Big Italy (31 page)

“Shout something, Signor Agente. Shout, ‘Go away, nasty man.’ ”

Maiocchi shouted and Trotti did not get sufficient time to remove the earphones from where they were sticking against his ears. Captured by the hidden microphone, Maiocchi’s voice was loud and peculiarly unpleasant.

“Shout louder!”

Maiocchi did as he was told.

There followed a strange silence—silence except for the continued ringing in Trotti’s ears.

“You like girls?”

“Of course I do. I have three lovely girls at home.”

“Would you like to help a lovely little girl I know?”

“No problem.”

“You see, she’s a super little girl but,” Signora Scola’s voice took on a husky tone, “we think a nasty man’s been hurting her bottom.” Maiocchi flared his nostrils.

“Perhaps, Signor Agente, you could help the poor little mite. This naughty man does silly things to her.”

“Some grown-ups are very naughty. That’s why I have to put them in prison.”

“What’ll you do if you catch this naughty man?”

Maiocchi took a notebook from his pocket. “I’ll shout at him, Signora. Standard procedure, you understand.”

“That’s all?”

“I’ll shout at him and then I’ll put him in prison.” A pause. “Then the Pubblico Ministero will throw the key away. Standard procedure, signora.”

“You’re not afraid of him?”

A deprecating laugh. “Signora, just give me his address and I’ll pick him up now. His days of doing silly things to little girls are over. He’s going to spend the next one hundred and six years in prison.”

“You’re going to catch him?”

“Trouble with you, signora, is that you have too little faith in the Polizia di Stato.” Maiocchi played menacingly with the handcuffs.

Signora Scola replied, “I once knew a very nice policeman. He pretended to be gruff and horrible but I knew he loved children. And he loved chickens and goats. He loved animals and women and children. Do you know him? He even looked for truffles in the hills.”

“An old, balding dinosaur, signora. Diabetic from eating too many boiled sweets. What we need here is a dynamic policeman of the new generation.” Maiocchi made a gesture of irritation. “Give me the name, signora.”

“You need the name of the bad man who does naughty things to little girls?”

“Of course I need the name. Can’t go around arresting every Pinco Pallino.”

Priscilla had started to shake her head, burrowing into her mother’s shallow chest.

“I need to know the name,” Maiocchi said softly.

“No, no, no.” Priscilla was now hiding her face, nuzzling into her mother.

“Signor Agente, the little girl doesn’t know.”

“Oh dear. Does anyone else know? I really must put that bad man in prison before he does more nasty things. But I can’t do anything without a name.”

“Nobody else knows.” Signora Scola raised her hands. Trotti could hear the calm desperation in her voice. “You know, Signor Agente, there are some very bad men who do bad things to little girls’ bottoms. And then they tell the little girls they must say nothing.”

“Really?”

“They tell the little girls they must keep the secret. Or else …”

“Or else what?”

“These silly men try to frighten little girls.”

“They are naughty men.”

“I’m just wondering if someone very naughty indeed’s told my super little Priscilla to keep a secret.”

“A secret about her bottom?” Maiocchi appeared genuinely shocked.

“Just wondering, Signor Agente, if you could bend down—I know you’re very big and strong but this is important. Now perhaps if you could put your ear close to this little girl’s mouth—that’s right, put your ear to her mouth. Perhaps she could whisper the name of the horrid, bad man. You see, it would be a secret. And me and Mamma, we’ll turn around and we’ll pretend we’re not here. I want to talk to Mamma about some clothes she was going to buy for Priscilla. But if you could listen to Priscilla, it could be a special little secret just between you and her.”

“I certainly can try.”

“A secret between you and her and nobody else need ever know.” Maiocchi gave a brisk salute and Signora Scola turned away, going over to where the mother sat smoking.

Trotti watched as Priscilla looked carefully at Maiocchi. Still holding the handcuffs—they were old issue, not the more recent American model—Maiocchi brought his face towards her running nose and her small mouth.

In the end he had to get down on his hands and knees.

Signora Scola had briefly gestured towards the mirror before going to talk to the girl’s mother by the window.

Both the mother and Signora Scola turned their backs on the little girl and Commissario Maiocchi, red-faced and looking quite ridiculous on all fours.

