The smell of the river brought back forgotten memories. A clean smell that caught at the nostrils, reminiscent of washed clothes. It was a smell of the summer.
Dr. Bottone was wearing a dark suit and the steel of his stethoscope appeared from the corner of his jacket pocket. He was kneeling. His highly polished shoes were now dusty, a grey patina covering the thin black leather.
The body, too, smelled.
A woman’s body. Two breasts that tilted sideways, over the side of the ribs. A patchy triangle of pubic hair. No arms and no legs. The body had been decapitated.
“In another black bag,” Magagna was saying with laudable matter-of-factness. “Washed up upon the beach here and some swimmers”—he nodded towards the crowd—“noticed the smell.”
The skin was a yellowish blue and had been attacked by fish; a series of irregular, mauve pockmarks.
“Badly bruised before death,” Bottone said, then looking up, he saw Trotti. His thin face smiled behind the steel glasses. “We’re gradually piecing it all together, Commissario.”
Another man whom Trotti did not recognize nodded. He was smoking a cigar, which he held between his teeth. Rings glittered on his fingers. The odor of the cigar and the sight of the pale, inert flesh, the red circles and the ragged edges where the limbs had been severed—Trotti remembered the corpses of his childhood. He turned away and, moving through the crowd, hurried to a bush. An empty Limonsoda can and a water rat that darted away beneath the dead leaves. Trotti kneeled and retched.
Five minutes later, when he came back, Trotti found Magagna talking with Bottone. Bottone spoke without looking up; the delicate plastic gloves ran over the flesh. “We’ve just got the arms and head to find.”
Magagna nudged his sunglasses. “It won’t change the identification. We know who she is.”
Bottone continued to caress the lifeless torso. “Probably beaten to death with a blunt instrument.” There were several converging lines and a damp, black gash beneath the right breast. “Or several instruments. A stick or a spade, perhaps.”
Trotti’s mouth tasted of yellow bile but he felt better. To Magagna, he said, “Give us a cigarette.” He took an MS from the box and snapped off the cork filter; then he lit the cigarette and inhaled. A familiar taste that soon washed at the bitterness in his mouth, at the side of his tongue. He let the shortened cigarette smolder in the corner of his mouth. There was silent surprise behind Magagna’s sunglasses.
“Who would want to beat her up?” Trotti kneeled down beside Bottone, who kept about him the antiseptic odor of the morgue.
“That’s your job, Commissario.” He spoke evenly; and in the same, detached tone, he added, “I need to get her on the table and have a good look at her. Should be interesting.” The eyes glinted behind the steel spectacles.
Trotti stood up. “You know who she is?” he asked Magagna.
“The name is Irina Pirvic. Yugoslav—about forty-eight years old, with no fixed address. She has no work permit.” He corrected, looking up from his notebook, “or rather, she didn’t have. She won’t be needing it now.”
“She works here?”
“She’d been here for the last six months. Probably came down from Milan where the competition is stiff and where a woman of her age would be outclassed. Younger, prettier girls from South America or even the Mezzogiorno, with better protection. Probably edged her out of a job. Or perhaps she was looking for a better class of clientele—she’d had enough of standing by a roadside fire, keeping warm through the night in the dreary suburbs.”
“How did you find this out?”
“She was reported missing this morning by Signora Cucina, who runs the hotel.”
“Hotel?”
“Albergo Belsole—a whorehouse in the center of the town, near the fish market. Dirty place. It should have been closed down a long time ago. But apparently Signora Cucina has friends in high places.”
“Who make use of her services?”
Magagna smiled wryly. “Unlikely. It’s the old Albergo Zuavo; it’s changed names but it still caters for out-of-town workers or soldiers doing their military service who can’t afford anything better—who need to satisfy their needs and who aren’t too demanding. Not very salubrious. The sort of place you’re likely to get more than you paid for.” He grinned and ran a finger along his mustache. “Gonorrhea, papillon d’amour.”
“The Cucina woman—she’s taken nearly a week to inform us.”
