Back to Bologna

by Michael Dibdin

  In the end he found what he wanted on Via Zamboni, the main street of the quarter. It was one of the ‘Irish pubs’ that were now proliferating all over Italy. Cluricaune, as this one was called, was very spacious, on two levels, and packed with likely targets. Rinaldi fought his way to the bar and ordered a vodka martini. Although the place was stuffed with posters and statuettes of leprechauns, the use of the Irish language was limited to the name. Details of the cocktails and beers on offer, and of the establishment’s ‘Happy Hour’, which was now in force, were all in English.

  Drink in hand, Rinaldi nudged through the assembled throng, looking about him carefully. After a few moments he spotted a young man propped up on his elbows at the far end of the bar, an empty glass before him and his head lowered. He was wearing a black leather jacket with some sort of crest on the back, and looked drunk and very depressed. Rinaldi made his way through the crowd and stood to the man’s left, close enough to attract his attention but not so close as to give offence. He lowered his scarf, which was beginning to suffocate him, downed his drink in one and signalled the barmaid.

  ‘A large vodka martini,’ he told her. ‘And bring my friend here one too.’

  The young man glanced at him sideways for a moment without straightening up.

  ‘Sono rovinato,’ he said tonelessly.

  ‘Ruined?’ Rinaldi echoed. ‘Well, maybe I can help.’

  He waited until the barmaid had come and gone before flashing some high-denomination banknotes at the other man.

  ‘Good quality coca,’ he said. ‘The best on the market, the more the merrier, and immediately. If you can’t deliver, there’s a hundred in it for you to introduce me to someone who can.’

  At first the youth did not react. I’ve picked the wrong man, thought Rinaldi, adjusting his scarf and preparing to move away. Then his companion straightened up with a weary sigh, downed his drink and laughed harshly.

  ‘Sure, I can do that! Who cares now anyway? Let me make a few calls.’

  He stepped back from the bar and immediately lurched sideways, completely off balance, clutching at Rinaldi with both arms for support. They clung together like two lovers for fully half a minute, before the younger man managed to stand upright on his own two feet, albeit swaying alarmingly.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ he announced defiantly.

  Rinaldi had his doubts about that, but the youth hadn’t asked for any money up front, so at worst the approach would have cost him a little time and the price of a drink. He cradled his glistening cocktail glass and gazed up idly at the TV mounted on brackets above the bar. Some game show was on, while a crawl bar at the bottom unscrolled the latest news headlines. Rinaldi watched idly, slurping his drink, as gnomic references to atrocities in the Middle East, domestic political feuding and the transfer of some football star danced across the screen. Then he almost dropped his glass. He thought he had seen his own name. But that item had already exited stage left, and he had to wait for the whole chorus line to go through their act again before it reappeared.

  When it finally did, he wrapped the scarf around his face and made his way as quickly as the crush allowed to the door. ‘Famous author Professor Edgardo Ugo shot in Bologna after cookery duel with star of Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta. Police confident of imminent arrest’. This can’t be happening, thought Rinaldi, striding head down along the tunnel of the long arcade. The wall and pillars were covered in hand-written ‘Wanted’ ads that now suggested something very different than the innocent pursuit of accommodation or employment. And maybe those two men who had been trying to get to him back at the hotel hadn’t been reporters after all.

  Still, it would surely be easy enough to establish his innocence. He had driven straight from the exhibition centre to his hotel and remained there all afternoon. Not only hadn’t he shot Ugo, he couldn’t possibly have done so. There was nothing to worry about.

  Amoment later, he realised that there was no way of proving that he had remained in his room all that time. He had locked the door, turned off the phone, instructed the management to refuse all visitors and had not been seen or heard by anyone until he finally summoned Delia to bring him the vodka, which might very well look as though he had belatedly been trying to establish an alibi. From the cops’ point of view, of course, his public humiliation that morning would constitute one hell of a motive. Did anyone else have such good cause to shoot Ugo on this particular day? If not, he was inevitably going to be the prime suspect. And whatever ultimately came of it, his arrest at this crucial moment really would mean the end of everything. Not even Delia could spin him out of a murder charge.

