“I said that? You must have an amazing memory.”
“Didn’t you tell me it was for your daughter Carla’s sake you decided to hire Signor Bassi?”
A wry smile moved the narrow lips. “You’re trying to suggest I was responsible for Carlo’s murder?”
“You killed him, signora. It was premeditated. You got up early one morning and you went to his place at Segrate. You waited for him to drive through the gates of his villa. I imagine when he saw you, Carlo Turellini was surprised. He stopped and you shot him. The first bullet jammed. The second went wide. Then you forced yourself to concentrate on his cowardice—and how he was doing your daughter out of her inheritance. The third bullet killed him.”
“I did that?”
It was suddenly very silent in the house in the via Montenapoleone. Just the gentle purring of the cat.
Trotti looked at her sharply. “Of course you killed him. And Bassi was either too incompetent or too greedy ever to consider you as the culprit.”
“You can’t possibly have any proof.”
“I don’t need proof.”
A hesitation. “You don’t want to send me to prison?”
“Not necessarily. It all depends upon you.”
Signora Lucchi looked at Trotti carefully. Magagna was also looking at him.
“I imagine you have watertight alibis, Signora Lucchi.”
“I was with Avvocato Regni the morning my ex-husband was shot down.”
“Of course. An interesting man, Avvocato Regni.”
“You really think I was jealous of the Englishwoman to the point of killing Carlo? A blonde idiot and that’s why my husband lived with her. Carlo needed to be surrounded by young and beautiful and worshipping women. By pretty idiots.” She gave a brief cackle. “And now you want to arrest me for murdering the man I loved?” The cat jumped from Magagna’s lap to the floor.
“Well, commissario?”
“I’m sure we could come to an agreement, Signora Lucchi. Some form of compromise. We are both reasonable people.”
82: Mani Pulite
SIGNORA LUCCHI GOT up and went to the window, then she turned to look at Trotti. “An agreement, commissario?” Amusement hovered along the thin lips.
For a few moments Trotti and the rich woman stared at each other without speaking.
(The old, moneyed class of Milan, more bourgeois than aristocratic. And very rich.)
She turned back to the window and stared down at the silent traffic and the crowds in via Montenapoleone. (Impervious to Mani Pulite.)
“You met Tenente Pisanelli, signora. He was with me when I first came to see you.”
“A charming man.”
“He’s now in a deep coma.”
“Ah.”
“A coma from which he may never awake.”
“I’m truly sorry to hear that.” Signora Luciana Lucchi faced Trotti. She placed her hands behind her back and leaned against the sill. “He didn’t behave like other policemen.”
“I really don’t know how other policemen behave.”
“He certainly seemed charming.”
Trotti said nothing.
She coughed. “An agreement, commissario?” She hesitated, then, taking a step forward, she said, “I haven’t been totally honest with you.”
“You haven’t been at all honest.”
“It’s true I asked Avvocato Regni to contact you. Which he did. He consequently informed me you’re intending to retire.”
A nod. “In September.”
“He also informed me you may be having difficulties with a house you share in the OltrePò.”
“Avvocato Regni’s very well-informed.”
“I was wondering whether I could in any way be of aid to you.”
“Pierangelo Pisanelli’s a friend. As much a friend as a commissario in the Polizia di Stato can hope to have friends. We’ve known each other, Pisa and I, for a long time. We’ve done some useful work together. His fiancée is my goddaughter. We know each other well. Our respective qualities as much as our failings.”
“I got the impression he understood women.”
“The evening Tenente Pisanelli and I were driven off the road—that very evening he took me to task. He couldn’t understand why I was allowing myself to get involved with Bassi. With Bassi and his inquiry into your ex-husband’s death.” Trotti replaced the cup back on its thin saucer and slipped a licorice sweet into his mouth. “He seemed to think I was attracted by your money.”
Signora Luciana Lucchi returned to the seat. “I have money,” she said simply. “That’s a fact of life I learned to live with a long time ago. A fact of life that can have both positive and negative aspects. Now tell me, commissario. In what way can I be of use?”
“I was surprised by Pisanelli’s attitude.” There was no amusement in the brief laughter. “Surprised and hurt. I can remember blushing in his cold little French car. At that moment, I felt I was losing an old friend. Or even a son. The accusation …” Trotti glanced at Magagna. “Silly, isn’t it? Pisanelli’s lying in the hospital now in Rianimazione. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to speak to him again. Not sure I’ll be able to tell him he was one of the best. That he’d come to be a surrogate son to me. That’s why I was so often harsh and demanding. Because in so many ways Pisa’s just like me.” Magagna was smiling as he mechanically stroked the cat. He had taken his sunglasses off and his eyes were on Trotti’s face. “Self-doubt, commissario?”
“The way Pisanelli judged me on Saturday night as we were driving back from Alessandria in the snow, the way he attributed the motives to me was like a knife in the back.”
There was an uneasy silence. Signora Lucchi turned away and again stared down on to the street.
The cat purred beneath Magagna’s strokes.
“Tell me how I can help you, commissario.”
“We all like to think we’re above money, that we have values other than those of wealth. But once you’ve got used to a comfortable existence—it’s hard to return to the bad old days.”