Magagna shrugged. “She claims that the woman had been talking of going back to Milan—for the weekend, to see some friends.” Magagna took a cigarette from his packet and lit it. “Not very convincing, I’m afraid.”
Some men in white overalls were pushing through the crowd. They carried a rolled stretcher; through the trees, where the cars were parked, Trotti saw the blue flashing light of the ambulance.
The police photographer wore a loose, seersucker jacket and jeans; dark black hair fell into his eyes. Without taking any notice of Trotti or Bottone, he had moved about the corpse, taking photographs. Now the large camera hung in his hand and like a child who had lost interest in a game, he stood staring, his back towards the dead body, at the far side of the river where young people were splashing in the water.
A kayak went past.
The ambulance men wore soft shoes and as they lowered the stretcher beside the severed remains of the body, Trotti had the unpleasant impression that he had been here before. The sun was strong on the back of his head. The ambulance men unwrapped a colorless plastic sheet. The sand was white and the reflected glare hurt Trotti’s eyes. Somebody was talking to him. His mouth was dry with the taste of cigarette smoke.
He threw the cigarette into the river and as he watched, the charred paper began to disintegrate and the specks of tobacco were carried away by the eddies of the current.
“Signor Guerra.”
The man with the cigar now stood with his hands behind his back. He was addressing Trotti while his eyes followed the deft movement of the ambulance men. The crowd drew apart and the odd bulk of the stretcher—they had placed a grey woollen blanket over everything—was carried away to the impatient ambulance.
“You must be Commissario Trotti.” He had removed the cigar from his mouth and was smiling. He held out his hand.
Trotti tried to concentrate; very slightly, he shook his head. “Yes.”
They shook hands. “Guerra.” He wore a well-cut suit with thin lapels and a white shirt without a tie. Almost apologetically, he went on, “I own the restaurant. And I believe I have the honor of knowing your wife.”
The sleepy sensation of living through the events for the second time disappeared suddenly. Trotti looked at the man. Guerra. Bright eyes, his grey hair neatly combed, quiet elegance. A curved nose.
“My wife?”
“Signora Trotti.” He nodded. “She sometimes comes here to eat. On several occasions I have asked her to bring you. But you are a busy man.”
Dr. Bottone and the photographer were walking away; the camera banged loosely against the photographer’s thigh.
“She used to be a doctor,” Trotti said, without knowing why. It was a foolish remark; Guerra simply nodded.
“She told me that. I must compliment you, Commissario. A truly beautiful woman.” The glance he gave Trotti suggested both admiration and surprise. “Perhaps you’d care for a drink.” His voice was persuasive. “You and your friend. A strong drink after this unpleasant experience.”
Trotti called Magagna, who was writing something in his notebook. Magagna threw his cigarette away.
Together, with Signor Guerra holding Trotti’s arm, they went through the crowd and up the concrete steps, out of the afternoon sun into the cool, conditioned air of the Casa sul Fiume.
31
WITHOUT SMILING, MAGAGNA told a couple of jokes about the Carabinieri and Trotti laughed, noisily and unexpectedly. They had drunk too much, both of them. It had been a normal reaction to the ghastliness of death; and l’archit
etto Guerra had been generous with his whisky. But now, as they rode the lift up to the third floor of the Questura, Trotti had difficulty in controlling his laughter. He giggled while his fingers ran across the hammer and sickle engraved in the metallic paint. The enclosed space was thick with the alcohol of their breath.
When the lift stopped and the doors slid open, Trotti was looking in the mirror. His own image appeared blurred. He did not look at his face but at the reflection of Magagna’s head and his thick black hair. It seemed squashed.
She was back, thank God.
Magagna directed him, taking him by the arm, through the open doors onto the polished marble. Principessa did not move; only her sad eyes followed the unsteady movement of the Commissario Trotti and Brigadiere Magagna.
“Trotti.”
Not a question; with his developed sixth sense, Gino recognized him. The eyes moved languidly behind the distorting glasses; the mouth was hard set. “You’re wanted immediately.” He put out a hand looking for Trotti’s arm; finding it, he pulled Trotti towards him. Magagna watched, his thumbs caught in the webbing trouser belt.
