Zen parked the Mercedes and walked over to the main entrance, surmounted by a pointed arch of vagueli Moorish appearance. There was no bell or knocker iri sight, when the door opened at his approach and th~ caretaker appeared, Zen realized that it had been absurd to expect one. No one dropped in unexpectedly at the Villa Burolo, not when their every movement from the entrance gate to the front door was being monitored by four independent electronic surveillance systems.
As soon as he set eyes on Alfonso Bini, Zen knew why the caretaker had been ruled out as a suspect virtually from the start. Bini was one of those men so neutered by a lifetime of service that it was difficult to imagine them being able to tie their own shoe-laces unless instructed to do so. He greeted the distinguished foreign visitor with pallid correctness. Yes, Dottor Confalone had explained the situation. Yes, he would be glad to show Signo'r Gurtner around.
No doubt on Confalone's instructions, the tour started with the new wing, in order to dispel any idea that the property was in any way primitive or rustic. Zen patiently endured an interminable exhibition of modern conveniences, ranging from en suite jacuzzis and a fully equipped gymnasium to a kitchen that would have done credit to a three-star hotel. In the laundry room, a frightenedlooking woman was folding towels. Zen guessed that this was the caretaker's wife, although Bini ignored her as though she was just another of the appliances stacked in neatly forbidding ranks along the wall. The only aspect of all this which was of any interest to Zen was a small room packed with video monitors and banks of switches.
'Security?' he queried.
Bini nodded and pointed to a row of red switches near fhe door, labelled with the names of the various alarm systems. The only ones switched on were the field sensors on the inner perimeter fence and the microwave radar.
'So someone has to be here all the time?' Zen asked.
Bini made a negative tutting sound.
'Only if you want to check the screens. If any of the systems picks up anything irregular, an alarm goes off.'
He threw a switch marked 'Test'. A chorus of electronic shrieks rose from every part of the building.
'Very impressive,' murmured Zen. 'My client certainly need have no worries about anyone breaking in.'
The caretaker said nothing. His face was set so hard it looked as though it might crack.
Once the villa's luxury credentials had been established, Zen was taken into the older part of the house to appreciate its aesthetic qualities. A short passageway cut through the thick outer walls of the original farm brought them into a large lounge furnished with leather armchairs, inlaid hardwood tables, Afghan carpets and bookcases full of antique bindings. The head of a disgruntled-looking wild boar emerged from the stonework above an enormous open fireplace as though the animal had charged through the wall and got stuck.
Zen walked over to a carved rosewood gun-rack near the door and inspected the shotguns on display, including an early Beretta and a fine Purdy.
'Do they go with the property?' he asked.
The caretaker shrugged.
'There seems to be one missing,' Zen pursued, indicating the empty slot.
Bini turned pointedly away towards the sliding doors opening on to the terrace.
'What's this?' Zen called after him, pointing to a wooden hatch in the flooring.
'The cellar,' replied the caretaker tonelessly.
'And next door?'
Bini pretended not to hear. Ignoring him, Zen walked through the doorway into the dining room of the villa. In the lounge, the stones of the original walls had been left uncovered as a design feature, but here they had been plastered and painted white. Zen looked around the room that was horribly familiar to him from the video. It was a shock, somehow, to find the walls not splashed and flecked and streaked with blood, but pristine and spotless.
A shuffling in the doorway behind him announced the caretaker's presence.
'Fresh paint?' Zen queried, sniffing the air.
Just for a moment, something stirred into life in the old man's passive gaze. Angelo Confalone would have briefed him carefully, of course. 'Say nothing about what happened! Don't mention Burolo's name! Just keep your mouth shut and with any luck you might keep your job.'
Bini had done his best to obey these instructions so far, but now the strain was beginning to show.
'Nice and clean,' Zen commented approvingly.
The caretaker's mouth cracked open in a ghastly grin.
'My wife, she cleans everything, every day…'
Zen nodded. He had read the investigators' reports on the couple. Giuseppina Bini was one of those elderly women who, having grown up when doctors were expensive and often ineffective, strove obsessively to keep the powers of sickness and death at bay by banishing their agents, dirt and dust, from every corner of the house. This had made it virtually certain that the dried spots of blood found on the dining room floor and on the steps leading to the cellar must have been deposited by the lightlywounded killer. In which case, thought Zen, he must have destroyed the discs and tapes after the murders, despite the horrendous risks involved in staying at the scene once ghe alarm had been raised and the police were on their way. It didn't make any sense, he told himself for the fiftieth time. If the object was to destroy both Burolo and his records, surely the killer would either have used a silenced weapon or eliminated Bini and his wife as well, thus giving himself ample time to erase Burolo's records before making good his escape. And if the discs and tapes had been erased after they were seized by the Carabinieri -the long arm of Palazzo Sisti would no doubt have been capable of this – then why did the killer make his way down to the cellar and ransack the shelves at all?
It made no sense, no sense at all, although Zen had a tantalizing feeling that the solution was in fact right under his nose, simple and obvious. But that was no concern of his in any case. His reason for visiting the villa had nothing to do with viewing the scene of the crime. Nevertheless, for the sake of appearances he asked Bini to show him the cellar before they went outside. The caretaker duly levered up a brass ring and lifted the hatch to reveal a set of worn stone steps leading down.
'It's not locked?' Zen asked.
Bini clicked a switch on the wall and a neon light flickered into life below.
'There are no locks here,' he said. 'If you keep your jewels in a safe, you don't need to lock the jewel case.'
The cellar was large, stretching the entire width of th~original farm. Zen sniffed the air.
'Nice and fresh down here.'
The caretaker indicated a narrow fissure at floor level.
'The air comes in there. They used to cure cheeses and hams here in the old days. Even in the summer it stays cool.'
Zen nodded. This constant temperature was no doubt why Oscar had used the place as a storage vault. But now the twin neon bars illuminated an empty expanse of whitewashed walls and bare stone floor. There was nothing to show that this had once been the nerve-centre of an operation which had apparently succeeded in fulfilling the alchemist's dream of turning dross into gold.
Once they got above ground again, the caretaker led Zen out on to the terrace.
'The swimming-pool,' he announced.
Wild follies and outrageous whims die with the outsized ego that created them, and their corpses make depressing viewing. Even drained and boarded over, a swimmingpool is still a swimming-pool, but Oscar's designer beach was an all-or-nothing affair. Once the plug had been pulled and the machinery turned off, it stood revealed for what it was: a tacky, pretentious monstrosity. The transplanted sand was dirty and threadbare, the rocks showed their cement joints, and the mystery of those azure depths stood revealed as a coat of blue paint applied to the vast concrete pit where the body of some small animal lay drowned in a shrinking puddle of water.