  28

  ‘Well, Aurelino mio, here’s another nice mess you’ve got us into.’

  The speaker was a Carabinieri major in full uniform whom Zen recognised with subdued surprise as Guido Guarnaccia, a fellow Venetian who had served with the Carabinieri in Milan when Zen had been posted there many years previously. They had had professional dealings at the time, and even developed a sort of friendship, but when Zen had been transferred–to Bologna, ironically enough–they had lost touch.

  Guarnaccia waved the detainee into a chair and dismissed his escort. He himself remained standing behind his desk.

  ‘So, how are the children?’ he asked after a stiffish silence.

  ‘I don’t have any children.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’

  ‘Although I may be about to become a grandfather.’

  Guarnaccia stared at him.

  ‘By proxy,’ Zen explained.

  ‘Ah, by proxy. By proxy. Right, right.’

  Another silence supervened.

  ‘And yours?’ asked Zen.

  Guarnaccia ignored this.

  ‘You’ve put me in rather an awkward position, Aurelio.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Very awkward indeed.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s all very well being sorry…’

  Guarnaccia broke off.

  ‘Luisetta got married last year,’ he said.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Zen replied, wondering who the hell Luisetta was.

  ‘To a photojournalist from Madrid.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘They’ll speak Spanish.’

  ‘At home?’

  ‘The kids, I mean.’

  Guarnaccia sighed deeply.

  ‘I suppose you’re aware that Professor Edgardo Ugo was shot this afternoon.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘The bullet struck some sort of sculpture outside his house and ricocheted into the poor man’s left buttock. He’s seriously injured and in considerable pain.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘The victim alleges that he was involved in an accident in the adjacent street shortly before the shooting took place. He was cycling home after giving a lecture at the university when a woman came running out of a restaurant and collided with him. They both ended up on the ground. He further claims that a man then emerged from the restaurant, identified himself as one Aurelio Zen of the Polizia di Stato, and threatened to place Ugo under arrest for dangerous driving. Is this true?’

  Zen limited himself to a confirmatory nod.

  ‘Ugo says that you then called an ambulance. When it arrived, you told him that you couldn’t proceed with an arrest since you had to accompany your lady friend to the hospital, but threatened to “take further steps” should she turn out to be seriously injured. According to his statement, however, you did not enter the ambulance when it left, but followed Ugo towards his house, where the shooting took place a few minutes later. His back was turned, so he was unable to identify his attacker, but the implication is obvious.’

  Zen laughed lightly.

  ‘Guido, I’m a Vice-Questore on special duties with the Ministry in Rome. I don’t run around waving pistols.’

  Guarnaccia produced the same Delphic smile.

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that you’ve risen quite high.’
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br />   ‘You too.’

  ‘No fault of mine, I just outlasted the competition. Anyway, to clarify this point, you deny being armed at the time that this incident took place?’

  ‘I haven’t carried a gun for years, and if for some reason I needed one I would draw it from Supplies at the Ministry, where it would be duly logged out in my name. One phone call will prove that I have not done so.’

  ‘Where were you on the evening that Lorenzo Curti was shot?’

  Zen recalled that his former acquaintance, despite his lackadaisical manner, had not been without a certain glutinous intelligence.

  ‘Tuesday evening?’ he replied. ‘Coming back from Rome. Why?’

  ‘Because it looks as though the bullet that hit Ugo was fired from the same weapon that killed Curti. Unfortunately the bullet was too damaged by the impact with the sculpture to yield much forensic data, but the ejected cartridge case is a perfect match.’

  Zen laughed again, as though trying gamely to enter into the spirit of his host’s bizarre and slightly distasteful sense of humour.

  ‘Well, in that case I’m in the clear! I was on the train between Rome and Florence at the time that Curti was murdered.’

  ‘Can you present any witnesses to that effect?’

