recognised Captain Bovolenta in the rear seat.
“They’ve got someone,” he was told by Maini, who had been watching developments from the Rivara. “They say it’s a foreigner, a dealer who operates on Montelupo.”
The bar and the piazza were suddenly sunk in the silence of the falling night. The tragedy, with its ramifications of lost money and unexpressed shame, was now unfolding behind closed doors in every household. Soneri glanced at the thin, wiry figure of his friend, remembering races run along pathways and first cigarettes smoked furtively in mountain huts, and felt confident enough to ask him about his own private affairs. “Did you trust the Rodolfis with your cash?”
Maini turned quickly, blinking rapidly in embarrassment. He gave him a wink, but on his face the commissario could read deep hurt mingled with a plea for absolution. Again Soneri felt ill at ease, but Crisafulli, with his prancing gait, turned up at that moment to spare them further awkwardness. “Good evening, Commissario. The captain would like to see you.”
Soneri nodded to Maini, whose expression was growing more and more melancholy.
“Am I under suspicion?” a decidedly displeased Soneri asked the maresciallo. He could not stand anyone interfering with the planning of his days. He liked to be in charge and decide for himself, moment by moment, how the day should go.
“Oh no! What do you mean? We’ve got somebody.”
“So what?” Soneri said, brusquely.
Crisafulli turned to him, shaken by this reaction. “Was that an important conversation?”
“A business matter,” Soneri said.
The maresciallo did not pursue it any further. “A Romanian. We found Paride Rodolfi’s mobile on him.”
The commissario shrugged.
“Isn’t that an important clue?” Crisafulli asked.
“It’s a clue of sorts, but I’d proceed cautiously.”
“Bovolenta, I have to say, is taking it very seriously.” Crisafulli winked at the commissario.
There was something treacherous in that remark which did not go down well with Soneri. “How did you get him?”
“Luck. You need a bit of luck, don’t you? We sent a fax to all the police forces in the Apennines, and we came up trumps.”
“Where was he picked up?”
“In Sarzana. He sells things in the street to camouflage other kinds of dealing, if you see what I mean. Maresciallo Zanoni gave him the once over and found the mobile hidden in his car.”
Soneri nodded to say he had understood. They were at the police station and Crisafulli accompanied him to Bovolenta’s office.
When they were seated, the captain looked disapprovingly at Crisafulli, then turned to Soneri. “No doubt the maresciallo will have informed you…” he began, with a touch of irony in his voice.
“Yes, the Romanian.”
“Exactly, the Romanian. That’s why I asked you here. When you found the body, did you do a search of the surroundings? Even the most cursory of searches?”
“No, it was nearly dark and I didn’t want to grope around too much. I only took out the wallet to ascertain the identity.”
To Soneri’s annoyance, the captain uttered an “Ah”. It was not clear if this was a reproach or merely an aside, so he added, “It was completely empty.”
Bovolenta paused for a moment to reflect. “The man we have arrested claims to have found the mobile in the woods. From his description of the spot, it would not seem to be not too far from where the body was discovered.”
“Was he the one who removed everything from it?”
“Probably, but he’s never going to admit it. His story is that he found the mobile by chance, as though someone had lost it. He swears he never set eyes on the body.”
“There are so many people wandering about on Montelupo.”
“Exactly, so many. That’s why I have my doubts as to whether…” but he left the sentence unfinished.
“If I were in your position, assuming your doubts refer to the Romanian, I would share them.”
“But he talked at great length about Montelupo. And, as you said, there are lots of people moving about up there.”
“Always have been. But in the old days, they were a different type.”
“I know what you mean. But it’s not only foreigners. The Romanian spoke about a huge, tall fellow with a beard, who goes about armed and sometimes fires off his gun. He and his friends are terrified.”
“There are plenty of people who fire guns.”
“I know that too. But this is an Italian, a local man. We know his name, Gualerzi.” Bovolenta’s expression was almost venomous, an Inquisitor’s expression. “Do you know him?”
“Of course I do. The Woodsman. But what’s he got to do with it?”
“Do you think it normal for someone to go round armed, firing when he feels like it? The Romanian claims that twice, on separate occasions, bullets passed very close to him.”
“He’s a man of the woods. He’s spent his life on Montelupo, and as for poaching, they’ve always done it up there.”
“Where can I find him?”
“To the best of my knowledge, he lives in the Madoni hills,” Soneri said, feeling he was taking on a role which he had not initially wished to assume.
The captain turned to Crisafulli, having no idea where the Madoni hills were.
“Drop it,” the commissario said. “This is a matter for gamekeepers.”
Bovolenta stared at him intently. “We can’t afford to neglect any angle.”
“And the Romanian?” Soneri said.
“He’s in custody. He had stolen objects in his car. For the moment, we’ve got him for handling stolen goods, and meantime we’ll proceed with this line of enquiry.”
Before the captain could make a move, Soneri jumped to his feet as rapidly as a private soldier.
“The invitation to dinner is still open,” Bovolenta said.
The commissario nodded and said goodbye. Crisafulli went with him to show him out. At the front door, looking over his shoulder to make sure no-one was within hearing distance, the maresciallo, as though offering an excuse, said to Soneri, “He’s new. He’s still got a lot to pick up.” As he spoke, he waved his hands eloquently in the air, as only a Neapolitan can.
For some ten minutes, Soneri wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets, still sunk in a tense silence. When he came out on the piazza, he noticed a bright light. It was coming from a fiercely burning fire, near a house outside the village, on the road to Montelupo. Livid flames engulfed the tops of the chestnut trees some way higher up. A few moments later the fire exploded and the flames leapt up towards the skies. He heard the carabinieri rush from the station, and imagined the curses of Crisafulli, forced out his office chair. Shortly afterwards, the strident sirens of the fire engines filled the valley, violating the peace of the evening. No-one in the village made a move, as had happened in times of war, when the curfew protected the solitude of the victims.
The vehicle of the municipal police, with Delrio at the wheel, moved off from the Comune. The usual group of evening customers was gathered outside the Rivara.
“Is that the Branchis’ farm?” Soneri said.
“They’ve been gone a good while. It belongs now to a family called Monica,” Rivara said.
“They burned the Branchis’ barn in ’65,” Volpi said.
“And in ’44. But that was the Germans,” Ghidini said, with an exaggerated precision which sounded malicious.
The flames were now through the roof, and already the fire-fighters were working from the neighbouring fields which were as bright as day. Someone was running to free the desperately bellowing cattle tied up in the stalls. One cow was running in terror towards the woods, while others were scattered over the slopes.
“Poor beasts. It’s not their fault,” Volpi said.
Soneri would have liked to enquire exactly whose fault it was, but the profound indifference he saw etched on
