“In Pratopiano. Do you know the chestnut grove?”
The only response he received from the other end of the line was a groan. He remembered the advice given to him years before by an instructor in the police college: the most important thing is knowledge of the territory. In a place like that, everything now took place in the woods.
“You get there from the forest path to Boldara?” the maresciallo said.
“That’s right, but you’ll have to come by foot. It’ll take about an hour.”
“How are we going to manage in the dark?”
“I’ll do my best to give you directions, but get a move on. The smell is unbearable.”
“Alright. I’ll need to inform Captain Bovolenta and the magistrate, but the magistrate will no doubt come in his own time.”
Soneri moved some distance away to avoid the smell. There was a bitter, eerie chill at the bottom of the hollow, and in the silence it was impossible to miss the obscene swarming of insects as they fed on the corpse. He gave himself over to reflections on the fate of the human being who had been the richest man in the valley, a powerful industrialist whose word was law for politicians, financiers and bankers, categories of human being even more obscene than the insects buzzing in the dark. It was not the first time he had been affected by the presence of death, but it was the first time it had happened to him in the woods in his home town. There was more to it than pity. He felt inside himself a deep emptiness and an overwhelming bewilderment. Paride was dead, that gloriously splendid day had faded in the rapidly falling dusk, and all that remained to him was a useless weight of memories. Living for the moment, taking delight in the sun on the day of San Martino on the deserted plain of Badignana had filled him with joy, but only for a fleeting moment. Happiness had briefly blossomed but immediately withered, like a late-flowering bud. Fortunately, the moon was appearing behind the crags of Montelupo.
He clambered out of the hollow on all fours to put as much distance as possible between himself and the stench, and to be able to see down the valley. He made out the Boldara road and watched the carabiniere truck begin its ascent, its headlights reflected on the slopes on either side of the road. The wind carried the smell even to where he was standing. He focused on the branches swaying slightly under the moon as it rose in the star-filled sky. Suddenly he heard something rustling at the foot of the hollow where the body lay, but again there was nothing to be seen. He went down cautiously, stopping some twenty metres short, but from that distance all that could be seen were shadows, murky outlines to which the most fantastical identities could be attached. He stood waiting for the moon to light up the darkness, and then he saw a dog crouched beside the corpse, continuing a vigil which must have begun at the moment of death.
He approached the dog cautiously, stopping when it rose to its feet and stared at him. It was a bloodhound of medium height, lean and very dirty. Soneri crouched down and tried to call it. The dog wagged its tail with every appearance of friendliness and did not react as the commissario inched closer. It was a bitch. She sniffed at him from a safe distance, and allowed Soneri to pat her. She was wearing a collar with metal links and a medal with the name, Dolly. Soneri studied the dog, thinking she was the only living creature who had remained faithful to Paride. He took a sliver of parmesan from the pocket of his duffel coat, offered it to her and watched as she swallowed it whole as though it were a tablet. She went on sniffing him, and followed him when he moved to another spot to answer his mobile. It was Crisafulli asking for directions.
“From Boldara, you take the road to Malpasso,” Soneri said.
“It’s pitch black,” came the complaint. “How are we to identify the said road,” he said, falling into the jargon of the military communiqué.
“I’ll wait for you on the said road. There’s no other way to go, and no doubt you’ll be dying to see me,” Soneri said, with heavy irony. “Anyway, I’ll make out the torches, won’t I?”
“You will. We’re not attempting an ascent without lights.”
Obviously Crisafulli was determined to show no weakness in the presence of Captain Bovolenta, who must have been right behind him. Other voices could be heard over that of the maresciallo, who was panting as he walked. After a while, Soneri saw the torches flickering in the more open spaces, but they were going as slowly as day trippers. The commissario sat down and felt Dolly’s wet nose rubbing delicately against his neck. He took the bag with the cheese from his pocket and laid out what was left on the ground. The dog devoured it all in a few seconds. It must have been her first food in days, and that gave the commissario another means of measuring how long the body had been lying there. His mobile rang once more.
“Is there far to go?” the maresciallo wanted to know.
Soneri looked down and could see the torches swaying not far off. “You’re nearly there. Another five minutes or so.”
He heard a curse somewhere in the background, mingled with another “Jesus!” uttered by Crisafulli, whose breathing was growing more tortured.
The first men arrived a few minutes later, but Soneri could not make out how many, because the maresciallo shone the torch in his face. Soneri gestured to him to move it, but just then Dolly began to bark and growl. He calmed her with a caress, but the carabinieri drew back.
“What are you doing, Commissario? Is this a hunting trip?” Crisafulli asked.
“She was on a hunting trip,” Soneri said, pointing to the dog. “That is, she was when her master was still alive.”
“So you’re saying that…”
“She was at his side.”
The maresciallo looked at the dog, accidentally turning his torch into her eyes and causing her to start barking again. The commissario calmed her once more, and turned back to the carabinieri, recognising Crisafulli and the policeman he had seen previously. In the midst of them stood a small, neatly uniformed man who gave the appearance of having come straight from a barber’s shop. This was Captain Bovolenta.
