Persona Non Grata (18 page)

“The doctors tell me that you should be out of here quite soon. I am relieved. You’re a lucky man, Trotti. Lucky to get off with just a broken rib—and slight shock.”

“Gino retires at the end of the year—and his dog is dying. Gino needs a dog to get around. And for the company.”

“You are in no way responsible for what has happened. Brigadiere Ciuffi was murdered in the course of her duty. All very unfortunate. And sad. There can be no question of your being held responsible. We all know that you are not a man to risk the life of your subalterns.”

“Without his job—and without the dog, Gino will have nothing to do—nothing to live for.”

“Ciuffi must have stepped back at the wrong moment.”

“Gino has told …” Trotti lifted his glance. “I beg your pardon?”

“Brigadiere Ciuffi must have stepped back at the wrong moment.” A hesitant cough. “The bullet wasn’t meant for her.”

The smell of the flowers was now sickening. Turning his head, Trotti noticed for the first time there was a box of Swiss chocolates.

“What you need, Trotti, is a rest. Perhaps up in the hills.” An indulgent smile. “Don’t you have a villa on one of the lakes?”

“Lake Garda, Signor Questore.”

“Get away, you need a rest. Go to the lake.”

“I’m afraid …”

“Or perhaps you would like to go to Bologna to be with your daughter.” He smiled. “Dotta e grassa—Bologna, the fat and learned city.”

Trotti took the box of chocolates. A picture of the Dolomites on the lid.

“I spoke to Signorina Trotti this morning over the phone. She is very worried about you. I’m sure you would be doing her a service by staying with her.”

“There are things I have to do.”

A cold edge to his voice. “I don’t think you have anything to do—not immediately.”

“Things to do here,” Trotti said. “Here in the city.”

“No, Trotti—I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

“Signor Questore—”

The Questore held up his small hand. “Be reasonable.” He tried unsuccessfully to return the smile to his face. “I know you too well. I know you better than you know yourself, Trotti. And I know what happened between you and Leonardelli.” The Questore glanced at the box of chocolates. “I have nothing but respect for you. You are an honest man.”

“A chocolate, Signor Questore?”

“Honest—but rash. And at the present moment, with all of Italy watching us, I cannot allow any lapse of diplomacy.”

Trotti was silent.

“You do understand, Trotti, why I’m putting Commissario Merenda in charge of the police enquiries?”

“Merenda?”

“Two months, three months. A well-deserved rest. Time enough for your rib to heal. Time enough for you to get over …” The Questore leaned forward, placing his arms on the neat creases of his trousers. “I understand how you feel about Ciuffi. We are all upset about her. She was a woman—but she was more than that. Brigadiere Ciuffi was one of us. A good man—one of the best. Hard-working and good-humored. And above all, she shared all the ideals that for us in the Pubblica Sicurezza are so important. She was one of the team and as her immediate superior …”

“Merenda in charge of the enquiry?”

“I know Merenda will get the girl’s killer.” The Questore took a chocolate in gold wrapping.

“It was me the murderer was aiming at. Me—not Merenda. And now Ciuffi is dead.”

A nod as the Questore put the chocolate in his mouth and licked his fingertips. “Ciuffi is dead, Trotti. Nothing that you or I—”

“Ciuffi died instead of me and now I don’t give a damn about you or Merenda or d’Avorio. It was me that was supposed to die—the bullets were meant for me. I’m going to find the man who killed Brigadiere Ciuffi.” He touched the bandage at his ribs. “If it is the last thing I do, I’m going to find him.”

“I’
VE BROUGHT SOME
clothes.”

Trotti could make out her silhouette against the open doorway, the well-kept body and high-heeled shoes. It was dark and the glow of the bedside lamp did not reach the face.

“Magagna phoned you?”

“My husband is not a small man.” She stepped carefully past the jars, the vases of flowers and the empty wrappings that littered the floor. She placed a brown parcel on the bed. “You might find them a bit big.”

Trotti got slowly out of the bed, shivering slightly, and put on the clothes. Good-quality clothes, a silk shirt and bespoke trousers with lining. Shoes from Varese that pinched his toes.

“How’s the rib?”

Trotti said nothing.

