They were down to the last few dozen bottles now, all destined for a couple of local restaurants and a select number of private individuals in Alba and Asti who ordered the Faigano brothers’ wine year in, year out, knowing it to be at least the equal of that made by growers fortunate enough to own land which fell within the officially classified area of Barbaresco, Denominazione di Origine Controllata. The property belonging to Maurizio and Gianni Faigano was only a stone’s throw away from that of the Vincenzo family, but unfortunately on the wrong side of the stream which marked the boundary of the DOC zone. Because of this, the resulting product could only be sold on the open market as generic Nebbiolo, which commanded a tenth of the price.
‘I ran into the maresciallo at market this morning,’ said Minot, setting another completed bottle in its crate. ‘You know what he told me? Apparently the police are opening their own investigation. Not only that, they’re sending some big shot up from Rome to lead it.’
The two brothers exchanged a brief glance, then returned to their work. This went without incident, except when the wine started overflowing and Gianni Faigano ripped off a fingernail grabbing for the spigot. Minot retrieved the severed sliver.
‘I’ll keep this for good luck,’ he joked, as though atoning for his earlier outburst.
Once the final bottles had made their way through the production line, the three men stood up stiffly.
‘Not like you to drop a bottle, Minot,’ said Gianni, sucking his injured finger. ‘You’re not nervous, are you?’
‘Why should I be?’
Gianni smiled.
‘I just wondered, since you mentioned this new investigation of la cosa…’
‘I’m not nervous, I’m angry!’ Minot snapped back. ‘As if there weren’t enough real problems facing the country, without sending some bastard up from Rome to make our lives a misery.’
‘Speaking of bastards…’ said Maurizio.
Minot whirled round on him.
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
Maurizio held up his hands.
‘The canine kind,’ he explained, alluding to one of the dialect terms for a mongrel.
‘Well?’ demanded Minot. ‘What about them?’
Maurizio hesitated a moment.
‘The day Aldo died, I happened to be outside the house here, clearing my head with some fresh air and a raw egg.’
‘And?’
‘And I heard a dog barking over on the Vincenzo land.’
‘Why do you keep going on about Aldo Vincenzo? Let the son of a bitch rot in peace!’
‘By all means. Only if there’s going to be another investigation, we’d better get our story straight.’
‘My story is straight!’
‘Of course, Minot,’ said Gianni evenly. ‘We know that. But some people may be more awkwardly placed, you understand? The owner of that dog, for instance.’
Minot turned to face him.
‘You recognized it?’
Gianni looked at his brother.
‘Why don’t you two go on upstairs? I’ll clean up down here and join you in a minute.’
‘An excellent idea,’ said Maurizio. ‘Come on, Minot. After helping us out like this, the least you deserve is a glass of something. I don’t know what we’d do without you, I don’t really.’
The earlier silence had been replaced by a verbosity almost equally oppressive. But Minot allowed himself to be taken in hand and steered up to the large sitting room at one end of the brothers’ house, where he accepted a glass of the wine he had helped bottle several years earlier. Maurizio left the open bottle on the table and sat down, shaking his head sadly.
‘All this, coming so soon after Chiara’s death,’ he sighed.
Minot sniffed.
‘You mean there’s a connection?’
‘For some of us there is,’ Maurizio replied, with a sigh. ‘I suppose it’s stupid, after all this time, but Gianni was hit hard when she died. In his mind, she was immortal.’
Minot stared into his wine and said nothing.
‘And just when he’d started to get used to the idea,’ Maurizio Faigano continued, ‘this happened. Every time someone mentions la cosa, it’s as if Chiara’s tomb has been descrated.’
Minot reached out and grasped Maurizio’s arm sympathetically.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’
Maurizio nodded sadly. After a while, Minot let go of his arm and took another gulp of wine.
‘What was that about hearing some dog in Aldo’s vines the night it happened?’
Maurizio looked at him.
‘Oh, nothing, I suppose. I couldn’t see anything, what with the mist, but I thought I recognized the dog’s bark. You know how distinctive they are.’
The door opened and in came Gianni, a large smile on his rumpled, slept-in face.
‘Well, that’s all taken care of,’ he said. ‘How’s the wine, Minot?’
‘ Discreto,’ was the guarded reply. ‘Maybe I should have kept more for myself.’
He glanced at Gianni, who waved negligently.
‘I expect we can let you have a few bottles, in return for all the help you’ve given us. Eh, Maurizio?’
‘Minot was asking about the dog.’
‘Ah, yes! Maybe it was just a runaway. Who knows?’
‘Not with those fences that Aldo put in,’ said Minot.
Gianni poured himself a glass of wine.
‘Perhaps someone found a way through them. Or made one. All I know is that Maurizio heard this bastardin barking down there. Which is odd in itself. No one’s ever found any truffles on Vincenzo land, as far as I know.’
There was a silence.
‘So whose dog was it?’ asked Minot.
He knew, as they did, that the hound would have been instantly identifiable. All men of their age in the Langhe either kept a truffle dog themselves or knew someone who did. Their noises and utterances were as familiar as those of neighbouring children.
‘I thought it was Anna,’ said Maurizio.
‘Beppe’s dog?’
‘I might have been wrong.’
They drank in silence for a while.
‘There are two ways we can handle this snooper from Rome,’ said Gianni. ‘Either we come up with a suitable suspect to hand him on a plate, or we just clam up.’
‘There already is a suspect,’ Minot pointed out.
‘But if they’re starting from scratch again, that means they don’t believe that he did it.’
‘And neither do I,’ said Maurizio. ‘What son would do something like that to his father? And still less a milksop like Manlio Vincenzo.’
‘They can be the worst if you push them too far,’ observed his brother. ‘They take it and take it for years, and then one day they crack. And God knows Aldo pushed Manlio. Remember what he said to him that evening at the festa, calling him a faggot and a queer in a voice you could hear all over the hall?’
Maurizio shrugged.
‘It doesn’t matter what we think. The important thing is to work out what to tell this cop from Rome.’
‘Or what not to tell him,’ Minot put in.
‘Or both,’ said Gianni. ‘Like in the war. Remember our motto? “Tell them anything, so long as you tell them nothing.” That’s what we’ve got to do now.’
Minot knocked back his wine.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’
