A Long Finish - 6

by Michael Dibdin

  Even the dimensions suited him. The house he had inherited from his mother was much too large for his needs, and he felt its size and scope not as a liberation, full of potential, but as a lack – of security, of controllable space. He had attempted to compensate for this by using just two rooms, the kitchen and the sala next door, but he was always aware of the rest of the house spreading its wings around him like the night sky, cold and dark and uncontainable.

  By contrast, the cell they’d put him in was perfect. Already it had taken on the reassuring smell of his body, as close-fitting and homely as another set of clothes. Minot’s reluctance to wash himself or his garments was a staple joke in the local community, but when he overheard such comments – which was rarely, for people had learned to be guarded in his presence – he was not offended. His habits in the matter of personal hygiene had nothing to do with slovenliness or indifference. On the contrary, they were deliberate. Without those intimate odours to prompt him, he would have lost track of who he was.

  And who was he? ‘An incest bastard’, the cop from Rome had said. Minot had gone for him then, riding a sudden surge of the energy which came to him at times, investing him as though with a halo of corpo santo, the fabled fire of Saint Elmo sometimes seen at the height of great storms at sea. His own storms, though as fierce, were no longer lasting than those of the physical world. Now, seated in his homely cell, he could calmly review what had happened, and make his plans accordingly.

  During his brief fit, he had tried to assault the policeman with a stool before two witnesses, both cops themselves. They could put him away for months before the case even came to trial, and then for at least a year or two after that. More to the point, he would have no chance to return to the house and conceal or destroy the evidence stored in his fridge. If that came to light, it was all over.

  And if he went to prison, it would. For years the villagers had speculated about Minot’s character, beliefs and ancestry, and always failed to pin him down. Somewhere in the house, they would argue, the key to the mystery must lie hidden: a set of documents, a photograph album, a bundle of letters. Some of the bolder ones would find their way in and search the place. They wouldn’t find what they were looking for, but they would find what was there.

  The cosy security of his cell was therefore an illusion. His first priority was to obtain his release, and to do that he would have to make a deal. The problem was that this Aurelio Zen was as much an unknown and perhaps unknowable quantity to Minot as he himself was to his neighbours. In a way, they made a pair.

  Minot smiled, instinctively covering his mouth, although he was alone and unobserved. That was the line to take, he realized. This Zen was not interested in the deaths of Gallizio and Scorrone. He had made it clear that the only thing he was concerned with was the Vincenzo case. That was what he had been sent up from Rome to solve. Once he had done so, he could go home, leaving the local authorities to mop up after him. Minot could deal with them, he felt sure. It was just a question of easing this unpredictable outsider out of the picture.

  So when the patrolman named Dario appeared to escort him upstairs, Minot was feeling reasonably confident. This feeling strengthened when he was ushered into the room upstairs. One glance revealed that Aurelio Zen was tired – not just from lack of sleep, like Minot himself, but tired of the case, of his colleagues, of the town, and perhaps of life itself. He has other things on his mind, thought Minot, more important things. All he wants is a quick and tidy solution to this mess he finds himself in, and I can give it to him.

  This sense of ease and assurance was soon put to the test, however.

  ‘The Faigano brothers have changed their minds,’ Zen announced once Minot was installed on the penitential stool.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About your alibi for the Gallizio murder.’

  Minot managed a puzzled smile.

  ‘About theirs, you mean.’

  Zen shrugged wearily.

  ‘The alibi works both ways, of course. But they claim that it was you who asked them to provide it, and that you did so with menaces.’

  This was a shock. Minot had expected Gianni and Maurizio to stick to the story that the alibi had been cooked up for their mutual convenience, to avoid unnecessary interference from the authorities. Instead, they had done the one thing he had never anticipated, something explicitly forbidden by the code he had invoked in discussing the matter with them. They had told their mutual enemy the truth.

