‘There are also people who believe in flying saucers.’
‘You know that some people maintain that in 1943 Luciano contacted the Mafia to facilitate the Allied landing in Sicily?’
‘Back in the States everyone knows that that story was invented by a state prosecutor in New York for political reasons.’
‘Could you be more precise?’
‘Sorry, I don’t really know the story.’
‘But you seem very sure that we can rule out Luciano’s involvement in any kind of illegal business.’
‘Luciano good, Luciano bad. Luciano servant of America, Luciano gangster. It’s all politics. People believe what they want to believe. Interpol says drugs? People believe it. That’s all I have to say.’
‘It’s an interesting observation. I’ll refer it to Siragusa, when I send him a copy of the record of this interrogation.’
‘If you’ve finished asking questions, I’d like to go.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Zollo, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to keep you here for a while.’
‘Let’s not be silly, inspector. I’m in a hurry.’
‘I’m not being silly: I have some eyewitness accounts from people who have heard one Victor Trimane asserting that “if anyone else was planning to slap Don Luciano, that little job I did with my goombah Steve Cement will make them think again”. You should understand that before we release you we need to check these accusations very carefully.’
‘You can’t do that, I’m an American citizen, you can’t hold me without a precise accusation.’
‘You are suspected of murder, Mr Zollo, and you are working for someone under serious suspicion. I imagine that the American Consulate will be happy to make an exception for a case such as yours.’
Chapter 28
Bologna, 7 June
In her absent moments, Angela thought of nothing else.
Now that Fefe wasn’t there any more, she seemed to have more absent moments than ever before. Angela couldn’t work out whether it was a kind of woodworm that had hollowed out the hole, chewing away the tender wood of her days, or whether it had already been a hollow trunk, crushed by too large a weight.
She had expected Odoacre to mention her meeting with Dall’Oglio. He would certainly have been informed about it. She expected a sermon on the subject of trust. But there was nothing. She had expected illuminating phrases about the doctor — patient relationship. Not a word.
She didn’t expect to bring up the subject herself.
I saw Dall’Oglio the other evenng. You’re right to trust him, you know him, but I wanted to look him in the eyes, I wanted to hear him say: I did not suspend Ferruccio’s treatment. I didn’t say anything to you because I knew you wouldn’t agree, but I needed to, Odoacre, I had to talk to him or else go mad. He told me that the medication was just scaled down because of dependency, because of labyrinthitis, I don’t know, he told me you were informed of this. And what about me? Why did I know nothing about it? You’ve always told me everything about Fefe, even sometimes how often he took a bath. Why didn’t you tell me this? Is it true that you knew?
He had finished dressing the salad. Calmly. A drizzle of oil, pinch of salt, knife-point of mustard. You did well to speak to him. I certainly wouldn’t have stopped you, if that makes you feel any better. Did it make you feel any better? And yet what Dall’Oglio told you is true. We agreed that we would gradually reduce the doses. That is the usual practice with this medication. You start with quite a high dose, then you come down until you find the right quantity, which takes effect without damaging the organism. I thought I’d explained that to you when we started the treatment. That was why I never mentioned it again afterwards. It was nothing new, it wasn’t a novelty, it wasn’t even anything strange. You just do it, that’s all. It’s standard procedure.
Standard procedure. What about Sante? Sante was standing behind the door and heard everything. Could he have been mistaken? Could it have been an error? Fefe had said no medication. Was that a mistake as well, the delirium of a poor madman?
Angela piled up the dishes in the sink. The water was hot and foamy.
Why was Odoacre so calm? Why did he rule out any error on the part of Dall’Oglio or a nurse? To avoid making her anxious? Is that a doctor’s standard procedure with the relatives of a dead patient?
Her fingers ran along the edge of the plate. The soap cancelled the friction. Water softened the fall. Unharmed. Not a day passed without Angela damaging something. Broken ornaments, needles in fingers, washing that came out blue or pink, cuts to the hands, burnt handkerchiefs. She picked up a cup and started rinsing it.
Dr Montroni had the advantage over Odoacre.
He left the kitchen and went into his study. Angela felt a little shudder run across her shoulder-blades. For some days she had been rummaging among his papers and opening boxes, even locked ones, with the help of a hairpin. She looked behind pictures, in card indexes, she flicked through books, moved them around. She turned off the water, holding a pan between her hands, and listened. Ding. The tiny ring of a bell. Odoacre on the telephone, the one in his study.
She had learned to recognise that sound. Walk down the corridor in silence, barefoot. Press her ear to the dark wooden door. Hold her breath and breathe in silence. Stay motionless.
‘How many boxes did you say? No, look, we’re not expecting any more, tell the police. What? Yes, yes, I know the longer we wait. sure, the accusation is getting more serious, the fact is that I can’t wait any longer. Listen: have you thought about the brother? Yes, absolutely, he mustn’t be involved, he’s a good comrade, all the blame has to fall on that criminal. Yes, I know, and he’ll shoulder all the blame, but the police won’t believe him, basically the one responsible for the bar is the elder brother. And I’d recommend that the owner stay out of it too, he’s another comrade. Taking photographs? How long do you reckon it’ll. No. No. Too long. Let’s just do it like that. Tomorrow morning you go to the police. try and find someone who’s seen him, someone who lives near the bar, or we can drag up that business about Yugoslavia, we’ll find a way. Fine, ok. Speak to you tomorrow.’
Still stooping, Angela tiptoed to the bathroom. She turned the key and sat on the rim of the tub. She had to repeat what she had heard. She had to get a better grasp, dissect every word. She had to remember everything.
The police.
The brother and the owner had to be left out of it. The criminal was to get the blame.
The manager of the bar is the elder brother.
And then, yes, the boxes. Boxes of what?
And Yugoslavia. Let’s drag up the business about Yugoslavia.
Or someone who lives near the bar.
A light flashed on in her brain: Pierre was in danger.
His phone call, the litany of the past few days: ‘I think your husband knows about us. He’s worked it all out, it was written on his face. ’
Chapter 29
Bologna, 8 June
The Reds’ bar was top of the list. Early in the morning, before it filled up.
The robbery at the butcher’s had messed up the whole day. Two hours in pursuit, then the truck had taken a bad bend somewhere over by Castel Guelfo. Quarters of beef scattered all over the tarmac, and dead chickens lying in the grass. The thief ’s face had gone through the windscreen. Dead as a doornail.
Clearing the meat off the carriageway, sending out a report, waiting for the tools to show up, passing everything on to the traffic police. A pack of dogs was feasting on a carcase. Greedy flies were dealing with the rest. A pack of humans was collecting chickens as though they were potatoes.
Shortly after eleven, back to Bologna.