Shadows on the Lake

by Giovanni Cocco

  This was followed by a brief interview conducted in the heat of the moment, right after the stormy session. Among other things, Valli said:

  “The tunnel will fill the valley with even more cars and heavy vehicles, along a road system conceived in the early twentieth century and already congested and unable to handle even the local traffic. The utilization of one of the nearby mountain passes would have resolved the problem of the endless queues of tractor-trailers at the customs check. There was no need to sacrifice acres and acres of forest overlooking one of Italy’s most beautiful lakes. We have gathered a list of signatures for a petition we will submit to the president of the region. In the event of a negative response, we will address our concerns to the Regional Administrative Tribunal.”

  Stefania remembered the strong scent of just cut grass, the deafening chirr of the cicadas on summer afternoons, and her father’s voice saying: “What you see down there is the lake of Lugano, and over there is the San Primo Pass, and those things above it are the flags at the border crossing. See the white flag fluttering?”

  The wind would carry away the smell of his Turmac cigarettes and the scent of the woods and the sound of the cowbells in the pasture.

  His hazel eyes had green highlights in the sun. Like hers.

  Camilla’s voice suddenly rang out over the phone.

  “Mommy, can I go to the pool today with Vale? Come on, please, we haven’t got much homework today. Her mother will take us, but you have to tell me where you put my blue bathing suit and my Snoopy towel.”

  “Just listen for a minute, Cami. Martina—”

  “Don’t worry, Mommy, Martina said she would lend me fifteen euros and that it’s okay if I’m not at home today, because that way she can go and get her legs waxed and so everything’s fine. Come on, Mommy . . .”

  “But then you have to be home by six-thirty, because tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday, Mommy!”

  There was no way Camilla would ever let her finish a sentence. Whenever she got something into her head she was like a river in spate: unstoppable.

  “Bye, Mommy, thanks.”

  I don’t remember ever saying yes, thought Stefania. Then she called the other girl’s mother.

  “Yes, if it’s all right with you I’ll take the girls myself to the pool. I’ll make sure they dry themselves well and I’ll bring Cami back to you by dinnertime. For me it’s a pleasure. Everything okay with you? I’ll see you later.”

  So at five Stefania could go to the hairdresser. I’ll follow Martina’s example, she thought. Today we’ll both slip away.

  She cut out the two newspaper articles and put them in the file folder. Then she went down to the bar. It was empty at that hour. But there wasn’t so much as a panino left. She settled for one of those round short pastries with a plastic cherry in the middle, which she hated.

  She felt alone.

  She’d known Giulio Allevi since her days at the academy. They were together for a few months, stuff of their salad days. Nowadays they talked often, even though they saw each other barely twice a year—at Christmas for the commissioner’s party and in the summer. She called him that afternoon. With him she could speak openly, without beating around the bush.

  “Listen, I need you to have some tests run on those bones that we found up in the mountains, along with a few other things: fabric, metal, wood, and whatnot. . . . By somebody good, because I don’t really know where to start with all this.”

  Giulio had done well for himself. He’d gone from being a simple junior detective to becoming a high-ranking officer of the Polizia di Stato, landing a prestigious administrative position in the human resources sector. He came twice a week to Como, where there was a division of his department.

  “Yes, the one that was found in San Primo. Call me on my cell phone, I get out at four-thirty.”

  Who knew how he’d found out that she was calling about the remains found at San Primo? News travels faster than the wind around here, she thought with amusement, especially when an investigation is supposed to remain confidential. An image of Prosecutor Arisi’s frowning face and muddied loafers came back to her, and she felt decidedly better.

  Before going outside she enjoined Piras to find a phone number for Luca Valli and tell him she wanted to talk to him.

  “And what if he asks me why?”

  “Just tell him that Inspector Valenti wants to talk to him. That should be enough. It’s a confidential investigation, didn’t you know?”

  Piras never got a joke, but he was a good kid. And efficient, in his way. Practical. Trustworthy. A workhorse with an almost admirable sense of duty.

  Giulio Allevi called back when Stefania was at the hairdresser’s, with the strips of blond highlight paper still on her head.

  “Okay, Monday morning we’ll have everything brought down to you,” she said. “Yes, I’ll ring him first and explain a few things, or maybe I’ll come down myself to say hi. Yes, thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you. When we turn sixty we’ll get married; write it down in your agenda. Thanks again.”

  This had been a standing joke between Stefania and Giulio for quite some time. When we turn thirty we’ll get married. Then the years would go by. We’ll get married when we’re forty. They had, in fact, gotten married, but each to a different person. Then each had had one child, he a boy and she, Camilla. We’ll get married when we’re fifty. Not on your life. Once was enough.

  Age fifty wasn’t that far away anymore.

  “We’re getting old, Stefania. This time, we really will get married—when we turn sixty,” he’d said the last time they saw each other.

  Getting old? thought Stefania. Speak for yourself.

  Camilla would be spending the weekend with her father.

