Dead Lagoon - 4

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘Still feeling big and brave, are we?’ he sneered at Bugno. ‘Your wife isn’t, I can tell you that much. She’s been ringing every five minutes wanting to know what’s going on and when she can expect you home. She’s worried, the kids are terrified, the neighbours are gossiping, but what can I tell her? It all depends on you, Massimo.’

  Bugno wrung his hands piteously.

  ‘What do you want me to do? What do you want me to say?’

  ‘The truth!’ Zen shouted.

  ‘But I’ve told you the truth!’

  Zen swung his fist as though to strike him, then drew it aside at the last moment and drove it into his palm with a resounding smack.

  ‘Stop messing me about, Bugno!’

  Bugno looked abject.

  ‘I’m sorry, dottore! I’m really sorry! I just don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘What were you doing on the eleventh of November last year?’

  Massimo Bugno frowned.

  ‘November?’

  ‘November, yes! Are you deaf? Answer the question!’

  Suddenly Bugno’s face cleared.

  ‘The eleventh? Ah, well, that weekend I would have been out of town.’

  Zen laughed contemptuously.

  ‘Had the alibi nice and pat, didn’t you? Now I know you’re guilty, Bugno, and so help me God I’ll get a confession if I have to beat it out of you.’

  ‘It’s the truth! I was on the mainland, near Belluno, at my father-in-law’s farm. I can prove it!’

  ‘Oh I’m sure you can dig up a few relatives who are prepared to perjure themselves on your behalf.’

  ‘It’s my father-in-law’s birthday!’

  ‘The eleventh?’

  ‘The eighth.’

  ‘What’s the eighth got to do with it? Don’t try and confuse the issue!’

  ‘You don’t understand. His birthday is on the eighth, but the kids were in school and Lucia and I had to work. We drove up there at the weekend and stayed over till Sunday evening. I was nowhere near the city on the eleventh!’

  Bugno stared fixedly at Zen, as though trying to hypnotize him into belief. There was no need for that. Zen had no doubt that Bugno was telling the truth. On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to turn him loose until he had questioned the other two men.

  ‘Have it your own way!’ he snapped, and called the guard to have Bugno taken back to the cells.

  Before dealing with Massimo Zuin, Zen phoned down to the local bar for a cappuccino and a pastry. A few minutes later Aldo Valentini breezed in, followed almost immediately by Pia Nunziata, her right arm in a sling, carrying a beige envelope in her left hand.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Zen asked her indignantly. ‘You’re supposed to be taking the week off.’

  The policewoman nodded.

  ‘I was going to, but all my friends, relatives and neighbours kept popping in and ringing up every five minutes to ask how I was. In the end I decided I’d rather be at work.’

  She handed him the envelope and walked out, almost colliding with the waiter carrying Zen’s breakfast. Zen gave him a tip calculated to ensure an equally prompt response next time, then tore open the envelope and scanned the four sheets of flimsy paper inside, headed Heyman, Croft, Kleinwort and Biggs, Attorneys at Law. In the next cubicle, Aldo Valentini was typing frantically.

  ‘How’s it going, Aldo?’ Zen called.

  ‘Still waiting for the gang to call, Sfriso’s at home with a tap on the line, I’m trying to organize a rapid response for any of the scenarios they might throw at us, enough to drive you round the bend, didn’t sleep a wink all night.’

  Zen dipped the last bite of pastry in his coffee, then stood up and put on his hat and coat. Domenico Zuin was going to have to wait.

  Outside, a gentle drowsiness pervaded the air. Zen turned left, walking north towards the hospital complex behind the church dedicated to the hybrid San Zanipolo. A boy on a miniature bicycle was dashing about the square at high speed, ignoring the ritualistic cries of ‘Come here!’ from his mother, who was chatting expansively to a friend by the bridge. Zen walked along the quay lined with mooring posts painted in blue-and-white stripes like barbers’ poles, and entered the imposing courtyard of the hospital.

