Converging Parallels (14 page)

“Could it be a woman?”

“Of course it’s a woman,” Bottone replied peevishly. “You can see by the depth of the thigh, the size of the feet. Varicose veins—probably in her late thirties, early forties—but not very well-preserved. The legs have been shaved—but need shaving again. Bristly.”

“Of course,” Trotti said humbly. “I meant something different.”

“Different?”

“Could a woman have done the cutting—the butchering?”

The smell of formaldehyde in the morgue was overpowering. One wall was covered with a cabinet of large lockers. Trotti wondered how many corpses were concealed by the antiseptic steel doors.

“A woman?” Bottone looked up and with his sharp nod, the glasses slipped from his forehead onto the bridge of his nose. He looked at Trotti with the disapproval that a scientist feels for the profane. “A woman?” He turned to see what Magagna thought. Magagna was taking notes in a small leather booklet. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible but rather unlikely. I can’t be certain. A lot depends on the instrument. And the woman. You must give me time, Commissario. Time. And then it would still be little more than conjecture.” He screwed up the pale eyes. “Why a woman?”

“Why not?”

Bottone raised his voice slightly and spoke in a querulous tone: “Is it likely? A whore—she,” he gesticulated with the stethoscope towards the lifeless legs, “she was a whore and women don’t normally kill whores. Not normally.”

“What makes you think that she—that these legs once belonged to a prostitute?”

A knowing smile. He pushed the glasses back onto his forehead and turned to scrutinize the flesh again. “Look, look. Skin lesions—and here, you see, there are ulcers. The signs of tertiary syphilis.”

“Is that proof?”

“Proof, no. But for me, experience is proof. But here, the texture of the skin. Sure signs of a poor diet, poor in fruit and vegetables. A sign that she was fairly far down the socioeconomic ladder. The shape of her ankles,” he ran his nail against the instep, “here it bulges. Deformed by bad shoes, by high heels. Traces of dark red varnish on the nails. It all points to somebody who wanted to appear attractive, glamorous. It was her meal ticket.”

Trotti thanked Bottone without shaking hands.

“My pleasure.”

“And I’d be grateful if you could do any further research.”

“As you wish—but you’ll find I am right, Commissario. The woman’s a whore.”

Trotti nodded and with Magagna left the morgue, letting the rubber barriers beneath the door swish silently behind them. Outside, in the hospital corridor, with its well-scrubbed wooden floor, the air was hot again. It hit Trotti like a damp flannel across the face. But he shivered.

Magagna took an MS from a packet and lit it as they went down the stairs. “Ah,” he said. “The real world.” He turned and made a gesture with his first and smallest finger towards the morgue.

“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”

“I hedge my bets.”

They went out into the sunshine. The two old men had disappeared; a couple of nurses went past. One was telling a joke in dialect. The other opened her mouth to laugh and then caught sight of Trotti. She moved on hurriedly.

“Check out the whorehouses. Not just in the city but also out near the barracks. You never know, it could be a frustrated
kid doing military service. Ask the girls, check out with all our informants. Check even with the transvestite who hangs out near the station—he might know something. But it’s possible she’s not local so check again with the Carabinieri. But specify that you’re looking for a prostitute.”

“Nothing so far on missing persons. Neither from Milan nor from the Central computer. Pronto Intervento are deliberately cagey.”

“Spadano wouldn’t give you the time of day without a directive in triplicate from Rome.”

“But I don’t have the impression they’ve got anything to hide.”

“Keep at it. I don’t want the Carabinieri interfering—you know what they’re like.” He put a hand to his forehead; he was now perspiring freely. “Christ, it all happens at once. We’ve got sawn legs being fished out of the river and a kidnapping. And yesterday Leonardelli was on to me.”

“What does he want?”

“Just that we drop everything and keep an eye on a couple of spoiled kids. A round-the-clock job and I haven’t got a man to spare.”

“So?”

“I’ve given it to Pisanelli.”

Magagna laughed, a spluttering laugh that came through his nose and blew at the strands of his mustache.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny. I like Pisanelli, he’s all right. But he’s not exactly the smartest man in the Squadra. He should have been a doctor or a teacher.”

