He parked outside the Italia to let it be known he had arrived. Up on the embankment, looking down at the boat club, he felt a kind of resentment. He felt alienated from that world which seemed to be betraying him, but as he thought over all that was going on, some form of childish pride filled his breast and made him feel as though he were reverting to his childhood days. He climbed back down towards the centre where, in front of Anteo’s niece’s bar, the labourers were hard at work fixing up the facade of the building which had been blackened by the flames. The woman stood looking on in the same pose as when she was behind the bar, arms folded to support her heavy breasts.
“When do you plan to open up again?” Soneri said.
“In two weeks, if everything goes according to plan,” the woman replied, without turning towards him.
“That telephone call…” the commissario said, “I mean the one from that man who was looking for your uncle…and who spoke dialect very well but was not sure of his Italian…you said he had a foreign accent, maybe Spanish…or Portuguese.”
Showing no interest, the woman made a movement with her chin as if to say: “So what?”
“I want to get it right. He said that he was looking for Barbisin?”
The only reply he received was a kind of gesture of assent, once more with her chin, and an expression of mild irritation.
“I’ve explained it all to you, haven’t I? He didn’t speak in dialect all the time. When I picked up the phone and said ‘Hello’, he hesitated for a moment and then asked in Italian if that was the Tonna household. Maybe he thought he’d got the wrong number. I asked him if it was my uncle he was looking for, and then he began to speak in dialect.”
“Did you answer in dialect?”
“No, I have always used Italian. I hardly ever speak in dialect,” she said, with an edge of contempt in her voice towards customs which no doubt reminded her of the peasant origins she preferred to leave behind her.
“When was the last time your son sailed with the old man?”
“He’s right there, go and ask him,” the woman said, growing more and more hostile and pointing to the boy standing under the scaffolding.
Soneri walked over to where the boy was, lighting a cigar to calm himself. He smoked as he listened to the labourers cursing the frost which made their hands numb.
“When was the last time you went on the river with your uncle?”
“A week before he died,” the boy said. “I remember it well because we went down together and then went to my mother’s house. That happened only once a week.”
“Did you ever notice anything unusual when you passed other boats on the river?”
“On the Po, people always behave in the same way. They exchange a few words or signs of greeting. There’s hardly ever time for more than a couple of words.”
“Did your uncle have that sort of time?”
“Generally it was other people who asked him something and he would answer them. He had a reputation as a good sailor and his advice was always useful.”
“Was there anyone who avoided you, or who would not greet you?”
The boy looked about him as though unsure whether to reply. “The communists,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Who?” Soneri said, even if he already guessed all he needed to know.
“People like Melegari and that other one… What’s his name? Vaeven. If we’d had a smaller vessel instead of a barge, they’d have rammed us.”
“Did they move about a lot?”
“We met them several times. Sometimes with other people.”
“Did you recognize these other people?”
“No, they always kept their distance. They have a magano which can move very fast.”
“One person or more?”
“Almost always one.”
“Were they fishing?”
“Who knows? I’ve never seen them fishing, but I think they travelled quite far. They used their boat instead of a car. I don’t think they had a licence to drive a car.”
“What about Barigazzi, did you ever bump into him?”
“He doesn’t move about very much,” the boy said, shrugging. “And he nearly always stays close in. He’s only got an old boat.”
“And what do you plan to do with the barge now?”
“As soon I can I’ll ask the shipyards to give me an estimate, because I’d like to anchor it at the jetty and convert it into a bar for the summer season. It’s the only way to make use of it now.”
Soneri stood in silence. He imagined the barge with its engine shut down for good, a stopping-off point for couples on a trip up the Po, and he thought of certain former colleagues who had ended up as porters in blocks of flats to supplement their pensions. At his age, he was only too aware of the prospect of hard times ahead. To chase away those grim thoughts, he turned suddenly towards the boy, taking the cigar from his mouth as he did so. “Maybe it would be better to sell it as scrap.”
It was getting dark and a freezing fog was coming down once more from the skies. Under the arches, he took out his mobile and called Juvara. “Check up on the records of the telephone company and see if you can work out where that call to Tonna’s niece came from. The one made a week before they killed him.”
“No problem,” the ispettore said. “Have you seen what the prefetto told the newspapers?”
The commissario replied that he had not, but he could sense trouble ahead.
“He said that the police will be investigating the trafficking because it’s highly probable that that was the motive for the Tonna murder.”
“They can investigate to their heart’s content!” Soneri said angrily. And when Juvara said nothing, intimidated as he was by the commissario’s tone, the latter made an attempt to sound cordial and said: “Cheer up, I’ll call you later.”
He walked back to the jetty. The road was white with hoar frost, while from the skies flakes continued to fall as slowly as the flow of the current when the water level was low. He went down towards the yard, took the track leading to the fishermen’s cottages and then turned to the stairs leading to the moorings. Melegari’s magano was not there, but the ropes which had been thrown on to the concrete quay were clearly in evidence. The other boats, including Barigazzi’s, had been covered with tarpaulins. Along the riverbank, a row of stakes had been driven in to measure how quickly the water was falling.
He returned towards the yard just as the big light was being switched on. He was passing the fishermen’s cottages when his mobile rang. In the silence, he had the impression that his “Aida” had put the whitened branches and the buildings on stilts on the alert.
The commissario put the telephone to his ear. He knew from the number that it was Juvara.
“I’ve checked. The call you asked about came from the Fidenza district, from Zibello. I didn’t go through the official channels, but I was able to make use of our mole inside the company.”
“Did he tell you the time?”
“It lasted from 7.44 to 7.46.”
Soneri ended the call as he reached the yard. He walked round the club and as he was about to go in he saw the carabinieri van pull up. Arico was wearing a coat down to his knees, and he seemed to be in uniform.
“Being in the newspapers at last has done wonders for you,” Soneri said.
“Orders from above, the television people turned up today,” the maresciallo mumbled.
“Did you tell the journalists how Tonna was killed?”
“You don’t believe this story of the trafficking of illegal immigrants?”
“The trafficking, yes, I believe that.”
The maresciallo fell silent, deep in thought, before adding: “I don’t really believe either that…”
“The magistrate spoke to the press and now it seems that everybody has embraced this idea of the traffickers’ revenge,” Soneri said.
“They’ve cottoned on to the one certain fact. Put yourself in their shoes. What would you do? These two murders have remained unsolved for some time now. If nothing else, this story will help to calm public