“Perhaps you ought to shave, Commissario.”

“I’ll shave when I get home.”

The hospital was asleep.

She took him by the arm and, as they went along the empty corridors, the only sound was the squeaking of his shoes on the rubberized floor. Trotti walked slowly, aware of the pain and trying to ignore it. She supported him with her arm and he could feel the warmth of her body. At the top of the stairs they went past a young nurse who did not even raise her head to look at them.

The marble of the banister was cold beneath his hand.

She opened the doors of Surgery and they stepped out into the chill air of the September night.

“The car’s over here.” Signora Bianchini walked with him across the road.

“Thanks.” He lowered himself into the passenger seat.

She got into the car, sitting behind the steering wheel. “The gentleman on the phone said you might be able to help me.”

“Magagna?”

“You will help me?”

The light from the hospital building lit up one side of her face. She turned and faced him.

“I didn’t ask Magagna to contact you.”

“Where to, Commissario?”

The engine came alive with the soft rumble of German engineering. The outside world was dark through the tinted glass of the windscreen. Trotti closed his eyes and, leaning back, placed his head against the rest.

“Take me home.”

“I don’t know where you live.”

“Via Milano.”

She drove the car through the bright pool of neon light at the hospital entrance. The man on the gate came out of his cubicle, lifted the barrier in silence and then returned to where a portable television was flickering.

They left the Policlinico San Matteo, and went over the railway bridge.

Trotti laughed noiselessly. His eyes were still closed.

“What’s funny?”

“A lot of people are going to be rather unhappy about my leaving the hospital.”

“You don’t often laugh.”

“I don’t have much to laugh about.”

“You need to rest, Commissario.”

“I haven’t got the time.”

“I will look after you.”

Trotti opened his eyes. “Did Magagna say anything, signora?”

“Magagna?”

“The policeman on the phone. He didn’t say that he was going to help?”

“Help who?”

“He is a friend of mine. He used to work in the Questura a few years ago. Now he’s with Buoncostume in Milan. I’m going to need all the help I can get if I’m going to find the murderer …”

“You’re not well—look, you’re shivering.”

“What did Magagna say?”

Her eyes were on the road. “He just said that you needed clothes.”

They went over the canal, past Piazza Castello, which was almost empty, despite the bright cinema lights and the street lamps, towards the Città Giardino.

“Turn left, signora.”

Signora Bianchini turned right.

“I said left.”

A low, swirling mist clung close to the cobbled surface of the street.

An empty bus went by in the opposite direction.

“You’re going the wrong way, Signora Bianchini?

The headlamps of the Audi were reflected in the window of the florist’s shop in via Petrarca.

She looked at Trotti. “My husband’s clothes suit you, Commissario Trotti.”

“N
ICE PLACE
.”

“Glad you like it, Pisanelli.”

“And a charming lady. I’m sure you must be very happy.”

“I won’t be happy until I’ve found the murderer.”

“We’re all working on it, Commissario.”

“All?”

“Everybody.” Pisanelli nodded. “And Merenda—”

“I don’t give a damn about Merenda.” Trotti pulled himself into a sitting position. “I need you, Pisanelli. You can help me find the man.”

Pisanelli was carrying his suede jacket over his shoulder. He let it drop over the back of a chair and he sat down on the edge of the bed. The empty coffee cup rattled on the tray.

“Oh, this is for you.” He held out a bunch of flowers.

“Did you bring me some clothes?” He held up a brown parcel as he looked around the room. “Where do I put these things?”

“I’m counting on you.”

“You don’t seem too excited by the flowers.”

“I’m excited at the thought of having clothes that’ll fit me. Listen, Pisanelli, I’m counting on your support.”

Pisanelli placed the parcel on the floor.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He dropped the flowers—tight-budded roses of delicate pinks and reds—on to the tray.

“You’ve always worked with me.”

“As far as the Questore is concerned, Commissario, you are out of things.”

“Why on earth should I be out of things?”

“You’re injured and he wants you to rest.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Pisanelli tried to smile. “A lot of people think it would be better if you stayed away from the Questura for a few weeks.” The face was taut, the eyes without amusement.

“I’ve got a job to do.”

“Commissario …”

“Pisanelli, I’m counting on you.”

