somehow they’ve remained on good terms despite what’s happened. The next thing I know, Lisa Rosteghin’s phoning me to ask who’s the tall dark stranger Cristiana’s been seen having a pizza with!’
Zen gave a feeble smile.
‘I just wanted to catch up on the local gossip.’
‘Of course!’ returned Rosalba heartily. ‘Once Cristiana got back and I found out it was you, I knew there was no question of any hanky-panky. Why, you’re old enough to be her father!’
Zen’s smile slowly faded. Rosalba picked up her shopping and slipped back into the fog, disappearing within moments.
‘Thick as snot,’ her voice called back. ‘Mind how you go, Aurelio.’
On the Cannaregio, a slight breeze was at work, stirring the fog into currents of differing density. The palaces and churches fronting the canal came and went, the forms firming up and vagueing away like a print from an old photographic plate damaged by the ravages of time. A barge nosed through out from a side canal into the main channel, hooting mournfully. Similar sirens and signals, muffled by the moist air, resounded in the distance.
Zen was making slow progress towards the ferry stop when he was hurled headlong to the cobbles, banging his knee and shoulder painfully. Getting up again and looking round, he saw the line of tubing over which he had tripped, straight lengths of metal bolted together with blue concertina inserts in plastic to accommodate corners. Down at the quayside one of the ubiquitous red barges marked POZZI NERI would be moored ready to receive the contents of whichever septic tank was being drained that morning.
He picked up his briefcase, lit a cigarette and continued on his way across the bridge to the floating platform where a dozen people were already waiting. Spectral in the fog, the massive wooden pilings chained together to form a tripod securing the platform, their tops phallically rounded, looked like an idol dedicated to some god of the lagoon. From time to time invisible craft passed by, the wash making the landing stage shift restlessly at its moorings.
At length a muffled cone of light appeared in the fog, gradually brightening and widening until the boat itself became visible, one of the motoscafi with a rakishly high bow like a torpedo boat. The waiting crowd filed on board and the ferry continued cautiously on its way, creeping through the water, the engine barely turning over, the searchlight at the bow scanning back and forth. Once they cleared the mouth of the Cannaregio the water started to heave dully, making the boat yaw and wallow.
At Fondamente Nove, where he had to change, Zen stopped off in a bar for a caffe corretto. The barman had the radio on, and Zen caught the end of some local news item about a fisherman who had been found drowned somewhere in the northern lagoon. The police were said to be investigating. Zen tossed off the scalding coffee, heady with grappa, and wandered over to the window to look for his ferry. The steamer to Burano and Treporti was just casting off, but there was no activity at the pier where the number 5 stopped.
On the wall beside the window was another of the calendars which he had seen the previous day at the osteria where he had met Marco Paulon, with the fall and rise of the tides in the lagoon superimposed on the days of the month. Zen lifted it down from its hook and copied the information for the earlier part of the month into his notebook, glancing out of the window from time to time. There was still no sign of the circolare destra. After waiting five minutes, he decided to walk.
Away from the slight breezes of the open lagoon, the fog blocked the winding cuts and alleys, as thick as silt. Zen waded through it, narrowly avoiding a number of close encounters with walls, canals and other pedestrians, until he emerged at length in Campo San Lorenzo. A blue-and-white launch was just setting off from the Questura with the ear-splitting roar to which police drivers always aspired, whatever their vehicle. Zen climbed the stairs to the office he had been assigned on the second floor. Aldo Valentini was standing by the window, looking out at the swirling grey pall.
‘Filthy stuff,’ he said vehemently, catching sight of Zen’s reflection in the glass. ‘Coats your throat and lungs. Can’t you taste it? All the pollution from Mestre and Marghera packaged for your convenience in easy-to-breathe aerosol form.’
Zen slumped behind his desk and phoned the Ospedale Civile. Putting on his most brutal tone, he cowed an unwilling functionary of that institution into briefing him on the condition of Ada Zulian. Eventually he was connected to a woman doctor who reported that the patient had made a complete recovery and was anxious to go home but was being kept at the hospital in accordance with the instructions which Zen had given the ambulance crew the night before. She had been visited by her nephews, who had strongly supported their aunt’s right to be discharged if she so wished.
‘And of course they’re absolutely right,’ the doctor concluded. ‘Quite apart from the considerable pressure on our facilities here, it’s no part of our business to keep patients confined when they’re able and willing to leave.’
‘I quite understand,’ Zen murmured soothingly. ‘Thank you so much for your forbearance. Unfortunately there’s a bit of a demand for transport at present, but I’ll come and pick up the contessa just as soon as a boat becomes available.’
He hung up before the doctor could reply. Opening his briefcase, he extracted a bundle wrapped in newspaper and folded back the wrapping to reveal a large carving knife.
‘Where can I get this printed?’ he asked Valentini.
‘The lab’s at the university. If you leave it with Renaldi in the basement he’ll have it sent over. I’ll take it down for you, if you like. I’ve got bugger all else to do after getting bumped off the Sfriso case.’
Being from Ferrara, Valentini pronounced it ‘Sfrizo’. Zen looked up.
‘Isn’t that the break-in you were talking about yesterday?’
‘It was. Now it’s a drowning. Out by Burano.’
Zen suddenly recalled what Marco Paulon had told him on the way to the ottagono the day before.
‘Sfriso? Is he the same man who claimed to have seen the dead on Sant’Ariano walking around?’
Aldo Valentini nodded.
‘And now he’s joined them. One of the monks rowing back to San Francesco del Deserto fished him out of the water yesterday afternoon. I spent most of last night at Burano, trying to piece together what happened, only to get in this morning and find that Gavagnin has taken over the case. He’s giving the brother a hard time downstairs even now.’
‘Why did they take you off the case?’
Valentini scowled.
‘Damned if I know. First of all Gavagnin tried to take the break-in away from me. Claimed it was linked to some drugs case he’s working on. I couldn’t see it. The Sfriso brothers were just a couple of typical Burano fishermen.’
‘What was the break-in about?’
‘It happened one Sunday while they were at Mass with their mother. The house was torn apart, but nothing was taken. A neighbour saw the intruders leaving and phoned one one three, but by the time we got a boat there they were long gone. The only strange thing about it was that the Sfrisos wouldn’t co-operate. They didn’t want to pursue the matter, they said. Wouldn’t even file a complaint until I told them they had to.’
Zen nodded to show a polite interest.
‘And now one of them’s dead. Is there any suggestion of foul play?’
Valentini shrugged.
‘I didn’t see any, but it’s out of my hands. Gavagnin must have pulled some strings upstairs this time. They didn’t even bother to discuss it with me, just told me to hand over the file.’
He sighed.
‘It’s really pissed me off, I can tell you. First interesting thing happens in months and it gets pulled out from under my feet.’
He took the carving knife from Zen and wrapped it up again.
‘What was this used to do?’
Zen briefly ran through the events of the previous night. Aldo Valentini yawned loudly.
‘I’ll bet you anything you like the prints on the handle are hers.’
Zen shrugged.
‘Probably. Still, I’m going to have to put a man in the house. I don’t want her dead next time.’
‘It’d be better to get the old girl committed again. The chief isn’t going to agree to tying up personnel indefinitely to keep someone with her psychiatric record from slitting her wrists. We’re not running a nanny service,
