Zen took a step forward.
‘A colleague of mine has been killed. I think I know who did it, and why, and who else is in danger. But we must act at once. Every second is precious. That’s why I came directly here instead of going through the usual procedures. Let me speak to you in private — or, if you’re too busy, to one of your colleagues.’
Mamoli paused. Like the taxi drivers, he was impressed above all by the intensity of Zen’s tone. The hint that he might lose an important case was also well timed. With an apologetic smile to the other magistrates, as though to say ‘I’d better humour this maniac before he gets violent’, he walked past Zen to the door.
‘This way!’
Once in the corridor, he turned to stare levelly at Zen.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
Zen nodded confidently.
‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’
Mamoli led the way to an office at the end of the corridor and shut the door. He did not sit down, nor did he invite Zen to do so. Zen walked straight over to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled the Questura.
‘Aurelio Zen speaking. Do we have a commissariato on Burano? No? Then give me the squad room.’
‘Now listen,’ Mamoli exclaimed, ‘I’ve stood just about as much of this as…’
‘Is Todesco there? Put him on.’
He turned to the furious Mamoli.
‘Just one moment, please! This can’t wait.’
He put the receiver to his ear once more.
‘Todesco? Aurelio Zen. Now pay attention. You’re to take a boat and get over to Burano immediately. No, not Murano, Burano — B as in Brescia. Go to the home of Filippo Sfriso. The address will be in Gavagnin’s file on the case. Take two or three men with you. Put Sfriso himself under arrest. Don’t worry about the warrant. I’ll have one by the time you get back. He’s to make no phone calls, speak to no one. Understood? If at all possible, bring his mother along too. If she won’t budge, leave an armed guard on the house.’
There was a pause.
‘Well you’ll just have to find someone to cover for you,’ Zen resumed with silky menace. ‘And please try not to shoot any of your colleagues this time, Todesco. You almost killed someone last night. This is your chance to make amends before I write up my report.’
He hung up and turned to face Mamoli. The magistrate was by now bursting with indignation.
‘What the devil do you think…’
Zen cut him off.
‘I apologize for my apparent rudeness, signor giudice, but time is pressing. Less than an hour ago, the body of Inspector Enzo Gavagnin, head of the Drugs Squad at the Questura of Venice, was recovered from a cesspit in a courtyard by San Canciano. He had been murdered, thrown into the sewage with his hands tied and left to drown.’
Mamoli’s indignation instantly evaporated.
‘Go on.’
Zen paused, trying to marshal his thoughts, to remember what he could admit and what he must conceal, which facts he could present openly to Mamoli and those whose origin or significance he must disguise.
‘Three days ago, a fisherman named Giacomo Sfriso, resident on Burano, was found drowned in the lagoon. There was no evidence of foul play, yet Enzo Gavagnin insisted on opening an investigation and brought the dead man’s brother in for questioning.’
He broke off and gave an embarrassed smile.
‘Enzo told me all this himself, off the record. He and I had struck it off from the moment I arrived here. Our parents used to be neighbours, and…’
Mamoli nodded impatiently.
‘Quite, quite.’
‘I asked him why he was taking such a hard line. He told me a story which frankly I found hard to believe at the time. He claimed to have received death threats from a powerful drug cartel he had been fighting for years. When I asked what this had to do with the Sfriso brothers, he said that he knew that they were involved with this organization, although he lacked sufficient proof to make a formal request to proceed. He claimed that Giacomo Sfriso had been murdered by the gang, and hoped that Filippo, shocked by his brother’s death, would now agree to co-operate.’
‘And did he?’
Zen shook his head.
‘Not fully, although he apparently supplied some telephone numbers which Enzo hoped to exploit. But before he could do so, the threat to his life which he mentioned to me had been brutally substantiated. What I’m asking of you, signor giudice, is authorization to hunt down my friend’s killers!’
Leaving this passionate declaration ringing in the air, Zen quickly reviewed this fiction to ensure that it covered all the essential points. Satisfied, he looked up at Marcello Mamoli, who was gazing at him with renewed interest.
‘I need the following powers,’ Zen went on quickly. ‘First, interception of all telephonic traffic on the numbers Sfriso supplied to Gavagnin. Second, surveillance of the addresses corresponding to those numbers. Third, a warrant for the arrest of Filippo Sfriso on the grounds of reticence concerning the criminal activities already mentioned. Fourth, round-the-clock protection for Sfriso’s mother, who might otherwise be at risk from the gang. And lastly, authorization in principle to follow up any leads which may arise in the course of these and related enquiries.’
Marcello Mamoli raised his eyebrows.
‘In short, a free hand.’
Zen shrugged.
‘In my experience, it’s quite normal for Criminalpol operatives to be granted a relatively wide degree of latitude in their investigations.’
‘And you would naturally check with me before taking any initiatives which might prove, ah, controversial.’
‘Naturally.’
Marcello Mamoli walked over to the window. It had started to rain again, and fat drops slid slowly down the panes, leaving tracks like slugs. The magistrate consulted his watch.
‘It’s now almost four o’clock,’ he said without looking round. ‘You’ve got forty-eight hours to come up with something solid.’
It was only then that Zen remembered his appointment with Cristiana.
Filippo Sfriso’s return to the Questura was in stark contrast to his unceremonious departure two days earlier. The police launch which had been dispatched to fetch him from Burano cut through the Arsenale, avoiding the more direct but constricted backwaters where it would have had to slow down. Although it was still light, the curtains in the cabin were tightly drawn. Next to the helmsman stood a patrolman in grey battledress cradling a machine- gun.
Emerging at the south end of the Arsenale canal, the launch turned hard to starboard, passing astern of a vaporetto landing-stage being towed away for installation or repair, and shot in under the Selpolcro bridge without any slackening of pace. It screeched past an orange-and-green garbage barge hoisting a street-sweeper’s cart aboard and surged along the canal, creating a wash which had the tethered vessels heaving at their moorings like frightened horses, before revving loudly in reverse at the last moment to slide in alongside the Fondamenta di San Lorenzo.
While the helmsman jumped ashore and secured the mooring ropes, the armed patrolman took up a position on the quayside, glancing alternately to left and right. Then the door of the cabin opened and the burly figure of Bettino Todesco appeared in the cockpit. He surveyed the scene briefly, then disappeared back into the cabin. A moment later he emerged, handcuffed to a figure whose head and shoulders were swathed in a blanket. The pair stepped ashore and hurried across the quay and into the open doorway of the Questura.
Forty seconds later, Filippo Sfriso was sitting in an office on the second floor of the building. The shutters were closed and Todesco stood guard at the door. Sfriso looked as though he were in shock. His body was subject to uncontrollable spasms of trembling, his face was pale and expressionaless, his gaze vacant. Neither man spoke.
