At that moment the door opened and Alemanni made his entrance together with the police doctor. Soneri greeted the doctor and nodded coldly to the magistrate. Their exchange of the previous evening still rankled.
“If you wish to come along, you are welcome to be present,” the doctor invited them.
The commissario looked knowingly at Nanetti, who rose reluctantly to his feet. When he drew alongside him, Soneri whispered: “You’ve done the warm-up. Now it’s time to face them.”
“If I win the bet, you owe me lunch at the Milord,” Nanetti said.
The commissario had never had any doubt about the stakes. He got up, went over to the door and looked up at the rain still falling as though it was monsoon season and at the frozen doves sheltering under the eaves. He thought of the Po, where everything converged and where sooner or later he too would end up, he thought, like the water perpetually flowing downstream. He was on the point of picking up the telephone on the wall when he remembered he had a mobile of his own and that the local authority paid the bill. Juvara replied instantly, leading Soneri to imagine him seated in front of a screen surfing the net.
“Anything new, boss?”
“It’s too soon. They’ve only just gone in. Is there any news at your end?”
“Nothing new. I’m being told that the patrols are all out.”
“How high is the river now?”
“A state of emergency, category two, has been declared. That’s for everyone living in the proximity of the embankment.”
The situation was becoming more serious by the minute. The meteorologists were saying the only hope lay in a cold east wind bringing on a cold snap in the mountains and causing some of the water to freeze over. Soneri peered at the raindrops blown about in the air. A strong wind had indeed got up, but it seemed not to know where to turn. It snatched puffs of smoke from the chimneys, tossing them wildly hither and thither. Fierce gusts came hurtling along the avenues around the hospital, forming whirlwinds at the points where they clashed. A maelstrom of hypotheses was producing the same effect inside his head.
Just as the glow of his short cigar was snuffed out by contact with the damp air, the door of the operating theatre opened. The first out was the police doctor, who on seeing the commissario laid his leather bag on the coffee table in the waiting room and hitched his trousers up. “Regrettably, I do not think I have been of much use to you. He has numerous, serious wounds, all compatible with a fall from a third floor.” After a pause, he added: “But also with other things.”
Alemanni and Nanetti, deep in discussion, joined them. When they found themselves face to face with Soneri, they stopped talking, each waiting for the other to begin. It was the magistrate who broke the ice: “We have not managed to come up with definitive answers,” he said. “If it were not for the indications found by the forensic squad on the window from which he threw himself, I would have no hesitation in filing the case as suicide. However, your colleague was telling me
…” he went on, implying Nanetti with a vague, sceptical gesture.
The commissario had difficulty in suppressing his rage towards that man who, with advancing years, had developed a sourness which had hardened into pig-headed resentfulness. For a moment, a tense look was exchanged, interrupted only by the doctor saying good-bye. As the door thudded shut, Soneri said: “So what do you intend to do?”
Alemanni stared at him in bewilderment and only then did the commissario grasp what was concealed behind that attitude of cold conceit: he had before him a man made fearful by a career in decline. For that reason, he paused a little before adding with the maximum of studied arrogance: “Sir, I think it would be an idea if you were to turn your mind to the other Tonna as well. I think there may be a link.”
Alemanni bent even lower, bowing his head: “If there is some scruple still niggling at you… I will sign the authorization today.”
When he had gone, Nanetti breathed a sigh of relief: “You’ve succeeded with the most difficult part of the post-mortem.”
Soneri said nothing. With an authorization so grudgingly conceded, he would feel under intense scrutiny for the duration of the investigation.
“Don’t worry,” Nanetti consoled him. “He kicks up the same fuss every time. He suffers from chronic insecurity, so he wants to minimize his part and thereby be always in the clear, come what may.”
“I was hoping that…” Soneri stuttered, before his words trailed off.
As he was leaving, Nanetti held him by the sleeve. “You haven’t forgotten our bet?”
“You haven’t won.”
“But Alemanni did agree to sign.”
“I’ll concede only because of that stain of blood on the windowpane…”
“We’ll discuss it over lunch.”
They were seated in a side room which Alceste kept exclusively for his best customers.
“When are you setting off?”
“I’ll go this afternoon. It only takes twenty minutes.”
A wager was celebrated like a rite and a fixed menu was prescribed. Culatello as a starter, followed by anolini in brodo and then wild boar with polenta. Gutturnio was the non-negotiable wine.
“So nothing at all came from the post-mortem?”
Nanetti said, “An elderly man who falls from that height is going to smash into thousands of pieces, like a ceramic dish. And then to complicate matters, there was that bounce off the canopy over the entrance…that apart, I would be almost certain that the blow to the head was not caused by the fall.”
“There is a blow to the head that does not seem to you compatible?”
“We’re talking about a fracture of the skull with a deep depression. This rarely happens to people who throw themselves from a height. Normally the injuries are wide and flat, similar to someone who’s been crushed. In his case, however…but it could just be due to an impact with a protruding piece of concrete on the canopy.”
Soneri remembered the stretcher bearer pointing out to him the place where the body had bounced before it fell on to the courtyard.
When they left the restaurant, the air was cooler and the commissario remembered the forecast. Gusts of wind and rain continued the work of cleansing the city, but the sky had taken on the shade of pewter. By the time he accompanied Nanetti back to the police station, there were only two hours of light remaining. While his colleague got out of his Alfa Romeo, cursing sports cars for being built so low, he hesitated for a few minutes before deciding what to do. He then sped off under the watchful eye of the guard who had come out to see what was afoot.
The road ended alongside the embankment which was as high as a city wall. A couple of kilometres back he had been stopped in the rain and checked with maximum distrust by two very youthful carabinieri. After examining his identity card at length, they moved wordlessly aside to let him continue his journey. The commissario, relieved not to have the officers’ machine guns any longer trained on him, drove on among the low houses fronted by porches, weaving his way between puddles on a tarmac surface softened by the deluge. He parked in front of the Italia bar, some twenty metres short of the embankment, the only relief in an otherwise flat plain and the real border in that wholly level landscape.
As he got out of the car, three elderly men kept him under observation from behind a misted-up window. Soneri disappointed them by turning away towards the embankment and clambering up the incline to the elevated road where several people were milling about and tractors were continually passing to and fro. The water was not far off. Facing him, battered by the current, a pennant was still waving in defiance of the elements, albeit with the desperation of a survivor of a shipwreck. Further on, the flag and the jetty of the riverside port were submerged under the yellowing water. The shack housing the boat club appeared almost to be toppling. Centimetre by centimetre, shallow, dark waves were taking over the yard which ran down to the main embankment, while some men, wellington boots up to their knees, moved around furtively, like ants, carting all manner of objects to safety. Soneri saw two uniformed carabinieri with gun belts over their dark coats step out of the club. A maresciallo was in animated conversation with an old man who was evidently refusing to give way while around him a group of boatmen were listening intently.
“Close down this shack and get out,” the officer was saying.
“We will go as and when. We know what we’re doing,” the man replied.
“You are under my jurisdiction.”
“Maresciallo, we know more about the river than you do, so let us get on with it and you go and help the
