Dead Lagoon - 4

by Michael Dibdin

‘Maybe they wanted to send a message. To keep the others in line.’

  ‘What others?’

  Zen shrugged. One of the men wearing gloves heaved the inert body on to its back. The viscous brown filth clung to it like mud, smoothing out the features and draining into the open mouth. Someone in the background started to retch. With obvious reluctance, Gino picked up the other pail and poured the water unceremoniously over the head and chest of the corpse.

  ‘Jesus!’ breathed Zen.

  The Carabinieri officer glanced sharply at him.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Zen nodded slowly.

  ‘Then who is he? And who are you, for that matter? Do you know who killed him?’

  Zen raised his head and gazed at the blank wall opposite.

  ‘I did,’ he said.

  He turned and walked quickly away, then broke into a run. Behind him voices were calling to him to stop, but he couldn’t stop. There was too much to do and to undo, too much to remember, too much to forget.

  He ran almost all the way to Campo San Bartolomeo, pushing ruthlessly past anyone in his way, and up the steep steps of the Rialto bridge. Pausing briefly for breath at the top, he raced down the other side and out on to the wooden jetty where three watertaxis were moored. In the cabin of the first in line, five men sat chatting familiarly over plastic cups of coffee. Zen appeared in the companion-way and demanded to be taken to the San Tomà pier. One of the men looked up at Zen with an expression which mingled contempt and pity.

  ‘San Tomà? That’s just a few hundred metres along the canal. Two stops on the vaporetto.’

  ‘I’m in a hurry!’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘It’s not worth my while for a fare like that.’

  Zen climbed down into the cabin and thrust his identity card into the man’s face.

  ‘If you don’t get this tub under way in ten seconds, I’ll have your licence revoked and you’ll spend the rest of your life humping frozen fish and tinned tomatoes around town.’

  Shocked by the violence in Zen’s voice, and not realizing that it was directed not at them but at himself, the men sprang into action. Within moments the taxi was cutting its way through the turbid waters, its bow aimed at the volta del canal where the city’s central waterway snakes back on itself, heading east towards the open sea.

  From the pier at San Tomà it was only a short walk to the offices of the Procura. The entrance to this organ of the Italian State was an apt symbol of that institution as a whole: six large doors led into the building, but only one was open. Zen joined the crowd of people shoving their way in and out and made his way upstairs to the Deputy Public Prosecutors’ department.

  Marcello Mamoli was ‘in a meeting’, he was informed by a woman with a pinched and put-upon expression hunched over a typewriter in the reception area. For once the euphemism proved correct, as Zen discovered by opening a selection of doors further down the corridor. As though in deliberate contrast to the windowless glory-hole in which their secretary eked out her working life, the space inside was pointlessly vast. Six men were seated around a table which glistened like an ice-rink, and was only slightly smaller. All six looked round as the door opened. One of them got to his feet and stood staring furiously at Zen.

  ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’

  Zen strode over to the table.

  ‘I must speak to Dottore Marcello Mamoli.’

  ‘Must you, indeed?’ retorted the other sarcastically. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘My name is Aurelio Zen. I’m with Criminalpol, on temporary secondment to the Questura here in Venice.’

  The magistrate smiled coldly.

  ‘Extremely temporary, from what I hear.’

  He straightened his shoulders and glared at Zen.

  ‘I am Mamoli. What possible justification do you have to offer for bursting in on an important and confidential meeting in this way?’

  Marcello Mamoli was a pale, fastidious-looking man of about forty whose small, sharp features were partially mitigated by a large pair of bifocal glasses.

  ‘I apologize to you and your colleagues for the interruption,’ Zen declared in grovelling tones, ‘but this is a matter of the greatest possible urgency.’

  Mamoli regarded him with disfavour.

  ‘On the contrary, dottore, it has been a total waste of everyone’s time! I am shocked and surprised that the Ministry thought it worthwhile troubling me with such a farce. My colleagues and I have had dealings with Criminalpol operatives many times before and I’m glad to say that we have generally been impressed by their level of professionalism. That makes it all the more unaccountable that you should have been taken in by something like the Zulian case, a transparent tissue of …’

  ‘This has nothing to do with Ada Zulian.’

