first word was 'life's'. That s the Anglo-Saxon genitive form, so the whole phrase must have been 'A life's beach'. La vita della spiaggia.'
His triumph at remembering this detail of English grammar from a long explanation once given to him by his American girlfriend Ellen was short-lived.
'La spiaggia di una vita,' Gemma corrected.
'It still doesn't make any sense!' the major rapped out.
'It's probably the name of some pop group,' said Gemma, rising. 'Well, is that all? Because if so I wouldn't mind getting home.'
'Just one more question. This is to both of you. Did either of you at any point during your time on the beach either hear or see anything unusual occurring in the immediate vicinity of your chairs?'
'Not apart from the incident I've mentioned,' said Gemma. The major looked at Zen, who shook his head. 'No, that’s all.'
'Very well. Signora Santini, you're free to go. Thank you for your cooperation and good night'
He now sounded eager to be rid of her. Gemma bent towards Zen, who immediately stood up.
'Thanks for a wonderful evening,' she said.
'I'm glad you enjoyed it'
‘I really did, despite all this nonsense.'
'So did I’
She pecked him briefly on both cheeks. 'See you tomorrow,' she said, and slipped out of the room. Zen turned back to find the major regarding him with his knowing smile.
‘I fear you may have to postpone that appointment, dottore,' he said.
Zen noted the title, which the carabinieri officer had not used before. He sensed that something was happening which he did not understand and could not control, for now at any rate.
'What more do you need from me?' he asked, sitting down again.
'Just a few brief questions.'
'But in that case I could have gone with Signora Santini!' Zen exclaimed, genuinely annoyed. 'She would have given me a lift. As it is, I'll have to call a taxi and…'
'No, you won't,' the major replied, sitting down heavily behind his desk.
He took a packet of cigarettes from a drawer and offered one to Zen, who accepted, mainly to see what this latest ploy forebode.
'Shortly after seven this evening,' the major went on, having lit their cigarettes, 'I received a phone call from my immediate superiors at provincial headquarters in Lucca. They relayed a message from their superiors at the Ministry in Rome, but I was given to understand that the original source lay still elsewhere.'
Zen smoked quietly and said nothing.
'The message was to the effect that a certain Pier Giorgio Butani, temporarily resident in this district, might fall within the scope of the murder enquiry I was undertaking.'
'What murder enquiry?'
'The one we've been discussing, dottore.'
'But Rutelli died of a stroke!'
'That s the story which the owner of the bagno in question has been putting out, for obvious reasons. We have made no official statement.'
'Rutelli was murdered?'
The major nodded.
'Shot once through the heart from very close range with a nine-millimetre pistol which was almost certainly silenced. The bullet was of the fragmenting type which breaks up inside the body, so there was no exit wound and very little bleeding. What there was was soaked up by the towel, which may have been placed there for that purpose. No one I have interviewed records having heard anything unusual, although many of them were sitting or lying just a few metres away. Nor does anyone recall a stranger going near the place where Rutelli was sitting, apart from the usual watermelon sellers and itinerant African merchants and the like. In short, it has all the hallmarks of a very professional job.'
Zen crushed out his cigarette..
'For reasons we won't go into, I have been staying for some time on the top floor of the Rutelli villa. The lower floor was unoccupied until yesterday, when I heard noises down there. This was presumably Massimo Rutelli arriving and settling in. For other reasons which need not concern us, I did not make myself known to him, and he clearly had no idea that I had been using the family's ombrellone at the beach. He therefore went there the next morning and settled in as usual. When I arrived, I saw someone in the place I had been using. I had no idea who it was, but since the place next to it had always been vacant during the week I sat down there instead. The towel was in place when I arrived, so Rutelli may already have been dead at that point. At no point did I hear or see anything remotely suspicious or untoward. Have you any other questions?' The major sighed histrionically.
'There are numerous questions which I would very much like to put to you, dottore, but it has been made abundantly clear to me that this is not an option. Instead I have been instructed to turn you over to two operatives of a parallel authority who have driven up from Rome. That phone call earlier was to tell me that they have arrived.'
'Which parallel authority?'
The major gave him an unusually incisive look which made Zen realize the fatuity of his question.
'The persons concerned are waiting for you downstairs,' he remarked dismissively.
And mere indeed they were, pacing the floor of the entrance hall to the carabinieri station, a man and a woman in their twenties, both unexceptionably dressed in civilian doming. The only thing that announced their profession was the single quick glance they both gave Zen as he appeared on the stairs, head to toe and back up again, like executioners mentally measuring him for the drop.
The man turned away and started speaking into a portable radio. The woman walked up to Zen.
'We have a car outside,' she said, gesturing at the door. Zen did not move.
'How do I know who you are?' he asked. The woman smiled grimly.
'How do you think we know who you are, Dottor Zen?'
'Do you have identification?'
'If we did, it would be from the same source as the papers you have identifying you as Pier Giorgio Butani. And just as reliable’
The man had finished his call.
'Come on!' he said. 'We've wasted enough time’
A blue saloon was parked right outside the door. Another, in the middle of the street further down, flashed its headlights as they appeared. Once again Zen stopped dead, struck by the overwhelming sensation that all this had happened to him before. Tail lights, headlights… What was the connection?
He had no time to think about it, as his escorts bundled him into the waiting car, which immediately drove off through the sleeping town, ignoring traffic signs and lights. Five minutes later they were heading south on the A12 autostrada.
'Where are we going?' he asked the female agent, who had seated herself with him in the back of the car.
'Pisa,' she replied. 'From there you'll be flown to another destination.'
'Where?'
'We are not ordered to know.'
The car sped along the almost deserted freeway with its central divider of tall flowering bushes.
'But what about my things?' protested Zen. 'My clothes and personal possessions. They're all back at the villa in Versilia’
'Someone will be sent to collect and pack them up and they will be forwarded to you in due course. In the meantime a supply of clothing and toiletries will be provided at your destination’
Zen sighed in disgust.
'You might have given me some notice,' he said. The woman turned to him.
'You don't seem to understand, dottore. The first we heard about all this was when Girolamo Rutelli contacted us with the news that his brother had been killed. He had been phoned by the authorities in Versilia,