  On Saturday Guido came and picked her up at two o’clock sharp, as always.

  “Pack her a heavy sweater, because we may go skiing.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s got a purse the size of Mary Poppins’s bag, from the series Seven Days No Matter the Weather.”

  “Bye,” she said to her little girl.

  “Bye, Mommy, I love you, don’t be sad.”

  “Bye, my love.”

  Every time Camilla went away, the house seemed suddenly huge and empty, and a mess. This time, for example, it would have been a good idea to clean the kitchen and bathroom, pick up the toys and clothes scattered all over the place, wax the scuffed parquet floor, and give the cat some attention. Stefania had a look around, locked everything up, and went out. When she was already in her car and on the road, she phoned her mother.

  “Hi, Mama, I’m coming over. Yes, I’ll be eating with you. Polenta and missoltini are fine. Yes, then I’ll stay the night. No, Camilla’s not with me. No, I don’t know what time I’ll be there, it depends on the traffic. Yes, I have the keys, don’t worry.”

  She drove slowly, as she was in no hurry. It was a beautiful day, typical of the transition from winter to spring. The days were growing longer. She took the low road, which wended its way around the lake, because at that time of the year hardly anyone took it. She stopped for tea at La Vecchina, opposite the Imperialino in Moltrasio. At that moment the Lario, one of the bigger ferries in service on the lake, was passing not far away.

  Half an hour later, as she was about to enter Ossuccio, where her parents’ house was, she accelerated almost without realizing and kept on going straight, heading towards the main entrance to Villa Regina, which stood between Ossuccio and Lenno. In front of it lay the Isola Comacina, the only island in Lake Como. Pulling up outside the majestic cast-iron gate, she looked inside, as she used to do as a child, resting her head and hands against the bars.

  The great cream-colored façade was the same as she remembered it, like the green shutters, the hedgerows on either side of the fountain, the soaring trees in the park looming dark in the backgrou
nd. All closed up, but not abandoned. The hedgerows were carefully pruned and the dead leaves of the plane trees had been swept away. The caretaker’s house had the windows open.

  “The masters are coming for Easter and will stay until October if the weather is good,” Tata Lucia used to say. “The caretaker will be opening up the villa for the week of Palm Sunday.”

  Stefania stood there a long time, gazing at the stately property, until one of the two windows of the caretaker’s house slammed against the wall in a gust of wind. She got back in the car, turned around, and headed back for home, where her mother was waiting for her.

  Her parents’ house was past the Spurano district in Ossuccio, in the hilly area above the tennis courts, a stone’s throw away from the Romanesque bell tower of Santa Maria Maddalena in Ospedaletto, just opposite the isola. The view was to die for, one of the best on the whole lake, with the Zoca de l’Oli—the hill of olive groves over the gulf of Ossuccio—barely fifty yards away. Everywhere around, amid the houses and the cobbled streets and alleyways, the landscape seemed straight out of a dream. The absolute silence broken only, from time to time, by a barking dog or a trilling blackbird.

  “So, Inspector, we’re looking at some kind of firearm—a pistol, I’d say. The entry wound is the one at the back of the head, the exit wound is in front. Lower central position in the nape area, upper central position in the forehead, almost along the median line. A single shot fired from a short distance, but not point-blank. The respective positions of the two holes suggest that the victim’s head was inclined slightly forwards, otherwise it would be difficult to explain this sort of trajectory. At any rate, whoever fired the shot took careful aim,” said Selvini at the other end of the line.

  “An execution?”

  “Something very much like it, or perhaps, I should say, a coup de grâce. Death was immediate, but the victim was already wounded, though not fatally, when the shot was fired.”

  “Wounded?”

  “To judge from the marks on the ribs and on one vertebra, I’d say shot in the lungs, from behind and from the left—several shots, perhaps from a machine gun. Nasty wounds, but not immediately fatal. He was finished off sometime after that.”

  “So you confirm that it was a man.”

  “Yes, a young man, not more than thirty years old, maybe less. Rather tall, very long hands, perfect teeth, and with blond or reddish hair.”

  “What about the right leg?”

  “A nasty fracture, poorly mended, resulting in a shortening of the limb, but dating from a few months before death. It had nothing to do with his death. The young man probably had a pronounced limp and would have had trouble running.”

  “So when did this happen, Doctor? How long ago?”

  “If I’ve understood correctly what you told me about the site where the remains were found, I would say that, to be in the state they were in, it would have to have been not less than forty years ago, maybe more.”

  “Could it have happened during the war?”

  “Yes, quite possibly. That would make sense.”

  Selvini fell silent for a moment, then added: “I can’t be any more precise than that, Inspector. I would have to have other evidence, like bullets, for example. Did you find any, by any chance? And I would have to see the site myself and take into account such factors as temperature, humidity, ventilation, the type of soil—I should probably have had a look at the place before they removed the skeleton . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Doctor, you’ve already been very helpful. I won’t bother you any further for the moment. Giulio Allevi sends his regards.”

