'To Naples?' his mother demanded at last, her voice a whisper. 'Are you crazy?'
It's not as bad as it's made out, mamma. I've been pleasantly surprised by the…'
'First you drag me down to the South, now you expect me to move to Africa!'
'Not to live, of course. But you might think about spending a few days here some time…'
'If anything, I'll go back to Venice! I can't see any less of you than I do already, and if I've got to live all alone I might as well do it there as here…'
And so on, for another five minutes. As Zen listened, he realized for the first time the extent to which he had already become 'meridionalized'. He saw it all with a different eye now, this dark, disturbing stuff boiling up like mud churned up by a power boat roaring up a shallow canal — with a clear, unforgiving Southern eye. These were extracts from another narrative, another life, redundant here.
Nevertheless he went through the usual motions, assuring his mother that he would call more often and visit her in person just as soon as the demands of the extremely vital and urgent case he was presently working on permitted. He told her that he loved her and missed her and would never ever come to Rome again without coming to see her, however rushed he might be, because she was more important to him than anything or anyone else. He told what she wanted to hear, then hung up and went to tear the cord out of the wall. He couldn't leave it here in his absence anyway. The last thing he needed was for Gesualdo and Sabatino to be fielding calls for someone called Aurelio Zen.
But before he could disconnect the instrument, it started to ring again. It's mamma, he thought, calling back for further reassurance. His heart sank at the prospect, but it was idle to pretend that he wasn't there.
'Yes?'
'Good evening, dottore. This is Pastorelli.'
'Well?'barked Zen.
'Many apologies for the interruption, dottore. I know we've been given very strict instructions never to disturb you at home, but I can't get hold of Giovan Battista… of Inspector Caputo, that is. He's out somewhere, his wife said, and she doesn't know when he'll…'
'So?'
'Well, the thing is, we have a bit of a problem. It's in relation to that case involving the stabbing of that Greek sailor on the night of the…'
'Has he died?'
'Who?'
'The Greek!'
'No, no. That's to say, I don't know. We've had no word as to his condition.'
'Then why the hell are you wasting my time, Pastorelli?
If you're lonely, go upstairs and chat up the whores.'
'It's the prisoner, dottore/ 'What about the prisoner?'
'He's gone.'
'Gone?' boomed Zen. 'Who authorized his release?'
'No one, dottore. He escaped.'
XIII
Come? Perche? Quando? In qual modo?
Pasquale had gone off duty after dropping the Squillace girls at the airport. He apologized profusely for not being able to drive Zen in person, but promised he would ring around and send someone reliable, thus sparing his client the indignity of having to call a taxi company himself, like some nobody without any standing or contacts in the city. Before leaving, Zen went across the alley and explained to the toothless Don Castrese that he was expecting friends to call that evening and that he might be delayed. He left a key and instructions to admit two young men answering to the names Gesualdo and Sabatino.
The cab dispatched by Pasquale was waiting for Zen in Via Cimarosa. The driver, a squat, tough-looking woman of indeterminate age and few words, confirmed his destination and did not speak again until they arrived at the port. It was the first time that Zen had had occasion to visit his place of work after dark, and he was astonished at the transformation. The shutters of the windows on the top floor of the police station were all closed, but cracks of light escaped here and there and the sound of disco music mingled with voices and laughter floated down through the soft evening air.
Pastorelli, a short intense-looking man with a permanently worried expression, was waiting in the entrance hall, visibly perturbed. Zen made no attempt to mitigate the man's embarrassment or to respond to his explanations and excuses, merely leading the way upstairs to his office as though it were quite normal for him to be there.
Not until he was ensconced behind his desk did he deign to address a word to his subordinate.
'As duty officer in charge of this post, you are personally accountable for ensuring that the statutory regulations are enforced and a proper degree of security maintained/ He lifted the phone.
'In fact, I think we might be able to set a precedent here.
You know how hard it is to get fired from the police.
Many attempts have been made, but they nearly always result in mere demotion or transfer. But if I call the Questura and report that you have not only been turning a blind eye to the fact that a brothel is operating on the premises, but have allowed the suspect at the centre of the most important case this section has ever handled to escape from under your nose, I'm pretty sure that you'll be on the street tomorrow — if not in jail yourself/ Pastorelli blanched visibly but said nothing.
'On the other hand, I'm not sure that's in my own best interests/ Zen went on, setting down the receiver again.
'So we may have to pass up this chance to make the record books and settle for the usual cover-up. Where's Caputo?'
'On his way, sir. His wife passed on the message and he called in to say he'd be here as soon as he can."
Zen took out the pack of Nazionali he had bought earlier that day and lit up.
'The only way to lie effectively is on the basis of the truth/ he observed philosophically. 'If I'm going to condone a cover-up, I don't want it blown because some essential detail was concealed from me. You will therefore tell me exactly what happened, step by step, holding nothing back/ Pastorelli nodded earnestly.
"I came on duty at five/ he began.
'Was the prisoner still here then?' "I didn't check. The night shift is always very quiet.. / He broke off as a particularly raucous laugh from the top floor rent the night air.