“What precisely is it you want?”
Trotti took a deep breath. “Dr. Turellini was a specialist in clinical medicine?”
She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Carlo Turellini held his specialty in obstetrics from your university. Dr. Quarenghi’s the specialist in clinical medicine. Tell me, Commissario Trotti, what do you want?”
“There’d be no point in helping them in Rianimazione. The big pharmaceutical companies and the people who manufacture the scanners and the ECGS have already sponsored those places. High profile and that’s the way Tangentopoli’s always worked. A meretricious society based on the meretricious values of advertising and public relations. A Berlusconi society.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
Trotti folded his arms. He sucked at the sweet. “I see no reason for your going to prison.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” The woman gave a chuckle but her eyes remained watchful, not leaving Trotti’s face.
“Prison’s not going to bring back anybody. Not Turellini and not Fabrizio Bassi. If for one moment I felt it would help Pisanelli, I’d happily throw you into prison. Or into the polluted Lambro where Bassi died. But Pisanelli’s being on a bed with pipes running in and out of him has got little to do with you. More to do with my peasant stubbornness.”
Magagna glanced sharply at Trotti.
Trotti continued. “You tell me your ex-husband wasn’t a broad-minded man. I’d like to think he was a good man.”
“A very good man.”
“A good man who was above corruption. A good man who resisted the siren calls of Tangentopoli, of our partitocrazia, of this hobbling First Republic.”
“You understand Carlo Turellini.”
“Pisa’s fiancee is with him at the hospital, Signora Lucchi. Thanks no doubt to the generosity of the pharmaceutical companies,there’s a bedroom where she can sleep
. She’s there at his bedside, holding his hand. Praying and hoping. She’s always loved Pisa—ever since she was a little girl and Pisanelli was new to the police.”
“I’m sure your young man will pull through.”
“Modern medicine’s holistic—I believe that’s the right word. Excuse me, I’m an ignorant old man from the hills.” A gesture of modesty. “Doctors now say that the battle has to be won emotionally. The battle has to be won in the the patient’s head, with his desire to survive. By being surrounded by people who love and care for him.”
“That was my husband’s first concern. Carlo was a marvelous doctor. A man who cared. Which explains the tremendous success of the Clinica Cisalpina.”
“What better legacy, signora, than a gift of this sort?”
She frowned.
“Not a legacy to the high-profile university clinics. Your husband was of humble origins. I can imagine nothing more befitting his humility and his devotion to the alleviation of human suffering than a gift to our Pediatria.”
The birdlike mouth had fallen open.
“At last a decent place for all the victims of child abuse. All those hurt children who without the intervention of doctors and the caring professions are doomed to carry their suffering on their backs. Like snails carrying their shells. I can’t imagine a better, more worthy homage to your husband than the Turellini Child Abuse Institute. With a couple of bedrooms for the mothers and families to stay close by the children.”
83: Grison
IT WAS ALREADY getting dark by the time they reached the Questura.
The place seemed empty.
Magagna and Trotti got into the lift and stepped out on the third floor.
The blonde woman raised her head. She gave a perfunctory smile of her thick red lips.
“News of Pisanelli?”
She shook her head. “Everybody’s at the memorial service. I thought you’d gone too, Commissario Trotti.” She took a large envelope from under the telephone console. “Commissario Maiocchi left you this. Said he’d be back by six at the latest.”
The two men went down the corridor into Trotti’s office.
It was strangely quiet. A fog was slowly rising from the river, beyond the window.
“In a way I regret not going to the service, Magagna.”
“It would have been the decent thing to do.”
“I imagine they’re all there. Our Lega Lombarda mayor and his councillors. And of course the ex-mayor. And all Viscontini’s Socialist friends.”
“You’re bitter, commissario.”
“I’ll be going to the hospital on my way home.”
“Why are you so bitter?”
“About the Questore?”
“About Viscontini.”
“I would have enjoyed seeing Viscontini and his friends bowing and scraping and crossing themselves. They must be shitting themselves. They’re scared out of their wits.”
“Dr. Quarenghi’s scared. Why the others?”
“I doubt if Quarenghi’s been able to skim all that money for himself. Most of it was going to the politicians, I imagine.”
“What politicians?”
“To the Socialist party.”
“Why?”
“That’s the only explanation to the Questore’s suicide. He was compromised and he saw no alternative.”
“There’s always an alternative to death.”
“Perhaps the Questore wanted to think of himself as an honorable man. Goodness knows why. He’s as much responsible for Pisanelli’s coma as if he’d been driving the Volvo himself.”
“That’s why he killed himself with a plastic bag?”
“Goodness knows what drove him to kill himself. Who can know what’s going on in somebody else’s head? He realized he’d soon be facing charges of gross misconduct. Once the socialists get kicked out of power in the new elections.”
“You really think he was responsible for Pisanelli?”
Trotti took a deep breath. “It was because slush funds were being recycled for the Socialist party that the Questore had to intervene. That’s why he had Maluccio thrown into jail in Alessandria.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“What need would Quarenghi have to distribute his money? Why not keep it for himself?”
