A Long Finish - 6

by Michael Dibdin

  At length the cascade of notes ended. To Zen’s horror, Carla Arduini started to clap.

  ‘Wonderful, just wonderful! I wish I could do that.’

  Lucchese pushed back his stool and stood up, inspecting the intruders with a glare whose pedigree bespoke generations of arrogance and condescension.

  ‘Do what?’ he demanded after a terrible silence.

  Zen was about to intervene, to try to save the situation, but too late.

  ‘Play Scarlatti like that, of course!’ Carla burbled on. ‘And what a magnificent instrument! Is it a Ruckers?’

  The prince’s glacial hauteur was instantly replaced by an expression of almost childish pleasure.

  ‘Absolutely! Originally, that’s to say. It was remodelled by either Blanchet or Taskin a century later, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Carla.

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘And to whom do I have the honour …?’ Lucchese began.

  ‘My name’s Carla Arduini, and this is …’

  The prince shot Zen a sour look.

  ‘I know who he is.’

  ‘… my father,’ Carla concluded.

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘We think so,’ Zen put in. ‘Now we want to find out.’

  A beam of sunlight projected into the room between them. On the other side, Lucchese’s dim figure moved around the harpsichord and emerged into the glare.

  ‘First, let’s talk about this absurd charge that’s hanging over my head for having mutilated Scorrone’s corpse.’

  Zen gestured languidly.

  ‘No problem. I’ve subsequently ascertained that you were merely carrying out a recognized medical procedure at the request of your deceased cousin. All charges have been dropped.’

  Lucchese glanced at him.

  ‘Very well. I fancy the bass needs a tune-up, Irena.’

  ‘So do I!’ retorted the latter, stalking out of the room.

  Lucchese shook his head sadly.

  ‘These highly strung modern instruments are so hard to keep sweet. So you want a blood test, is that it?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes,’ Carla replied.

  ‘Oh, and I want these stitches removed,’ added Zen. ‘If one more person tells me that it’s a nasty-looking cut I’ve got there, and quite fresh, too, by the look of it, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Then give me your bill and I promise never to disturb you again.’

  Lucchese led them towards the door.

  ‘Ah, but I may still have to disturb you, dottore. Remember our agreement? Until that matter is resolved, my charges remain pending.’

  ‘What if I just run off without paying?’

  Lucchese turned to him.

  ‘You’ve been doing that all your life,’ he said, his delicate fingers exploring the scar on Zen’s brow. ‘Look where it’s got you.’

  Minot was under his truck, completing an oil-change, when Anna started barking. He listened intently to the sound of the approaching vehicle, then gave a satisfied nod. He’d been expecting this visit all day.

  ‘Basta!’ he yelled at the dog, which subsided into repressed whimpers.

  Minot crawled out from under the truck as the Carabinieri jeep drew up alongside. The door opened and Enrico Pascal clambered out with ponderous gravity.

  ‘Minot,’ he said.

  ‘Marescià.’

  The two men stood looking at each other, trying to divine the exact nature of the silence, the shape and heft of their unspoken thoughts.

  ‘Good thing you came by,’ Minot began. ‘I was going to call you anyway.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘I’ve had a word with the friends I was out truffling with that night we were talking about.’

  Enrico Pascal appeared to reflect.

  ‘Ah, yes. And?’

  ‘And they say it’s all right.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  Enrico Pascal swept his eyes up and down Minot’s faded check shirt and corduroy trousers.

  ‘Nasty stains you’ve got there.’

  Minot pointed to the truck.

  ‘I’ve been changing the oil.’

  ‘It looks more like wine to me. You didn’t have a demijohn break on you, did you?’

  Minot hesitated just a moment.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

  Pascal shook his head.

  ‘Temperamental buggers. Sometimes you can set them down with a wallop and nothing happens, other times they crack apart if you just look at them the wrong way.’

  He sniffed deeply.

  ‘Over at Bruno’s, was it?’

  Minot flashed him a look of genuine shock.

  ‘Bruno’s dead!’

  The maresciallo nodded morosely.

  ‘Shame about the funeral. It’s this busybody we have up from Rome, you see, on account of the Vincenzo business. He decided to start throwing his weight around, and there was nothing I could do.’

  ‘So why did you mention Bruno?’

  Pascal looked up at the cold blue sky.

  ‘Well, shortly before he died Bruno took delivery of a consignment of wine. We think it came from the Faigano brothers, and I naturally assumed that you handled the carriage for them. You normally do, right?’

  ‘Not this time. I didn’t even know about any delivery. You’ve probably got the wrong supplier. Bruno used to buy wine from all over the place.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  A silence fell.

  ‘Well, I can always check with Gianni and Maurizio, I suppose,’ Pascal remarked, as though to himself. ‘I don’t know when I’m going to find the time, though. This man from Rome has really stirred things up, I can tell you, what with impounding Bruno’s body and ordering an autopsy …’

  ‘What?’

  Pascal smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Absurd, isn’t it? And of course the family are absolutely furious at the idea of their beloved relative being cut up, all on account of some sliver of glass which this Zen claims to have found in his neck.’