  Or rather, they had told him what they believed to be the truth. There was a difference, and a moment later Minot realized that he was free to take advantage of it, now that the brothers had by their own treachery renounced the freemasonry of the former partigiani.

  ‘Menaces?’ he laughed. ‘What could I do against two of them, both bigger than me?’

  Aurelio Zen did not answer immediately. He was eyeing Minot in a way the latter found distinctly disquieting. Then he looked away at the window. The darkness outside had given way to a limp, unhealthy light which clung to every surface like some greasy substance strained through a piece of dirty muslin.

  ‘They said you tried to blackmail them with some story about a button,’ Aurelio Zen replied, with an ostentatious yawn.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘A button that you supposedly found, supposedly at the scene of the crime, and which supposedly belonged to a jacket supposedly owned by Gianni Faigano.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I know,’ said Zen. ‘I told them so. It’s all hearsay, and from someone who – if you’ll excuse me saying so – doesn’t exactly command huge respect in the community.’

  This was the crux. Minot consulted his inner voices. ‘Do it!’ they said. As always, he obeyed.

  ‘Supposing it wasn’t a button?’

  Aurelio Zen emitted another massive yawn.

  ‘I don’t really give a damn what it was you told them, Minot. I’m more interested in why you tried to extort an alibi for yourself in the Gallizio affair.’

  ‘But I didn’t. It was Gianni and Maurizio who asked me to give them one.’

  ‘That’s not what they say. And, as you just pointed out, there are two of them. Besides, how could they have come up with this story about the button unless you tried to pressure them?’

  ‘That’s obvious. They suspected that I had some evidence against them, but they didn’t know what it was. So to cover themselves, they invented this story about the button. I’m afraid you’ve been misled, dottore. This has nothing to do with the case you’re investigating. It’s a personal matter between me and the Faigano brothers.’

  ‘You mean I don’t come into it?’ murmured Zen.

  Minot looked at him with an almost solicitous air.

  ‘Of course you do, dottore! Without you, I can’t do a thing.’

  He gave Zen a crafty glance.

  ‘But without me, neither can you.’

  Catching the incredulous gaze of the official taking notes, Zen quickly stood up, as though to assert his authority.

  ‘Allow me to remind you that you are in detention pending being charged with assault on a police officer, Minot.’

  ‘I didn’t lay a finger on you, dottore. You were much too quick for me.’

  ‘It’s the intent that counts.’

  ‘But what if my intent has changed? Supposing that I intend to cooperate fully with your investigation into the murder of Aldo Vincenzo, and that I’m the one person who can provide proof that will stand up in court. Would that be enough to get the charges against me revoked?’

  Aurelio Zen stared at him.

  ‘You were right. You don’t need a lawyer.’

  Minot fought to contain his exultant emotion.

  ‘So you agree?’

  ‘Agree to what?’

  Minot regarded him fixedly.

  ‘I give you conclusive evidence of the killer’s identity. In return, you drop all charges and release me unconditionally.’

  Zen s
norted.

  ‘It’ll take more than a stray button to get anyone convicted, Minot. And to get you released.’

  ‘There is more.’

  ‘What?’

  Minot smiled conspiratorially.

  ‘Ah, well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it? And I can’t very well do that until I know that you’re going to keep your end of the bargain.’

  The plain-clothed cop shifted awkwardly in his chair.

  ‘Listen, capo,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you should be …’

  ‘That’ll do, Morino.’

  Zen turned to Minot.

  ‘All right, so what do you propose? You can’t expect an unconditional discharge until I can evaluate what you’re offering in return, and you’re apparently not prepared to reveal that until I’ve handed over the papers, signed and sealed. In short, you don’t trust me and I don’t trust you.’

  Minot nodded slyly.

  ‘So we need to find a third party. That’s what we do in the truffle business when we’re dealing with some outsider, use a go-between we can both trust.’

  ‘You mean a lawyer?’

  Minot laughed.