“He’s not stupid.”

Magagna looked at Trotti in silence. Then, blowing out cigarette smoke, asked, “Why all the fuss, anyway?”

“Leonardelli wants no scandal at election time.”

“He’s not a Communist, is he?”

“He’s a survivor.”

Trotti took Magagna’s arm and together they crossed the hospital courtyard to where the car was parked. Magagna climbed in.

“I’ve got things to do,” said Trotti, leaning through the open window. “And later this evening, I’d better see how he’s doing, our Pisanelli. Take the car and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Magagna switched on the ignition.

“One other thing. Look, until the elections—unless I tell you otherwise—I’d rather you didn’t wear uniform.”

Magagna looked disappointed. “Just when I’ve got her to iron it. You haven’t noticed? The sharp creases?”

“Who irons it?”

Magagna lowered the glasses on his nose and looking at Trotti, smiled and gave him an exaggerated wink. Then the car pulled away. It took a large swing and leaving a thin, blue vapor, went through the hospital gates.

Trotti went out of the hospital; the fat porter sitting at the main gate,
L’Intrepido
on his knee, gave him a friendly wave and a large smile.

He crossed the main road and went to a tilted parasol and a large, deep, red refrigerator where a man was selling soft drinks. In scratched script across the front of the refrigerator C
OCA
-C
OLA
had been painted. Trotti bought a bottle.

The man placed two straws in the neck.

“Give me a paper cup.”

“Paper cups cost money.”

“And the bubbles make me belch.”

With a closed face, the man handed him a cup; Trotti poured the dark liquid and drank. It was sweet and there was a thin rainbow of oil beneath the bursting bubbles. And a slight smell of wax.

Trotti moved away and beneath a large oak tree sat down on a concrete slab. It probably came from the nearby building site where luxury apartments were being constructed. A crane swiveled slowly against the sky.

Trotti watched the passing traffic—yellow buses, cars and the occasional ambulance, snub-nosed Fiats, turning into the main gates of the hospital. On the other side of the road, a woman was selling flowers; from time to time she sluiced down the pavement with a bucket of water.

The cup was cold in his hands.

“Commissario?”

Trotti turned. At first sight, he did not recognize the man. He looked thinner in the well-pressed white lab coat and the dark hair was hidden by a nurse’s cap. He was smiling.

“I caught sight of you purely by chance. I’ve got to go back but I saw you coming out of the morgue. Visiting friends?”

“Dottor Clerice.” Trotti stood up and they shook hands. Behind the smell of hospital antiseptic, there was still the hint of expensive eau de cologne.

“You recognize me in my disguise?” He laughed.

“You should be sleeping.” Trotti looked at his watch. “Nearly four o’clock. You ought to be resting after a hard night watching the nurses work.”

The young face was pale. “I haven’t stopped since one o’clock this morning.”

“A good day for appendices?”

“An articulated truck came off the main Milan-Genoa road; it swung right around and four cars went straight into it. It was carrying toxic gas but fortunately it didn’t explode. Five major casualties—and three have died already.”

Trotti could feel the chill of the morgue again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

Clerice shrugged. “These things happen. I imagine in your line of business you must come across a lot of gruesome sights.”

Trotti had the impression that Clerice was waiting for a reaction.

The traffic hummed by; another ambulance pulled slowly through the hospital gates. And slowly the shadow of the large oak moved across the pavement, exposing the toe of his shoe to the afternoon sun.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks.” Clerice’s face lightened. “Yes, thanks. I’ll get it,” and he went over to the refrigerator. Trotti watched him. Slightly overweight but a good-looking young man, with an intelligent face.

“Mind if I sit beside you?”

He was not wearing any socks and Trotti noticed that the
pale ankles peeked from between the bottom of his trousers and his thick leather moccasins. He sat on the concrete slab beside Trotti. He drank through two straws.

“Commissario,” he said as he placed the bottle between his feet on the asphalt pavement. “You must excuse me.”

“For what?”

“May I see your identity?”

Trotti took the wallet from his jacket pocket and opened it. Clerice nodded towards the perspex and the narrow stripes of red and green.

