Patrizia Valesio was staring at him with the expression of one who is not to be put off by interruptions. Her face reminded Zen of an old-fashioned candlestick: a shallow dish with a spike in the middle.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘You were saying that…’
‘Ubaldo told me that someone was going behind his back,’ she repeated. ‘He said that every time he returned to the kidnappers to present an offer worked out after lengthy discussions with the family, claiming that this was the absolute maximum the Milettis could afford to pay, the gang accused him of lying. “Have you forgotten the villa at Punta Ala? And what about the olive grove at Spello? Why haven’t you sold the shares in such and such a company?” And when Ubaldo asked the Milettis, lo and behold there was such a villa, such an olive grove, such shares! It was a negotiator’s nightmare!’
Zen stared hard at the pad. He had been doodling obsessive box-like designs, a nest of interlocking right- angled lines locking out all possibility of error or surprise.
‘What about Ruggiero himself?’ he suggested. ‘He knows more than anyone about the family assets, and he’s totally in the gang’s power. It wouldn’t be difficult for them to make him talk.’
‘That’s what Ubaldo thought at first. But the gang knew about financial developments which had taken place since the kidnapping, things Ruggiero couldn’t have known about. Eventually Ubaldo became convinced that someone in the family circle was supplying the gang with information on a day-to-day basis. Which means that my husband was the innocent victim of some hideous double-deading within the Miletti family! That’s why I have come. I want his murderers punished. Not just the ones who pulled the trigger but also the ones who stood behind them, in the shadows!’
She broke off, taking quick shallow breaths.
‘This is all very interesting, signora…’
‘I haven’t finished!’ she snapped. ‘There’s something else, a vital clue. The gang always used the same procedure when they wanted to make contact. The telephone would ring at one o’clock, just as we were sitting down to lunch. Only two words were spoken. The caller gave the name of a football team and Ubaldo had to reply with the name of the team they were playing the following Sunday. He kept the fixtures list by the phone. Then he hung up immediately, phoned his office and cancelled his afternoon appointments. That was the procedure, and it never varied. But on Tuesday…’
She broke off again, fighting for control.
‘On Tuesday the call came not at lunchtime but early in the morning, about seven forty-five. I heard Ubaldo give the password and then say “Now?” in great surprise.’
She held Zen’s eyes with hers.
‘When did you arrive here in Perugia, Commissioner?’
‘On Tuesday.’
‘At what time?’
‘About half past one.’
‘And who knew you were coming?’
He frowned slightly.
‘Various people in the Ministry and here at the Questura.’
‘No one else?’
‘Not as far as I know. Why?’
Was that a sound from the next room, from behind the closed door?
‘Then how do you explain the fact that the kidnappers phoned urgently, demanding to see Ubaldo in person, at a time when you were still in Rome and no one supposedly knew you were coming except the authorities?’
Her voice was triumphant, as though this clinched the matter. Zen deliberately allowed his frown to deepen.
‘I don’t see there’s anything to explain. What connection is there between the two events?’
She snorted indignantly.
‘The connection? The connection is obvious to anyone who can put two and two together. Do you really believe that the first contact after weeks of silence just happened by sheer coincidence to fall on the same day as your arrival here? I’m sorry, but that would be just a little too convenient. But how could the kidnappers have known about your arrival in Perugia five hours before it happened? Obviously their contact in the family tipped them off!’
‘But how did the Milettis know, for that matter?’
‘Because it was they who had you sent here, of course! You don’t, for heaven’s sake, think that things like that happen without someone pulling strings, do you?’
Zen looked away. He had just remembered where he’d heard the phrase with which Crepi had rung off. It had been the signature of the anonymous letter Bartocci had received suggesting that the kidnapping of Ruggiero Miletti was a put-up job. He found himself writing CREPI??? in block capitals on the pad in front of him. He hastily crossed it out, then covered the whole area with tight scribbles until all trace of the name had been obliterated.
‘I don’t quite understand, signora,’ he said. ‘First you claim that the family is collaborating with the kidnappers, then you say they must have used their influence to have me sent here. Isn’t there some contradiction in your ideas?’
With a convulsive movement Patrizia Valesio got to her feet.
‘Don’t you speak to me of contradictions! That whole family is a living contradiction, consuming anything and anyone that comes within its reach, one of them smiling in your face while another stabs you in the back. My poor husband, who wanted only to help, ended up as their victim. Be careful you don’t share his fate!’
Zen also rose.
‘Anyway, since this case is under investigation by the judiciary, the proper person to inform is the magistrate in charge, Luciano Bartocci.’
His visitor picked up her gloves and handbag.
‘Oh, I shall inform him, don’t worry! And I shall inform him that I’ve informed you. And then I shall inform the Public Prosecutor’s department that I’ve informed both of you. Do you know why I’m going to inform so many people, Commissioner? Because I am expecting there to be a conspiracy of silence on this matter and I intend to make it as difficult as possible for the Milettis and their friends. If there is to be a conspiracy, at least everyone will see that it exists and will know who is involved. That will be some poor consolation, at least.’
At the last moment Zen remembered the diary. He showed it to Patrizia Valesio and asked if she knew anything about the asterisks which Chiodini had pointed out. The sight of her husband’s writing was clearly a great shock, but she held herself together.
‘Those are the days on which Ubaldo had a meeting with the kidnappers,’ she replied in a dull voice. ‘He marked the diary as soon as they phoned. He thought it might be useful later.’
Well, perhaps it might, Zen thought when she had gone. But he couldn’t see how.
He opened the door to the other room. Lucaroni was standing almost immediately inside, studying a notice concerning action to be taken in the event of fire breaking out in the building. Geraci was sitting at his desk, a paperback edition of the Penal Code open in front of him. Chiodini had slumped forward on his newspaper and seemed to be asleep.
‘Well, I’ve got some work for you, lads,’ Zen exclaimed breezily. ‘From what Valesio’s widow has told me, it’s clear that her husband’s contacts with the gang began with a telephone call that was simply a signal for him to go to some prearranged meeting-place. The chances are that it was a bar, somewhere not too far away. I want you to find it. Draw up a list and visit each in turn. Take a photograph of Valesio along. It shouldn’t be too difficult. A smart young lawyer driving a BMW will have been noticed.’
When they had gone Zen went back to his office and dialled an internal number.
‘ Records.’
‘I want a check run on any firearms licences issued to the following persons. Family name Miletti, first names Ruggiero, Pietro, Silvio and…’
Again that sound next door. Zen put the phone down, got up quietly and went over to the door into the corridor. He looked out. The corridor was empty, but the door to the inspector’s room was slightly ajar. Zen walked along the corridor and pushed it wide open. Geraci was standing by his desk. He whirled round as the door hit the rubbish bin with a loud clang.
‘Forgot my notebook,’ he explained.
