who had been trying to get to him back at the hotel hadn’t been reporters after all.
Still, it would surely be easy enough to establish his innocence. He had driven straight from the exhibition centre to his hotel and remained there all afternoon. Not only hadn’t he shot Ugo, he couldn’t possibly have done so. There was nothing to worry about.
Amoment later, he realised that there was no way of proving that he had remained in his room all that time. He had locked the door, turned off the phone, instructed the management to refuse all visitors and had not been seen or heard by anyone until he finally summoned Delia to bring him the vodka, which might very well look as though he had belatedly been trying to establish an alibi. From the cops’ point of view, of course, his public humiliation that morning would constitute one hell of a motive. Did anyone else have such good cause to shoot Ugo on this particular day? If not, he was inevitably going to be the prime suspect. And whatever ultimately came of it, his arrest at this crucial moment really would mean the end of everything. Not even Delia could spin him out of a murder charge.
28
‘Well, Aurelino mio, here’s another nice mess you’ve got us into.’
The speaker was a Carabinieri major in full uniform whom Zen recognised with subdued surprise as Guido Guarnaccia, a fellow Venetian who had served with the Carabinieri in Milan when Zen had been posted there many years previously. They had had professional dealings at the time, and even developed a sort of friendship, but when Zen had been transferred-to Bologna, ironically enough-they had lost touch.
Guarnaccia waved the detainee into a chair and dismissed his escort. He himself remained standing behind his desk.
‘So, how are the children?’ he asked after a stiffish silence.
‘I don’t have any children.’
‘Ah. Right.’
‘Although I may be about to become a grandfather.’
Guarnaccia stared at him.
‘By proxy,’ Zen explained.
‘Ah, by proxy. By proxy. Right, right.’
Another silence supervened.
‘And yours?’ asked Zen.
Guarnaccia ignored this.
‘You’ve put me in rather an awkward position, Aurelio.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Very awkward indeed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, well, it’s all very well being sorry…’
Guarnaccia broke off.
‘Luisetta got married last year,’ he said.
‘Congratulations,’ Zen replied, wondering who the hell Luisetta was.
‘To a photojournalist from Madrid.’
‘Ah.’
‘They’ll speak Spanish.’
‘At home?’
‘The kids, I mean.’
Guarnaccia sighed deeply.
‘I suppose you’re aware that Professor Edgardo Ugo was shot this afternoon.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘The bullet struck some sort of sculpture outside his house and ricocheted into the poor man’s left buttock. He’s seriously injured and in considerable pain.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘The victim alleges that he was involved in an accident in the adjacent street shortly before the shooting took place. He was cycling home after giving a lecture at the university when a woman came running out of a restaurant and collided with him. They both ended up on the ground. He further claims that a man then emerged from the restaurant, identified himself as one Aurelio Zen of the Polizia di Stato, and threatened to place Ugo under arrest for dangerous driving. Is this true?’
Zen limited himself to a confirmatory nod.
‘Ugo says that you then called an ambulance. When it arrived, you told him that you couldn’t proceed with an arrest since you had to accompany your lady friend to the hospital, but threatened to “take further steps” should she turn out to be seriously injured. According to his statement, however, you did not enter the ambulance when it left, but followed Ugo towards his house, where the shooting took place a few minutes later. His back was turned, so he was unable to identify his attacker, but the implication is obvious.’
Zen laughed lightly.
‘Guido, I’m a Vice-Questore on special duties with the Ministry in Rome. I don’t run around waving pistols.’
Guarnaccia produced the same Delphic smile.
‘Yes, I’d heard that you’ve risen quite high.’
‘You too.’
‘No fault of mine, I just outlasted the competition. Anyway, to clarify this point, you deny being armed at the time that this incident took place?’
‘I haven’t carried a gun for years, and if for some reason I needed one I would draw it from Supplies at the Ministry, where it would be duly logged out in my name. One phone call will prove that I have not done so.’
‘Where were you on the evening that Lorenzo Curti was shot?’
Zen recalled that his former acquaintance, despite his lackadaisical manner, had not been without a certain glutinous intelligence.
‘Tuesday evening?’ he replied. ‘Coming back from Rome. Why?’
‘Because it looks as though the bullet that hit Ugo was fired from the same weapon that killed Curti. Unfortunately the bullet was too damaged by the impact with the sculpture to yield much forensic data, but the ejected cartridge case is a perfect match.’
Zen laughed again, as though trying gamely to enter into the spirit of his host’s bizarre and slightly distasteful sense of humour.
‘Well, in that case I’m in the clear! I was on the train between Rome and Florence at the time that Curti was murdered.’
‘Can you present any witnesses to that effect?’
‘Witnesses? Of course not. I mean, there were other people on the train. Not many, though. I bought a ham roll or something in the buffet car. The attendant there might remember me, although I doubt it. Little brunette. Uniform didn’t suit her, or rather she didn’t suit the uniform, which was designed by some misogynous fag in Trastevere who’s decided that tits aren’t being worn this year. I didn’t get her name, but…’
‘There are three problems from my point of view,’ Guarnaccia broke in. ‘First, pending a definitive forensic examination, the indications are that the weapon used in the Curti murder and the Ugo attack was almost certainly identical. Second, Ugo’s statement, which is coherent and damning and has been confirmed by you, provides at least the semblance of a motive.’
He paused to light a cigarette, and possibly for effect.
‘And the third problem?’ asked Zen, digging out his battered pack of Nazionali.
‘Ah!’
Guarnaccia’s lips curled enigmatically once more. He really loved that smile, thought Zen. Perhaps he practised it in the bathroom mirror every morning after showering.
