‘No problem.’
‘See you on Saturday, then.’
‘ Ciao, Enzo.’
‘ Ciao.’
Footsteps started along the marble flooring. Zen moved his head towards a notice pinned at the extreme right-hand edge of the board. He glanced briefly along the corridor, then turned his back on the two men, closing his eyes to study the image they retained: Carlo Berengo Gorin striding towards him consulting his watch while Enzo Gavagnin rolled up his shirt sleeves and stepped back into his office.
Once the lawyer had started downstairs, humming quietly to himself, Zen walked along the corridor until he heard the unmistakable tones of Gavagnin’s voice.
‘… one more time, Filippino mio, just to make quite sure we understand each other. I wouldn’t trust you to be able to find your own arsehole without a map, and I don’t want there to be any mistake about this, know what I mean?’
Just then someone came out of an office further along the corridor. Zen turned and walked away, his lips contorted in a bitter smile.
The sickly light outside was quickly giving up the ghost, and it seemed to have got even colder. Zen turned left, past the separate building occupied by the Squadra Mobile. A pigeon came winging towards him as though intending to smash into his face, then banked aside at the last minute and came to rest on a wall tipped with broken fragments of green glass. Zen crossed the canal, passed a line of plane trees, their bark flaking like old paint, and entered the dingy bar on the corner opposite.
He ordered a coffee, fighting the temptation to ask for a shot of grappa, and sat down at a red plastic table with a view of the entrance to the Questura, where he studied his reflection in the darkening glass. There was no trace of the fury seething within. It was bad enough to have a hundred-thousand-lire-per-hour lawyer stick his nose into a case that had just been starting to show promising signs of getting somewhere. It was even worse to discover that the lawyer in question was ignorant of his client’s name, and must therefore have been retained by someone else. But worst of all was the realization that this someone else was himself a policeman.
It was perfectly clear what must have happened. Enzo Gavagnin had witnessed Bon’s arrival at the Questura, either by chance or because he had been tipped off by Bon. He had taken violent exception to his friend’s detention, and when he failed to bully Zen into backtracking he had called in Carlo Berengo Gorin. That Zen was not prepared to swallow. Being obstructed and frustrated at every turn by politicians, judges, journalists and mafiosi was all part of the job, but when your own colleagues started to undermine your efforts that was something which had to be avenged. It remained to be seen just how much damage Zen could do in return, but at least he knew where to start. He glanced at his watch. Just after five. He had about an hour to wait.
By the time the lone figure finally emerged into the harsh brilliance of the security lights mounted above the entrance to the Questura, Zen had consumed three cups of coffee, five cigarettes and read the previous day’s issue of Il Gazzettino from cover to cover. The man was wearing a brown padded jacket, jeans and leather work-boots. Zen recognized him at once from the photograph he had seen in the local newspaper that morning. When he emerged on to the quay, the man was almost out of sight in the darkness, but by running along the canal to the next bridge he was able to catch up before they reached the busy streets around Campo Santa Zaccaria.
After that it was easy. The man walked steadily, without stopping or looking round, until they emerged from the network of alleys on to the broad promenade of the Riva degli Schiavoni. Here he crossed to one of the ACTV kiosks and bought a ferry ticket. Zen followed him down the walkway to the landing stage, where a crowd of passengers stood clutching bulging shopping bags, holding children or reading papers. He took up a position directly opposite the man he was following, making no attempt to conceal his presence. The man was in his early thirties, quite short and slight, with a shock of greying hair, protuberant ears and a perpetually surprised look. He moved with the fluid, restrained, vaguely simian gestures of the sailor, as though the ground might start to pitch and roll beneath his feet at any moment.
A waterbus bound for the railway station lurched alongside, but the man stayed put. He and Zen were one of only five people left after the number 8 set off towards the distant lights of San Giorgio, passing the incoming number 5, which they both boarded. The man took a seat in the bow section. Zen sat on the bench opposite. The man looked him over without interest. The vaporetto continued its circuit of the city, calling at the Arsenale, the gas works at Celestia and the hospital just beyond. The next stop was Fondamente Nove, where the man got off.
The quayside was packed with commuters on their way home. Zen stuck close to his quarry as he shouldered his way through the throng towards the lights of the bar. Here he consumed a ham roll and a glass of beer, while Zen had another coffee and a cigarette. Again their eyes crossed, and this time the man held Zen’s gaze briefly. The television behind the bar showed puffs of smoke rising from a small town set in a wooded, mountainous landscape.
‘… brought to fifty-five the number of deaths in the Muslim enclave during the recent fighting,’ the news- caster announced. ‘A spokesman for the Bosnian Serbs denied allegations that a new campaign of ethnic cleansing was underway…’
Outside, a ship’s hooter sounded a long blast. The man finished his beer and made for the door. He barged through the crowds to the gangway marked 12 and boarded the white steamer moored there. He made his way to the forward saloon and sat staring straight ahead while the vessel shuddered off across the shallow strait towards Murano. As they cast off from the quay by the lighthouse, he got up and went out on deck.
In the far distance, a train moved slowly across the invisible bridge to the mainland like an enormous glowworm. The man took out a packet of cigarettes, extracted one and put it between his lips. He was still fumbling in his pocket for his matches when a flame suddenly appeared in front of his face. He whirled round, his eyes full of terror.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
Aurelio Zen released the catch of his lighter, restoring the darkness.
‘What did you tell them, Filippino mio?’ he murmured.
‘Nothing! I told them nothing!’
The words were spat out. Zen produced the flame again and scrutinized the man’s face.
‘Yes, but did they believe you?’
Filippo Sfriso laughed bitterly.
‘The cops don’t give a tinker’s fuck what happened to Giacomo!’
Zen applied the flame to the tip of the man’s cigarette.
‘Then why pull you in, Filippo? Why hold you so long?’
Sfriso inhaled deeply.
‘To make sure I got the message.’
‘What message?’
This time Sfriso’s laugh had an even more mordant edge.
‘You should know!’
Zen lit one of his own cigarettes. The two men eyed each other in the brief interval of light.
‘Don’t play games with me, Filippo,’ murmured Zen menacingly.
‘Games? You’re the one who’s playing games! Pretending not to know what’s going on when you’re the ones pulling the strings!’
He broke off, gasping for breath.
‘Enough, all right?’ he went on dully. ‘You’ve made your point. Do you think I wouldn’t hand the stuff over if I knew where it was? What am I supposed to do with something like that? I don’t know how to sell it or what to charge. What do you think I should charge? How much is my brother’s life worth? What’s the going rate?’
His voice rose again, a ragged yelp raw with pain and hatred.
‘You bastards! You never believed him, did you? You thought he was playing games too. Bastards! Giacomo was my brother. I know when he was lying, and this was no lie. What he said was true! He saw a dead man standing up as straight as you or I, with rats gnawing his chest and a mess of maggots in his eyesockets. He lost his nerve, just as you or I would have done if we’d seen something like that, in that place, at that time of night. He dropped the stuff and ran for his life, and neither of us have been able to find it again. That’s the truth!’
He broke off again, near to tears. When at length he resumed, it was in a raucous whisper.
‘But you didn’t believe him. So you tortured him, holding him down in a tub of water for minutes at a time,