Priscilla pulled at the handcuffs before approaching Maiocchi’s ear.

The little Priscilla began to speak and her strange, pathetic words were picked up by the recording machine beside Trotti.

She spoke breathlessly and then she laughed.

Maiocchi laughed and kissed her on the forehead.

Trotti recognized the word
Nonna
as Priscilla began to gabble away, touching Maiocchi’s face and pulling at his ear whenever his attention appeared to lag, talking to him about her grandmother and what the old woman in Esine did whenever Priscilla was a naughty girl.

Priscilla spoke without interruption for over five minutes.

At the end she was laughing happily. She liked the handcuffs.

“A
BSOLUTELY AMAZING
, P
IERO
. All my congratulations.”

The hospital porter was whistling “Come un bel dì di maggio” from Andrea Chénier. Trotti wondered whether it had become the theme for a program with the RAI or Berlusconi’s Fininvest.

“Bel dì di maggio?” There was dirty snow beneath his feet and the fine days of May seemed a long way off.

A cold Sunday morning in December and the city was empty. Trotti glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I can spare you very little time.”

“The time to drink a decent coffee? And stock up on those awful boiled sweets, Piero.”

“I need to get back to Tenente Pisanelli.”

The Questore nodded understandingly. “I gather the situation’s static.”

“I’m meeting his fiancée in a couple of hours. Anna Ermagni’s coming up from Rome.”

“Excellent, excellent.”

They went through the main entrance of the hospital and crossed the road to the Bar Goliardico. The Questore pushed open the glass door for Signora Scola and Trotti.

An advertisement for Moka Sirs coffee on the wall clock above the bar. The pin-table and the telephone appeared abandoned.

For a brief moment, the smell of coffee and lemons reminded Trotti of Brigadiere Ciuffi. He had been back only once since her death. Six years that he had been trying to forget all about Ornella
and it now suddenly occurred to him that if Ciuffi were still alive, she would be Simona Scola’s age.

Alive, married and with children.

They sat down at a window-side table. The Questore ordered drinks.

“I was very worried, Piero, you were thinking of dropping the SVS.”

“The what?”

“You and Signora Scola—quite frankly it’s marvelous.” An approving look that went from Trotti to the attractive young woman sitting beside him. “No need to tell you how much I appreciate your coming in to see the little girl so soon after the accident.”

“No accident.” Trotti gestured. “Pisanelli’s Citroën was pushed off the road and whoever’s responsible was trying to kill us. I only hope …”

Simona Scola said, “The mother was insisting on taking little Priscilla back to Esine in Brescia province, Signor Questore. Without a formal complaint, there wasn’t much we could do. And the hospital wanted back the room she was staying in. The mother agreed to one last try.”

The Questore addressed Trotti. “You mustn’t worry about Pisanelli.” He spoke as if he held the key to life and death.

“I was surprised how willing the mother was to collaborate this morning.” Signora Scola’s hand touched Trotti’s. “Until now, she’s been behaving like an ostrich, refusing to admit there was any problem.”

“A young, healthy man, Pisanelli. Just a temporary thing. The doctors aren’t particularly worried. He’s going to pull through, Piero. Of that I’m quite sure. Your theory it was an attempt on your life …”

The waiter brought the drinks. A coffee for the Questore, thick hot chocolate for Simona Scola and a cappuccino for Trotti, who had almost forgotten how good the coffee was in the Bar Goliardico. The waiter also set a basket of croissants on the tablecloth.

Outside the buses rumbled past the Policlinico.

“SVS, Signor Questore?”

“Sezione Violenza Sessuale. Of course, Signora Scola will have a full-time contract as a police ancillary worker.” He rubbed his hands. “Excellent work.”

Looking at the Questore, Trotti realized that he had never really
scrutinized the man’s face before. The regular features were as they had always been—the mustache, the cold grey eyes, the arched eyebrows, the closely shaven skin—but now they seemed to form a different total.

For the first time, Trotti was aware of an underlying weakness. The receding chin, the nervous muscular movement at one corner of the man’s lips.

“At the moment I’m concerned about Pisanelli.”