  ‘Witnesses? Of course not. I mean, there were other people on the train. Not many, though. I bought a ham roll or something in the buffet car. The attendant there might remember me, although I doubt it. Little brunette. Uniform didn’t suit her, or rather she didn’t suit the uniform, which was designed by some misogynous fag in Trastevere who’s decided that tits aren’t being worn this year. I didn’t get her name, but…’

  ‘There are three problems from my point of view,’ Guarnaccia broke in. ‘First, pending a definitive forensic examination, the indications are that the weapon used in the Curti murder and the Ugo attack was almost certainly identical. Second, Ugo’s statement, which is coherent and damning and has been confirmed by you, provides at least the semblance of a motive.’

  He paused to light a cigarette, and possibly for effect.

  ‘And the third problem?’ asked Zen, digging out his battered pack of Nazionali.

  ‘Ah!’

  Guarnaccia’s lips curled enigmatically once more. He really loved that smile, thought Zen. Perhaps he practised it in the bathroom mirror every morning after showering.

  ‘The third problem is that you’re a policeman.’

  Zen savoured his cigarette for a luxurious moment, then laughed lightly.

  ‘Isn’t this taking interservice rivalry a bit too far, Guido?’

  ‘It’s no joking matter,’ Guarnaccia retorted with a touch of asperity. ‘My reference is to the spate of serial killings that occurred in and around Bologna between 1987 and 1994, the so-called Uno Bianca slayings. Twenty-four victims in all, of whom six were members of this force. They were apparently selected opportunistically and gunned down by a gang of men driving a white Fiat Uno. The conspiracy theorists naturally believed that it was another segreto di stato like the bombing of the waiting room at the station, a right-wing plot to destabilise the political situation and punish “red” Bologna. Others, including myself, thought and continue to think that it was just a bunch of homicidal maniacs out on a thrill spree. But whatever the truth about that, when the gang was finally captured it turned out to include five members of your force. In fact the leader, Roberto Savi, was assistant chief of police at the Questura here in Bologna at the time. It’s thus hardly surprising that the Procura has directed us to undertake this investigation, and that I had no option, on the basis of the points I have mentioned, but to have you brought in for questioning.’

  Zen made a conciliatory gesture.

  ‘I understand that, Guido, and I’ll do everything I can to co-operate. In fact, we can do better. I was sent up here by the Viminale specifically to report back on the Curti investigation. That will suit the Procura’s conspiracy theory perfectly.’

  ‘Why didn’t you accompany your friend Signora Santini in the ambulance as you had allegedly told Ugo that you would?’

  ‘The paramedics said there was no space and told me to take a taxi. You don’t argue with doctors.’

  This had the ring of truth, but was in fact the first lie that Zen had told Guarnaccia. It had been Gemma herself who had insisted that Zen should not accompany her in the ambulance. ‘He’s not my husband!’ she’d kept shouting, much to everyone’s embarrassment. ‘I told him that and he yelled at me to get out! That’s why all this happened! Don’t let him near me!’

  ‘Ugo claims that you followed him.’

  ‘I may have taken the same direction. I wasn’t paying any attention to him. It was simply the quickest way to the taxi stand just off Piazza Maggiore. I wanted to be with my wife, that’s all.’

  ‘According to the reports I have received, Signora Santini denied–with some heat, I believe–that she is your wife.’

  ‘Well, she isn’t, strictly speaking, but…’

  There was an embarrassed silence while they both waited to see if Guarnaccia was going to pursue this point, but in the end he chose another tack.

  ‘How long did it take you to get a taxi?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ten minutes, perhaps.’

  ‘So yet again you have no alibi for the time of the shooting.’

  Zen shrugged impatiently to indicate that this joke was in poor taste and had gone on quite long enough. The resulting silence was broken by the ringing of the phone. Guarnaccia picked it up and listened in silence for some time. Then he turned to Zen with his patented smile.

