‘I’m a marine engineer.’
The voice was hoarse and clipped, with the characteristic boneless accent of Chioggia.
‘Meaning what?’ Zen demanded.
Bon shrugged.
‘I’ve got a diploma as a marine engineer.’
‘I don’t care if you’ve got a degree in Greek philosophy,’ snapped Zen. ‘I asked about your occupation, not your qualifications.’
Giulio Bon stared mutely at the floor for some time.
‘I run a boatyard,’ he said at last.
‘You’re the sole owner?’
‘My brother-in-law has a financial interest, but I look after the work.’
‘Alone?’
‘I employ two men full-time, and there are others I can call on when it’s busy.’
‘Their names?’
Bon mumbled a series of names which Zen noted down.
‘What sort of work does the yard handle?’ he asked.
‘Repairs, servicing, laying up.’
‘Do you also sell boats?’
Bon became very still. Only his foot moved jerkily about on the glossy paving.
‘From time to time,’ he said.
‘How many do you sell every year?’
‘It varies.’
‘Roughly?’
Bon shrugged.
‘Perhaps half a dozen.’
Zen nodded. He lifted a paper from the desk.
‘I am passing Signor Bon the extract from the Register of Vessels supplied by the Provincial authorities, reference number nine five nine oblique six oblique double D stroke four.’
Bon scanned the sheet of paper quickly. His expression did not change except for a minute tightening at the corner of the mouth.
‘Do you recognize any of the boats listed?’ Zen inquired.
‘No.’
‘I refer to the vessel identified as VZ 63923.’
‘I can’t be expected to remember the registration number of every boat that passes through the yard.’
‘This was rather a special boat. A topa. Beautiful craft, but they’re getting quite rare these days. Dying out, like so many of our traditions.’
Bon did not respond.
‘And there’s another reason why you might remember this particular boat,’ Zen went on once Bon’s failure to reply had registered. ‘It was one of the very few which you sell each year. And you sold this one less than two months ago. On the fifteenth of December, to be precise.’
Bon sat absolutely still and silent. Zen let the tape run some more.
‘Now do you remember?’ he demanded.
His tone was as sharp as the crack of a whip. Bon flinched as though struck.
‘It’s possible,’ he mumbled.
‘Possible? It’s not possible that you don’t remember. You are on record as saying that selling boats is not your main business, just something you do from time to time, no more than half a dozen a year. How could you possibly forget selling a craft as rare as a topa just before Christmas?’
‘Okay, all right! Maybe we did sell it!’ shouted Bon, his restraint suddenly cracking. ‘So what?’
‘Where did you get it from?’
Bon closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
‘I’d need to consult my records.’
Zen lit a cigarette. He leant back in his chair, staring coldly at Bon across the desk.
‘According to a sworn statement made in this office this morning, you informed the purchaser that the vessel had been laid up for years prior to being overhauled and fitted with a reconditioned engine. The witness, Sergio Scusat, further deposed that the price had been substantially reduced owing to the fact that no documents were available for the boat. He said that you claimed this was because she had been out of the water for so long that no one could trace the previous owner and she would have to be re-registered. Is that true?’
Guilio Bon shifted in his chair but said nothing.
‘Why are you being so evasive?’ murmured Zen silkily.
‘I’m not being evasive! I just can’t remember. Is that against the law?’
Zen allowed the silence to frame this outburst before continuing tonelessly.
‘The Nuova Venezia has confirmed that you placed an advertisement in the paper to run for the second week of December, offering a diesel-engined topa for sale. Sergio Scusat has testified that he bought the boat from you on the fifteenth. All I’m asking you to do is to confirm or deny the truth of the account you then gave him as to the vessel’s provenance.’
Bon looked at his knees, at the wall, at the ceiling.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘It’s all coming back to me.’
Zen puffed a smoke ring which hovered in the air above the desk like a detached halo.
‘Of course!’ Bon continued. ‘It was that old hulk we found round the back of the shed when we resurfaced the yard. God knows how many years it must have been sitting there. The hull was still sound, though. They built them to last in those days. All we needed to do was replace a few timbers here and there.’
‘And install an engine,’ Zen put in, apparently addressing the neon light fitting.
There was no reply. Zen lowered his head until his gaze met Bon’s.
‘Where did you get the engine?’
Bon waved one hand vaguely.
‘There are various suppliers we use from time to time, depending on…’
‘You told Scusat that the engine was reconditioned. There can’t be many suppliers of reconditioned Volvo marine engines in this area.’
‘“Reconditioned” is a relative term. It was probably some engine we had lying around the yard somewhere which we’d stripped down ourselves and reassembled.’
‘But it would still have had a serial number,’ Zen mused quietly. ‘To sell a craft without papers is one thing, but no one’s going to touch a motor whose serial number has been filed off. Besides, as you probably know, these days there are techniques for recovering markings which are no longer visible to the naked eye.’
There was a knock at the door. Zen gestured to the policewoman, who paused the tape. The door opened to admit a burly man with a bushy beard and a mass of fine wavy hair. In his grey tweed suit and black cape, he looked like a bear got up for a circus act.
‘Carlo Berengo Gorin,’ he said, thrusting out an enormous hand. ‘I represent Signor, er…’
He gestured impatiently at Giulio Bon, then swung round on Zen.
‘Are you Valentini or Gatti?’
‘Aurelio Zen.’
The avvocato’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Zen? Weren’t we at school together? Yes, of course! The basketball ace! The height, the grace, the movements which so bewitched the opposition that they stood like statues while you danced your way through them to notch up yet another point!’
Zen stared dumbly at the lawyer. Despite his height, he had never played basketball in his life. Gorin beamed reminiscently.
‘Happy days!’ he sighed. ‘Now then, will you kindly inform me of my client’s precise legal status?’
Zen felt his stomach tense up. The revised Code governing police procedure which had come into effect in 1988 had changed many aspects of its predecessor, especially regarding the rights of witnesses and suspects and
