‘Where did he leave the messages?’
‘At the Valdichiana service area on the motorway. The envelope was inside the last magazine in the top right-hand row.’
Zen sighed.
‘So let’s sum up. You claim that an unknown person in male clothing driving a Fiat saloon left four envelopes in a motorway service station. You don’t know who he was, why he was doing it or what was in the envelopes, and you can’t prove any of it. Doesn’t add up to much, does it?’
Geraci looked away in frustration.
‘Ah, what’s the use! It isn’t doing wrong that counts, it’s getting caught.’
The same was even more true of doing right, Zen reflected. The wrongdoer arouses sneaking admiration, but if you want to be merciful or generous without making people despise you then you have to be very careful indeed.
‘Tomorrow is my last day here in Perugia,’ he said wearily. ‘My tour of duty hasn’t exactly been a glittering success and the public disclosure that one of my inspectors was a spy for the gang I was supposed to be hunting would be the last straw. So you’re going to get a break, Geraci. You don’t deserve it, but I do.’
The inspector gazed at him with an immense caution, not daring to understand.
‘My conversation with the kidnappers was private. As far as I’m concerned it can remain private. I’d much prefer to turn you in, but luckily for you I can’t afford to.’
Geraci’s eyes were glowing with emotion.
‘Dottore, my mother will…’
‘Stuff your mother, Geraci! It’s me I’m thinking of, not your mother or anybody else. Now I’m sure someone like you must know a crooked doctor. I want you to take indefinite sick leave starting tomorrow. You can spend your free time writing an application for transfer to the Forestry Guards. You’re not staying in the police, that’s for damn sure! Now piss off out of here before I change my mind.’
Geraci backed up to the door.
‘God bless you, sir.’
The door closed quietly behind him.
‘God help us,’ muttered Zen.
Nine o’clock was sounding as he walked out of his hotel the next morning, sniffing the delicious air enlivened by a frisky breeze. After this, he reflected, breathing the capital’s miasmal vapours would be like drinking Tiber water after San Pellegrino. Halfway along the Corso workmen were setting up a platform, the ringing sounds of their hammers unsynchronized to the movements of the arms which produced them. As he walked towards them the problem gradually corrected itself, as though the projectionist had woken up and made the necessary adjustments. By the time he emerged from his favourite cafe, having consumed a good frothy cappuccino made with milk fresh from a churn, the foam stiff as whipped egg whites, the same process had taken place inside his head. But any impression that things were finally going his way did not last long.
‘All that material has been transferred upstairs,’ the technician on duty in the intercept room at the law courts told him.
‘What about transcripts?’
The man shook his head.
‘All upstairs with the judges. We’ve finished with that one. The line’s been disconnected and everything.’
Zen hesitated for a moment.
‘May I use your phone?’
‘Help yourself.’
There was an internal directory pinned to the wall by the phone. He dialled Luciano Bartocci’s number.
‘ Yes? ’
‘Well, it did come to the same thing in the end.’
‘ Who is this? ’
‘I’m going back to Rome tomorrow. But first I’d like to have a word with you. About ratkings.’
There was a silence.
‘ I’m very busy.’
‘It’ll only take a few moments.’
The technician was busy fitting a new leader to a reel of tape. His work probably left him little interest in listening to other people’s conversations, but Zen kept his voice low.
‘It’s vitally important.’
Zen spoke slowly, stressing each word, giving Bartocci time to think.
‘ In about half an hour. On the roof of the market building.’
Zen pushed past the women selling doughnuts and flowers and through a group of African students giggling at the photos they had just had taken in the machine. The terrace on the roof of the market was deserted except for a flock of pigeons and the two Nordic girls, one of whom was sketching the view while the other basked in the sun, her head on her friend’s lap. The puddle under a leaky tap near by had frozen overnight and not yet had time to thaw, so that the pigeons slipped and skidded as they came to drink.
When Luciano Bartocci appeared, tense and wary, Zen wasted no time.
‘I need to consult a document.’
‘Ask Foria.’
‘She’s not here. It’s urgent.’
Bartocci shook his head.
‘Out of the question.’
‘I just need a copy of the transcript of the call the gang made to tell the Milettis that they had released Ruggiero.’
‘Why?’
‘The Carabinieri in Florence have arrested the kidnappers. I’ve been to see them. They didn’t kill Ruggiero.’
‘What’s that got to do with you? Or with me, for that matter? Rosella Foria is investigating the Miletti murder. Let her investigate. That’s her job. Or do you think you’re cleverer than she is?’
‘I think I understand the situation better, thanks to you.’
Bartocci smiled at this clumsy attempt at flattery.
‘Remember what you told me about ratkings?’ Zen reminded him. ‘How each rat defends the interests of the others and so the strength of one is the strength of all? Well, I think there’s one case where that doesn’t apply, where the system goes into reverse and the rats all turn on each other.’
‘And that is?’
‘When they sense that one of their number is damaged.’
The magistrate shook his head.
‘They would simply destroy the damaged rat.’
‘But suppose they don’t know which one it is?’
Bartocci considered this for a moment.
‘It all sounds a bit theoretical.’
‘I agree. What I want to do is to test the theory. And that’s why I need to see that transcript.’
One or two pigeons were already scrabbling about at their feet, their beady eyes skinned for a hand-out. Bartocci would clearly have liked to tell Zen to go to hell, but he was trapped by the relationship which he himself had been at such pains to create, and which he wasn’t quite cynical enough to disavow now that it served not him but the other person. It was less trouble in the end just to give in.
‘You remember the bar we went to in Piazza Matteotti?’ he asked. ‘Be there later on this morning, about midday. If there’s anything for you read it there and then, seal it up and hand it back. If there isn’t then go away. And stay away.’
On the Corso the hammering had stopped and the platform was being decorated with flags and bunting and posters proclaiming a political address the following day. By then, Zen thought, I’ll be back in Rome, whatever happens. He found this oddly comforting.
