patrol car arrived at the spot where the Roussets were parked. It took another twenty for the officers to climb to the top, assess the situation and call in by radio. Preliminary visual inspection appeared to suggest that they were dealing with a particularly brutal and premeditated homicide of a very unusual kind. The new chief of police had made it clear that he was to be summoned instantly in the event of anything out of the ordinary which might conceivably be related to the Newman disappearance, so he was duly hauled away from a plate of gristly meatballs in tomato sauce and deposited at the scene together with the forensic team. The latter were now kitted up and establishing secure perimeters. These were a bit vague, given that the body parts were spread over a wide area and the fact that Rousset and his damned dog had had a chance to wander about the place before they got there, so Zen felt that he wouldn’t be compromising the science work too much by donning a pair of plastic galoshes and moving in for a closer look.
Human remains were nothing new to Zen and he rarely felt disturbed by them. The exceptions were where the injuries to the dead body indicated any suffering that the victim had undergone before death. There were no such indications here, but the scene was spectacularly gruesome just the same. Having disgraced himself on the brief helicopter ride, Zen was pleased to see one of the forensic men make a dash for the shrubbery beyond the perimeter, tearing off his antiseptic mask as he went. The body lay face down on the steps, except that it had no face, no head. The entire skull, as well as a deep chunk of the shoulders and upper torso, had been torn away and now lay in scattered fragments all over the surrounding cobbles. The trunk and limbs had subsequently received additional attention from birds and rodents.
The leader of the forensic team, who had been carefully searching the man’s clothing, approached Zen.
‘Nothing in his pockets, and it doesn’t look like there are any identifying labels.’
‘Approximate time of death?’
‘At least forty-eight hours ago, but we’ll need to get tests done.’
Zen was staring up at a stemma carved in the lintel of the doorway.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, half to himself.
‘Coat of arms of the Calopezzati family,’ the forensic officer replied after a glance.
There was a silence.
‘Local landowners, back in the day,’ he added helpfully.
Zen nodded.
‘Let me have your preliminary report at the very earliest opportunity, however basic it may be.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘It must be damned hot in that biohazard gear.’
‘It is.’
Aurelio Zen returned to the Questura in an unusually grim and resolute mood. What had gone before had been mere skirmishes. This was war, and as in any war the first priority was to secure one’s base. He therefore headed first not to his own office but to that of the deputy questore. Giovanni Sforza had heard about the discovery of the body and Zen’s trip to the scene, but his only allusion to this consisted of a slightly raised eyebrow.
‘A bad one,’ Zen told him. ‘They blew his head off with something, a shotgun at very close range or maybe explosives. The killing occurred in situ, an abandoned village in the middle of nowhere.’
Giovanni nodded morosely, as though this merely confirmed his long-standing views about the awfulness of life in Calabria.
‘Is it the American?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know yet. It looks as though the victim was stripped and then dressed in a cheap suit like a corpse laid out for a traditional funeral. No form of identification. But the height and weight correspond with the data for Peter Newman.’
He paused, as though he had been about to add something and then changed his mind.
‘I should have a definitive answer by this evening.’
Sforza gave him a heavily ironic smile.
‘Just as well you’re here, Aurelio. Otherwise the Ministry would have sent down some hotshot from Rome to boss us all around.’
By now, Zen was immune to the charms of irony. He swung round on the deputy questore.
‘Well, since I am here, I plan to nail the bastards who did this! I’m sick to death of this romantic mystique of the south and the people’s self-proclaimed status as eternal victims ground beneath the tyrant’s boot throughout the ages. I’m particularly fed up with hearing how crime down here is ineradicable because it feeds off an unfathomable collective tradition of blood, honour and tragedy which we northerners can never presume to understand. To hell with that! It’s time they all woke up and started taking responsibility for their actions, and I plan to be their alarm clock.’
Sforza nodded.
‘A noble speech. Many of us have made it before, at least in our own minds.’
Zen waved his hands in a gesture of apology and lowered his voice.
‘I’m sorry, Giovanni, but it was really horrific. It looked very much like a ritual killing, almost a pagan sacrifice, and it’s somehow got under my skin. I have no idea how the investigation will play out, but I do know that it will be a constantly evolving situation and that timing will be of the essence. I may need to take extraordinary measures and make extraordinary demands on our available resources. So I’m asking you, in the name of the questore, to give me permission to do so in advance, sight unseen, using your name and rank as authorisation.’
Giovanni Sforza regarded him in silence.
‘It is of course an insane request,’ Zen added.
‘There’s nothing wrong with a little insanity,’ said Sforza, ‘as long as it’s employed in the service of reason. Do what you like. But I warn you — ’
He broke off.
‘What?’ asked Zen.
Sforza shook his head.
‘Never mind. Those were brave words about the public perception of the south and the need for Enlightenment values, but dare I say that they sounded ever so slightly callow? After all, just what are we doing with those values? Take the internet. Here’s the most powerful intellectual tool in the history of the human race and we use it to write narcissistic online journals and to “have our say” like a swarm of squabbling starlings. Enlightenment values? We’re playing hide-and-seek in the library of Alexandria.’
Zen’s dismay must have shown in his expression. Sforza laughed.
‘Oh, take it as a compliment, Aurelio! This case seems to have rejuvenated you. It’s just that I have a different paradigm for the problems of policing the south. It’s like arguing with a woman. You may win small victories, at a high cost, but afterwards everything goes on very much as it did before.’
He gestured self-deprecatingly.
‘Take no notice of me. I’m just an old cynic.’
‘You’re a year younger than me, Giovanni,’ Zen said acidly.
‘Time in the south cannot be measured by the clock,’ was the mock sententious reply.
Back in his office, Zen summoned Natale Arnone and briefed him on the situation.
‘Right, here’s my shopping list. The cadaver is on its way to the hospital for autopsy and further forensic tests. I want an immediate comparison of the dead man’s fingerprints with those of the American sent to us by the consulate, and after that a DNA profile. I’ll get on the phone and give the relevant orders, your job is to ensure that the people who promised me the earth don’t try and fob me off with a handful of dirt. Got that?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Arnone got up.
‘I’m not finished yet,’ Zen told him. ‘I also want you to track down Thomas Newman, the American’s son. He’s staying at the Hotel Centrale. If he’s not there now, leave a man in the lobby until he returns. Finally, I need to trace any surviving relatives of Ottavia Calopezzati as well as the man cited on that birth certificate as Pietro’s father, Azzo whatever it was.’
Arnone looked mystified by this last request, but held his tongue.
‘Is that all?’ he asked.
‘By no means all, but it should be enough to keep you busy until eight this evening. That’s your deadline for delivery of all the foregoing items. Buon coraggio.’
