Converging Parallels (2 page)

“Pioppi?” Trotti’s knuckles had whitened. “Where is she?”

“I must see you. Now.”

“Where is Pioppi?”

“In fifteen minutes; by the old stables near the river.”

“Where is she?”

“Come alone.” The man hesitated. “Please.”

Then with a click, the line went dead.

T
HEY TOOK THE
Alfetta and raced through the city center. The streets were empty of traffic. A few pedestrians hidden beneath dark umbrellas hurried along the pavements.

At the edge of the town they joined up with the flow of traffic, cut across Viale Gorizia—Magagna had turned on the siren—went across the iron bridge and followed the dark line of the canal to where the water gushed over the lock into the river.

They came to a halt by the rusting dredgers. “Wait here and turn that damn thing off.”

Trotti got out, opened his umbrella and buttoned his jacket. The pistol weighed at his pocket. He walked fast, shoes splashing on the wet road. The wail of the siren slowly died in the damp air.

This was the edge of the city where the old houses gradually fell away and where the road became a cart track, running parallel to the river—a no-man’s land inhabited by a thin phalanx of plane trees. To Trotti’s left, one or two flat farmhouses, red brick with sloping, tiled roofs—a few uninhabited. Beyond them, the low-lying allotments, then the textile factory, its chimneys and its satellite apartment blocks, tawdry beneath the grey rain.

On his right, the Po.

The rain was coming down hard, thundering against the taut black nylon of the umbrella. He slipped on the wet mud and swore. An ugly place, part of the city and disowned by it. The
rain could not hide the sharp, unpleasant smell of acid that came from the factory chimneys. People had been complaining about it for years. Nothing had been done; the company could not afford the cost of a filter. When the complaints grew too strident, the director threatened closure and the loss of jobs. For a time, the complaints ceased.

An ugly place; twice a year the river broke its banks and swamped the saplings. Then in its retreat, the Po left dead wood and industrial detritus, plastic shopping bags and bleached cigarette packets. And a patina of mud that turned to powdery dust in the summer months.

He followed the track along the river; it curved and at the bend there was a wooden shack and two rusting caravans. Smoke poured from a perforated oil drum, billowing fumes of rubber. A dozen cars, piled up, stood like gaunt carcasses against the grey water of the river. Gypsies, vagrants, rag-and-bone men—they lived here, earning a living from the scrap metal. Two mongrels bounded towards Trotti and yapped at his ankles.

He stepped round an old jukebox, lying on its tarnished chrome in the mud. The dogs barked louder.

A fat, blonde woman quickly disappeared through the door of one of the caravans. She was smoking.

The road curved away and the dogs lost interest in him and scampered off. Trotti was now hidden from the caravans by a row of bushes. He went up a slight slope where the ground was drier and he broke into a run. He tried not to think of Pioppi. He placed his hand against his pocket to stop the gun from slapping against his thigh.

Rain pattered overhead onto the leaves of the trees. Trotti stopped when he saw the man; he was leaning against the corrugated wall of the stables.

Thirty meters between them. Trotti walked.

Two horses stood in an open field, staring at the rain with mournful eyes; they nuzzled at each other, as though looking for warmth. Painted wooden hurdles and white barriers lay scattered across the grass.

Ten, twelve years ago, it was here that Trotti used to bring Pioppi in her horse riding days; sometimes Agnese came too.

He gripped the Beretta in his pocket.

Bales of hay had been piled beneath the sloping iron roof. The man moved away from the wall and came towards Trotti.

“I’m glad you could come.”

Although the face was hidden by a woman’s umbrella, there was something familiar in the way the man walked. The body leaned backwards and he set his weight heavily upon each leg in turn.

“Trotti.” The red umbrella went back, revealing the tired, pale face.

“Ermagni.”

He tried to smile. White, unhealthy skin, dark eyebrows and bleary, bloodshot eyes.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Pioppi?”

“I’m sorry. It was a silly idea.”

“Where is she?”

Ermagni shrugged. “I don’t know. School, perhaps.”

“She’s not with you?”