  The pathology department was located in a remote outbuilding on the other side of the huge ex-conventual complex. Zen made his way through groups of patients in dressing gowns and visitors clutching flowers and fruit and walked down a tree-lined alley to a green door marked HISTOPATHOLOGY. A dingy corridor inside led to a room packed with laboratory equipment. A young woman in a white coat directed Zen to a small room on the other side of the lab, where he donned a gown and rubber boots. Already the air was tainted with the cloying odour of formaldehyde.

  Inside the post-mortem room there were six metal tables, three of them occupied. An assistant was sewing up a female corpse whose body cavity now contained a pair of rubber gloves, strips of bloodsoaked muslin and a copy of the morning’s Corriere dello Sport. At the next table, another assistant pulled the caul of cut scalp down over a male cadaver’s face and set about sawing the skull open. Zen asked him where he could find the pathologist. The man waved vaguely with the bone-flecked saw at a glass-fronted office in the end wall where a florid man in a white plastic cape and rubber boots was talking loudly on the telephone.

  ‘… and then once Anna and Patrizio finally turned up, nothing would do but we all had to sit through the whole thing again from the beginning! Do you believe it? And when Claudio tried gently to tell him that enough was enough, he got completely pissed off and started asking what kind of friends we were … It’s absurd! He’s only had the damn thing a month and already he thinks he’s Visconti.’

  He glanced up at Zen.

  ‘Anyway, Marco, I must go. What? That’s right, the corpses are getting restless, heh heh. Speak to you later.’

  He put the phone down.

  ‘Now then, what can I do for you?’

  Zen introduced himself and inquired about the progress of the autopsy on cadaver 40763, such being the number assigned to the remains which had been found on Sant’ Ariano.

  ‘Done, finished, complete,’ the pathologist remarked carelessly. ‘I like to get the really putrid stuff out of the way early on, if at all possible.’

  Zen handed him the sheets faxed over by the law firm representing the Durridge family.

  ‘I believe this is medical information relating to a missing person,’ he said. ‘It’s in English, but …’

  ‘So’s half the literature,’ the pathologist retorted. ‘You want to know if it’s the same man?’

  He glanced at the material, then walked over to the door, beckoning to Zen. The pathologist led the way to the far end of the post-mortem room. On an isolated table lay a long plastic bag with a zipper running from one end to the other. He opened the bag, releasing a stench which overpowered even the pervading odour of formaldehyde. Inside lay a partially reassembled skeleton and an assortment of bones, some of which had bits of flesh and gristle clinging to them. The pathologist removed the jawbone and compared the teeth to a sketch in the fax, then bent over the skull and repeated the process with the upper jaw.

  ‘Looks like a perfect match,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a couple of missing teeth, but they probably broke loose on impact.’

  He pointed to a row of jars at the foot of the table, where various organs were floating in pink liquid.

  ‘Tough organ, the heart. It survived even this degree of decomposition.’

  He patted the skull lightly.

  ‘Our subject suffered from coronary artery disease. According to these medical records, so did this American.’

  ‘So it’s the same man?’ Zen asked eagerly.

  The pathologist gestured a disclaimer.

  ‘I can’t issue an official identification without running some tests on the other data in here.’

  ‘But off the record …’ Zen insisted.

  ‘Off the record, I�
��d say there’s very little question that it’s the same man.’

  Zen released a long sigh.

  ‘I suppose it’s impossible to determine the cause of death with the body in this condition?’

  ‘In most cases it would certainly have been very difficult,’ the pathologist replied. ‘But this one is perfectly straightforward.’

  He pointed to the base of the skull.

  ‘Observe this lesion. The cervical vertebrae have been driven straight up into the skull. And again here, the fracture dislocation of the hips and the multiple pelvic fractures.’

  He looked at Zen.

  ‘The evidence speaks for itself.’

  ‘And what does it say?’ Zen inquired dryly.

  ‘The man fell to his death.’

