‘I never ordered the nurse to suspend the medication from one day to the next, but to reduce the dosage gradually. You see, Signora Montroni, the medication that poor Ferruccio was taking is very strong, it’s habit-forming. You have to scale it down every now and again, or else the organism is affected by it and there can be very disagreeable side-effects, such as loss of memory, labyrinthitis. Your brother risked being poisoned. I prescribed gradual reduction of the doses.’
Dall’Oglio had nodded. ‘I am sure that your husband was informed about this. We agreed the scaling-down of the medication together.’
Dall’Oglio had sighed. ‘You may put your mind at rest, madam. Your brother’s action had nothing to do with the reduction of his medication.’
In the taxi that brought her home she had wanted to cry. But her tears had dried up. She was empty. Empty of everything.
The cherubs on the ceiling didn’t give a damn about her grief. They mocked her clumsy attempts to find another explanation. Seeking a secondary motive for Fefe’s suicide was just a way of justifying herself. To banish the idea that he had done it on her account. Because he felt superfluous, to free her of the burden that kept her from living, from choosing.
She couldn’t shake off that guilt. She didn’t want to. Her obsession was the only thing she could cling to if she were to keep her mind clear. Her madness in exchange for Fefe’s. Anyone could see that. The sister of a madman, mad with grief.
Marco had told her he couldn’t play around with the dosages because it was a strong medication.
You can’t live with suspicion. The final attempt to give a meaning to what had happened.
The telephone rang.
She didn’t move. The piercing noise repeated obsessively until she managed to get to her feet, like an automaton.
The wardrobe.
The door.
The corridor.
The telephone.
‘Hello.’
A hoarse voice: ‘Angela, it’s Pierre.’
‘Hi.’
‘I know Odoacre’s at work. I’ve got to talk to you. I need to see you, even if it’s just for five minutes, please.’
‘No. I don’t feel up to it, I’m sorry. I can’t see anyone.
‘Angela, I. ’ She heard him cursing under his breath. ‘I have a million things to tell you.’
‘I wouldn’t listen to them, Pierre. I can’t do it.’
‘You’re right, the truth is that I’d like to hold you and —’
‘And what, Pierre? Console me?’
She was aware of the embarrassed silence at the other end of the line.
‘I’m going to have to say goodbye now, Pierre. Maybe we’ll be able to see each other at some point in the future.’
‘Wait. There’s something you must know.’ His breath was almost violent now. ‘I know your husband knows about us. At Fefe’s funeral he looked at me in a particular way, Angela, I can feel it, I know. He’s worked everything out, it was written on his face, as though on a white sheet of paper.’
She brought the receiver crashing down. The telephone started ringing again. Angela clenched her fists, her nails sticking into her flesh.
Chapter 27
Naples, 5 June. Record of the interrogation of Stefano Zollo, American citizen, born in New York on 20 April 1919, resident in Naples, at 25 °Corso Vittorio Emanuele, carried out by Police Inspector Pasquale Cinquegrana, on 5 June, and transcribed by officer Francesco Gennaro. The subject has not requested the presence of an official from the American Consulate.
‘Mr Zollo, you are also known by the nickname of “Steve Cement”, is that not so?’
‘At your service.’
‘And what is the origin of that alias?’
‘Inspector, with all due respect, that is none of your business.’
‘Is it true that you are the driver of Salvatore Lucania, better known as Charles “Lucky” Luciano?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does your job as a driver involve?’
‘I drive the car. I take Mr Luciano around the place.’
‘And you are at his disposal every day?’
‘Apart from Wednesday, which is my day off.’
‘Could you define Mr Luciano’s work for me?’
‘He sells domestic appliances.’
‘Do you know Mr Victor Trimane?’
‘Yes, he’s a friend of mine, an American.’
‘Mr Zollo, where were you on 3 January this year?’
‘At the racetrack.’
‘A good memory. How do you remember so clearly?’
‘It was the Grand Prix.’
‘And you were there in the company of Mr Luciano?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Some witnesses maintain they saw a boy of medium height, well dressed, hat, scarf and coat, approaching Luciano and giving him a slap. Did you witness that scene?’
‘I was there, yes.’
‘And you didn’t intervene?’
‘To do what?’
‘To prevent Luciano from being attacked.’
‘It happened too quick.’
‘And do you have any idea why that man might have struck Luciano?’
‘No.’
‘Let me tell you. It was a challenge. It appears that he had had a bet with a friend to see who would be brave enough to slap “Don Luciano” in public. You have no idea of the name of this hothead?’
‘No.’
‘Then let me tell you. Umberto Chiofano. A month later he was found with a fractured skull, dumped outside the hospital. It would seem he was thrown out of a convertible car. Now he’s in the cemetery. Where were you on 30 January?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Weren’t you near the Marcianise farm, between Naples and Caserta?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Zollo, would it be true to say that you see all the people Luciano meets at the racecourse?’
‘I don’t pay attention to them all.’
‘Some months ago, did Luciano receive a visit from some American friends, from New York?’
‘Yes. He took them on a trip to Pompeii.’
‘Were you driving that day?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did Luciano talk about to those Americans?’
‘This and that.’
‘Could you be more precise?’
‘About women. About Italy and America. Loads of things.’
‘You can’t remember anything else?’
‘I don’t listen to other people’s conversations.’
‘Mr Zollo, did you take a trip to Sicily last April?’
‘Yes.’
‘For work or pleasure?’
‘Pleasure.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I went to see my mother’s family. She’s originally from Prizzi, in the province of Palermo.’
‘And did you spend the whole of your stay in Prizzi?’
‘No. I’d never been to Sicily before. I travelled about.’
‘And you didn’t meet anyone else apart from your mother’s relations?’
‘No.’
‘Have you left the mainland on any other occasions since your return from Sicily?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Zollo, have you ever visited the Dalmatian coast?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Dalmatian, Dalmatia, Mr Zollo, the Yugoslavian coast.’
‘I’ve never been to Yugoslavia.’
‘And Marseilles? Have you ever been to Marseilles?’
‘I haven’t been there either.’
‘Mr Zollo, do you read the newspapers? Do you know who Charles Siragusa is?’
‘An Italian-American policeman who wants to make publicity for himself. He says Luciano is a drugs-trafficker.’
‘He also says that someone is getting his hands dirty on Luciano’s behalf. And that if we found that man, we might get back to the head of the organisation. Which is to say Luciano himself.’