every face made him decide that this was not the best time. Maini took him by the arm and led him away from the group.
“They hate the Monicas here,” he said, when they had moved far enough away.
Soneri made a questioning sign with the fingers holding the cigar.
“The son is one of the Rodolfi accountants, and they say he’s salted a lot of the money away.”
“So it’s revenge?”
“Probably. Burning barns is an ancient custom.”
The commissario remembered various tales told locally, especially one about a house outside the village where a blackened skeleton lay for many years.
“Monica himself went to school with Paride. They dabbled in finance — investments in the stock exchange, shares, assetstripping, that sort of thing. They were the first generation in a poor village who’d gone to university, and they thought they were untouchable,” Maini said.
“You thought you were too.”
“I believed in Palmiro. How could anybody know it was all built on a fraud like this?”
“You’re right. When you get down to it, it’s always hard to believe how appalling reality is. It invariably takes you by surprise.”
Neither man had anything more to say. They watched the barn burn down in spite of the best efforts of the fire-fighters, and contemplated the senseless tragedy of the fire as it rose diabolically up against the indifferent bulk of Montelupo. From time to time, a light breeze carried towards them gusts of tepid air and the scent of burning hay, creating an improbable spring-like heat.
The commissario turned towards the houses and became aware of furtive movements behind the shutters. He could detect the malevolent joy of revenge on faces fleetingly visible in a glimmer of light behind curtains or grilles. Bells began to toll like hammer blows, but the village remained imperturbable.
“It’s gone. They could divert the river Macchiaferro onto it and they still wouldn’t extinguish the blaze,” Ghidini said.
The flames seemed longer, higher and unaffected by the water, which had as little effect as if it were tumbling down a crack in the rocks. No-one bothered any more to make an effort to save the barn, except for a few dispirited firefighters holding the hosepipes. There was only one man who had rolled up his sleeves and it seemed he wanted to leap into the burning building. There was no longer any sign of the animals. They must have all run off, perhaps up the mountain path they had only recently been brought down.
“The embers will smoulder for two days,” was Rivara’s reckoning, delivered with a sarcastic half-smile.
The breeze dropped quite suddenly and a shower of ash fell on their heads.
“Is it Ash Wednesday again?” Ghidini sniggered.
“I don’t see any sign of penitence,” Soneri snapped.
“It wasn’t us.”
“No, but you’re all quite pleased just the same.”
Maini looked at him sternly but imploringly. Soneri was setting himself up against them all, and he did not care. Ghidini and the others did not react. They held their peace, but exchanged sharp glances.
“As you sow, so shall you reap. Monica’s son was one of those who did the accounts up there,” Ghidini said, pointing to the salame factory. “He knew everything that was going on, but he got above himself with the money he’d stolen. If you play dirty, sooner or later someone is going to make you pay. He’s lost this hand.” He looked around, expecting the approval of the group.
“Playing dirty suited you all,” was all Soneri said by way of reply.
“The people in the village were not responsible. The banks should have put a stop to it once they’d run up all those debts. They could see the whole game,” Rivara said.
“The banks are hand in glove with the politicians, and the Rodolfis wallowed in political schemes,” Ghidini said.
“You voted for those politicians, don’t forget. Who was it who returned Aimi with majorities hardly seen outside Bulgaria?”
Soneri’s tone was calm but biting. Maini stayed on the sidelines, trying unsuccessfully to move the conversation to safer ground, even after it had turned bitter. Rivara stuttered that they were not all in agreement and that many had understood only now, but he did not carry conviction. The debate dragged on and ended in a hostile silence. The commissario was familiar with that state of mind among the mountain men, because at least in part it was his own. He was only too aware that when faced with a direct accusation, they invariably preferred evasion. Their silence transformed the words they would have liked to voice into apparent indifference and detachment.
The siren from a fire-engine winding its way along the twisting road in the valley had a mournful sound. It was sufficient to ease the tension which had been created.
“Another one on the way,” Volpi said.
“They’d have been better off staying at home at this stage,” Ghidini said.
Soneri took his leave with the excuse that he wanted to observe the operations at close hand, but as he left the group, he was conscious of a strange, niggling sense of embarrassment. Maini came after him, but as he caught up Soneri’s mobile rang. Angela’s voice came and went, but he could hear her when she shouted “I’m on my way.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m looking at a sign that says twenty kilometres. Are you asking me because you want to warn me off?”
“Not at all. It’s to know when to expect you. You’re arriving in a moment of particular turmoil.”
“That’s not surprising, with all that’s been going on.”
“Apart from all that, there’s been a fire. A barn went up in flames.”
“Arson?”
“It belonged to the family who were Paride’s closest collaborators, so draw your own conclusions.”
“I’ve a lot to tell you. I spoke to Gennari, the Rodolfi’s lawyer. Once he found out you were on holiday and not engaged on the case, he opened up. Obviously, I omitted to mention that you were holidaying in their home village.”
Soneri agreed to meet her in half an hour. When he turned to talk to Maini, he had disappeared. The village bells stopped ringing and the fire-fighters made no noise as they moved back and forth, so everything was plunged once more into silence. The barn was a smouldering wreck now, with only an occasional tongue of flame shooting up into the darkness. The crackle of the beams collapsing under the intense heat, dragging down sections of the wall with it, could be heard quite distinctly. It was the end, the final death spasm of a section of the village. The commissario decided the spectacle was over and set off for the Scoiattolo through the narrow streets of the old quarter. He glanced into the Olmo, where some of the older customers were at their cards, watched by others leaning against the walls. Magnani was behind the bar, only half-awake but with a cigarette in his mouth. The contented calm of the older generation signalled that all was as it should be on any normal evening.
He walked on, leaving that cluster of houses behind and coming out on the road which overlooked the valley. The lights from the houses there seemed like reflected starlight. He continued quickly on his way until he saw the sign of the pensione, but at that moment he heard the gentle scrape of a dog’s paws on the road. He turned to see Dolly, wagging her tail. She had been waiting for him at a spot where she knew he would pass by.
7
“I’ll never understand what made you come to this place,” Angela said, as she got out of her car and looked around, still unsure of herself in the dark.
“It wasn’t a wonderful idea, I have to admit,” Soneri said.
“So move on. You’re on holiday, not in custody.”
At which the commissario, plainly uncomfortable, stretched out his arms.
“Oh God, is this you at it again, struggling with ghosts from the past? You manage to get free of the big chief
