‘Don’t be smutty, Pippo. Call the boatyard, tell them to get her seaworthy, then whistle up some matelots. I feel an urge for southern climes.’
‘So you won’t tell me what you discussed.’
‘I don’t remember every detail! In any case, it was all business matters relating to the film project. Nothing that could have the slightest bearing on this tragic event.’
Zen strolled to the window, looked out for some time, then lit a cigarette. The official ban on smoking in government buildings added a particular piquancy to this gesture, virtually making it part of the interrogation.
‘What language did you speak?’ he asked, turning back to face Nicola Mantega.
‘Italian, of course.’
‘Not Calabrian dialect?’
The witness hesitated just a moment before answering.
‘Dialect? Signor Newman is an American lawyer. How could a man like that know the dialect?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘We spoke Italian.’
‘Newman spoke it fluently?’
Mantega shrugged.
‘For a foreigner.’
‘So how did he learn Italian?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You didn’t discuss it?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Didn’t you think it unusual? And perhaps mention it? Some flattering comment…’
‘I really didn’t think about it. This wasn’t a personal relationship! As I keep telling you, it was strictly business. Maybe he took lessons before coming out here. What do I know?’
Zen stared at him in silence for a moment.
‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to determine.’
Nicola Mantega’s appearance was of a classic Calabrian type, with thick, lustrous black hair, a crumpled, oval face that barely contained all the troubles it had seen, a florid moustache and an expression of terminal depression.
‘Let’s just go back over that final phone call,’ Zen said. ‘You rang Signor Newman at ten thirty-two on the Tuesday morning…’
‘It was some time that morning, yes.’
‘It was at the time I stated. Newman hired a mobile phone and we have obtained a copy of the records. What we don’t have is a transcript of what was said, but you have stated that you told him that some new factors had arisen regarding final arrangements for the film project, and that you needed to meet again. You then suggested that he come to dinner at your house at seven that evening, but he never turned up.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Nor did he return to his hotel that night. In short, he was almost certainly kidnapped on his way to that meeting at your villa, Signor Mantega. An arrangement which only he and you knew about.’
‘He must have been followed. If the kidnappers are professionals, they would have had him under surveillance for days.’
‘Perhaps, but how did they know that he was a suitable prospect? How did they know who he was and what he might be worth? For that matter, how did they know he was here at all?’
On the wall of Zen’s office hung an elegantly designed notice proclaiming the vision statement of the new Italian police, thick with catchphrases such as la nostra missione, i nostri valori, competenza professionale, integrita, creativita e innovazione. As so often in the past, Zen decided to go for the last two.
‘Acting on my orders, one of my officers interviewed your wife this morning while you were at work,’ he said. ‘She denied all knowledge of any guest having been invited for dinner on the evening in question.’
Mantega was staring at Zen with an expression of baffled indignation.
‘I didn’t tell her,’ he said at last.
Zen nodded, as though this little misunderstanding had now been cleared up.
‘Of course! You were planning to cook yourself. Some local delicacy, no doubt, to remind your guest of his origins. Stewed tripe in tomato sauce, perhaps.’
‘What is the meaning of these insinuations?’ Mantega demanded angrily. ‘Signor Newman is an American. I wouldn’t have dreamt of offering him one of our traditional Calabrian dishes. We are only too well aware that they are often unappreciated by foreigners.’
He glared pointedly at Zen.
‘I didn’t mention the occasion to my wife because I did not intend her to be present. As I keep trying to get you to understand, this was not a social event. The business that Signor Newman and I had to discuss was extremely confidential. I planned to receive him outside on the terrazza. It has a wonderful view of the city below, and there we could talk freely. As for food, there was some leftover parmigiana di melanzane in the fridge that I could warm up.’
Mantega was well into his stride by now.
‘I did in fact tell my wife when I returned from work that night, but she may well not have been listening to me. Such is often the case. I’ll remind her of what happened as soon as I get home. If it comes to her making a sworn testimony in the future, I’m sure that her story will tally with mine.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ said Zen drily. ‘And she will probably deny ever having spoken to my subordinate. All right, you may go.’
Mantega frowned and stood up, shrugging awkwardly.
‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ he said in a defensive tone.
‘You’ve been a model witness,’ Zen returned. ‘In fact I shall hold you up as an example to the people I have still to question, some of whom may be less helpful. “Why can’t you be as co-operative as Signor Mantega?” I shall say. “There’s a man who’s not afraid to tell me everything he knows.”’
Mantega seemed about to say something for a moment, but then Natale Arnone came in and escorted him out. Zen went over to the window and stood looking down until the notary emerged on to the street. When Mantega was about ten metres off, one of the officers that Zen had detached from the elite Digos anti-terrorist squad got out of a parked car and started to follow. His companion started the car and drove ahead to take the point position.
Zen’s pro tem transfer to his current post as chief of police for the province of Cosenza had come about purely as a matter of chance, and had not promised — still less delivered, until a few days ago — the slightest challenge to his professional skills. A new bureaucratic entity had appeared on the map of Italy: the provincia di Crotone, carved out of the neighbouring provinces of Cosenza and Catanzaro. It naturally demanded a fully staffed bureaucratic apparatus to run it, and this had to be constructed from scratch. One of the vacant positions was that of police chief, and Pasquale Rossi, the incumbent in Cosenza, had eventually been selected as someone professionally familiar with much of the territory concerned and thus in a position to bring his extensive experience to bear. His post had in turn gone to the deputy chief at Catanzaro, one Gaetano Monaco, but unfortunately the latter was unable to take up his duties since he had shot himself in the foot while cleaning his service pistol.
Once made, such appointments are very difficult to unmake, since the promotional ripple effect spreads far and wide and the suitability of each chosen candidate has to be vetted by all interested parties before approval. The Ministry in Rome had therefore opted for the expedient of a temporary replacement for the short period until the original appointee recovered from his self-inflicted injury, and their choice had fallen on Zen. He had been received politely enough by the questore and the other senior officers, but it had discreetly been made clear to him that he was a mere figurehead occupying the post in name only and need not concern himself too much with the day-to-day workings of the department. Which is exactly what he had been happy to do until the recent disappearance of an American lawyer which bore all the hallmarks of a professional kidnapping for ransom.
There was a knock at the door and Natale Arnone entered. He was in his late twenties, stockily built and with a shaven head, no neck and a generally thuggish manner accentuated by his unshaven jowls and bandit beard. After two months in Calabria, Zen was beginning to feel facially nude.
‘This just arrived, sir,’ Arnone said, laying a sheet of paper on the desk. It was a fax from the American
