Angela to listen. It came from the mountain, from the path which led from Greppo to Campogrande. He stood still for a few moments, keeping his mind clear as though he were afraid his thoughts might make a noise. Everything was peaceful, apart from the hoot of an owl in the depths of the woods.
“You still there?” Angela said.
“I thought I’d picked up a sound in the trees.”
No sooner had he spoken than he heard the dog bark again, this time from lower down. The animal was coming closer. Just a few paces more and, if the wind was in the right direction, it would pick up his scent.
“Where are you?” Angela said.
“Near the Rodolfis’ place. I think there’s something going on down there.”
This time there was no possible doubt. A dog was racing in his direction.
“I am glad I called you,” Soneri said, already guessing which dog it was.
“I always bring good luck,” Angela said, but without any idea of what was going on.
The dog emerged from the brush a few moments later and came bounding down the road. Soneri felt its tongue lick his hands, and when he bent down to rub it behind the ears, he had all the confirmation he needed that this was Dolly. There was no way of knowing why she was on the road which led from Campogrande to the uplands of Croce. He walked on until the villa appeared ahead of him. He committed to memory the position of the mule- track, but he could not see the whole track from where he was standing, since it turned into a small gorge before climbing up to Greppo. It was then that he heard a low whistle. Dolly heard it too and stiffened, making no movement, standing as still as a hunting dog about to put a flock of partridges to flight. So she had not run away. Someone was with her. The commissario looked in the same direction as Dolly and noticed she was staring down the path. Shortly afterwards, a faint light appeared — perhaps a torch — and moved about. Then it disappeared and the whistle was blown again.
Someone was searching for Dolly further along the path, but she had heard Soneri talk on the phone and had come looking for him, or perhaps she had picked up the scent of his cigar. The commissario thought of going over to the mule-track but he worried that whoever was there might hear him. He was also constrained by memories of tales he had been told in his childhood about that path, where “strange things” could be seen and “stranger things” heard. At night-time, the path was lit by lights which appeared and disappeared, while indistinct whispers and laments were carried on the wind.
He decided to wait close to the villa. He struggled to keep Dolly quiet, as she whined and tried to snuggle under the hem of his duffle coat. He hoped to see someone emerge along the path, even if he was not clear who that someone might be. For a while he thought it might be Manuela, but the more he pictured her with all the airs and graces of a gran signora, the less plausible did it seem that she would be out in the woods at night. So he remained where he was, in the company of Dolly in the pitch black of a moonless night, the stars invisible above the dense, damp air.
An hour later, when it was evident that no-one would be coming, he set off. He wondered what had become of that nocturnal presence, made manifest in whistles and faint lights, which seemed only to confirm the truth of the old legends. He walked into the village, escorted by Dolly, stopped in the piazza and took a seat on the wall. The dog stood facing him, looking up and wagging her tail. Her eyes were shining with a trust and devotion which he found deeply affecting. He tried to imagine what life would be like with Dolly at his side. The very thought was a novelty, but all of a sudden he saw a custard coloured brightness in the form of a huge candle swell up before him.
A bright light and the acrid smell of burning rubber came from the lower part of the village. Out of the darkness, an enormous funnel of smoke ascended into the night sky, then stretched like a giant mushroom as it moved in the direction of Montelupo. Soneri raced down the deserted streets until, in the square overlooking the new town, he saw a car in flames. There was no-one there to make any attempt to extinguish the fire — although there was nothing that could now be saved. Behind the shutters, whispered voices and the sound of bolts being drawn could be heard, but as the fire died down, silence again fell on the village. The commissario stood watching as the flames turned to glowing embers. Only the rubber of the tyres and the plastics were still burning. Finally the carabinieri arrived.
Crisafulli had the dishevelled look of a man who had fallen asleep at his desk. “After a day like the one I’ve had, this was all I needed,” he moaned in Neapolitan.
“It must have been half an hour ago,” Soneri told him. “It could have been a slow fuse in a petrol can. The whole thing was over in a couple of minutes.”
The maresciallo walked round the burned-out wreck.
“Do you know whose it is?” the commissario said. “All I can make out is that it was a Ford.”
Crisafulli nodded. “It belongs to the mayor’s son. I thought this sort of thing only happened in Naples.”
The maresciallo ordered his assistant to take down all the details and to call in the Special Forensic squad who were still in the village investigating Paride’s death. “Who knows? They might come up with something interesting,” he said, but he sounded doubtful.
“That Romanian, the one who was found with Rodolfi’s mobile, do you still have him in your cells?”
“The magistrate has authorised an extension of the period of custody. You never know.”
They both looked again at the car, still burning but no longer fiercely. Neither had anything more to say. From time to time the steel of the chassis made a crackling sound as it buckled in the heat.
“When is the funeral of the two Rodolfis?”
Crisafulli gave him an embarrassed glance from under the peak of his cap, and shivered. He must have been frozen standing about in the cold. “Tomorrow at dawn. Paride’s wife fixed the time and the only ones who know about it are Don Bruno and us.”
“What are they afraid of? The villagers have been quiet up till now and they’ll stay that way.”
“There are other people not from here who feel cheated as well. People from the city, for example, and they always make more fuss. And then,” Crisafulli said, lowering his voice, “the Rodolfis are ashamed of being seen in public.”
The commissario winked at Crisafulli and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to bed. And you’re out hunting again tomorrow.”
“Commissario, we’re not hunters. We’re the hunted.”
9
In his dreams, Soneri saw the chestnut groves of Campogrande, and saw himself careering half way down the hill, zig-zagging from tree trunk to tree trunk on the steep slopes at whose foot stood the new town with its workshops and wide road, buzzing with activity. Once more he saw himself with his father, once more he heard good advice delivered in half-phrases accompanied by vague gestures, but as he lay half-asleep and half-awake, he felt a sense of anguish creep over him. His father walked ahead round the trunks of fallen trees, indifferent to his son’s inability to keep up. Soneri saw himself tumble and roll madly downhill, bumping into tree after tree, but at that point he awoke with a start to see Ida standing beside his bed, shaking him, bending over him, holding the blankets with both hands as though she were kneading sfoglia.
When he switched on the light, he saw her face clearly, but it was a face deformed by panic. “Sante’s very ill, very ill,” she repeated, over and over.
Finally she let go, allowing him to get up. He peered at the alarm clock, which read half-past four. Once out of bed, he was assailed by the biting cold, and this, together with the dream, the restless night and the abrupt awakening, knocked him back on his heels as effectively as a punch on the nose. He put on his slippers and slowly began to come to his senses.
Ida led the way, proceeding sideways, almost skipping down the stairs. When she reached the landing on the floor below, she turned into the room where she and her husband slept. Sante’s eyes were glazed over. He seemed to be staring at the ceiling, but with a look of disbelief. A slight wheeze was the only sign of life. Ida and Soneri positioned themselves at either side of the bed, as powerless as if attending a wake.
“I kept telling him to calm down. He couldn’t sleep and he wouldn’t take the pills to reduce his stress,” Ida said, through tears.