“I’m sorry,” he smiled, “but I had to be sure. I was rather rude towards you yesterday but …” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Well, I didn’t know if could trust you.”

“You can trust me.”

“I hope so.”

There was a pause; the two men looked at each other, Clerice’s plump face in a lopsided smile.

“Collegio Sant’Antonio di Padova is a Catholic establishment,” Clerice said, “and we are supposed to live in the odor of sanctity.”

“Difficult.”

“And I am not married.” He blushed very slightly.

“Tania?”

“How did you know?” He frowned his incomprehension and then laughed. “We intend to get married. Once I’ve got a decent qualification and I can be sure of a job in a hospital—even in some fly-blown place in the Mezzogiorno. Tania and I are in love.”

“And you share your afternoon siestas with her?”

Clerice lowered his eyes. “The concierge knows—but we have an agreement. I can get her special treatment at Gynecology.” He lifted the bottle and sucked briefly at the striped straws. “You see, the Dean mustn’t know. He’s an old priest and he has old-fashioned ideas. If he finds out, I’ll lose my place in the college. And I could never afford lodgings in the city. I must stay.”

“With all the crucifixes?”

“With all the crucifixes.” Clerice’s cheeks were dark, he
needed a shave. He looked up. “You see, Tania did notice something the other day—something a bit strange.”

“What?”

“When she was with me. I couldn’t tell you that, but apparently she noticed something. I had no idea about it until I mentioned your visit to her. I saw her for a few minutes this morning—she works in obstetrics.”

“What did she see?”

“A Citroën. She was looking out of the window—it must’ve been the day before yesterday—and she saw this car in via Darsena. It’s not the sort of back street where you expect to see a large, expensive French car. An ID or a DS. And there’s another thing.”

“What?”

“It had a Milan license plate.”

A
SOFT SUMMER
evening; the street lamps swung gently and cast their moving circles of light onto the stone slabs of Strada Nuova. A few taxis went past and some new buses, brightly lit, headed along the corso towards the edge of the city and the flat suburban fields.

Trotti had eaten at home with Pioppi; she had been quiet during the meal and then had gone through to watch an old film on television.

There were times when she and her father were close friends, and other times when she went, like this evening, into her own universe and Trotti knew that the best thing was to leave her alone.

Yet he felt depressed as he left his car outside the Questura.

The university stood out against the failing evening light. The old walls, pitted with bullet marks and the memorial to dead patriots—Abyssinia, Caporetto, the partisan war—was lit up by floodlights. A student went past on his bicycle and the lights caught him like an insect, casting his grotesque shadow onto the pitted ocher plasterwork. The Italian flag hung from its staff and moved with the evening breeze.

As he walked towards the Piazza Vittoria, Trotti’s ears were assailed by the metallic noise of amplified voices. The sky had taken on the silver glow of artificial lighting.

Trotti recognized immediately the First Secretary of the Italian Socialist party. He was wearing half-frame glasses and leaned
forward to speak into the microphones, placed like a bunch of flowers on the desk before him. The piazza was crowded. Serried ranks of wooden chairs, laid out in even rows upon the medieval cobbles. The faces were lit by the reflected light of the incandescent beams. There were old men with wrinkled skin and eyes that glinted ferociously. Some wore berets and one man had the deep red scarf of the old partisan tied loosely at the neck. The women stood, often in small groups, at the back of the crowd. With them, their well-fed children and grandchildren. More people watched from the long arcades that ran along the two sides of the piazza.

“Which is one more criminal act in the spiral of tension, another attack upon the basic liberties of each Italian, man, woman and child, as defined by our constitution!”

The delivery was hesitant; the First Secretary gesticulated with a closed fist while reading his note.

The applause was thunderous.

Among the audience there were young people in short-sleeved shirts and open-necked sweaters. The boys wore jeans, the girls billowing summer frocks. Several wore the red scarf.

“The Socialist party of Italy repudiates violence as a means to an end, it repudiates the tactics of tension, it repudiates all form of terrorism, whether from the Left or from the Right.”

More applause. Caught in the converging circles of white light, the speaker scarcely looked at his audience while his voice boomed from a dozen well-placed speakers.