‘But then he reappeared, a week later more or less, to help with the investigation. That’s what the papers said. And for me the obvious question was why did they free the hostage if they never received the money? And then I understood.’
He does not tell her that in her son’s favour, he had thought that the kidnappers had dazzled her husband’s car before taking the money. But he had excluded this hypothesis almost immediately. Indeed, professional kidnappers would have waited without interfering, hidden away somewhere, for the money to be delivered…
‘He wasn’t a bad boy.’ Her voice is increasingly tired, lower. ‘He studied, he was kind… it was the drugs that ruined him.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘About the kidnapping? He told me, before he died. He was conscious. He asked my forgiveness, and I forgave him. He’d be your age now, more or less…’
Cataldo could be her son, yes. He had thought about that. The son she would like to have had.
‘I promised I’d never tell anyone and today I’ve betrayed him. Perhaps it’s because I wanted to talk about it, to share the weight… or perhaps it’s because you remind me of him. I don’t see many young people, at my age…’
Cataldo perceives some pent-up emotion in her voice, a raw tenderness. And now he wants to promise something. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can rely on me not to tell anyone anything. I give you my word. Don’t worry.’
He stands up and she smiles at him, sadly.
‘Don’t worry? Peace of mind’s a thing I no longer know. I’ve lost all that in the course of my life…’
He does not know what to say, so all he can offer is, ‘Again, I’m sorry.’
He shakes her hand in the entrance. A ray of sun enters from the half-open door.
‘I’ll come back to visit, if I may.’
She looks at him in a strange way, as if such things were no longer important. As if she were struggling under the weight of a sudden tiredness.
‘The elderly are like the seats in a theatre – all the gilt-work faded, peeling… old existences in need of replacement. So much has passed before our eyes…’
Cataldo judges it to be a fine phrase, appropriate from a well-read teacher. But he knows that she means every one of those words. And so he takes his leave feeling very sad indeed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A third dead man
Standing there, sweating in the sun. There is no one around now. The thought comes that everyone is at home, or in the hotel, sitting down to lunch. Then a siesta, a little nap. From somewhere comes the voice of a television newsreader. You can tell by the timbre – strong, regular. And the neutral accent.
To go in now, or to wait? The clock says a quarter past one – that is alright. But it is difficult to make a decision. And the sweat continues to pour, but it’s not because of the heat. Suddenly a noise from behind, like a rapping on the pavement, but there is no one there – it’s just nerves. And now, there before the glass doors, the reflection is of a different face – pale and ugly. For a moment it is unrecognizable.
A decision is made. Out of the left-hand pocket the shadow pulls an envelope, holds it between its teeth, while from the same pocket it extracts a pair of thin rubber gloves. Gloves or anything that interferes with the sense of touch have always been anathema, but they will be necessary for this job. The envelope is placed back in the pocket, the fingers inserted one by one and then the sleeves of the gloves rolled out above the wrists. The Beretta 7.65 weighs a bit in the other pocket, on the right-hand side. Instinctively, one hand goes to touch the pistol through the fabric and arranges it so that the handle is lying upwards.
The word CLOSED is written on the sign, but there is no doubt that the door is unlocked – a deep breath and the shadow pushes it open. Blood hammers in the temples, the heart rises – once again – to the mouth. The pulse beats in the chest, in the neck, in the wrists. The door opens and closes slowly – not a sound, not a squeak. Inside all is silent, just the noise of that beating heart and the breathing.
There is no one in the first room, just furniture and papers. The computer is switched off, the desk is empty, the brochures are on the table. Then there is that panel, with its coloured notices. The first one, at the top, advertises a house out in the country, at Roccamalatina.
‘Oh, it’s you. I was expecting you.’
The voice comes as a surprise, from the right, three or four metres away, down the corridor. Evidently he was in one of the rooms and heard some noise. So a hand goes to the pocket, pulls out the envelope and puts it on the desk. Their eyes meet and Zanetti smiles as he approaches. Perhaps he has not noticed the gloves, or has not given them a second thought.
It is the barrel of the pistol that stops him. It transforms his smile into a start of surprise. But he still does not understand. He seems surprised, not frightened. His chest, under the t-shirt, rises and falls with the rhythm of his breath. He stares at the Beretta with some uncertainty.
‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
And now he understands that he is to die. His stomach contracts, drops of sweat appear at his temples, in his armpits. He stands rigid, holding his breath now, almost as though this might be enough to make him invisible. But it is too late.
‘Addio, Carlo.’
A feeling of impotence, of controlled, profound desperation. And the fear now. Fear that grips his guts, dries his mouth, leaving in it the taste of copper. Because he had never thought of dying like this. He has lost control of the game now, a game in which he was outclassed by his opponent…
The bullet hits him in the chest, driving him against the wall. A flower of blood appears on the white t-shirt. The lancing pain shoots through his belly and paralyzes him. Suddenly his mouth is full of blood. He gargles, suffocating, still standing. Then he leaves the wall and goes to take a step, swaying – before the darkness in his eyes, the unconsciousness, darkens his mind forever.
