots accompanied him. They crossed a courtyard.

Several vehicles painted in khaki and the letters EI in red on the white number plates. Esercito Italiano—the Italian army. Part of NATO, an integral part of the West’s defense.

Trotti looked at the somnolent buildings, at the billowing, grubby curtains, at the chipped ocher paintwork and he smiled to himself. If the Russians were to come now, there would not be much of a fight. They would find the soldiers of the Caserma Cairoli preparing for lunch. The smell of tomatoes and onions hung in the air and from the open windows of the cookhouse came the sound of casseroles being banged together; someone shouting in a dialect that Trotti could not understand; guffaws of laughter.

Trotti followed the soldier up a couple of flights of stairs.

Architecturally, the building was part Habsburg, part Italian Miracle. Along the long corridor, the smell of tomatoes and pasta was less pervasive. The plasterwork had been painted a dark ocher. Several framed photographs on the wall—pictures of soldiers in action or training, stun guns in hand and berets pulled menacingly down to one side—had turned a pale grey with the passage of time.

They came to a door. The conscript raised his hand, grinned at Trotti, knocked deferentially, opened the door, saluted and then disappeared.

Trotti entered the office.

“You phoned, Commissario.” The man half-rose from his chair, and then inelegantly dropped back on to it.

Colonello Vincenzo was a large, florid man with fat cheeks and broken blood vessels. The cotton shirt had lost both its gloss and its creases. The collar bit into the bulging flesh of the neck.

They shook hands. “It’s very good of you to receive me like this, Signor Colonello.”

“Even though the PS is no longer a military force.”

Trotti shrugged. “Mere civilians, I’m afraid.”

“And perhaps it is better that way,” replied the soldier. There were orange hairs on the back of his large hands. “As a civilian force, the Pubblica Sicurezza can better complement the Carabinieri, who remain part of the army.”

“It is not always easy for the two police forces to collaborate. On both sides, there is a feeling that we have a different job to do, a different way of doing it.”

“Of course.” Colonello Vincenzo glanced at his gold Rolex watch. “How can I be of use to you?”

Trotti could almost hear the man’s belly rumbling.

He took the identikit from his pocket. “A rapist who has already attacked a middle-aged woman. This is a graphic transcription of her identification. As you can see, the man would appear to be fairly young.”

“Ah, I think I read something in the paper.” He took the identikit and frowned at it. “Please sit down, Commissario.”

Trotti lowered himself on to a wooden chair. The leather upholstery was worn and had lost its color.

“You think that one of my men …” He frowned as he studied the rumpled identikit. “You think that one of my men is involved? Is that it?”

“Three nights ago, a little girl was attacked in her bed. Attacked with a knife.” He nodded towards the piece of paper. “The identikit would give the rapist the age of twenty-one or -two.”

“I am not an unreasonable man, Commissario. I am willing to admit that soldiers can get a bit, well, sex-starved. Except for a few officers and NCOS, I’ve got nothing but conscripts under my command. Good boys—but lonely away from home, away from the people they love. More than fifty per cent of the men are from the south—south of Rome. Away from home and lonely at an age when sexually …” A cough, he put his hand to his mouth. “But I don’t see why you come here. Do you think that one of my men is this … is this rapist?”

“We cannot afford to leave any stone unturned.”

The head to one side in a gesture of acquiescence, the thick hands fanning out on the desk. “But I fail to understand …”

“You say you’ve been reading the paper.”

“I am a busy man.”

“The
Provincia
has been putting the story on the front page—talking of a monster, of a mad sex maniac at large.”

The Colonello gave an indulgent smile.

“The last thing I want in this city is mass hysteria.”

“You can always tell the
Provincia
to lay off, Commissario.”

“I want to get the whole thing sorted out as fast as possible. That’s why I need your cooperation, Signor Colonello.”

“See the
Provincia
.”

“One of the basic tenets of democracy is the freedom of the press.”

Again the indulgent smile. “A strange idea of democracy.”

“We have to live with the press.”

The man was about to say something. Trotti noticed the hesitation.

“A drink, Commissario?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Would you care for a drink?”

Trotti smiled and shook his head. “I’ll be going for lunch in a minute.”

“You can have lunch here in the officers’ mess.”

“You are very kind.”

There was an old Savoy flag on the wall; it had been flattened and placed in a glass frame. The edge of the flag was badly frayed.

“I want to help you of course, Commissario.”

Trotti took the buckle from his pocket and placed it on the edge of the desk. “A woman who claims she was raped says she found this under the bed. She claims that it was left by her attacker.”

“A belt?” The large face cracked into a smile.

“She lives about two hundred yards from here.”

“A standard army buckle—of the type that anybody can buy in any surplus store from Palermo to Padua—and you believe that the rapist is one of my men.” Colonello Vincenzo placed both hands on to the desk.

The ginger hairs on the back of the hands had been shaved and formed a thick stubble.

“Commissario. Please—let us be serious.”

“You recognize it as standard army issue?”

“This is how you undertake an investigation?”

“What do you know about police investigative methods?”

The red face hardened, the lips pursed. “I have a minimum of common sense.”

“So do I, Signor Colonello. But I also have a city to protect. You do understand. Somewhere in the city is a rapist—and the identikit and this buckle are the only clues I have to go on. It is not much and please smile if you choose. By all means laugh if you think that the PS is no more than a bunch of stupid civilians—I won’t stop you. But I ask you for just one thing. Not for me, not for the PS, but for the city—for the women of this city. Signor Colonello, I ask for your help. For your cooperation.”

“I
DON
’
T UNDERSTAND
why you don’t want to look for Vardin.”

“There’s no hurry.”

“But he took his gun. Without telling his wife.”

Trotti played with the starched napkin. “There are a lot of things a man doesn’t tell his wife.”

“You think Vardin has been receiving threats.”

“Perhaps.”

“I don’t understand you, Commissario.”

“A minute ago you were calling me Piero. I was beginning to get used to it.”

“At last we’ve got a motive for the attack on the little girl. But all of a sudden, you seem to lose interest.” She shook her head, as if she failed to understand Trotti’s obduracy. “Galandra comes out of jail after a seven-year sentence. Seven years is time enough to work out a way of getting revenge. Revenge on the man who put him there in the first place.” She stopped, ripped the end off the packet of grissini and started nibbling nervously at the long stick of bread. “You’re not listening, are you?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You’re thinking about something else.”

“I don’t think I really like pizza.” He shrugged.

She sat back and folded her arms. Her chest rose and fell. “I’ve been working for you for nine months.”

They were sitting on the terrace, beneath the awning.

Trotti turned and looked towards the interior of the pizzeria. A cook in a singlet and a paper hat on his head stood in front of the open oven. From time to time he slid his flat spade under the embers and removed a pizza that he placed, perfectly round and steaming, on to a marble tabletop. Nimble-footed waiters—short-sleeved white shirts and thin bow ties—ferried the pizzas to the diners waiting in the red-tinted shade of the stretched canvas outside.