  Zen gaped at the pathologist.

  ‘Fell?’

  ‘Oh yes. And from quite a considerable height. At least the fourth floor, and probably higher.’

  Zen laughed.

  ‘That’s impossible!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ the pathologist returned with a piqued expression.

  ‘There are no buildings where this man was found! There are no structures of any kind, only bushes and shrubs.’

  The pathologist zipped up the body bag.

  ‘Perhaps he died elsewhere and the corpse was subsequently moved to the site where you found it. There is no way of telling once the flesh has gone. But I can assure you that injuries such as these can occur only in the way I have described.’

  Zen nodded meekly.

  ‘Of course, dottore. I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘There are minor variations, depending on the primary point of impact. I recall a case a few years back, an air force trainee whose parachute failed to open. He landed on his head, with the result that the vault of the skull was driven down over the spine. That presents very similar lesions to this one, but with cranial impact you also get extensive fracturing of the vault and the base of the skull. That is absent here, so he must have come down feet first. It’s purely a matter of chance.’

  He removed his rubber gloves and shook Zen’s hand.

  ‘Leave these medical details with me and I’ll send over a full report in due course.’

  Zen was so deep in thought as he left the hospital that he did not notice the funeral when he tried to push his way through the cortège and was indignantly repulsed. Only then did he become aware of the dirge-like bell strokes, and the blue motor launch bearing a coffin submerged in flowers and wreaths with sprays of lilies and palm leaves crossed with violet ribbons. He took off his hat respectfully as the hearse cast off for the short trip to San Michele, followed by a line of watertaxis bearing the mourners.

  Once the crowd had dispersed, he began to walk slowly back to the Questura. But though his pace was deliberate, his mind was racing. The Durridge case had entered a phase of extreme delicacy, and Zen knew that he needed to decide exactly what he was going to do and not do before making his next moves. A mistake at this point would not only jeopardize any hope of bringing the investigation to a successful conclusion, but might well leave Zen himself at risk, professionally if not personally.

  All the elements of the case were now before him. It was just a question of fitting them together in the right way, so that the overall picture could be deciphered. And the key to the puzzle, he felt sure, was the question of how Ivan Durridge had died. How could a man fall to his death when there was nowhere to fall from? As for the pathologist’s idea that the corpse might have been moved subsequent to death, that was simply not credible, given the terrain. It would have been possible to transport the body to Sant’ Ariano by boat, assuming you knew the lagoon well, but no one could have carried it across the island through that dense undergrowth. It would have had to be hoisted into place using a crane, or …

  As he entered the Questura, the policeman on guard behind the armoured glass screen in the vestibule called to him.

  ‘The Questore wants to see you in his office immediately, dottore. Top floor, first on the right.’

  Francesco Bruno was sitting behind his desk initialling papers when Zen entered. Well dressed, carefully groomed and quietly spoken, there was nothing about him to suggest the policeman. He could equally well have been a senior manager in a multinational company, or indeed a political figure with a high public profile.

  ‘Ah, at last!’ he murmured as Zen came in. ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone back to Rome already.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I just slipped out for a moment to look into one or two things …’

  Bruno waved impatiently.

  ‘I’ve got nothing against my officers popping out for the occasional coffee. Unfortunately the matter I have to raise with you is rather more serious.’

  He picked up a copy of a newspaper lying on his desk, folded it carefully and handed it to Zen. The article was headed ELDERLY VENETIAN ARISTOCRAT THREATENED BY UNDERCOVER POLICEMAN. The text below described how Contessa Ada Zulian had been accosted in the street by an official working for the Ministry of the Interior, who had attempted to blackmail her into altering her testimony to allow the State to prosecute her nephews. When Contessa Zulian refused, the official – ‘whose name is known to this paper’ – made a number of cruel and gratuitous references to a personal tragedy suffered by the Zulian family. The contessa, whose health had long been extremely fragile, collapsed and had to be taken to a nearby house, where she made a slow recovery. The article went on to condemn this ‘typical example of the arrogance and brutality of Rome’, and invited readers to make their indignation clear by voting overwhelmingly for the Nuova Repubblica Veneta in the forthcoming municipal elections.

