blown up. Particularly on your birthday.’
Gemma looked at him oddly.
‘You checked their identification, I suppose?’ Zen continued.
‘Whose?’
‘The men who came about the gas. Sometimes petty criminals use a ruse like that to get into someone’s apartment, then tie up the occupant and clean the place out.’
‘Nothing like that happened. They had valid ID, were wear¬ ing uniformed overalls and obviously knew what they were doing.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Gemma rose.
‘Well, I’d better get over to the pharmacy.’
She went to get her coat, briefcase and bag. Zen finished the remaining coffee, staring out of the window at the blank plastered wall opposite. When Gemma reappeared, he followed her out of the apartment on to the landing.
‘When the Ministry called here to arrange that appointment in Rome, was Brugnoli’s name mentioned?’ he asked in an unusually quiet voice.
‘How else would I have known it? It may even have been he who phoned, I don’t know. The caller just told me that he wished to see you the next day in Rome. I told you all this when I met you off the train in Florence.’
‘Sorry, I was rather distracted that morning.’
‘You certainly were.’
‘It was that case I was working on. Creepy business. But that’s all over now. Now, when do we go to lunch?’
‘I’ll be back by half past eleven. I’ll make a reservation from the shop, but we should aim to leave by twelve at the latest. Ciao!’
‘ A presto, cara.’
Gemma hurried down the stone steps and disappeared round the corner, the sound of her suede boots echoing back up the stairwell, while Zen made his way thoughtfully back to their apartment.
There was a lot to think about. He walked through to the kitchen, where he disassembled the caffettiera and rinsed it out, then stacked the breakfast plates and cups in the dishwasher with the load from last night, added detergent powder and switched it on. What a wonderful invention dishwashers were! You just piled all the dirty stuff in, listened to the machine making its soothing swooshy sound for an hour or so, then opened it up and everything was sparkling clean. If only there were a similar appliance for the other problems of life.
Having run out of tasks to take his mind off his worries, he lit a cigarette and reluctantly attempted to confront them. Until proven otherwise, he had to proceed on the assumption that the supposed visit from the gas company had in fact been a pre-emptive surveillance operation mounted by Brugnoli’s enemies at the Defence Ministry, or possibly even the secret services. If the ID and uniforms were fake, this indicated a high level of professionalism and resources.
The object of the exercise would presumably have been to tap the phone line and install area microphones linked to micro-transmitters. The only way to be certain would be to return to Rome, contact Brugnoli through the agreed cut-out and have him order in an electronic security team to sweep the apartment. But that would merely serve to confirm the opposition’s suspicions about Zen’s involvement. Better to leave the bugs in place and use them to convey disinformation.
A distant shrilling recalled him to the present. It was his mobile phone, which he had left in the pocket of his overcoat. He walked through to the hallway, retrieved the shiny slab, stepped back out on to the landing and closed the door behind him before answering the call.
‘ Pronto! ’
‘Dottor Aurelio Zen?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Here is Werner Haberl, the doctor you spoke to in Bolzano the other day.’
‘Ah, yes. How are you, doctor?’
‘Very well, thank you. I apologize for calling so early, but you asked me to get in touch if there were any further developments regarding the matter we discussed.’
‘Absolutely, but may I call you back? I’m on another call at the moment.’
‘No problem, I’m here all morning. I give you the number of my direct line.’
Zen noted it down and then folded up the phone with a mental note to use it with extreme caution in the future. If they had gone to all the trouble of bugging the apartment he shared with Gemma, they would almost certainly be monitoring his mobile.
Five minutes later, he was walking down Via del Fosso. It had started raining lightly, and there seemed to be no one about. At the corner he turned left towards the church of San Francesco, stopping at the tobacconist’s to buy a carton of Nazionali and a phone card. At the payphone opposite the church he inserted the card and dialled the number that Werner Haberl had given him in Bolzano. He checked the street while it rang. There was nothing unusual to be seen.
‘ Hallo.’
‘ Herr Doktor Haberl, bitte.’
‘ Am Apparat.’
‘It’s Aurelio Zen, doctor. My apologies for the delay. Now then, what were you saying about our friend in the tunnel?’
‘Yes. So, I have just heard from a colleague that a man named Naldo Ferrero has phoned the hospital yesterday. He claimed that he was legally entitled to take possession of the body and wished to know how he should go about it. When my colleague told him that the cadaver was no longer in our custody, he became quite agitated and threatened to make a formal denuncia to the police. It was then explained to him that the police themselves had removed the body.’
‘On what grounds did he lay claim to the corpse?’
‘Well, that’s why I thought you might be interested. This Ferrero said he is the dead man’s son.’
Zen was silent for a moment.
‘Did he leave a contact number?’
‘Yes, yes, we have all his details. We do that as a matter of routine, at the beginning of a call. Do you have a pen and paper?’
Zen wrote down the claimant’s address and phone number and thanked Werner Haberl profusely for his cooperation. Then he depressed the receiver rest and inspected the street again. As before, everything seemed normal. He dialled again. The phone rang over a dozen times before a weary-sounding woman answered.
‘La Stalla.’
‘May I speak to Naldo Ferrero, please?’
‘Just a moment.’
She set down the receiver and Zen heard her call ‘Naldo!’ distantly. The amount of credit left on the phone card had roughly halved in value before a man finally came on the line.
‘Yes?’
‘Good morning, Signor Ferrero. I’m phoning about your late father.’
He paused, but there was no reply.
‘I’m from an insurance company,’ Zen went on. ‘It seems that there is some dispute about the manner and date of your father’s decease. I was hoping that you might be prepared to let me have half an hour or so of your time with a view to clarifying these and other issues arising. There’s a good deal of money involved.’
More silence, then a contemptuous grunt.
‘Insurance company, my arse,’ said Ferrero. ‘My father died thirty years ago. His body was not recovered, but the fact of his death was not in dispute. Any outstanding insurance claims would therefore have been settled at that time. So who the hell are you?’
‘Someone who might be able to help you recover your late father’s remains after all these years.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself. And if, as I suspect, you’re from the police, then it may interest
