dared down the winding road. As long as they backed him up, he was in the clear. The trouble was that he didn’t know what they would do.
That was the problem with people, you could never be sure how they would react. If only they were like the rats, a collective whose apparent individuality was in fact an illusion, and whose behaviour was totally predictable. But people weren’t like that. They could do the craziest things, as Camillo had when the Fascists captured him. Instead of shutting up and taking his chances, he had danced — danced — in front of his captors and told them that, yes, he was a partisan and proud of it, and that they were doomed by history.
They’d shot him, of course, but not before he had taunted them one last time, when the Republican recruit detailed to pull the trigger had funked out and started to shake. One of the other prisoners, who had watched the whole scene, later reported what happened next. ‘So Camillo looked at the boy, and he smiled. “Go ahead and shoot,” he said. “You’re only killing a man. Nothing will change.”’
People did things like that all the time. Maybe Gianni and Maurizio would, too. What could he do to sway them, other than recite the usual formulas about their mutual interest and so on? Suppose they decided not to listen? Suppose, like Camillo, they just didn’t care? Since Chiara’s death, Gianni didn’t seem to care very much about anything.
It didn’t give him much to work with, not nearly enough, in fact. Perhaps he should try an alternative approach. Unpredictability, after all, was a game two could play. The thought of Chiara Vincenzo reminded him of Aldo’s death. That was what the cops were really interested in. Beppe and Bruno were just distractions, although inextricably linked to that main event. And if the Faigano brothers refused to help Minot, why should he protect them any longer?
Not only did he know exactly why and how Aldo had been murdered, but he could explain the grotesque and ferocious mutilations inflicted on the corpse as well. Once the truth about that crime had been established, the culprit would automatically become the chief and only suspect in the Gallizio and Scorrone killings. A community such as this didn’t run to two murderers, any more than it ran to two lawyers or newsagents. One was both necessary and sufficient, and once he was identified, no one would think of looking any further.
Minot pulled into the courtyard of the brothers’ house, strode up to the door and knocked hard several times. He had made his decision, and was in no mood to be kept waiting. There were footsteps inside and the door opened, but the person who appeared was not Gianni or Maurizio but the famous ‘busybody from Rome’ about whose activities Enrico Pascal had complained so bitterly.
‘I was looking for the Faigano brothers,’ Minot said hesitantly.
‘Come in.’
Caught unawares, Minot obeyed.
‘And Gianni and Maurizio?’
‘They’re not here.’
‘Out among the vines, are they? It’s a busy time of the year for wine-makers.’
The other held out his hand.
‘I think we’ve met. I’m Aurelio Zen. You were kind enough to give me a lift the other day. Minot, isn’t it?’
Minot clasped the proffered hand and gasped audibly. He turned away, trying to evaluate the inspiration which had been clear and powerful enough to force the spasm from him. He needed time to think it through properly, but time was just what he didn’t have. Gianni and Maurizio might return at any minute, but until then he was alone with the policeman in charge of the whole investigation — and no one would ever know that he’d been there!
‘Come through to the kitchen,’ the official told him, leading the way. ‘I want to show you something.’
The kitchen was where Gianni kept his butcher’s knives, lined up on the chopping block by the sink. One quick thrust would be enough, with a towel around the handle to eliminate fingerprints and staunch the blood. ‘Do it!’ said the voices in his head. What was that phrase the priest had explained to him once, long ago? Nihil obstat.
‘Who’s this?’ the policeman asked, pointing to a framed photograph standing all alone on one shelf of the sideboard. It was a studio shot, obviously quite old, showing a young girl dressed all in white, with a lace headscarf.
Minot hesitated. The question had no relevance to his plans, but he had grown up in a world where figures of power — schoolmasters, priests, commanding officers, policemen — were licensed to ask questions, and where you were expected to reply or face unpleasant consequences.
‘Chiara Cravioli,’ he said, eyeing the array of gleaming knives.
‘Cravioli?’
‘Aldo Vincenzo’s wife.’
‘But why is her photograph here?’
Before Minot could answer, the door opened and a teenage girl with an armful of schoolbooks walked in. She stared at both the men.
‘What are you doing here?’
Aurelio Zen inclined his head slightly.
‘We met at the market in Alba at the weekend. I’m a police officer.’
‘Where’s my father?’ demanded Lisa Faigano. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid that your father and uncle have had to go into Alba to answer some routine questions.’
The girl dropped her books on the table.
‘And what about you, Minot?’ she demanded, seemingly more annoyed by his presence than that of the policeman.
‘I was hoping to see Gianni and Maurizio. No one told me they’d been arrested.’
‘They haven’t,’ put in Zen quickly. ‘We’re just taking statements from a number of people, including them. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Minot coughed.
‘Well, I’ll try again later.’
He sidled off to the door as if expecting to be stopped at any moment. But there was no challenge, and a moment later his truck roared away.
Left alone together, Lisa Faigano and Aurelio Zen surveyed each other warily.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ the girl said at last, as though grasping a little desperately at the rituals of hospitality.
‘Thank you.’
Zen had no interest in the coffee, but it would give him a pretext to stay longer without producing his search warrant. Lisa Faigano’s unexpected appearance had thrown him off-balance. Once Gianni and Maurizio were safely in custody, Zen had descended on the house and dismissed the patrolman on guard and his driver, telling them to return in an hour. He had wanted to be alone with the house, free to prowl and pry at will, to let the silence seep into his soul and reveal its secrets.
The arrival of Minot and then the girl had put an end to all that, and while he could have seen the former off the premises easily enough, he could hardly throw Lisa Faigano out of her own home. Nor did a bureaucratic approach seem likely to be fruitful. The brutally official questions he could so easily have posed sounded, as he rehearsed them in his mind, off-key and inappropriate. If he was to get anything out of her, Lisa had somehow to be managed. But how?
‘You’re the one they sent up from Rome about what happened to Vincenzo,’ the girl remarked as she filled the coffee machine.
‘That’s right, signorina.’
‘What’s that got to do with my father and uncle?’
Zen hesitated. It was hard to know who he had to deal with. The girl was at a stage where she could look thirteen one moment and thirty the next. Untuned features and awkward gestures suggested the former, but her brown eyes were shrewd and wary and did not give the impression of missing very much.
‘Nothing, so far as we know. But there appears to be a link to another crime which occurred recently, to which they may be material witnesses. Naturally we need to question them, if only to eliminate this possibility, and they have therefore been invited to headquarters to make their depositions. I’m glad to say that they were happy to comply.’