  Zen glanced at the cover of the newspaper.

  ‘This is a party journal,’ he remarked, tossing it down on the desk. ‘They’re just playing politics.’

  ‘Playing to win!’ retorted Francesco Bruno. ‘If the opinion polls are right, they’re likely to be the biggest party on the city council after the local elections. Ferdinando Dal Maschio will be a person of immense power and influence in the capital of the province whose police chief I am.’

  Bruno kept looking straight at Zen, but there was a strangely absent quality about his gaze, as though he weren’t really seeing what he was looking at.

  ‘Times have changed, dottore! It’s just not good enough any longer for police officers to swagger about like a pack of licensed bully-boys. It’s essential for all of us to realize that we are the servants of the public, not its masters. Accountability is the name of the game.’

  He got to his feet, sighing loudly, and wandered over to the window.

  ‘Here we are, trying to build a new Italy, with nothing but the old materials to hand! I appreciate that it’s difficult for the older personnel such as yourself to change your ways overnight, but this incident involving the Contessa Zulian is completely unacceptable by any standards. There is simply no excuse for it.’

  He turned to face Zen.

  ‘I simply won’t permit this sort of heavy-handed loutishness to wreck the carefully nurtured public relations which I and my staff have been at such pains to build up. You Criminalpol people come and go, but the rest of us have to live and work here. To do so successfully involves winning and retaining the respect and trust of the local population, and more especially their elected representatives.’

  Francesco Bruno sat down and started initialling documents again.

  ‘I’ve issued a press statement to the effect that your transfer here will cease as of midnight tonight,’ he said without looking up.

  Zen did not move. After some time, the Questore raised his head and nodded once at Zen.

  ‘That’s all.

  On the way back to his office, Zen met Pia Nunziata and asked her to come and have a coffee with him.

  ‘You’re supposed to be on sick leave and I’ve just been told to clear my desk,’ he said when she looked doubtful. ‘Technically speaking, we’re not here in the first place.’

&
nbsp; The Bar dei Greci was empty apart from two elderly men mumbling at each other over their glasses of wine. Pia Nunziata asked for a mineral water. Zen ordered himself a coffee and a grappa. He felt he deserved it.

  ‘Why have they told you to leave?’ the policewoman asked as they sat down.

  ‘I was sent here to investigate the Zulian case, and there is no Zulian case.’

  ‘But we caught them red-handed!’

  Zen shot her a curious glance, then nodded.

  ‘Ah, I forgot that you’ve been away. They wriggled out of it, I’m afraid. The contessa refused to testify against her nephews, and without that we can’t proceed. So you got shot in vain, and I’m out of a job.’

  He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke upwards and making the No Smoking sign revolve lazily.

  ‘Nevertheless, there is one small matter I’d like to clear up before I leave, and I was wondering if you would help me. I haven’t time to do it myself, and I need the answer quite urgently.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to help,’ Pia Nunziata replied simply.

  ‘But without telling anyone what you’re doing, understand? Now I’ve been given my marching orders, it might complicate things.’

  The policewoman nodded.

  ‘You can rely on me.’

  Zen held her eye for a moment.

  ‘I need some technical information relating to air traffic. I don’t know where flights in this area are controlled from, but it’s probably either the international airport at Tessera or the NATO airbase at Treviso. What I want is a record of any low-altitude flights over the lagoon on the eleventh of November last year.’

  He sipped his grappa while Pia Nunziata laboriously copied this into her notebook.

  ‘Do you want me to write it for you?’ asked Zen.

  ‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m getting used to writing with my other hand.’

  ‘Get whatever information you can, in as complete a form as possible, and above all as soon as possible. By tomorrow, this will be history.’