'Go on,' said Zen.
'The prisoner's meal was taken down to him at seven thirty, as per regulations. Pasta, chicken, bread, half a litre of wine.'
'Except that the prisoner decided to dine out this evening.'
Pastorelli looked down at the floor.
'When Armando didn't return…'
'Who's Armando?'
'Bertolird, sir. He's the other man on nights this week.
He took the prisoner his meal tray. About eight I wanted to step out for a coffee, so I went looking for him to man the front desk. The corridors and offices on the first floor were all dark, and I knew he wouldn't have gone upstairs…'
'Get on with it, Pastorelli! Where was he?'
'In the prisoner's cell, sir. Handcuffed to the bars and gagged with strips torn from his undershirt. His uniform was missing.'
Zen rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.
'He said that when he'd come down with the meal, the prisoner was rolling about on the floor of his cell, apparently in agony and claimed that he'd been poisoned.
Bertolini knew this was a very important case, and of course you keep hearing rumours about people who know too much getting poisoned in jail, so he sort of lost his head 'And instead of reporting back to you, went right ahead and tried to administer first-aid himself, at which point the prisoner made a miraculous recovery and hit our Armando over the head with the chamber-pot, right?'
'No, sir. It was a stool.'
A maniacal light appeared in Zen's eyes.
'Ah, a stool! That changes everything/ 'It does?' queried Pastorelli with a puzzled expression.
Zen smiled horribly.
'You know, Pastorelli, you remind me of some cartoon character. One of those lovable, gormless, anthropomorphic rodents. If you do end up getting fired, I bet we can find some lonely old lady who'd be happy to keep you as a pet/ He crushed out his cigarette on th
e floor.
'So the prisoner tied up Bertolini and took his uniform.
How did he get out?'
'Sir?'
'You were on duty at the front desk from the time Bertolini took the meal down until you went looking for him. Is that correct?'
'Yes, sir/ 'Did anyone enter or leave the building in that time?'
'No, sir.'
'And I take it you had the wit to search the premises since then, to check he's not hiding out somewhere.'
'Yes, but…'
Pastorelli hesitated.
'Spit it out/ Zen told him.
But at that moment the door swung open and Giovan Battista Caputo appeared, waving a newspaper, his face wreathed in smiles.
'We're off the hook, dottoreV He laid the newspaper on Zen's desk.
'Tomorrow's Mattino/ he said. 'You can get it early, if you know where to go.'
He ran a stubby forefinger under the banner headline. political terrorism returns, it read, and in slightly smaller type below, new organization behind
THE MYSTERY OF THE 'ILLUSTRIOUS DISAPPEARANCES'?
Inset in the text were three photographs, one larger than the rest, showing three men, all in their fifties, all wearing suits and ties. One was visibly ducking away from the photographer's flash, another was smiling and relaxing at a party, the third and largest was staring deadpan into the camera, as though sitting for an enforced portrait.
Zen skimmed rapidly through the accompanying article.
Apparently the local media had received a communique from a previously unknown group calling itself Strade Pulite, claiming responsibility for the recent disappearances of three leading social and commercial figures in the city:
Two years after the political events which promised so much, it is clear that nothing has changed but the names. The work of the judges and investigators continues to be obstructed and blocked at every turn.
The list of those accused of corruption and criminality grows ever longer, but so far not one of them has been brought to trial, much less condemned and sentenced.
In short, the usual cover-up and procrastination is taking place, while the guilty continue to walk the streets of our city, as free men!
Since the law cannot — or will not — touch them, we have decided to take the law into our own hands.
Three of the most scandalous examples of civic putridity have already been removed: Attilio Abate, Luca Delia Ragione and Ermanno Vallifuoco. Their fate and their present whereabouts are of no more concern than those of any other item of garbage. It is enough that they defile the streets of our city no longer.
But our work has only just begun. There are many other instances of such ordure still to be dealt with.
We know who they are, as does every Neapolitan who has studied the sad history of our city in recent years. They are the men who grew fat on the sufferings of the earthquake victims in 1980, the men who grew rotten on the money which the Christian Democrats handed out to save their henchman Cirillo from the clutches of his kidnappers, the men whose greed and arrogance have made our city a national and international byword for public and private corruption, waste and inefficiency.
For years they flouted the law with impunity, secure in the protection of their allies in Rome. Berlusconi promised to make a new start, a clean sweep, but as always this turned out to be just another proof that 'Everything must change so that nothing will change'. And nothing has, until now. But now things are changing! We have seen to that, and we will continue to do so. Our enemies — the common enemies of every right-thinking Neapolitan — cannot escape us.
We go about our work as invisibly as the men who clean our gutters and remove our rubbish. Indeed, our job is the same: to return the city to its citizens, pristine and purified, a source of civic pride once more. Strade Pulite per una citta pulital Zen pushed the paper away.
'"Clean streets for a clean city." Well, it's a good slogan. Sounds as if some Red Brigade cell went to a PR firm who told them to drop the Marxist rhetoric and get snappier copy.'
He looked at Caputo.
'But what's it got to do with us?'