“The boss.” Gino whispered, the garlic competing with the rancid wine of his breath. “He’s in a bad mood. He came in half an hour ago, and he was angry when I had to tell him you were out.” The short-lived euphoria drained from Trotti’s body like rainwater. “He wants you.”
Somewhere along the corridor, a door opened noisily and Gino pushed Trotti away and let his unshaven old chin fall to his chest as though suddenly overcome by sleep. Principessa emitted a muted growl.
Trotti returned to his dingy office while his shoes squealed unpleasantly on the marble floor.
“Ah, Commissario Trotti.”
Leonardelli was walking briskly, an arm raised, along the intermittent light of the corridor, past the toilet and past the Faema coffee machine. A few paper envelopes that had once contained sugar had overflowed from the ashtray and now lay like large confetti on the marble floor.
“I really must talk with you.” He was slightly out of breath as he reached the two men and he adjusted his tie. He was as neatly dressed—double-breasted suit and a different pair of English shoes, the color of oxblood—as on a weekday. “And then I think you’ll have work to do.” The smile he gave Magagna was cold, brief and dismissive. “It is with you, Commissario, that I must clear up some points.”
Magagna nodded and went into Trotti’s office.
“I am not sure, either, that I like my men to wear civilian clothes.”
“My orders, Questore,” Trotti replied.
“Of course, of course. This way please.”
“And furthermore, today is Brigadiere Magagna’s rest day; his helping me like this is a personal favor.”
“We’re not Turin metalworkers, Trotti, and we are available at all times if our duty so requires.”
His mouth closed sharply and without another word he walked down the corridor to his office. He went through the door without the normal courtesy of holding it open for Trotti. Nor did he ask Trotti to sit down.
“I am far from satisfied, Commissario.”
Trotti stood still in front of the desk; the dying taste of the whisky lingered like a bad idea on his tongue. He held his hands behind his back and looked at Leonardelli’s cold, symmetrical face. The features were sharply contrasted by the strong sunlight coming through the blinds, throwing zebra stripes on the desk and the white pile of the carpet.
Leonardelli’s fingers had intertwined above the empty desktop; the thumbs collided rhythmically. “You are not doing your job, Trotti.”
The sight of the mutilated corpse on the beach darted through his mind and for a second he thought he was going to be sick again.
“You are behaving like a fool, Trotti.”
Trotti looked at the nervous movement of the thumbs.
“If I didn’t know you well, I would certainly be tempted to ask for your resignation.”
Trotti waited; he felt a strange sense of indifference. Outside there was the muted sound of Sunday in the city. A child laughing. Through the blinds, he could see the Italian flag hanging from the monument to the dead. The red, white and green stripes were limp, unmoved by any breeze. Unimportant.
“You are a good policeman.” Leonardelli raised his shoulders to underline his own magnanimity. “A good policeman with a rare sense of devotion. I am not a fool, Trotti; every day, I must praise the devotion and self-denial of our officers, but do not think I am my own dupe. This is Italy and I know Italy. Where nothing works and where the state, the army, the forces of order are just names. Self-denial and devotion—they don’t exist. Most policemen do a job they hate for purely economic reasons—the pay packet on the twenty-seventh of each month. But you are different. You love your job and you bring to it an almost Germanic conviction. In a way, you are not Italian, you don’t allow yourself to be pushed away with appearances—because if you did, you would have got a lot further. Instead you have done your job—and made enemies.” He raised his shoulders again. “Not least, I imagine, your wife, who would have preferred a husband with an important position in the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
“There is no need to talk about my wife.”