  After hanging up, Stefania sat there in silence. Then she looked at Lucchesi and Piras, who had heard the whole conversation on the speakerphone.

  “What do you two think?”

  “The guy was lying facedown, Inspector,” said Piras.

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “If they killed him there, with a shot to the base of the skull, he very likely fell facedown or onto his side, and there was no need to turn him over to see if he really was dead, with that hole running right through his head. If he’d been hiding in there and they killed him when they found him, there was no need to shoot him first in the back.”

  True.

  “But maybe he was wounded. Maybe he holed up in that cellar and they killed him after they caught up with him,” Stefania commented.

  “He could already barely walk when he was healthy, so you can imagine after he was wounded,” said Lucchesi. “And if somebody breaks down the door and finds you hiding in a hole like that, where there’s no escape even if you’re healthy, you’re not going to turn around just so they can shoot you in the back. If you’re already wounded, they’ll finish you off however they want to. You fall down and that’s it.”

  “In my opinion, they brought him there after he was already dead, to hide the body,” said Piras. “They shot him as he was running away, and since he was lame and couldn’t run, they caught up with him, finished him off, and then dumped him there, or else they shot him from behind as he was walking, and when he fell they caught up to him and, seeing that he wasn’t dead yet, finished him off and then brought him to that cellar,” he concluded.

  “What we still don’t understand is how they got him down there, given that the place is entirely underground. It looked like there was a trapdoor, but there was no covering there now,” Lucchesi objected.

  “Listen, guys,” said Stefania, “I want one of you to call Bordoli in Lanzo tomorrow morning and have him send you the photos and the workers’ depositions.” Then, turning to Lucchesi, “And have you found this Luca Valli?” she asked.

  “Yes, I spoke with him in person. I got his office address from the editorial office of Il Confine. Apparently he’s a land surveyor. He was very nice over the phone and even gave me this cell phone number,” he said, handing her a folded piece of paper, “because he’s seldom in his office.”

  She decided to go and talk to Luca Valli in person, among other reasons because she’d discovered that the environmental movement’s headquarters was fairly close to her place and because Valli happened to be in that day. In reality she didn’t have a clear sense of what to ask him or what to expect from their meeting. Maybe she was hoping to get some additional information that might point the investigation in a more precise direction.

  “Signor Valli? Good morning, I’m Inspector Valenti.”

  Two dark, gentle eyes, a bit nearsighted, looked out at her from behind their lenses.

  “Good morning. I can see that we’ve made some progress since the days of Inspector Maigret. Please sit down.”

  He looked at her as she crossed the room and sat down. The guy’s never seen a female police inspector, Stefania thought.

  “I’ve never dealt with a woman inspector before,” he said a moment later.

  “Is it a good thing or a bad thing?”

  He smiled. He had beautiful teeth and a friendly smile. He looked about thirty, maybe a little older.

  “It’s always better not to have to deal with the police. You never know. In general, however, I prefer women to men, no offense. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  Stefania smiled in turn. “Frankly, I don’t know, Signor Valli.”

  “Well, let’s have some coffee, then, just to pass the time.”

  “There was an article in Il Confine that talked about your actions at the provincial council concerning the new tunnel at the San Primo Pass. I’m conducting the investigation into the human remains that were found by workers at the site.”

  He made no effort to meet her halfway, but merely waited for her to come up with the concluding statement by herself.

  “There may be no connection at all between the two things—actually, in all likelihood there isn’t—but nevertheless I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

&
nbsp; “Go right ahead, ask anything you like. Two teaspoons of sugar?”

  “Yes, thank you. Where did the idea of building this tunnel come from?”

  “That’s something you should ask our political representatives. I think they wanted to promote regional growth—that is, economic growth within their electoral base—but they chose the worst possible way to do it, assuming, of course, that what the tunnel will bring could even be considered a form of local growth and not simply a profitable financial deal for a handful of people at the expense of the environment, which belongs to everyone.”

  “Are you always so polemical?”

  “No. I limit myself to observing and cataloging.”

  “I read the article about your presentation to the provincial council, as well as the interview with you, and your interpretation seems essentially correct, but when you speak of the great interests and potential gains of a few against the interests of the many, who, specifically, are you referring to?”

  Valli gave her a look of good-natured amusement.

  “Certainly not to the restaurants that make polenta and mushrooms for the truck drivers passing through or to the German families on their way home from their vacation. I’m talking about the companies that have won the work contracts, the owners of the land whose value will multiply thanks to the new road, the owners of the lands that will be expropriated, and so on.”

  “I’ve heard mention that the Cappelletti family . . .”

  Stefania hesitated, as though indecisive, but Valli looked at her and laughed out loud this time.

  “Don’t worry, Inspector. I don’t know how it is in your neck of the woods, but around here the subject is public domain. The papers talked about it for a little while, even though the buzz soon died down. Now nobody talks about them anymore—about the Cappellettis, that is—but it’s only right that we keep talking about the new road.”