The killer picks the envelope up again, puts it back in the pocket it came from. Then the killer moves towards the victim, arm extended. One more shot in the chest before leaving, without looking back. Carlo falls backwards, kicks violently at nothing and lies there, motionless. The only thing hanging in the air is the smell of gunpowder.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Behind the scenes
It is six in the evening and they have all left. Cataldo is alone in the Tecnodomus offices. To the naked eye, very little evidence remains of what has happened – just some blood and the chalked contours of the body’s position. And in his mind the image of the holes in Zanetti’s chest, one just above his heart, before they took him away with the brisk professionalism they always display. And his friend’s face, the one who had found him just after three o’clock, pushing open the door that had been left ajar – his noisy grief and his swearing which for some reason had not shocked Cataldo. At that moment, in that way, it did not seem disrespectful.
And now he thinks, he has always thought, that there is always a behind-the-scenes, even for these crimes. And what happens after, behind the scenes, is that when they have taken the bodies away and the detectives leave too, together with the forensics team, then there is nothing left at the crime scene, apart from the blood stains and the disorder left first by the killer, then by investigators like him and then all that is left is the grief of the survivors. Like Katia, Zanetti’s wife, who is waiting in the car in front of the office, Muliere by her side. Cataldo has asked her to wait.
He walks through the first room, then along the corridor. He opens and closes the doors of the other two rooms and looks at everything without seeing anything. His mind is busy with the few certainties he has. Zanetti knew his killer and the weapon must be the same one that was used to kill Zoboli – he feels these things. And this death is connected with the others: Zoboli Nunzio Zanetti, a cruel chain, but not an absurd one. There must be a logic, a motive, even though he still has not brought it into focus and something is missing. A lin
k, an idea…
He sighs now, shakes his head. Best get going, he is just wasting time here. He walks out, locks the door and puts the key in his pocket. Then he opens the car door on the driver’s side. Muliere nods, gets out to give him his seat and leaves, without saying a word.
They are silent for a few seconds, delicate and tense seconds, before the questions. He has to choose where to start. He could ask her for an alibi for the early afternoon – it has to be done anyway and that would buy him some time, and in any case she does not seem to be too upset. A lack of emotion, that is what she displays. There are some signs of grief on her face, but it is as though something is being held back, repressed, by a veil of disbelief. But then he knows just how easy it is to misinterpret the disorientation caused by grief. And just how inadequate the initial reaction to a trauma can appear to be. So he decides not to ask about the alibi for now. He concentrates, looks her in the eye. He chooses a phrase of condolence, one of the conventional ones, but she interrupts him, without being impolite.
‘Please. I appreciate your courtesy, but it’s not necessary.’ And then after a moment, ‘I have to tell you some things that I’d prefer you learnt directly from me.’
‘For example?’
‘For example, my… how can I put it… well, yes, my lack of grief.’
‘If you want to describe it that way…’ he says, carefully.
‘It’s not that I want to. I have to.’
‘Why?’
She makes a gesture with her hand – impotence or resignation. ‘Because it was all over, had been for some time. Even though we continued to live together, and perhaps people didn’t know…’
‘Why?’ he asks again, slightly uneasy.
‘There is no reason behind some things. Falling in love at twenty is easy for anyone. The difficult thing is staying in love. That’s what happened to us.’
‘If you agree to live together, then together you save yourselves or you lose yourselves,’ says Cataldo suddenly. He sounds like a priest, but it does not matter because he believes it and he realizes this as soon as the words come out. She looks at him, perhaps surprised.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that life is made up of boring moments as well. Or of difficult moments. The important thing is to live through them together.’
It is the second time he has used that word. This time she approves.
‘You’re right. Together – that’s love.’ She thinks for a moment and then adds, ‘To love someone you have to believe in the same idea of life. You have to want the same things.’
‘And he no longer wanted them?’
‘No. He changed first. Then I changed, too, after he did…’
‘After him… did you hate him for that?’
She shakes her head, passionless. ‘We choose people. And it’s our own fault if they make us suffer, or if they make us become worse people…’
There is something missing here, but he does not pursue it. Instead he asks, ‘Why didn’t you separate?’
‘Because of Luca. Our son.’
He nods as he remembers and asks another question, ‘Was he in love with another woman?’
‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘Because no one worries about sex any more, but they do worry about feelings. Feelings frighten people.’
She reflects before answering, ‘I never knew of anything.’
‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Another man?’
A moment’s hesitancy before she says, ‘No. No one.’
A very common sort of story, in the end. At least according to what she has to say. The years go by, the passion ends where indifference begins. But there is something different. There is this violence, now, that has suddenly destroyed the resignation, the sadness. And there is a fair dose of nostalgia too.
