‘That’s what we’re about to find out. Thank you, Aldo!’
As they walked back upstairs Bartocci went on, ‘Pietro Miletti has agreed to see me. I’m expecting him shortly and I’d like you to be present. We’ve just time for a coffee.’
They went to a tiny bar in Piazza Matteotti. The only other person there was a woman eating a large cream- filled pastry as though her life depended on it.
‘I had a phone call from Antonio Crepi,’ Zen remarked casually.
‘Really?’
Bartocci’s voice, too, was carefully expressionless.
‘He knows we had lunch.’
‘I’m sure he does. In fifteen minutes he’ll know we’ve had coffee, too.’
‘What did you make of Patrizia Valesio’s story?’ Zen asked.
The magistrate shrugged.
‘It doesn’t get us anywhere. A hostile Public Prosecutor would make mincemeat of her. The distraught widow trying to assuage her grief for her husband’s death by carrying out a vendetta against the Miletti family, that kind of thing. But this letter is another matter.’
It took Zen a moment to see what Bartocci was getting at.
‘If they try and fake a letter from the kidnappers, you mean?’
Bartocci nodded between sips of coffee.
‘They can’t fake it well enough to fool a forensic laboratory. I’m surprised they haven’t realized that. So this meeting with Pietro Miletti may well prove to be decisive. That’s why I want you to be there.’
The eldest of the Miletti children seemed about as unlike the others as was possible. Short and plump, with receding hair and a peeved expression, Pietro looked at first sight like an English tourist who had come to complain about his belongings being stolen from his hotel room, full of righteous indignation about Italy being a den of thieves and demanding to know when the authorities proposed to do something about it. From his tweed jacket to his patterned brogues he looked the part perfectly: not the usual designer mix from expensive shops in Milan or Rome, but the real thing, as plain and heavy as Zen imagined the English climate, character and cuisine to be.
Bartocci introduced Zen as ‘one of the country’s top experts on kidnapping, sent here specially by the Ministry to oversee the case’.
Pietro Miletti was politely dismayed.
‘I understood this was to be a private meeting.’
‘Nothing which is said in this room will go any further,’ Bartocci assured him. ‘We are simply here to discuss what measures to take in the light of recent developments. Please be seated.’
After a moment’s hesitation Pietro leaned his rolled umbrella and leather briefcase against the desk and sat down. Bartocci took his place on the other side of the desk. There was no other chair, so Zen remained standing.
‘Now then,’ the magistrate continued smoothly, ‘I understand that in the course of a telephone call yesterday afternoon the kidnappers informed you of the whereabouts of a letter from them, and that this letter was subsequently recovered. You’ve brought it with you, I take it.’
‘Not the original, no.’
Pietro Miletti spoke as though the matter was of no consequence, but Bartocci glanced at Zen before replying.
‘A copy of the letter is of very little use to our scientific experts.’
‘I haven’t brought a copy.’
Bartocci gestured impatiently.
‘Excuse me, dottore. You haven’t brought the original letter, you haven’t brought a copy. Would you mind very much telling me what you have brought?’
Pietro Miletti opened his briefcase and took out a sheet of paper which he offered to the magistrate.
‘I’ve brought a memorandum prepared from the original letter, itemizing every relevant piece of information it contained.’
Bartocci made no attempt to take the paper.
‘Dottore, I strongly resent the assumption that anybody is in a position to dictate to me what is or is not relevant to a case I am investigating. If you are not prepared to let me see the original letter then this pretence of cooperation becomes a farce and I see no point in continuing it.’
Pietro Miletti gave a short laugh that sounded unpleasantly arrogant and mocking, although it might equally well have been nervous in origin.
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
‘Impossible? Allow me to remind you that you are head of the family in your father’s absence. Nothing is impossible if you want it.’
‘No, no, I mean it’s literally impossible. The letter no longer exists.’
Bartocci shot Zen a triumphant glance. So the Milettis had realized the threat to their schemes which the fake letter would pose and had no intention of letting them see it!
Pietro balanced the sheet of paper on his knees.
‘I should explain that although part of the letter was dictated by the kidnappers, most of it was written by my father. It was a personal letter addressed to his family, and like any personal letter it was not intended to be read by outsiders. It was, besides, a very long, rambling and really rather distressing document. Distressing, I mean, for the evidence it provided of my father’s state of mind. The strain and anguish of his long ordeal has clearly had a terrible effect on him. Naturally no reasonable person would wish to hold him accountable for what he wrote, but certain passages nevertheless made very disturbing reading.’
Zen gazed up at the shelves loaded with rows of books as uniform as bricks.
‘He accused you of having abandoned him,’ he said.
‘He recalled the innumerable sacrifices he has made on your behalf and reproached you for not being prepared to help him in his hour of need. He even compared your behaviour unfavourably with that of his kidnappers.’
Pietro Miletti looked round in amazement.
‘How do you know that? It isn’t possible! Unless…’
An idea flared up in his eyes for a moment and then went out.
‘Such letters resemble one another,’ Zen explained. ‘Like love letters.’
‘Ah, I see.’
Pietro had lost interest again.
Bartocci was staring angrily at Zen, who realized that he had made the mistake of speaking as though the letter really existed, as if the kidnapping was genuine. The magistrate rapped on his desk.
‘What became of the letter?’ he demanded.
‘We burned it.’
‘You did what?’
‘My father specifically forbade us to communicate any of the information it contained to the authorities, or to cooperate with them in any way whatsoever. That position received the strongest support from various members of the family, and it was only by strenuous and prolonged efforts that I have been able to persuade them to let me bring you this memorandum, which contains, as I’ve said, all the relevant items in the letter.’
Zen suddenly understood that Bartocci had some move in mind, something which he was keeping up his sleeve for the moment.
‘And what are these “relevant items” you mention?’ the magistrate asked, deliberately postponing this initiative.
Pietro Miletti picked up the paper again and began to read in a calm, confident voice, a voice that was accustomed to being obeyed, that never needed to make a fuss. The full ten thousand million lire, in well-worn notes, not consecutively numbered, was to be made ready for delivery immediately. An untapped telephone number was to be communicated to the gang, who would use it to pass on further details, identifying themselves by the same method they had used with Valesio. The police were not to be informed of any of these arrangements or to be involved in the payoff in any way. Failure to comply with these instructions would result in the immediate death of the victim.