  Marcello Mamoli was clearly not pleased to have been wrong-footed.

  ‘Then what is it about?’ he demanded icily.

  Zen took a step forward.

  ‘A colleague of mine has been killed. I think I know who did it, and why, and who else is in danger. But we must act at once. Every second is precious. That’s why I came directly here instead of going through the usual procedures. Let me speak to you in private – or, if you’re too busy, to one of your colleagues.’

  Mamoli paused. Like the taxi drivers, he was impressed above all by the intensity of Zen’s tone. The hint that he might lose an important case was also well timed. With an apologetic smile to the other magistrates, as though to say ‘I’d better humour this maniac before he gets violent’, he walked past Zen to the door.

  ‘This way!’

  Once in the corridor, he turned to stare levelly at Zen.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  Zen nodded confidently.

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’

  Mamoli led the way to an office at the end of the corridor and shut the door. He did not sit down, nor did he invite Zen to do so. Zen walked straight over to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled the Questura.

  ‘Aurelio Zen speaking. Do we have a commissariato on Burano? No? Then give me the squad room.’

  ‘Now listen,’ Mamoli exclaimed, ‘I’ve stood just about as much of this as …’

  ‘Is Todesco there? Put him on.’

  He turned to the furious Mamoli.

  ‘Just one moment, please! This can’t wait.’

  He put the receiver to his ear once more.

  ‘Todesco? Aurelio Zen. Now pay attention. You’re to take a boat and get over to Burano immediately. No, not Murano, Burano – B as in Brescia. Go to the home of Filippo Sfriso. The address will be in Gavagnin’s file on the case. Take two or three men with you. Put Sfriso himself under arrest. Don’t worry about the warrant. I’ll have one by the time you get back. He’s to make no phone calls, speak to no one. Understood? If at all possible, bring his mother along too. If she won’t budge, leave an armed guard on the house.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Well you’ll just have to find someone to cover for you,’ Zen resumed with silky menace. ‘And please try not to shoot any of your colleagues this time, Todesco. You almost killed someone last night. This is your chance to make amends before I write up my report.’

  He hung up and turned to face Mamoli. The magistrate was by now bursting with indignation.

  ‘What the devil do you think …’

  Zen cut him off.

  ‘I apologize for my apparent rudeness, signor giudice, but time is pressing. Less than an hour ago, the body of Inspector Enzo Gavagnin, head of the Drugs Squad at the Questura of Venice, was recovered from a cesspit in a courtyard by San Canciano. He had been murdered, thrown into the sewage with his hands tied and left to drown.’

  Mamoli’s indignation instantly evaporated.

  ‘Go on.’

  Zen paused, trying to marshal his thoughts, to remember what he could admit and what he must conceal, which facts he could present openly to Mamoli and those w
hose origin or significance he must disguise.

  ‘Three days ago, a fisherman named Giacomo Sfriso, resident on Burano, was found drowned in the lagoon. There was no evidence of foul play, yet Enzo Gavagnin insisted on opening an investigation and brought the dead man’s brother in for questioning.’

  He broke off and gave an embarrassed smile.

  ‘Enzo told me all this himself, off the record. He and I had struck it off from the moment I arrived here. Our parents used to be neighbours, and …’

  Mamoli nodded impatiently.

  ‘Quite, quite.’

  ‘I asked him why he was taking such a hard line. He told me a story which frankly I found hard to believe at the time. He claimed to have received death threats from a powerful drug cartel he had been fighting for years. When I asked what this had to do with the Sfriso brothers, he said that he knew that they were involved with this organization, although he lacked sufficient proof to make a formal request to proceed. He claimed that Giacomo Sfriso had been murdered by the gang, and hoped that Filippo, shocked by his brother’s death, would now agree to co-operate.’

  ‘And did he?’

  Zen shook his head.