Soneri guided the group down to the hollow, and took some pleasure in noticing how gingerly they tackled the descent, taking hold of branches as they went down and slipping several times. Halfway down, Crisafulli was unable to restrain a cry of disgust at the stench when suddenly it hit him. When they reached the bottom, the torches lit up the area between the roots and the dead leaves. The commissario took the maresciallo’s torch and shone it on the body. In the light, he noticed various details that had escaped him in the semi-darkness. The wounds inflicted by the bites of the wild animals were deeper than he had realised, and marks on the ground made it clear that the body had been hauled and dragged. Captain Bovolenta took the torch quite brusquely from an officer and ran it slowly along the corpse and the surrounding ground. When a ray of light illuminated the face half-sunk in the mud and slime, one half-opened eye stared sombrely back at them, showing death in all its obscenity.
“I doubt if there is much to be done tonight,” Bovolenta said. “We have neither the equipment nor the appropriate lighting. Crisafulli, have the area sealed off and leave two officers on guard. Call for reinforcements from another company, to give the men here a break. To keep everything right, telephone the duty magistrate, but I think he’ll agree with these measures. Tomorrow morning, at first light, we’ll resume work. And get in touch with the Special Forensic Unit.”
The captain issued his orders calmly and precisely, in a tone which brooked no contradiction. Before setting off, he turned back to the maresciallo. “Don’t forget about the magistrate.”
He addressed Soneri for the first time since Crisafulli had introduced them. “Are you coming back with us?”
The moment Soneri said yes, Bovolenta was off down the path with his torch lighting the way. The commissario set off after him but he had not gone ten metres before he heard Dolly’s paws scrabbling on the rocks behind him. She followed him as far as Boldara and hesitated only when they reached the truck, as though she distrusted men in uniform. Soneri settled her in the back o
f the vehicle. As the truck moved off, Bovolenta turned to ask, “What do you think?”
“What everyone believed would happen, has happened,” was Soneri’s enigmatic reply.
“Everyone was convinced he was dead?”
“For some time, no-one would claim beyond peradventure that they had seen him alive. There was no shortage of rumours, but you know full well that…” Whatever was to be known full well petered out in a wave of the commissario’s hand.
“His wife said he had gone abroad. She was lying,” the captain stated with some emphasis.
“Perhaps Paride had lied to her, and never did leave.”
The captain nodded, staring out at the countryside over which the moon spread a phosphorescent light.
“Tomorrow we’ll find out how he was killed,” Bovolenta said. “Have you any idea?”
Soneri shook his head. “I can’t be sure. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say gunshot. It seems to me the most obvious thing.”
“Because of all the gunshots people have been complaining about? You think it was one of those?”
“Could be, but around here they use large-calibre hunting rounds. There was no sign I could see on the body of a bullet having passed right through.”
Bovolenta grunted his assent, then leaned over towards Crisafulli who was driving in silence but listening intently. “Will you inform the family?”
“As you wish, Captain.”
An owl hooted in the woods. Dolly got to her feet behind the seats and started growling.
“What are you going to do with her?” the captain said.
“I’ll take her back home and see if she still has a master.”
“Is there one left?”
“Paride’s son, but he’s crazy,” the maresciallo said.
“What about the wife?”
“Yes, there’s the wife,” Crisafulli said, without further explanation.
“Anyway, they’ve got other dogs. They loved going hunting, as did their master,” Soneri said.
“Dogs have an important part in this story. One was slaughtered in case it might turn out to be an inconvenient witness,” Bovolenta said.
“If dogs could speak, we’d have solved the case already.”
They arrived at the village. “Will you join me for dinner?” the captain proposed.
“Thank you, but I haven’t told the pensione where I’m staying, and they’ll have kept something for me. They make me at home there.”
“You’re from here, I was told,” Bovolenta said, glancing at Crisafulli in the driving seat.
“Yes, but it doesn’t feel like it. I still know the district and I have some memories of my own, but that’s all,” he said, overtaken by a sudden onrush of bitterness he could not manage to contain.
Bovolenta looked at him intently before replying. “I understand,” he said, in a tone intended to convey some insight into Soneri’s state of mind, but he changed the subject immediately. “Was there really no-one in the village who knew how bad things were for the Rodolfis?”
“If they knew, they found it convenient to keep their mouths shut. The bonds between the villagers and the Rodolfis are very close.”
The captain nodded thoughtfully. Soneri shook his hand. “See you soon,” he said, as he got out of the truck.
“Tomorrow,” Bovolenta said. “We’ll be up there at first light.”
“It’s nothing to do with me. It’s your case.”
“Well then, consider yourself summonsed as a witness. It was you who found the body, was it not?”
Crisafulli switched on the ignition and drove off before the commissario had the chance to reply. The captain sketched a quasi-military salute and the truck speeded up, but twenty metres up the road, it stopped. The maresciallo got out and opened the back door. Dolly jumped out and raced down the street towards Soneri. As he caressed the dog, he thought that she too had forgotten all about Paride Rodolfi. Life goes on, after all.