“Of course Quarenghi kept a lot of it for himself. As much as he could. All the siphoning of money to the political parties passes through various private pockets. Lining those private pockets.”
“Why give the money to Viscontini and the city’s socialists?”
“Not all the money, Magagna.” Trotti sat back in the canvas armchair. It was cold in the small room and mist rose from his mouth as he spoke.
“Why give any?”
Trotti laughed. “You think he wanted to lose his position on the CIP? If he’d been given the job in Rome, it was because Quarenghi was in the odor of sanctity with the Socialists. Or rather, odor of Mafia. Not just with the local Socialists but also the Socialists in Rome. He had to pay them back. That was the tacit deal.” Trotti put his head back. “Tangentopoli, Magagna. Your problem is, you’re dealing with Brazilian transvestites and whores. You know all about nipples and nothing about the seamier aspects of human nature.”
“The greed’s the same.” Magagna lit a cigarette. “Just the manifestations that are different.”
“Ah! Enjoy the memorial service?”
Magagna turned in the greasy armchair.
Maiocchi had entered the office. Beneath the overcoat, he was wearing a dark suit and a black tie. For once his unruly hair had been neatly brushed. Out of his habitual corduroys, Maiocchi looked a lot older, less like the perennial student.
“You saw the photos, commissario?”
Trotti gestured him to take the free armchair. “Photos?”
Stepping forward, Maiocchi placed a friendly hand on Magagna’s shoulder. The unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth. He picked up the large envelope. “Take a look.”
Trotti undid the clip and removed three large photographs.
Glossy black-and-white photographs.
The first was of a car wedged against a tree. Trotti could not recognize the make of the car because it had burned. There were no tires, no paint, no windows. The doors had been knocked inwards. The steering wheel appeared bent.
The second photograph was of a carbonized corpse. Or rather, part of a carbonized corpse.
“Who?” Trotti asked, repressing a shudder and raising his eyes to Maiocchi.
Maiocchi shook his head and pointed to the third photograph.
A human hand, partially burned but with a wedding ring encircling the scorched skin of a finger.
“Who’s this, Maiocchi?”
“A woman’s hand. A woman’s wedding ring.”
“Pavesi?”
Maiocchi nodded. He appeared tired. “A hiker found the car yesterday. In Switzerland. In the regional park near Pontresina.”
“This is Pavesi?”
“Signora Pavesi,” Maiocchi corrected him. “No autopsy as yet, but it looks as if the car had been there for ten days at least. Italian plates, probably stolen.”
“Signora Pavesi? What was she doing in Switzerland? In a stolen car?”
“She was in the boot. Probably dead before the car was driven from the track thirty meters up the slope.” He shrugged. “The lid of the boot opened as the car crashed against the trees.”
“And Signor Pavesi?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that.”
“Me?” Trotti tapped his chest.
Maiocchi said slowly, “Hoping you’d be accompanying me to Venezuela the day after tomorrow.”
“Venezuela?”
“The daughter’s already identified the wedding ring. No fingerprints but the Swiss’ve asked for Signora Pavesi’s dental records.”
“You think I can really be of use to you, Maiocchi, in Venezuela?” Maiocchi’s face broke into an unexpected grin. “What need do you have for c
loudless skies, sunny beaches and palm trees, commissario? I imagine you enjoy the fogs of the Po valley too much.” With the stem of his pipe, he gestured to the thickening darkness outside the empty Questura.
84: Snail
SIGNORA SCOLA HAD left a message asking him to ring her, but a china was what Trotti most needed now.
A china before supper, he told himself, and then the walk to San Matteo. Trotti, who loathed hospitals, told himself it was time he went and sat with Pisanelli. He had been avoiding his duty for too long. He had scarcely spoken to Anna Ermagni other than over the telephone. He needed to tell her that she was always welcome to stay with him and Anna Maria in via Milano.
He needed to tell Pisanelli so many things.
Trotti came out of the main entrance of the Questura.
“You don’t want to come to the hospital?”
“Another time, commissario.”
“A drink?”
“I’m driving back to Milan. I’ve got to get home before the children go to bed. They like me to read them their bedtime stories. Or tell them about Pescara.”
“Get a posting here, Magagna. I’ll be out of your hair after September.”
“That’s what frightens me.”
“Leave Milan before you start falling in love with all your South American transvestites.”
They shook hands. “Love to Giovanna, Magagna. Tell her I’ll be up to see you all in the new year. And take care. I don’t want you being driven off the road.”
A debonair wave of his hand. “Unlike Pisa, I drive an Italian car—not a French can of sardines.” The burly policeman saluted briskly. “Buona sera, Signor Commissario,” Magagna said, and went down the granite steps of the Questura and disappeared into the night.
“Ciao!”
Trotti pulled on the zip of his English jacket and turned into Strada Nuova.
It was dark and the overhead lamps cast their tinted light into the foggy Street. Trotti pulled his scarf up to his chin and headed towards the Po.
His last winter in the Polizia di Stato.
He softly whistled to himself. “Un bel dì di maggio.”
Rush hour and the municipal buses rumbled past, heavy with their load of passengers and misted glass. Passengers going home to minestra, Berlusconi and bed.
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