‘The third problem is that you’re a policeman.’
Zen savoured his cigarette for a luxurious moment, then laughed lightly.
‘Isn’t this taking interservice rivalry a bit too far, Guido?’
‘It’s no joking matter,’ Guarnaccia retorted with a touch of asperity. ‘My reference is to the spate of serial killings that occurred in and around Bologna between 1987 and 1994, the so-called Uno Bianca slayings. Twenty- four victims in all, of whom six were members of this force. They were apparently selected opportunistically and gunned down by a gang of men driving a white Fiat Uno. The conspiracy theorists naturally believed that it was another segreto di stato like the bombing of the waiting room at the station, a right-wing plot to destabilise the political situation and punish “red” Bologna. Others, including myself, thought and continue to think that it was just a bunch of homicidal maniacs out on a thrill spree. But whatever the truth about that, when the gang was finally captured it turned out to include five members of your force. In fact the leader, Roberto Savi, was assistant chief of police at the Questura here in Bologna at the time. It’s thus hardly surprising that the Procura has directed us to undertake this investigation, and that I had no option, on the basis of the points I have mentioned, but to have you brought in for questioning.’
Zen made a conciliatory gesture.
‘I understand that, Guido, and I’ll do everything I can to co-operate. In fact, we can do better. I was sent up here by the Viminale specifically to report back on the Curti investigation. That will suit the Procura’s conspiracy theory perfectly.’
‘Why didn’t you accompany your friend Signora Santini in the ambulance as you had allegedly told Ugo that you would?’
‘The paramedics said there was no space and told me to take a taxi. You don’t argue with doctors.’
This had the ring of truth, but was in fact the first lie that Zen had told Guarnaccia. It had been Gemma herself who had insisted that Zen should not accompany her in the ambulance. ‘He’s not my husband!’ she’d kept shouting, much to everyone’s embarrassment. ‘I told him that and he yelled at me to get out! That’s why all this happened! Don’t let him near me!’
‘Ugo claims that you followed him.’
‘I may have taken the same direction. I wasn’t paying any attention to him. It was simply the quickest way to the taxi stand just off Piazza Maggiore. I wanted to be with my wife, that’s all.’
‘According to the reports I have received, Signora Santini denied-with some heat, I believe-that she is your wife.’
‘Well, she isn’t, strictly speaking, but…’
There was an embarrassed silence while they both waited to see if Guarnaccia was going to pursue this point, but in the end he chose another tack.
‘How long did it take you to get a taxi?’
‘I don’t know. Ten minutes, perhaps.’
‘So yet again you have no alibi for the time of the shooting.’
Zen shrugged impatiently to indicate that this joke was in poor taste and had gone on quite long enough. The resulting silence was broken by the ringing of the phone. Guarnaccia picked it up and listened in silence for some time. Then he turned to Zen with his patented smile.
‘Well, Aurelino, you’re in luck. That was Brunetti at the Questura. It seems that they’ve had an anonymous phone call identifying the man who shot Ugo. The informant also claims to have proof.’
‘What sort of proof?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘So where does that get us?’
‘It tips the balance ever so slightly. I personally never suspected for a moment that you were culpable, of course, but following Ugo’s allegation I couldn’t have been seen to take no action. Under these new circumstances, however, I feel that I can exercise my discretionary authority to release you, on condition that you undertake not to leave Bologna for the moment. Agreed?’
Zen thought of the cold bed that awaited him in Lucca.
‘I’ll be only too happy to remain here as long as you wish,’ he replied.
29
Rodolfo Mattioli sat on an obdurate chair in a waiting room on the third floor of the hospital, a pile of magazines much thumbed by other hands on the table beside him. He was wearing a suit, his best shirt and tie, and had polished his shoes.
That afternoon, he had walked the streets and ridden the buses at random for hours before ending up in Cluricaune, where he had been approached by some bearded wrinkly who wanted to score cocaine. Normally Rodolfo wouldn’t have got involved in anything like that, particularly with a stranger who might well be a nark, but after what he had already done, nothing seemed to matter any more. He’d feigned a near collapse at the bar and then, while apparently clutching him for support, had not only got rid of the incriminating pistol into his prospective client’s overcoat pocket but also lifted the man’s bulging wallet. After that he left the bar and ran back to the apartment he shared with Vincenzo.
There was no sign of the latter. Rodolfo peeled off the leather jacket he’d borrowed and flung it on to the pile of assorted clothing scattered on the floor of Vincenzo’s bedroom, then quickly showered and changed into his most respectable outfit. He knew now, and with overwhelming certainty, what he needed to do, but there was no time to waste. He had been just about to leave when his mobile rang.
‘I’m in deep shit, Rodolfo,’ a dull, self-pitying voice declared. ‘My dumb parents just called. Apparently the silly bastards hired a private investigator to find out where I was living and what I was doing. Now he’s trying to blackmail them by claiming he has proof that I committed some crime.’
‘What crime?’
‘It’s all bullshit, of course, but with a record like mine the cops will be after me in a Milan moment if he spills what he has to them. So I’m going to have to hide out for a while.’
‘This all sounds a bit weird, Vincenzo. Are you fucked up?’
‘No! This is real, God damn it! And what really pisses me off is that it’s all my lousy parents’ fault. Anyway, like I said, I’m going to have to go into deep cover for a while, only there’s some stuff I need and I can’t risk going back to the apartment. Can you meet me tonight with a bag full of clothes and some spare shoes?’
‘Where?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Rodolfo thought a moment.
‘Do you know a place called La Carrozza? Opposite San Giacomo.’
‘I can find it.’
‘I’ll be there after nine with your stuff.’
Typical Vincenzo, thought Rodolfo as he hung up. Despite his denials, he was almost certainly on a paranoid stoner. If the cops did come round to their apartment asking questions, those questions would concern not Vincenzo but himself.
But that wouldn’t happen, because he was going to forestall them by making a full and frank confession to the victim in person before turning himself in to the police right after seeing Flavia that evening. On the phone she had sounded guarded, almost cool, understandably enough after the way he had treated her the night before, but had agreed to meet him at La Carrozza. It would be tough to say goodbye to her, almost as tough as the inevitable prison sentence he would have to serve, but there was no other way to put a definitive end to the madness that had swept over him in the past few days.
In retrospect, Rodolfo conceded that Flavia might have been right about Vincenzo being a bad influence. Certainly his own behaviour had been unrecognisable, first taking the pistol that he had found hidden behind the books in his room, then following Edgardo Ugo back from the university lecture hall to his house in the former ghetto. For a moment it had looked as though he would be foiled by bad luck, when Ugo was involved in an accident with some woman who had come running out of a restaurant and collided with his bike. In the end, though,