“I’m concerned about everybody who works for me, believe me. But the doctors are optimistic.” The Questore raised the coffee to his lips. The cold eyes remained on Trotti. “The SVS is what I want and I want you to run it. You postpone your retirement for a couple of years, Piero, and we can make something of it. Something that’ll go beyond this province, beyond Lombardy—and perhaps beyond Italy. I’m convinced you’re about the only man in the Polizia di Stato capable of doing it. The only man in a world of phallocrats who knows how to deal with women and children.”

(“Pisanelli’s a pig-headed phallocrat, you mean.” Ciuffi had spat the words out. “A balding, ineffectual, greasy phallocrat.”

“Pisa?”

Brigadiere Ciuffi looked carefully at Trotti before answering. The young eyes were tinted with blood. Ornella Ciuffi had not been getting enough sleep. “Pisanelli,” she had said. “And all the other men in this wretched Questura.”)

“Signor Questore, I think I’ve already made my position clear.”

“You
think
you’ve made your position clear. But, Piero, we’ve just seen the little girl. You must realize how important all this work is. She needs you. And all the little Priscillas like her.”

Signora Scola said, “Little girls and little boys.” She had not touched her steaming chocolate.

Maiocchi entered the Bar Goliardico. He had changed into corduroy trousers and jacket. His pipe was set jauntily between his lips. He now sat down beside Simona Scola, who looked up at him and smiled.

“Gelli’s running the mother and daughter to the station.”

Trotti nodded his thanks. Turning back to the Questore, he said, “I have no intention of postponing my retirement.”

“Piero, Piero. You’re a father yourself. A father and a grandfather. You don’t think all children deserve the care and the protection that your daughter and granddaughter can take for granted?”

“There are people other than me who can run your Sezione Violenza Sessuale.”

“Three-year-olds, two-year-olds and even younger—their minute genitalia having to accommodate the sexual organ of grown men. That doesn’t shock you? It doesn’t incite you?”

Signora Scola interrupted. “Not their genitalia, Signor Questore. When a man molests a little girl, it’s the rectal passage that has to accommodate the organ.”

An awkward hush fell across the table.

“At that early age, a penis will rip a little body apart. Whereas the anal sphincter is more flexible.”

The Questore coughed. “Of course, Piero, you could have all the people you want. I’m sure Maiocchi here would be only too glad …”

“These last few days, many people have been asking me to accept your generous proposition. The answer, I’m afraid, is no.”

“Consider everything carefully. While you’re in Venezuela with Maiocchi, discuss it.” He glanced at his hands. “I’m sure Signora Scola could accompany you to Caracas. That’s something that shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.”

“At this moment, a collaborator and a close friend of mine is in a coma. A friend for whom I feel personally responsible.” Trotti gestured towards the hospital. He took a ten thousand lira note from the pocket of his jacket and stood up. “Now, please forgive me. I’d rather be with Pisanelli.”

The Questore’s face, the regular, even features, had blanched. He gestured Trotti to sit down.

Trotti did not move.

“There’s nothing you can do for Pisanelli now.”

“Sitting here drinking coffee’s not helping him.”

“Moka Sirs, Piero? Your favorite? Kindly be seated.”

Trotti returned the smile, but without warmth. “You wish me to stay?” He slowly lowered himself back on to the chair. “Perhaps I could ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Signor Questore, perhaps you can tell me what you were looking for in Bassi’s office on Friday. At seven o’clock in the morning. At a time when news of Bassi’s murder hadn’t yet been divulged.” The Questore from Friuli was now frowning, although the remnants of a smile lingered on the anaemic lips. “This isn’t the place to pull out our dirty washing, Piero. If you have any doubts, there’s

nothing to stop you accompanying me now to the Questura and I’m sure that—”

“Very strange, isn’t it, that Bassi was murdered after returning from the prison in Alessandria? And that two days later, somebody tried to kill Pisanelli and me on our way back from the same prison? From the same prison where, like Bassi, we’d been talking to a journalist.”

He laughed with embarrassment. “Sounds to me, Piero, you’re making a strange amalgam of things.”

Commissario Piero Trotti suddenly allowed himself to lose control of his temper. “My friend Pierangelo Pisanelli would like to know why unpleasant things happen when people start asking questions about Dr. Quarenghi’s work at the Ministry of Health.”

The Questore frowned.