A sudden gesture of impatience. “No.”

“But you can tell me what’s happening in the Questura.”

“I’ve told you. Merenda’s in charge. An all-out search for Ciuffi’s murderer.”

“But where have you got with the enquiry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Commissario, I tell you I don’t know.”

“The bullet’s been identified, for God’s sake?”

“Perhaps.”

“What do you mean, perhaps?”

Pisanelli stared at the counterpane.

Signora Bianchini had drawn the curtains apart when she had brought Trotti breakfast. Beyond the window, the foothills of the Apennines were turning brown. The air was warm.

“What exactly do you mean, Pisanelli?”

Pisanelli continued to stare at the bed. “You’re better off here, Commissario. Stay here and rest. Let the charming lady look after you—she seems to like having you here.” He shook his head and the long hair rose slightly from his temples. “Don’t you understand that you worry too much? And by worrying, you’re not going to solve anything?”

“Galandra killed her.”

Pisanelli looked at him. “Galandra?”

Trotti could not repress the triumph in his own voice. “Without me, you know nothing. You and Merenda and all the
others—you don’t know what Ciuffi and I were working on, you don’t know why we were seeing the old man. How can you conduct your enquiries when you don’t know anything about the case?”

“Who’s Galandra?”

“The man who watered down the plasma at the hospital. It was thanks to Vardin’s testimony that he and his wife were sent to jail.” Trotti raised a shoulder—and immediately felt the jab of pain in his ribs. “He got out of jail a few months ago. While you were running up and down the hospital, Ciuffi was putting a file together.”

Pisanelli’s face seemed to harden, little wrinkles formed around his eyes. “There was a reason for my going to the hospital.”

“Galandra threatened Vardin—and knifing his daughter was part of the revenge. Only it wasn’t enough.”

“Enough, Commissario?”

“Galandra’s the murderer—of that I am now sure. Because he had the motive. The motive to hate Vardin enough—to hurt his daughter and then to shoot at him. Only he didn’t hit Vardin. He hit the girl.”

“But Commissario, there were people in Borgo Genovese.”

“Eyewitnesses?”

“After a fashion.”

“Where were they?”

“On the other side of the river.”

“And what did they see?”

“Nobody heard the gunfire—or rather those people who did hear something just thought it was a car backfiring. But you know Borgo Genovese, the road that runs along the river is a cul-de-sac. It turns into a path.”

“What did these people see?”

“Nothing.”

“My God.” Trotti thumped his hand down on to the bed and the cup jumped, toppled and the dregs of the coffee ran on to the stalks of the roses. “What eyewitnesses are they supposed to be if they didn’t see anything?”

“But that’s the point.”

“Don’t talk in riddles.”

“A man would have been noticed. Anybody going to Borgo Genovese would have had to go past several houses. And all the witnesses are agreed that they saw nobody.”

“The gunman must have run off in the other direction … along the path.”

“Possible.” Pisanelli shrugged. “But not very likely. Where would he have left his car? Or do you think that he would have left his car a kilometer away and walked all the way along the river? With a rifle under his arm?”

Trotti shook his head.

Pisanelli lifted the bunch of flowers and carefully wiped their stalks with a soggy paper napkin.

“I know Galandra killed Ciuffi—and I’m going to find him. And I need you, Pisanelli. I can’t drive in this state and I’ve got to go to Verona.”

“Why Verona?”

“That’s where Galandra was in jail.”

“Some rest, Commissario—that’s what you need.”

“Don’t you care about Ciuffi? Don’t you care that she was slaughtered like an animal?”

“You must rest.”

“You never did like Ciuffi, did you?”

“You’re not acting rationally, Commissario.”

“Galandra attacked the child. Of that I am sure. And in trying to kill Vardin, he murdered Ciuffi. And nearly murdered me.” Pisanelli shook his head. “No.”

“Pisanelli, I need you.”

“Galandra never attacked anybody.”

“All part of his revenge against Vardin.”

“Yesterday, Colonello Vincenzo had one of his men arrested. A conscript with a record of rape and physical violence on women.”

“Not possible.”

“And they found the knife he used on the little Vardin girl. It was under his mattress in the Cairoli barracks.”