  ‘Not fully, although he apparently supplied some telephone numbers which Enzo hoped to exploit. But before he could do so, the threat to his life which he mentioned to me had been brutally substantiated. What I’m asking of you, signor giudice, is authorization to hunt down my friend’s killers!’

  Leaving this passionate declaration ringing in the air, Zen quickly reviewed this fiction to ensure that it covered all the essential points. Satisfied, he looked up at Marcello Mamoli, who was gazing at him with renewed interest.

  ‘I need the following powers,’ Zen went on quickly. ‘First, interception of all telephonic traffic on the numbers Sfriso supplied to Gavagnin. Second, surveillance of the addresses corresponding to those numbers. Third, a warrant for the arrest of Filippo Sfriso on the grounds of reticence concerning the criminal activities already mentioned. Fourth, round-the-clock protection for Sfriso’s mother, who might otherwise be at risk from the gang. And lastly, authorization in principle to follow up any leads which may arise in the course of these and related enquiries.’

  Marcello Mamoli raised his eyebrows.

  ‘In short, a free hand.’

  Zen shrugged.

  ‘In my experience, it’s quite normal for Criminalpol operatives to be granted a relatively wide degree of latitude in their investigations.’

  ‘And you would naturally check with me before taking any initiatives which might prove, ah, controversial.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Marcello Mamoli walked over to the window. It had started to rain again, and fat drops slid slowly down the panes, leaving tracks like slugs. The magistrate consulted his watch.

  ‘It’s now almost four o’clock,’ he said without looking

  round. ‘You’ve got forty-eight hours to come up

  with something solid.’

  It was only then that Zen remembered his appointment

  with Cristiana.

  Filippo Sfriso’s return to the Questura was in stark contrast to his unceremonious departure two days earlier. The police launch which had been dispatched to fetch him from Burano cut through the Arsenale, avoiding the more direct but constricted backwaters where it would have had to slow down. Although it was still light, the curtains in the cabin were tightly drawn. Next to the helmsman stood a patrolman in grey battledress cradling a machine-gun.

  Emerging at the south end of the Arsenale canal, the launch turned hard to starboard, passing astern of a vaporetto landing-stage being towed away for installation or repair, and shot in under the Selpolcro bridge without any slackening of pace. It screeched past an orange-and-green garbage barge hoisting a street-sweeper’s cart aboard and surged along the canal, creating a wash which had the tethered vessels heaving at their moorings like frightened horses, before revving loudly in reverse at the last moment to slide in alongside the Fondamenta di San Lorenzo.

  While the helmsman jumped ashore and secured the mooring ropes, the armed patrolman took up a position on the quayside, glancing alternately to left and right. Then the door of the cabin opened and the burly figure of Bettino Todesco appeared in the cockpit. He surveyed the scene briefly, then disappeared back into the cabin. A moment later he emerged, handcuffed to a figure whose head and shoulders were swathed in a blanket. The pair stepped ashore and hurried across the quay and into the open doorway of the Questura.

  Forty seconds later, Filippo Sfriso was sitting in an office on the second floor of the building. The shutters were closed and Todesco stood guard at the door. Sfriso looked as though he were in shock. His body was subject to uncontrollable spasms of trembling, his face was pale and expressionaless, his gaze vacant. Neither man spoke. The door opened and Aurelio Zen walked in. Filippo Sfriso rose slowly to his feet. He stared at Zen, his eyes widening in terror.

  ‘You!’

  Before Zen could answer, Sfriso picked up his chair and threw it at him. Zen managed to raise one hand in time to fend it off, but one of the legs scraped his forehead painfully. Meanwhile Sfriso was off and running for the door. Bettino Todesco was taken by surprise, but managed to grab one of Sfriso’s legs as the Buranese got the door open. They fell to the floor in the corridor, locked together in a violent struggle.

  Sfriso started kicking his captor’s head with his free leg, but Todesco hung on gamely until Zen came to his aid. Between the two of them they succeeded in subduing the prisoner, but Todesco was understandably keen to administer some punishment for the abuse he had suffered, and under the circumstances – the scrape on his forehead was quite painful – Zen was content to indulge him. Then they dragged Sfriso back into the office, where Zen dangled his police identity card in front of Sfriso’s battered face.

