and pulled him over to her. Outside, an engine was turning over and someone was talking. Then the barge rocked gently and feet were heard on the deck.
“They’re coming down,” Soneri said, struggling to free himself from her embrace. She clasped him more tightly with both her arms and legs, forcing him to stay where he was and concentrate on not making a sound.
Up above, someone was walking about. The commissario tried to picture what was happening on deck, and remembered with relief that an hour earlier he had been meticulous about closing the wheelhouse door from the inside. Shortly afterwards, he heard the rusty creak of the doorhandle as it was tried a couple of times. Someone was attempting to break in. The footsteps rang out again, passed directly over their heads and then went towards the side of the barge. Moments passed, and then the engine revved up again and moved away.
“That is the most exciting situation I have ever been in,” Angela said, close to ecstasy.
He stared at her. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to meet in bed at home, between two bedside tables, with a picture of the Madonna hanging above the headboard?”
“If ever we do, that will mean it’s all over.”
Soneri went back up to the wheelhouse, pushed open the door and stepped out on to the deck. He jumped on to the jetty to put the gangplank in place. The two of them climbed back up the incline which they had earlier descended, and came out on the dark side of the square. There was no-one left in the boat club. The lights were off and the shutters drawn. Whoever had come aboard the barge had probably taken the club’s closing time into account.
“Who do you think it was?”
“I have no idea. I think they were there looking for Tonna. He’d been keeping bad company.”
“Well, I am indebted to whoever it was. That was unforgettable.”
“I would be interested to see how you would react if someone did catch us during one of your mad moments.”
“I wouldn’t turn a hair. Are you or are you not the commissario of police?” she said, giving him another hug. She pulled away and looked squarely at him, trying to read his thoughts. “Did you not like it, or is there something else buzzing about in that head of yours?”
“I’m thinking about the people who came aboard.”
8
Once they were back in the city, he had attempted to persuade Angela to come to his apartment, but she had refused. “You’re bound to have two horrible little bedside tables and a Madonna over the bed,” she had said as they parted.
In spite of that, within ten minutes he had settled into his usual routine and even felt relieved at being able to sleep on his own, but his state of agitation had him awake once again before dawn. The city was still noiseless in the mist and he stared out at it through the glass door on to the balcony. He knew that his journeys down to the Po valley could not go on much longer, and that this was perhaps the last day he could justify being absent from the police station to pursue a line of inquiry which might be only secondary or possibly irrelevant. He could already hear Alemanni’s victory chants, further exacerbated by the echo which they would produce in the reprimands of his own chief, the questore: a quartet of shrill, menacing violins.
Instead, the first music he heard was the equally irritating “Aida”.
“Commissario, thank goodness you’re up early,” Arico began.
“These Tonna brothers don’t allow me much sleep.”
“Nor me. Last night someone set fire to the bar belonging to the bargeman’s niece.”
“At what time, exactly?” Soneri said, immediately relating this event to his night-time visit to the barge.
“Around three. There’s no doubt the fire was started deliberately. They found a burned-out petrol can under the bar.”
“Did anyone see anything?”
“What do you think? The baker called us when he went down around four and saw the smoke.”
“Was it an act of hooliganism or something more serious?”
“Professionals, Commissario. They made a thorough job of it. There’s nothing much left,” continued the maresciallo, before adding: “I called you first before getting the others involved… I’m giving you this chance. I know how things are between us and the magistrates.”
“Thanks, Arico,” Soneri said, “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
As he drove through the even thicker dawn mist, he thought gratefully of the maresciallo. Soneri had had to get the questore out of bed to report everything to him, and his superior, still half asleep, had been unable to respond with anything more than a series of Madonna santa! s each time he asked for more time or for the chance to carry out further inquiries. He finally arrived at the conclusion which had seemed evident to Soneri for at least an hour: it was a very serious business, the like of which had never before been seen, could well be the work of extortionists. It might even be that Anteo had been threatened by the gang who had engaged him to transport the illegal immigrants. Maybe he was transporting other things as well and had not kept his side of the bargain, but if he had been killed, why were they still coming after him? Perhaps another lot had got rid of him, or possibly it was all a set-up, a so-called accident so he could make off with the money after selling a cargo of drugs? It was in any case exceedingly strange that this should have happened exactly one day before the murder of his brother.
He parked in front of the Italia as the mist was lifting from over the embankment. The pumps were still roaring and the commissario was tempted to go and see how far the water level on the floodplain had dropped, but a gust of wind brought the smell of burning to his nostrils and focused his attention on the cluster of houses in the old town. From a distance, what remained of the bar gave the impression of a black eye. A coating of black had discoloured the facade of the house up to the first floor, and there was no need to go too close to realize that in the interior nothing had been saved. It occurred to him that black had been a constant in the history of that family, more for evil than for good. The firefighters had gone into the building with their hoses and had shored up the ceiling. Now they were directing jets of water at the centre of the room where embers were still smouldering. On the pavement, a slight distance away from onlookers, Tonna’s niece — with an overcoat over her dressing gown — stood with her son.
Soneri lit a cigar and went over to join Arico beside his van. “You had a good nose for this Tonna…”
The commissario brushed the remark aside with a wave of his hand. “Arico,” he said, putting his mouth beside the maresciallo’s ear, “this one is for you. This is my chance to pay back my debts for this morning.”
This time it was Arico’s turn not to overdo things. After a brief pause, he said, “The question is, why should you hand it over to me?”
“My sense is that the fire has nothing to do with the disappearance of Anteo Tonna. He had various other pieces of business outstanding.”
“Commissario, are you trying to give me a headache? After a sleepless night, with this pile of charcoal here, you’re in the mood for talking in riddles?”
Arico was right. Rather than talking to the maresciallo, Soneri was simply thinking aloud. “It’s like this: Tonna was transporting illegal immigrants. The cargoes of grain which appear on the registers were only a cover.”
Arico turned more serious and pulled the peak of his cap over his eyes.
“He owed something to the traffickers, whoever they were, and that’s why they came after him. When they didn’t find him, they left a little warning. So, they think he’s still alive and they believe he’s giving them the run- around.”
“Are you sure that’s the way it is?”
“It can be, yes. But I suspect there’s more to it than that,” said Soneri. “But I’m giving you a free hand. The matter of the illegal immigrants is your case.”
Arico pushed his cap further back and leaned on the door of the van, peering into the dark cavity of the burned-out bar. Soneri left the piazza in the direction of the jetty. He climbed up the embankment and when he was near the elevated road, he heard the buzz of the engines. At the entrance to the club he could see Barigazzi in knee-high boots. He went down the slope to the yard.
“You’re not over in the piazza?”
