“Dogs have an important part in this story. One was slaughtered in case it might turn out to be an inconvenient witness,” Bovolenta said.
“If dogs could speak, we’d have solved the case already.”
They arrived at the village. “Will you join me for dinner?” the captain proposed.
“Thank you, but I haven’t told the pensione where I’m staying, and they’ll have kept something for me. They make me at home there.”
“You’re from here, I was told,” Bovolenta said, glancing at Crisafulli in the driving seat.
“Yes, but it doesn’t feel like it. I still know the district and I have some memories of my own, but that’s all,” he said, overtaken by a sudden onrush of bitterness he could not manage to contain.
Bovolenta looked at him intently before replying. “I understand,” he said, in a tone intended to convey some insight into Soneri’s state of mind, but he changed the subject immediately. “Was there really no-one in the village who knew how bad things were for the Rodolfis?”
“If they knew, they found it convenient to keep their mouths shut. The bonds between the villagers and the Rodolfis are very close.”
The captain nodded thoughtfully. Soneri shook his hand. “See you soon,” he said, as he got out of the truck.
“Tomorrow,” Bovolenta said. “We’ll be up there at first light.”
“It’s nothing to do with me. It’s your case.”
“Well then, consider yourself summonsed as a witness. It was you who found the body, was it not?”
Crisafulli switched on the ignition and drove off before the commissario had the chance to reply. The captain sketched a quasi-military salute and the truck speeded up, but twenty metres up the road, it stopped. The maresciallo got out and opened the back door. Dolly jumped out and raced down the street towards Soneri. As he caressed the dog, he thought that she too had forgotten all about Paride Rodolfi. Life goes on, after all.
6
He was in the dining room well before dawn, and shortly afterwards was out in the chill of the morning. The shadow of the mountains made mornings seem duller than evenings, and that day the moon had gone down some time ago, leaving only the feeble light of the stars. Dolly picked up his scent immediately and galloped over to him with an enthusiasm which he found touching. He was surprised to hear Sante’s voice from the doorway. “I gave her last night’s leftovers,” he said.
He went back inside to find his table set for breakfast, and Sante standing alongside it. “It’s not shaping up well,” he said, as the commissario took his seat. “Those lorries have been coming and going regularly for a couple of days now, carrying off anything they can before it’s too late.”
“The seasoned prosciutto?”
Sante nodded. “And the rest. Anything they can manage to take to pay off the debts. I’m told that includes the cars.”
“It’s an unfortunate business,” Soneri said.
“I’m not going to get my money back. Nor is anyone else. I mean those who gave him loans,” he said, in a tone which wavered between the tearful and the enraged.
“You won’t see Paride either.”
“He’s dead, is he? I thought so, ever since they put up those posters.”
“Killed up at Pratopiano.”
“Pratopiano? What was he doing there?”
“No idea. He’d been dead for some days and the body was already stinking.”
Sante stopped to reflect, then murmured, “It was bound to end up that way.” The tone in which he uttered those words implied that Paride’s death was in some way a substitute for the revenge he would never have. For the first time, Soneri grasped the depth of hatred Sante felt over the money lost, the deceit suffered and the trust betrayed.
“Don’t say anything to anyone. It’s up to the carabinieri to inform people. They’ll carry out a full investigation.”
“I saw a lot of to-ing and fro-ing yesterday, and I knew there must be something up.”
“When did you see the lorries?”
“It was late, around midnight. They finished about four.”
“You were still up at that hour?”
“How could I sleep with all that’s going on in my head? Do you have any idea what it means to lose your life’s savings?”
Soneri understood well enough, but he was lost for words. He never knew what to say when faced with life’s misfortunes. The only expressions that came to him were meaningless or banal. He let a few seconds go by then picked up the basket and handed it to Sante.
“I found a fair number of russolas and chanterelles,” he said, in an attempt to get off the subject. “Give them to Ida and see if she’d like to cook them.”
Sante emptied the basket and filled it with Soneri’s picnic lunch: salame, cheese, bread and fruit.
“You’ll have no problem finding water at Pratopiano, and it’s really good.”
Soneri said goodbye and set off into the dark with Dolly at his heels. She would occasionally disappear into the undergrowth in pursuit of some trail, but would then make a sudden reappearance. He was well up the mountainside when he heard the noise of a truck coming up behind him, but by then he was almost at Boldara, from where there was no choice but to proceed on foot. Crisafulli brought the vehicle alongside and Captain Bovolenta leaned out of the window as he had done the previous evening. “You’re strong on your feet, I see.”
“You need strong feet for police investigations.”
“I am afraid that’s not true nowadays.”
“On second thoughts, you might be right there,” Soneri said, thinking of his assistant Juvara, who was forever glued to his computer. “But it’s the case round here,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the woods and the rocky summit of Montelupo, where the rising sun offered the promise of another clear day.
As he continued on his way, he heard the roar of a four-byfour from further down the valley. Crisafulli announced, “That must be the magistrate. I got in touch with the ambulance service as well, for the removal of the body.”
The two officers left on guard greeted Soneri and their colleagues with relief. They reported hearing strange noises during the night and said that on several occasions they had taken the safety catch off their weapons.
Soneri smiled at the two fresh-faced youths from the city, reared on dark tales of the forest. Finally the Special Forensic Unit and Percudani, the magistrate, turned up. The magistrate complained of having drawn the short straw, but he was from those parts and Soneri enjoyed good relations with him.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked, in mock bewilderment.
The commissario pointed to the carabinieri. “I was out hunting for mushrooms and I noticed the smell.”
“What a coincidence!” Percudani said, without much conviction.
The first enquiries confirmed Soneri’s suspicions. The dark patch near where the body was lying was indeed blood, and the corpse had been dragged there by some animal.
Percudani gave the order to turn the body over and it was immediately evident that Paride Rodolfi had been killed by a bullet in the chest. Between the sternum and the stomach there was a little cavity with a mixture of coagulated blood, mud and fragments of clothing. The body, as rigid as a statue, was then wrapped in canvas. The stretcher-bearers struggled to lift it out of the hollow and carry it along the track. From time to time, those who remained could hear branches brush against the metal of the stretcher.
When the group disappeared down the slope, Bovolenta, Soneri, Crisafulli and the magistrate were left standing in a circle around the outline of body in the mud. Only then did they notice in the slime, which was still giving off an intolerable stench, the repulsive, writhing tangle of wax-coloured worms now deprived of their sustenance. The maresciallo turned his eyes away in disgust, while Percudani feigned interest in papers relating to the case, and engaged the agents from the Special Forensic Unit in conversation. The only one who remained