Leonardelli paused. “Please,” he said. “Please sit down.” He smiled and Trotti pulled up the low, white leather armchair. Leaning back in his seat, Leonardelli took a cigarette from his silver case. “A good officer and a devoted policeman. That is why I wanted you back from Bari. Oh, I know, you think I am a political animal—and perhaps you are not wrong. But above all, I want a quiet, peaceful town. No headlines, no scandal, just the quiet day-to-day routine of a small Italian city getting on with its business while the rest of the country”—he took the cigarette from his mouth and pointed towards the blinds—“lives through its hell of violence, armed robbery and kidnapping. A quiet city at all costs, Trotti, that’s what I want. And it is why I am having second thoughts about your usefulness here.”
“Why?”
Leonardelli inhaled again while his eyes looked at Trotti, looking for insolence behind the brusqueness of the question. Trotti’s face was devoid of emotion. He answered Leonardelli’s glance.
“You are not objective, Trotti. You are allowing yourself to get caught up because you are working among people you know and who are close to you. In short, you are not acting professionally.”
“Professionally?”
“This child—the Ermagni girl—she’s your goddaughter. The father is a friend of yours—goodness knows why, from what I’ve heard of him—and you are clearly allowing yourself to be blackmailed into helping. When it is no longer necessary. The child is back, she is safe and sound, there is nothing wrong with her.” With the cigarette between his two fingers, he pointed towards his desk. “I have the medical report. Nothing. No physical damage.”
“She was kidnapped.”
Leonardelli smiled understandingly. “You say that because you are her godfather.” He then lowered his voice and continued, speaking more confidentially, “You are being emotive, Trotti, and I am surprised. It is the last thing any officer should indulge in and you more than anyone else should know that.”
“She was kidnapped,” Trotti repeated.
“Of course we have good reasons to believe in a criminal act. Anonima Sequestri—the Mafia organization that specialises in kidnapping. There’s no reason for their not working here as they work everywhere else in Italy—and believe me, if I thought that there was a real chance of this girl having being kidnapped by the Mafia, I would give you carte blanche and I’d tell you to go out and get them. A quiet city—I want a quiet city. This is a quiet place and I do everything to keep it so, but objectively speaking, we have our percentage of wealthy industrialists and manufacturers. People who don’t pay taxes and who are ready to sacrifice anything for the few people they genuinely care about. But Trotti,” the thumbs had returned to their nervous tapping, “kidnap the daughter of a taxi driver? I don’t think it’s really very
likely.”
“It could be a mistake.”
“The Mafia doesn’t make mistakes, Trotti.” A brief, patronizing laugh. “Be reasonable, Trotti, be reasonable. The child—how old is she? Five, six? She’s not important to the Mafia—or to anybody other than her family. She probably went off with somebody—perhaps even a relative. I say perhaps—it doesn’t matter anyway.”
“It matters to her father.”
“A drunk, neurotic retired policeman.”
“My friend,” Trotti said softly. Outside, the flag had suddenly snapped into movement, caught by a breeze along Strada Nuova. Leonardelli brought his hand hard down onto the desktop.
“Damn it, Trotti, it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Leonardelli stubbed out the cigarette. “Then I will have no choice but to ask for your transfer.” He was trying to control himself but his voice trembled slightly. He took another cigarette from his case. “You’re causing me a lot of trouble.”
“I am doing my job.”
“There are times when it is your job to do nothing.” He lit the cigarette and stood up; the back of his hand flicked at imagined dust on his jacket. Then he pointed at Trotti. “It is not your job to pester the mayor.”
Trotti felt tired; again the sense of déjà vu. His head ached and because of the whisky, he was now finding it difficult to concentrate. What Leonardelli was saying was important, very important. His career—his future—was in this man’s hands. Like the smoldering cigarette, Trotti could be dispensed with prematurely. Trotti breathed deeply, tried to concentrate.
“Something’s happening to you, Trotti. You are overreacting and you don’t seem to be concerned by anything other than your immediate—and mistaken—goals. This is Italy, Trotti, this is Italy. Nothing is simple and you know that. There are elections—or perhaps you haven’t seen the billboards and the soldiers in the street with the strange feathers in their hats. The meetings? The First Secretary of the Socialist Party? The papers? Or perhaps you don’t read them? Perhaps you’re too busy with your private vendetta to see these things?”
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