“Of course not—but on the spur of the moment, I couldn’t think of any other way to persuade …”

Trotti heaved a sigh of relief; the shirt on his back felt hot with sweat. He released the grip on the pistol and he noticed that the palm of his hand hurt.

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault.” Ermagni came towards Trotti, the umbrella over his shoulder and holding out his large hand. Trotti struck him; the back of his hand against the stubble of the jaw. Ermagni stumbled backwards and fell into the mud. The red umbrella rolled away.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I almost killed you.”

Rain splattered the large face, forming more tears that ran over the fat cheeks and fell to the mud. “I was beside myself. I didn’t know what to do.”

He rolled heavily over onto his hands and clambered upright. Trotti picked up the red umbrella. “I had to talk to you. You’ve
always been good to me.” He smelt of stale perspiration. He was wearing a jacket that was crumpled and now smeared with fresh mud. “You’re her godfather.”

“Let’s get out of the rain.”

They stepped beneath the curving roof of the stable as one of the horses neighed.

“I wanted to go directly to the police but he wouldn’t let me. He said that he wanted to keep things quiet—for the time being at least—in case they contacted us. In case there is a ransom to pay.”

“Who said this?”

“Said what?”

“Not to come to the police?”

Ermagni smiled vaguely. “Rossi—my father-in-law. If he knows that I’m seeing you, he’ll be furious. He hates the police—and he doesn’t want the bank account to be blocked. You see, that’s why I had to speak to you in private.”

Trotti pulled the pistol from his pocket. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

With dull eyes, Ermagni glanced at the pistol, heedless—or perhaps unaware—of its menace.

“Five minutes.” He held up five stubby fingers. “Five minutes of your time, that’s all I ask. Please, Commissario. You’re her godfather. I wouldn’t ask you unless …”

Another tear swelled at the corner of his red eyelids. Ermagni turned away and gulped like a man in need of breath. Above them, the rain battered against the iron roof. A puddle had formed in an old tire track. The two horses stood motionless in the open field.

A
NNA
E
RMAGNI WAS
a timid child, six years old, with black, bobbed hair and a serious expression. She had her mother’s grey eyes. On the afternoon of 3 May 1978 she disappeared.

Ermagni had accompanied her to the public gardens in via Darsena at three o’clock. There she played with her friends. At 4:20, hearing the sound of screeching brakes, of broken glass and of people shouting, Ermagni went out of the gardens and round the block into Corso Garibaldi. A motorbike had run into the back of a car. Nobody was hurt. When he returned to the gardens fifteen minutes later, Anna was not there. The other children did not know where she had gone. They shook their heads at the father’s worried questions. They had seen her, they had been playing with her. Then she had gone away.

The father ran back to the bar in Corso Garibaldi. His father-in-law was behind the bar, wiping glasses. He threw the dishcloth over his shoulders and bent forward across the counter as Ermagni whispered hoarsely. The old man turned pale.

They closed the bar, pushing the grumbling clients out onto the dusty street. Signor Rossi sent the two waiters home and pulled down the iron blinds. His wife came clambering down the stairs, her freckled hands trembling as she repeatedly crossed herself. When she heard that her granddaughter had been kidnapped she fainted.

The two men took the small Fiat and drove through the town,
stopping in the parks, going into private courtyards and driving along the cobbled streets. They went out into the suburbs; they went back to the fairground several times. They drove along the river and questioned the dark-skinned gypsies in their camp. They went to the far side of the river where children were still swimming in water tinted red by the setting sun. They spoke to the children. Nobody had seen a little girl with black, bobbed hair and grey eyes.

“You should have contacted the police immediately.”

Ermagni looked at him, squinting, “No.”

“We know where to look.”

“My father-in-law wants to have nothing to do with the police.”

“We’ve got the experience—and the manpower.”

“You haven’t found Moro.”

Trotti was about to reply, but Ermagni interrupted, “Commissario, my daughter has been kidnapped. And we will pay the ransom.”

“You’ve got the money?”

“I’m a taxi driver. Money …” He raised his shoulders. “I’ve been able to put some aside.” He counted his fingers. “Two million, three million perhaps. Things are going well—they’ve been going well since the mayor closed the city center to traffic.”