  There was another long silence. Pascal heaved a long sigh.

  ‘So who were those friends you were out with the night Beppe died?’

  Minot did not reply for some time, and when he did it was in a strange, halting voice, as though he was still learning this new skill but had not yet mastered it.

  ‘Gianni and Maurizio.’

  Enrico Pascal opened his eyes wide.

  ‘What a coincidence.’

  The maresciallo stuck his fingernails under his starched collar and scratched his neck.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off,’ he said.

  Minot watched the jeep drive away. At the cross-roads outside the village, it turned left, away from the Faigano property. He released the breath he had been holding all this time, leapt into the truck and revved up the motor. Why all these problems now? Was he losing his grip, his instinctive sense of what was and was not possible? At any rate, the key to the whole matter remained the Faigano brothers, he thought, pushing the truck as fast as he dared down the winding road. As long as they backed him up, he was in the clear. The trouble was that he didn’t know what they would do.

  That was the problem with people, you could never be sure how they would react. If only they were like the rats, a collective whose apparent individuality was in fact an illusion, and whose behaviour was totally predictable. But people weren’t like that. They could do the craziest things, as Camillo had when the Fascists captured him. Instead of shutting up and taking his chances, he had danced – danced – in front of his captors and told them that, yes, he was a partisan and proud of it, and that they were doomed by history.

  They’d shot him, of course, but not before he had taunted them one last time, when the Republican recruit detailed to pull the trigger had funked out and started to shake. One of the other prisoners, who had watched the whole scene, later reported what happened next. ‘So Camillo looked at the boy, and he smiled. �
�Go ahead and shoot,” he said. “You’re only killing a man. Nothing will change.”’

  People did things like that all the time. Maybe Gianni and Maurizio would, too. What could he do to sway them, other than recite the usual formulas about their mutual interest and so on? Suppose they decided not to listen? Suppose, like Camillo, they just didn’t care? Since Chiara’s death, Gianni didn’t seem to care very much about anything.

  It didn’t give him much to work with, not nearly enough, in fact. Perhaps he should try an alternative approach. Unpredictability, after all, was a game two could play. The thought of Chiara Vincenzo reminded him of Aldo’s death. That was what the cops were really interested in. Beppe and Bruno were just distractions, although inextricably linked to that main event. And if the Faigano brothers refused to help Minot, why should he protect them any longer?

  Not only did he know exactly why and how Aldo had been murdered, but he could explain the grotesque and ferocious mutilations inflicted on the corpse as well. Once the truth about that crime had been established, the culprit would automatically become the chief and only suspect in the Gallizio and Scorrone killings. A community such as this didn’t run to two murderers, any more than it ran to two lawyers or newsagents. One was both necessary and sufficient, and once he was identified, no one would think of looking any further.

  Minot pulled into the courtyard of the brothers’ house, strode up to the door and knocked hard several times. He had made his decision, and was in no mood to be kept waiting. There were footsteps inside and the door opened, but the person who appeared was not Gianni or Maurizio but the famous ‘busybody from Rome’ about whose activities Enrico Pascal had complained so bitterly.

  ‘I was looking for the Faigano brothers,’ Minot said hesitantly.

  ‘Come in.’

  Caught unawares, Minot obeyed.

  ‘And Gianni and Maurizio?’

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Out among the vines, are they? It’s a busy time of the year for wine-makers.’

  The other held out his hand.

  ‘I think we’ve met. I’m Aurelio Zen. You were kind enough to give me a lift the other day. Minot, isn’t it?’

  Minot clasped the proffered hand and gasped audibly. He turned away, trying to evaluate the inspiration which had been clear and powerful enough to force the spasm from him. He needed time to think it through properly, but time was just what he didn’t have. Gianni and Maurizio might return at any minute, but until then he was alone with the policeman in charge of the whole investigation – and no one would ever know that he’d been there!

  ‘Come through to the kitchen,’ the official told him, leading the way. ‘I want to show you something.’

  The kitchen was where Gianni kept his butcher’s knives, lined up on the chopping block by the sink. One quick thrust would be enough, with a towel around the handle to eliminate fingerprints and staunch the blood. ‘Do it!’ said the voices in his head. What was that phrase the priest had explained to him once, long ago? Nihil obstat.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the policeman asked, pointing to a framed photograph standing all alone on one shelf of the sideboard. It was a studio shot, obviously quite old, showing a young girl dressed all in white, with a lace headscarf.

  Minot hesitated. The question had no relevance to his plans, but he had grown up in a world where figures of power – schoolmasters, priests, commanding officers, policemen – were licensed to ask questions, and where you were expected to reply or face unpleasant consequences.

  ‘Chiara Cravioli,’ he said, eyeing the array of gleaming knives.

  ‘Cravioli?’

  ‘Aldo Vincenzo’s wife.’

  ‘But why is her photograph here?’

  Before Minot could answer, the door opened and a teenage girl with an armful of schoolbooks walked in. She stared at both the men.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Aurelio Zen inclined his head slightly.

  ‘We met at the market in Alba at the weekend. I’m a police officer.’

