of Angela, he could not conceal from himself the physical desire he felt for her, but he had never really understood what love was and where it differed from simple liking. There was no more ambiguous or trite word in the language.
He sat lost in thought for a few moments, while Baldi poured them what was left of the Malvasia and put away the bottle before preparing to close. The commissario looked round the room. The clock on the wall told him it was already one o’clock.
“It’s late. I’ll need to head back down before it’s too dark or too misty to see.”
“You’ve got until four before the dark draws in. With the mist, it’s a more of a gamble.”
At the door, Soneri turned round. “Do you hear the gunshots up here too?”
“Nearly every day. Always from half way down the slope.”
“Do you think it’s poachers, or could it be the Woodsman?”
“Who knows? The Woodsman sets traps and the poachers won’t go out in this mist.”
“So?”
Baldi’s face was expressionless as he gave yet another shrug. “Come back again,” he shouted after him. “I’ll be open for another week at least.”
Soneri struggled to keep his footing. He slipped and slithered downhill towards the huts. The soft ground and the layer of fallen leaves muffled the sound of his footsteps. He glanced inside as he passed, but there was no sign of a living soul, so he pressed on almost at a run in the direction of the valley until he came to the path over the short grass of the upper mountain. He saw the woods a little way off, and when he entered them, a bank of mist made it almost impossible to see. Everything was a blur, and fear gripped him by the throat. He had no choice but to slow down. He remembered his father’s advice: always keep moving downwards, because every descent leads to a valley where there will be either a stream or a riverbed; follow the water and you are bound to find a house. After walking for about half an hour, the mist suddenly lifted. He had strayed off the path but not by much, so he had no problem finding his way again. He made the best of the remaining daylight, even if it was fading as the afternoon wore on.
He was walking through a copse of chestnut trees when the mist came down again. The drops from the trees were like rainfall, and he could feel the moisture on his moustache. As he was pulling up the hood of his duffel coat, he heard an explosion on the far side of a ridge from which one rock stuck out like a wisdom tooth. The drifting mist parted a little and the commissario quickened his pace to get away from what looked to him like a firing range. He saw a light shining higher up and that increased his alarm. He crouched down, looking in the direction from which the shot seemed to have come, but all he saw were puffs of mist rising, tossing about in the breeze and rubbing against the tops of the trees. He set off again at a run and arrived in Groppo bathed in sweat. When he reached the road, he was exhausted and famished. Back at the Scoiattolo, he went straight up to his room.
He found Sante when he came down. He deduced from his expression that he did not have good news to impart. “A new carabiniere has arrived,” he said.
“Officer or lower ranks?”
“A captain.”
Soneri digested this news for a moment. “Does this mean there have been developments?”
“I know nothing, but if they’ve sent someone important, it means there must have been some big developments. And I have no reason to believe that’s good news for us.”
“Maybe Crisafulli wants to wash his hands of the whole business.”
“Could be,” Sante said, but he sounded doubtful. “In addition to all that, another two lorries were here last night and loaded up without the help of local labour.”
“Who saw them?”
“I did. My head was buzzing with all those things I was telling you about, so I couldn’t sleep. I went up to the loft and looked out of the window. I saw them arrive, load up and set off again. Six men in total. All over and done with in less than three hours.”
“The ones who normally work there know nothing about what’s going on?”
“They say it’s business as usual. No change.”
Soneri shook his head, indicating his bewilderment.
Sante changed the subject. “No mushrooms, then?”
“The only ones I found were the ones you don’t like.”
Sante furrowed his brow. “More ‘trumpets of death’? They’re the only ones anyone’s found this year.”
“You all detest them, but there’s at least one person who won’t leave them for the boar.”
“They’re a harbinger of bad times. And in fact…” Sante’s voice trailed off as he raised his hand in an eloquent gesture.
Ida called him into the kitchen. The commissario stood where he was for a few moments, savouring the smells coming from the pots, then went out into the mist with its very different scents, the scents of the woods. He walked towards the piazza where he saw Maini in conversation with Volpi and Delrio at the window of the Rivara bar. Delrio was in uniform and gesticulating wildly. Soneri walked straight on in the hope of finding old Magnani in the Olmo. He could not get the story of the Woodsman out of his head, but before he got there, he ran into Crisafulli in the colonnade outside the Comune.
“Just the man I was looking for,” the maresciallo began. “I went to the Scoiattolo, but you weren’t there.”
The commissario now understood how Sante had heard about the arrival of the captain. “I was foraging for mushrooms, and doing my best to avoid gunfire,” he said, with a smile on his lips.
Crisafulli knew at once what he was referring to, and was obviously troubled by it. “We heard it too. At 3.24.”
“Do you record them all?”
“We certainly do. We have a file. So far, we’ve counted sixteen, but there might be more. Whoever does the shooting always picks up the shells. We haven’t yet managed to find even one. All we have are some marks on tree trunks made by large-calibre rounds from a hunting rifle.”
“You’ve obviously looked into it deeply. These bullets are not toys. They’re meant to kill.”
“They’re devastating. You should see the poor beasts when they’ve been hit by one. However, that’s not the real news.”
“I hear they’ve sent a captain.”
The maresciallo looked at Soneri in surprise. “Who told you?”
“You told me to be alert, Maresciallo, did you not? I am only obeying orders.”
“After reading my report, they’ve sent along a Captain Bovolenta.” Crisafulli’s tone made it clear that he had no wish to pursue the subject.
“Crisafulli, you are the very first investigator I have met who doesn’t give a damn about his career. This might turn into a really big case, so you should have played it close to your chest. Do you have any idea of how this could all blow up? You might have ended up on television.”
“I’ve got three children, Commissario. This is a great place to bring them up. They’re happy here, and I’m always worried they might transfer me to some big city.”
“You’re right. Who gives a damn?” Soneri said, beginning to like the man. After all, they saw things the same way.
“There’s another reason why the captain is here,” Crisafulli said.
“I guessed as much. I know the carabinieri, and they would never send in an officer unless there was something more to it than an unspecific fear.”
“It seems Paride Rodolfi can’t pay back a loan.”
“To the banks?”
“The banks in their turn have passed the loan on to their clients. Believe me, I’m out of my depth here. Bonds, defaults… it’s Arabic to me. I can hardly understand my own current account.”
“Nor can I. It’s one of the most complicated things on earth,” Soneri conceded. “Does this mean they’re close to bankruptcy?”
“No, the family lawyer put out a statement saying that they will be able to pay. He says it’s only a cash-flow problem and he gave an assurance that the money is there.”
“What’s the name of the Rodolfis’ lawyer?”