  ‘Someone we could trust, I said!’

  ‘Do you know someone?’

  ‘Plenty of people, dottore, but you don’t know them. So let’s look at it the other way round. Can you think of someone round here that you trust? The chances are that I’ll know them, too, and perhaps we can do business.’

  Zen considered a minute.

  ‘I suppose there’s Lucchese …’

  Minot glanced at him in surprise.

  ‘You know him? Perfect.’

  ‘This is highly irregular, capo!’ protested Morino.

  ‘Shut up,’ Zen told him, lifting the phone. ‘And strike all references to a deal from the record. Hello? Ah, good morning, principe. This is Aurelio Zen.’

  Minot did not bother to listen to the ensuing one-sided conversation, preoccupied as he was with reviewing his own position. As always, he had acted instinctively. That was his great strength. Plans that were not made could not be exposed later. It was just a question of checking that his spontaneous words and actions were consistent with the apparent facts of the case. He did, and they were.

  ‘… take receipt of the item and of the papers which I will give you,’ Zen was saying into the phone. ‘I will then examine the former and, if satisfied, authorize you to release the latter to the said third party. Agreed? Very good.’

  He hung up and looked at Minot.

  ‘Lucchese agrees. Where is the evidence in question?’

  ‘At my house. I’ll go and pick it up, then bring the evidence back to the Palazzo Lucchese in person.’

  ‘Don’t trust him, capo!’ Morino burst out. ‘I’ll take a couple of men and go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. Whatever’s there, we’ll find it!’

  Knowing what was at stake, it took Minot all his nerve to smile disdainfully.

  ‘I could have it on me right now and you’d never find it,’ he replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Zen shot him a keen look.

  ‘It’s small enough to conceal, then?’

  Minot smiled.

  ‘You could hide it under one finger. Or on it, for that matter.’

  ‘A ring?’ snapped Zen. ‘Without continuity of evidence, that’s no more use than your famous button!’

  Minot stood up and stretched lazily.

  ‘What have you got to lose, dottore? If you don’t like the product, you don’t have to go through with the deal. But you will, I promise you that. Just get the papers for my release written up. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

  As ten o’clock sounded, at various intervals and pitches from bell towers all over town, Aurelio Zen mounted the steps of the Palazzo Lucchese and pushed the recessed brass bell beside the door on the first floor. He rang five times, ever more lengthily, then sat down on one of the shallow stone steps leading up to the next floor and lit a cigarette.

  The bells ceased and silence fell. Somewhere inside the building, Zen could now make out a brittle tinkling sound he associated with adjacent wine-glasses in the sink of his apartment back in Rome when the neighbouring refrigerator rattled into action. At length another sound intervened: a dull, regular clumping, as if someone were pounding with a hammer. It was coming, he realized, from the steps below. A few moments later an elderly woman emerged, formidably breathless, on the landing. She turned on Zen a face so creased and contoured that it could have been classified as an historic site, produced a large key from her dauntingly capacious handbag and set about unlocking the front door.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Zen.

  Much to his surprise, the crone responded with a complacent smile. Dear God, he thought, she used to be a beauty.

  ‘I’m here to see Prince Lucchese,’ he continued, standing up. ‘My name’s Aurelio Zen. He’s expecting me.’

  The woman sighed and made a compendious gesture suggesting that the prince was a busy man, even slightly eccentric in his way, and not to be held to prior appointments or arrangements; that she herself had been battling with this situation for longer than she cared to remember; and that if Zen had just arrived, he should join the queue.

  ‘Wait here,’ she told him. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  The door closed behind her. Zen resumed his seat and smoked quietly for some time. Eventually the door opened again and a withered hand waved impatiently.

  ‘The prince will see you now.’

  Inside, the sense of spacious gloom and dilapidated gentility was unchanged, like a museum exhibit preserved under a bell jar. The old woman indicated a door to the left at the end of the hall.