  ‘That was stupid, even by your standards. You’re already under arrest for reticenza. Now I can add resisting arrest and assulting a police officer.’

  ‘I thought you were …’ Sfriso began.

  ‘I know what you thought,’ Zen interrupted hastily, before Sfriso revealed too much about Zen’s irregular activities in front of Todesco. ‘You thought I was another “bent policeman”, like Enzo Gavagnin.’

  He took out his pack of cigarettes and lit up.

  ‘But you were wrong,’ he went on. ‘You said more than you should have done, the other evening, and you said it to the wrong man. That was stupid too. But you are stupid, Filippo, aren’t you? You and your brother. Otherwise you would never have got mixed up in any of this.’

  Sfriso hung his head and said nothing. Zen smoked quietly for a while, looking down at him.

  ‘These men are killers,’ he said at length. ‘They kill indirectly, by peddling drugs to kids in Mestre and Marghera. But they also kill directly, as you know only too well.’

  He walked over to Sfriso, sitting down next to him.

  ‘You told me what they did to Giacomo,’ he said. ‘They seem to like drowning people.’

  After what seemed like an age, Sfriso’s head slowly came up. He stared blearily at Zen, who nodded.

  ‘This time it was the turn of Enzo Gavagnin,’ Zen murmured. ‘They wired his thumbs together and threw him into a cesspool. Like with Giacomo, they did other things to him first. Do you want to see the photos? Clearly they didn’t believe Gavagnin’s protestations of ignorance any more than they did your brother’s.’

  He leant close to Sfriso.

  ‘What about you, Filippo?’ he breathed. ‘You’re the only one left now. Do you think they’ll believe you?’

  He leant his head quizzically on one side.

  ‘I wouldn’t rate your chances particularly high, myself. They didn’t believe Giacomo. They didn’t believe Gavagnin. Why should they believe you?’

  He crushed out his cigarette underfoot.

  ‘No, I think it’s a pretty solid bet that they’ll assume that you’re holding out on them too. I wonder what they’ll
do to you. Leave you to drown slowly in a tank of shit like Gavagnin? Or will it be something even more original? What do you think they’ll come up with? And when? How long will it be before your mother loses her other son?’

  Sfriso’s face crumpled and he began to weep.

  ‘Stop tormenting me!’

  Zen laughed harshly.

  ‘No problem, Filippo! I’ll leave that to them. Unless you agree to co-operate.’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Everything. Names, dates, places, people. The whole story from the beginning, up to and including your brother’s death and your interrogation by Gavagnin.’

  A sly glint came into Sfriso’s eye.

  ‘And in return I get a free pardon?’

  This time Zen’s laughter was openly contemptuous.

  ‘Of course! Plus a state pension for life and a villa in Capri. No, Filippino, all I can undertake to do for you is to save your miserable skin. When you come to trial, the fact that you’ve co-operated will of course weigh in your favour, but I’m afraid you’re still going to have to spend several years behind bars. Not an attractive prospect, I know, but it beats moving permanently to San Michele.’

  Conflicting emotions chased each other across Filippo Sfriso’s moist features.

  ‘You’re trying to trap me into confessing,’ he blurted out.

  Zen waved casually around at the office.

  ‘Do you see anyone taking notes or making a tape recording? We’re just having a chat, Filippo. If you agree to my proposition, I will summon the lawyer of your choice before starting the interview, which will be conducted in his presence and according to the usual rules.’

  He broke off, glancing at Sfriso.

  ‘Which lawyer would you nominate, incidentally?’

  Sfriso barked out a laugh.

  ‘Do I look like someone who has a lawyer on call? I’m just a poor fisherman.’

  ‘Hardly poor, and not just a fisherman. Otherwise you wouldn’t be needing a lawyer.’

  Zen looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘Let me suggest a few names. How about Carlo Berengo Gorin, for example? They say he’s very good.’

  He glanced back at Sfriso’s face as he spoke Gorin’s name. There was no flicker of recognition.