  ‘Well, Aurelino, you’re in luck. That was Brunetti at the Questura. It seems that they’ve had an anonymous phone call identifying the man who shot Ugo. The informant also claims to have proof.’

  ‘What sort of proof?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘So where does that get us?’

  ‘It tips the balance ever so slightly. I personally never suspected for a moment that you were culpable, of course, but following Ugo’s allegation I couldn’t have been seen to take no action. Under these new circumstances, however, I feel that I can exercise my discretionary authority to release you, on condition that you undertake not to leave Bologna for the moment. Agreed?’

  Zen thought of the cold bed that awaited him in Lucca.

  ‘I’ll be only too happy to remain here as long as you wish,’ he replied.

  29

  Rodolfo Mattioli sat on an obdurate chair in a waiting room on the third floor of the hospital, a pile of magazines much thumbed by other hands on the table beside him. He was wearing a suit, his best shirt and tie, and had polished his shoes.

  That afternoon, he had walked the streets and ridden the buses at random for hours before ending up in Cluricaune, where he had been approached by some bearded wrinkly who wanted to score cocaine. Normally Rodolfo wouldn’t have got involved in anything like that, particularly with a stranger who might well be a nark, but after what he had already done, nothing seemed to matter any more. He’d feigned a near collapse at the bar and then, while apparently clutching him for support, had not only got rid of the incriminating pistol into his prospective client’s overcoat pocket but also lifted the man’s bulging wallet. After that he left the bar and ran back to the apartment he shared with Vincenzo.

  There was no sign of the latter. Rodolfo peeled off the leather jacket he’d borrowed and flung it on to the pile of assorted clothing scattered on the floor of Vincenzo’s bedroom, then quickly showered and changed into his most respectable outfit. He knew now, and with overwhelming certainty, what he needed to do, but there was no time to waste. He had been just about to leave when his mobile rang.

  ‘I’m in deep shit, Rodolfo,’ a dull, self-pitying voice declared. ‘My dumb parents just called. Apparently the silly bastards hired a private investigator to find out where I was living and what I was doing. Now he’s trying to blackmail them by claiming he has proof that I committed some crime.’
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  ‘What crime?’

  ‘It’s all bullshit, of course, but with a record like mine the cops will be after me in a Milan moment if he spills what he has to them. So I’m going to have to hide out for a while.’

  ‘This all sounds a bit weird, Vincenzo. Are you fucked up?’

  ‘No! This is real, God damn it! And what really pisses me off is that it’s all my lousy parents’ fault. Anyway, like I said, I’m going to have to go into deep cover for a while, only there’s some stuff I need and I can’t risk going back to the apartment. Can you meet me tonight with a bag full of clothes and some spare shoes?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Rodolfo thought a moment.

  ‘Do you know a place called La Carrozza? Opposite San Giacomo.’

  ‘I can find it.’

  ‘I’ll be there after nine with your stuff.’

  Typical Vincenzo, thought Rodolfo as he hung up. Despite his denials, he was almost certainly on a paranoid stoner. If the cops did come round to their apartment asking questions, those questions would concern not Vincenzo but himself.

  But that wouldn’t happen, because he was going to forestall them by making a full and frank confession to the victim in person before turning himself in to the police right after seeing Flavia that evening. On the phone she had sounded guarded, almost cool, understandably enough after the way he had treated her the night before, but had agreed to meet him at La Carrozza. It would be tough to say goodbye to her, almost as tough as the inevitable prison sentence he would have to serve, but there was no other way to put a definitive end to the madness that had swept over him in the past few days.

  In retrospect, Rodolfo conceded that Flavia might have been right about Vincenzo being a bad influence. Certainly his own behaviour had been unrecognisable, first taking the pistol that he had found hidden behind the books in his room, then following Edgardo Ugo back from the university lecture hall to his house in the former ghetto. For a moment it had looked as though he would be foiled by bad luck, when Ugo was involved in an accident with some woman who had come running out of a restaurant and collided with his bike. In the end, though, everything had gone according to plan. Well, almost everything.