‘You realize, don’t you, that your husband was killed by someone he knew well?’ he asks suddenly.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because he waited behind in the office, alone, with the closed sign on the door. Of course, he may have had urgent work to do and didn’t want to be disturbed, I’d thought of that. But why did he leave the door open, or open it personally to someone outside of office hours? There’s no sign of a breakin and the agency, with so few rooms, certainly isn’t the type of place a killer could hide in before it closed…’
He stops here because an idea has come to him. ‘Did your husband usually eat at home?’
‘He usually did, yes.’
‘And did he phone this time, to say he wouldn’t be coming?’
‘No.’
‘You see? He must have had some important reason for changing his routine. A specific appointment, for example…’
She listens in silence, objects to nothing.
‘That’s why I wonder: who hated your husband so much?’
For the first time she seems worried. ‘I don’t know. No one I know of. Why are you asking me this?’
‘Because hate might be a motive in this crime. Two shots fired at close range. The desire to kill… you understand?’
And the reply comes in a whisper, ‘In hatred there’s always a lot of love.’
And this time too there is something missing. To what or to whom do these words allude? But it does not matter. He has to bring their conversation back to more concrete topics.
‘Your husband was a partner in Tecnodomus with Calabrese. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about that.’
‘About the business?’
‘That too. Did your husband have – how shall I put it? – enemies in this field? I don’t know… particularly hostile competitors?’
‘To the point where they’d kill him? I doubt it. But I’ve already told you I know nothing about this…’
‘So let’s move on to something you know more about. His relationship with Calabrese.’
She seems perturbed now. ‘We’re friends…’
‘If you’re friends, then you know about your husband’s relationship with him.’
‘They were partners.’
‘I know. But were they good partners?’
She remains silent, does not commit.
‘Did you hear what I asked?’
‘No. They weren’t good partners. And the worst was yet to come.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well… Carlo had bought Tecnodomus on his own in 1981. Don’t ask me where he got the money, because I really don’t know… then two years later, out of the blue, he asked Franco to come in as his partner…’
‘With fresh capital… I see. But was there anything behind this move?’
‘There was something. Some difficulty, a debt. And the extra money was useful.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I was the bait. That’s not the right word, but you understand. I approached Franco, rekindled the friendship… in the end I was the one who convinced him…’
‘And now you’re sorry you did that.’
‘Yes.’ And a pause before, ‘And I’m sorry about another thing.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Let’s call it ingratitude. After all I did for him, my husband was about to abandon Franco. Get out of it… you understand?’
‘Not really.’
‘Out of the business, at the drop of a hat, stabbing Franco in the back.’ Her voice for a moment cracks, quavers in contempt. ‘Over the years I’d come to know him to be superficial, frivolous, but never dishonest. And this was a really dirty trick.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, there’s no doubt about it. I heard him, by chance, talking with a lawyer who explained the legal situation to him.’ She concentrates and then recites almost from memory, ‘According to a Supreme Court decision of 1996 regarding private companies, if the partnership no longer exists due to a withdrawal then the remaining partner becomes accountable after six months for all the compa
ny’s debts… It really was a move made with malice aforethought.’
‘So Calabrese…’
‘Yes, that’s right. He would have been set up.’
‘So there were debts?’
She nods. ‘I don’t know how much, but there were problems.’
Cataldo thinks for a moment about this last point, the most important. He is trying to make the connection with a motive.
‘Have you told Calabrese?’
‘Me? No… not yet.’
But she seems reticent, uneasy, perhaps even insincere. Or perhaps she is just a bit confused.
It is hot, in the car, but he does not think about switching on the air conditioning. He is very much engrossed in the flow of his thoughts. He well knows that the elements of truth in an enquiry often gradually acquire new meanings. To the point where sometimes they resemble a weave of signals, of clues pertaining to the possibility of different destinies, or they reveal fragments of some new reality. Because the crime is often the confirmation of a mystery that is already completely in the world, existing in things. But he also knows that the desire to find the truth leads the investigator to look for relationships between facts that are near and far in space and in time, to spot analogies, to pick up on coincidences, however strange or bizarre. All this as he descends the stairs of knowledge, along the darkest steps of the secret of being. Behind the apparent normality of human relations.
In this case, for example, if Marchisio was right, whoever stole those millions of lire in 1980 became rich from that moment on. It certainly could have been Zoboli: that detached villa did not match the salary of a temporary teacher. Zanetti too: a failed footballer who suddenly buys a real estate company one year later, perhaps he was driving that night. But both have been killed. And both of them with a pistol and by someone who knew them well. But this time there was a difference. Zanetti was about to screw his partner. Yes, this was different. He had at least to check up on Calabrese’s alibi.
The car moves surely, almost as though it knows the way – the row of terraced homes, each with a low gate and a balcony. He stops in front of number 15 where he finds a space, just like last time. It’s almost seven, Cataldo says to himself, he won’t be eating. And instinctively he looks up at the window, the curtains closed as the last rays of sun make the glass shine. And he sees him this time too. His face again at the window, looking out, as though he had never moved. But this time it is not anger he sees on his face. Rather it is uncertainty… or fear.
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