6
He was in the dining room well before dawn, and shortly afterwards was out in the chill of the morning. The shadow of the mountains made mornings seem duller than evenings, and that day the moon had gone down some time ago, leaving only the feeble light of the stars. Dolly picked up his scent immediately and galloped over to him with an enthusiasm which he found touching. He was surprised to hear Sante’s voice from the doorway. “I gave her last night’s leftovers,” he said.
He went back inside to find his table set for breakfast, and Sante standing alongside it. “It’s not shaping up well,” he said, as the commissario took his seat. “Those lorries have been coming and going regularly for a couple of days now, carrying off anything they can before it’s too late.”
“The seasoned prosciutto?”
Sante nodded. “And the rest. Anything they can manage to take to pay off the debts. I’m told that includes the cars.”
“It’s an unfortunate business,” Soneri said.
“I’m not going to get my money back. Nor is anyone else. I mean those who gave him loans,” he said, in a tone which wavered between the tearful and the enraged.
“You won’t see Paride either.”
“He’s dead, is he? I thought so, ever since they put up those posters.”
“Killed up at Pratopiano.”
“Pratopiano? What was he doing there?”
“No idea. He’d been dead for some days and the body was already stinking.”
Sante stopped to reflect, then murmured, “It was bound to end up that way.” The tone in which he uttered those words implied that Paride’s death was in some way a substitute for the revenge he would never have. For the first time, Soneri grasped the depth of hatred Sante felt over the money lost, the deceit suffered and the trust betrayed.
“Don’t say anything to anyone. It’s up to the carabinieri to inform people. They’ll carry out a full investigation.”
“I saw a lot of to-ing and fro-ing yesterday, and I knew there must be something up.”
“When did you see the lorries?”
“It was late, around midnight. They finished about four.”
“You were still up at that hour?”
“How could I sleep with all that’s going on in my head? Do you have any idea what it means to lose your life’s savings?”
Soneri understood well enough, but he was lost for words. He never knew what to say when faced with life’s misfortunes. The only expressions that came to him were meaningless or banal. He let a few seconds go by then picked up the basket and handed it to Sante.
“I found a fair number of russolas and chanterelles,” he said, in an attempt to get off the subject. “Give them to Ida and see if she’d like to cook them.”
Sante emptied the basket and filled it with Soneri’s picnic lunch: salame, cheese, bread and fruit.
“You’ll have no problem finding water at Pratopiano, and it’s really good.”
Soneri said goodbye and set off into the dark with Dolly at his heels. She would occasionally disappear into the undergrowth in pursuit of some trail, but would then make a sudden reappearance. He was well up the mountainside when he heard the noise of a truck coming up behind him, but by then he was almost at Boldara, from where there was no choice but to proceed on foot. Crisafulli brought the vehicle alongside and Captain Bovolenta leaned out of the window as he had done the previous evening. “You’re strong on your feet, I see.”
“You need strong feet for police investigations.”
“I am afraid that’s not true nowadays.”
“On second thoughts, you might be right there,” Soneri said, thinking of his assistant Juvara, who was forever glued to his computer. “But it’s the case round here,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the woods and the rocky summit of Montelupo, where the rising sun offered the promise of another clear day.
As he continued on his way, he heard the roar of a four-byfour from further down the valley. Crisafulli announced, “That must be the magistrate. I got in touch with t
he ambulance service as well, for the removal of the body.”
The two officers left on guard greeted Soneri and their colleagues with relief. They reported hearing strange noises during the night and said that on several occasions they had taken the safety catch off their weapons.
Soneri smiled at the two fresh-faced youths from the city, reared on dark tales of the forest. Finally the Special Forensic Unit and Percudani, the magistrate, turned up. The magistrate complained of having drawn the short straw, but he was from those parts and Soneri enjoyed good relations with him.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked, in mock bewilderment.
The commissario pointed to the carabinieri. “I was out hunting for mushrooms and I noticed the smell.”
“What a coincidence!” Percudani said, without much conviction.
The first enquiries confirmed Soneri’s suspicions. The dark patch near where the body was lying was indeed blood, and the corpse had been dragged there by some animal.
Percudani gave the order to turn the body over and it was immediately evident that Paride Rodolfi had been killed by a bullet in the chest. Between the sternum and the stomach there was a little cavity with a mixture of coagulated blood, mud and fragments of clothing. The body, as rigid as a statue, was then wrapped in canvas. The stretcher-bearers struggled to lift it out of the hollow and carry it along the track. From time to time, those who remained could hear branches brush against the metal of the stretcher.
When the group disappeared down the slope, Bovolenta, Soneri, Crisafulli and the magistrate were left standing in a circle around the outline of body in the mud. Only then did they notice in the slime, which was still giving off an intolerable stench, the repulsive, writhing tangle of wax-coloured worms now deprived of their sustenance. The maresciallo turned his eyes away in disgust, while Percudani feigned interest in papers relating to the case, and engaged the agents from the Special Forensic Unit in conversation. The only one who remained undisturbed by that vision was Bovolenta, erect in his starched collar, eyes staring coldly out from under the peak of his cap.
The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) Page 10