'It'll buy us time, dottore. Some foreign sailor getting knifed in the port is going to look small time in the context of a full-blown terrorist campaign dedicated to wiping out all the local politicians' nearest and dearest cronies.'
Zen nodded.
"I suppose you're right.'
He turned to Pastorelli, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
'You were about to tell me something when Caputo walked in. Let's have it.'
'Well, sir, the thing is, I searched the building, like I told you. I didn't find the prisoner, but I did notice that his belongings had been tampered with.'
'What?'
'You remember you gave me that video cassette yesterday evening and told me to put it back with the other stuff. Well, I did as you said, but when I checked the room just now the stuff was all over the floor. All except the cassette, that is.'
Zen put his head in his hands and stared at the desk.
'How do the clients of that operation on the top floor come and go?' he demanded. 'Obviously they don't use the front entrance.'
'There's a fire escape at the side,' Caputo volunteered.
'It's nice and secluded, and we have excellent security at the door. There's never any trouble 'What about the normal entrance from the main staircase?'
'That's entirely closed to the clientele, dottore. There's no risk of anyone getting into the building that way.'
'I'm not interested in anyone getting in,' Zen snapped.
'I'm interested in someone getting out. Someone in police uniform.'
Caputo looked grim.
'I'll go and check,' he said, turning away.
'No! I need you here. You go, Pastorelli. But first, who knows that the prisoner has escaped?'
Pastorelli frowned.
'Well, Bertolini obviously. Then there's me, and you 'Besides us and Bertolini, you idiot!'
'Nobody'
'Are you sure?'
'I phoned you and Giova… Inspector Caputo. That's all.'
'OK, get going.'
With an expression of infinite relief, Pastorelli fled. Zen turned to Caputo.
'When you escorted the prisoner to my office the other day, you stopped to pick up his belongings on the way, right?'
Caputo frowned.
'How did you know?'
'Because you wouldn't have wanted to carry them all the way down to the cells and back. And because that's how the prisoner knew where they were being kept.'
Caputo gave one of his toothy grins.
'Of course. So it's important, this cassette?'
Zen gazed into the middle distance.
'Not according to my sources. But if the prisoner risked recapture in order to take it with him, it begins to look as though they must have been wrong.'
He turned to face Caputo.
"I need a doctor.'
Caputo's eyes widened.
'You feel ill?'
'Not for me, for the prisoner.'
Caputo goggled still more.
'But dottore, the prisoner is gone!'
Zen resumed his abstracted expression.
'Nevertheless, he needs to see a doctor. I'm sure you can think of someone suitable, Caputo. Un medico difiducia.
Someone you can recommend without reservation.
Understand?'
'Of course!'
'Someone who can be trusted to do whatever might prove necessary,' Zen pursued, 'even if the procedures demanded might prove to be slightly irregular. And who, above all, can be trusted to keep quiet about it.'
Caputo's predatory grin intensified.
'For the right consideration, dottore, this guy'd perform an abortion on the Virgin Mary. But don't worry about the money. He owes me a couple of favours, and that makes him nervous. He'll be glad to help.'
Zen smiled softly at Caputo.
'Have I ever told you how much
I like it here?' he murmured.
Sulla strada Via Duomo, later the same evening. Running almost due north from the port, this street is dead straight and relatively broad by the standards of the city, but the traffic was as stagnant at that hour as sewage in a backed-up drain. Double rows of parked cars to either side forced the moving vehicles into two narrow lanes just wide enough for a stationary file in either direction. Meanwhile pedestrians, the diminutive lords of this petrified jungle, picked their way through the revving, honking, impotent mass as though negotiating the impressive, irrelevant ruins of a mightier but extinct civilisation.
But one car seemed to be making some headway, despite everything. It was obviously expensive, a foreign import of some sort, painted a brilliant red. But there were plenty of Volvos and BMWs and Mercedes stalled in the traffic jam, reluctantly rubbing bumpers with such undesirable company as traders' three-wheeled Ape vans, old Fiat 500s on their third 100,000 kilometres and the usual slew of beaten-up cars, buses, taxis, TIR lorries — even a refuse collection truck. What caused the crush to loosen in front of this particular vehicle was the flashing blue light attached to the roof, and the official police wand insistently waving from the driver's window.
Thus empowered, the red saloon nosed through the traffic at all of 10 mph to just south of the cathedral, where it abruptly veered left into a narrow side-street, ignoring the 'No Entry' sign. Half-way down the block it pulled up outside a seven-storey house just like all the others and sounded its horn in a series of long blasts. Windows and curtains above opened, but the driver continued to lean on his strident, demanding horn. At length a young man appeared at a window on the second-floor. He waved to the driver of the car, who signalled back. The horn fell silent.
'Who is it?' demanded the other man, seated inside the apartment before a table strewn with playing cards.
'Gesualdo. I've got to run.'
'Work?'
The first man shrugged.
'Oh, Sabati! Just as I was finally starting to win! That's a shitty excuse.'
'We just need to check someone out. Come along, if you want. Then we can come back and finish the game.'
His companion hesitated a moment.
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