  ‘Where’s my father?’ demanded Lisa Faigano. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid that your father and uncle have had to go into Alba to answer some routine questions.’

  The girl dropped her books on the table.

  ‘And what about you, Minot?’ she demanded, seemingly more annoyed by his presence than that of the policeman.

  ‘I was hoping to see Gianni and Maurizio. No one told me they’d been arrested.’

  ‘They haven’t,’ put in Zen quickly. ‘We’re just taking statements from a number of people, including them. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  Minot coughed.

  ‘Well, I’ll try again later.’

  He sidled off to the door as if expecting to be stopped at any moment. But there was no challenge, and a moment later his truck roared away.

  Left alone together, Lisa Faigano and Aurelio Zen surveyed each other warily.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ the girl said at last, as though grasping a little desperately at the rituals of hospitality.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Zen had no interest in the coffee, but it would give him a pretext to stay longer without producing his search warrant. Lisa Faigano’s unexpected appearance had thrown him off-balance. Once Gianni and Maurizio were safely in custody, Zen had descended on the house and dismissed the patrolman on guard and his driver, telling them to return in an hour. He had wanted to be alone with the house, free to prowl and pry at will, to let the silence seep into his soul and reveal its secrets.

  The arrival of Minot and then the girl had put an end to all that, and while he could have seen the former off the premises easily enough, he could hardly throw Lisa Faigano out of her own home. Nor did a bureaucratic approach seem likely to be fruitful. The brutally official questions he could so easily have posed sounded, as he rehearsed them in his mind, off-key and inappropriate. If he was to get anything out of her, Lisa had somehow to be managed. But how?

  ‘You’re the one they sent up from Rome about what happened to Vincenzo,’ the girl remarked as she filled the coffee machine.

  ‘That’s right, signorina.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with my father and uncle?’

  Zen hesitated. It was hard to know who he had to deal with. The girl was at a stage where she could look thirteen one moment and thirty the next. Untuned features and awkward gestures suggested the former, but her brown eyes were shrewd and wary and did not give the impression of missing very much.

  ‘Nothing, so far as we know. But there appears to be a link to another crime which occurred recently, to which they may be material witnesses. Naturally we need to question them, if only to eliminate this possibility, and they have therefore been invited to headquarters to make their depositions. I’m glad to say that they were happy to comply.’

  This was a lie. According to the officers who had carried out Zen’s orders, the Faigano brothers had been anything but happy at being hauled off at gunpoint in armoured vans emblazoned POLIZIA, the whole operation being conducted under the malicious scrutiny of their neighbours. They were particularly unhappy at losing a day’s work at a time when the weather finally seemed to be firming up for the vintage. But their happiness was not Zen’s concern.

  ‘When will they be back?’ Lisa asked, serving Zen his coffee.

  He gave a helpless half-shrug.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About dinner, of course! There’s hell to pay if it isn’t on the table on the stroke of seven, but if they’re not back by then …’

  Zen coughed.

  ‘I think you can take it that they won’t be home to dinner, signorina.’

  ‘Not tonight at all, you mean?’

  ‘Are you worried about being alone?’

  She laughed.

  ‘On the contrary! I can finally get through an entire game with no fear of
being interrupted.’

  Zen stared at her.

  ‘I play chess with this friend, you see,’ Lisa told him, sweeping a stray strand of hair off her face with one finger. ‘But either Dad or Gianni usually needs to use the phone at some point, and then everything’s ruined.’

  Zen sipped his coffee and tried to look interested.

  ‘Perhaps you could go over to your friend’s house?’

  Another laugh.

  ‘Hardly! He lives in Lima.’

  Zen looked at her, smiling determinedly.

  ‘Lima,’ he repeated.

  ‘In Peru. Gianni got a computer last year to keep track of the accounts, and then when Aunt Chiara died she left me some money and I arranged for an Internet connection. But there’s still only one phone, so when they need to call someone, I have to go off-line.’

  Zen nodded in a kindly, avuncular manner. The poor girl was clearly living in a fantasy world, imagining that she was playing chess on the telephone with Peruvians! Living all alone in this cold, comfortless house with a pair of grumpy, demanding geriatrics must have pushed her over the edge.

  ‘The last time I had an evening free was when Dad and Gianni went to the Festa della Vendemmia,’ the girl burbled on, her face alive with genuine enthusiasm for the first time. ‘It looked like we would finally get a chance to play a whole game without interruptions. I’d just tricked Tomás into a knight sacrifice which left him in a very weak position, when in walks Gianni and tells me to get off the line! Result, Tomás got twenty-four hours to analyse the situation and look up his reference books, and he came back and beat me.’

  She heaved a sigh of frustration.

  ‘I wonder who your uncle could have called at that time of night,’ murmured Zen idly.

  There was no answer, and for a moment he thought that the girl was trying to think of a suitable lie. Then he realized that she was still fretting about her missed opportunity to defeat Tomás.

  ‘What? Oh, it was Aldo Vincenzo. I overheard him telling Dad about it afterwards.’

  Zen finished his coffee and set the cup down.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just heard the name. They clammed up as soon as I came in, as usual. I’m just a child, you see, and need to be protected from the harsh realities of life.’