  ‘In there.’

  It was yet a different room from his previous visits, as though the prince had decided to give Zen a gradual guided tour of the palace. This one was a sort of antechamber, as long and narrow as a corridor, but with a hexagonal bay at the far end. The walls were bare, the ceiling high. A small teak table, an embroidered sofa and a darkened cane chair were the only furnishings. Lucchese was sitting in the latter, resplendently casual in the now-familiar silk dressing-gown.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ exclaimed Lucchese in a tone of irritation. ‘I almost changed my mind about this business after speaking to you. My upbringing does not permit me to display spontaneous emotion, but when you rang earlier, I was working on the allemande from Bach’s D major partita. Do you know Wanda Landowska’s famous mot on the subject? She’d had an argument with another musician over stylistic issues. “Very well,” was her parting shot, “you play Bach your way and I’ll play him his way!” This morning, for the first time, I felt I was playing Bach his way, and then the phone rings …’

  A gesture.

  ‘What did you make of Arianna?’

  ‘The cleaning lady?’

  ‘My mother, actually.’

  Zen gulped.

  ‘I didn’t realize …’

  ‘My real reason for agreeing to see you,’ the prince continued evenly, ‘has nothing to do with this hand-over you called about. For various reasons, not least a demand I received this morning from the electricity company, leads me to think that the moment has come for me to present my bill. Before doing so, however, we need to conclude two pieces of outstanding business. The first concerns your recent tendency to somnambulism. What time is this Minot person arriving with the “item” you wish to appraise?’

  Zen snapped his fingers apart and together again.

  ‘An hour? Maybe less.’

  ‘In that case, we’re going to have to deal with this more peremptorily than I would ideally wish,’ Lucchese replied, flexing his own fingers with a loud detonation of joints, which apparently caused him no discomfort. ‘My preliminary analysis has led me to the conclusion that you have recently suffered the loss – or, what is almost more disturbing, the unexpected reappearance – of a child, sibling or parent. Is this in fact the case?’

  Zen nodded.

&
nbsp; ‘Which?’ demanded Lucchese.

  ‘All three.’

  The prince stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘I recently discovered that my mother’s husband was not in fact my father,’ Zen explained. ‘Also that I have a half-sister living in Naples.’

  ‘That’s two,’ Lucchese prompted him in a deliberately unempathetic tone.

  Zen gazed down at the puddle of unclean light forming on the floorboards as the sun grazed up against the cloud cover outside.

  ‘A former girlfriend of mine also informed me that she was pregnant, and that I was the father. She subsequently announced that she had had an abortion. In which case, I have lost a child as well.’

  Lucchese’s mask of professional indifference withered and crisped like a letter thrown on a fire. He rose and embraced Zen warmly, patting his back.

  ‘In a case like this, caro dottore, it’s not a question of trying to work out why you were sleepwalking, but of asking ourselves why you didn’t throw yourself off the nearest high building! You must have the constitution of a rock.’

  Unseen, Zen smiled wearily.

  ‘Several times, I thought I might be going mad.’

  ‘A sure sign that you weren’t.’

  Lucchese released him and reached into his pocket for some papers which he shuffled about nervously.

  ‘I needed to get that straight, you see, because of the second piece of business I mentioned. I refer, of course, to the results on those DNA tests you wanted done. They arrived this morning.’

  Zen stared at him as though in terror.

  ‘So soon? But I thought …’

  ‘My brother runs the lab in Turin which processes these things. I arranged for your samples to be moved to the top of the list.’

  ‘And what …? That’s to say, are we …?’

  Lucchese did not reply. Zen sighed.

  ‘It’s bad, then.’

  ‘That depends. It’s certainly definitive. I talked to my brother in person this morning, and he made that absolutely clear. So I wanted to make sure that you are aware of the potential consequences, psychological and otherwise, and to assure myself that you are strong enough to cope with it.’