“Three million is no fortune. Has your wife got something?”

“My wife is dead, Dottore.”

Trotti frowned. “Flavia?” He could remember a small, narrow-shouldered girl. Young, with beautiful grey eyes.

“Her name was Fulvia.” The shoulders of the muddied jacket—coarse weave and badly cut—fell dejectedly. “Anna’s all I’ve got left—that’s why I had to talk with you, I knew you’d help me. Without her …” His voice trailed away.

“You never told me your wife was dead.”

“There was nothing the doctors could do. It was a kind of cancer. She died last February.” He paused. “It was in the paper.”

“You should have told me.”

“I didn’t know you were back; you never informed me. I thought you were still in Bari—until I caught sight of you a
couple of months ago in the street.” He added, hope in his voice, “You will help me, won’t you?”

“I don’t work for a private detective agency.”

“Commissario Trotti, my father-in-law owns the San Siro bar. He will sell. If it is necessary, he will sell everything. Ninety, a hundred million, perhaps more. But if the police are involved, they will block his account. That’s the official procedure, you know that. Things have got worse since Moro was taken.” He lowered his voice. “I could never allow that, Dottore. Never.”

He started to sob again.

“Has there been any contact?”

Ermagni brushed aside the tears with a large, clumsy hand. “My mother-in-law has not left the phone—not even to sleep. She just waits for it to ring.”

“She’s taking it badly?”

“She feels guilty. We all feel guilty. I should never have left Anna alone in the park. But it’s a small place and not many people know it. Local children go there. And lately, I’ve been trying to get my afternoons free—to be with my daughter. Normally I work nights but lately I’ve been able to make arrangements with my colleagues. I want to be with her—now that her mother …”

Trotti turned away.

“The gardens have always been safe.”

“Until yesterday.”

“Until yesterday,” he repeated lamely. He took the woman’s umbrella from Trotti.

“It doesn’t sound like a kidnapping—not without a contact.”

“A game, a psychological game.” Ermagni had difficulty with the word. “The uncertainty, the waiting. It’s done to soften us up.”

“You have enemies?”

“I don’t think so.”

“There is another possibility.”

Ermagni raised his large head. “What’s that?”

“It could be a maniac.”

T
HE
S
CUOLA
E
LEMENTARE
Gerolamo Cardano was on the west side of the city, beyond the railway station, in one of the newly built suburban roads. It was wedged between two blocks of flats. The pavement was littered with parked cars that suffocated the sparse young trees. Trotti entered the school gates and walked along a modern portico—square columns with marble tiling that was beginning to fall away, leaving irregular checkers of rough plaster.

He went through a door and found himself in a long corridor; it was somber and the air was heavy with the smell of chalk and floor wax.

“Signore?”

The porter came out of his glass cubicle, buttoning a blue jacket and looking with disapproval at Trotti’s wet shoes. He was smoking. He had a round face with a protuberant, aggressive jaw beneath the peaked cap. The enamel arms of the city gleamed importantly from the rim of the cap.

“Pubblica Sicurezza.”

The man stiffened and made an awkward bow as he threw away the cigarette.

“I should like to speak to the headmistress.”

“Of course.” Another slight bow. “This way please.” He produced an umbrella and opened it. They went along the corridor and entered a colonnaded courtyard. A low fountain flowed into
a fishpond. The lethargic shadows of fish. The steel tips on the porter’s shoes echoed along the cloisters. From somewhere there came the sound of children singing and Trotti was reminded of his own school years—the patriotic songs, the uniform, the wooden guns.

They climbed a wide stairway, the deep red slabs pocked like bad skin. The porter wheezed unhealthily. “I retire at the end of the year.” He laughed uncertainly.

The headmistress was in her office.

On the door, there was a nameplate of transparent plastic with red lettering:
DIRETTRICE, SIG.RA BELLONI
.

The porter knocked and they entered a small, bright room with Piranesi prints on the wall and high-backed chairs encircling a walnut table. Several flowerpots lined the window sill; the air was fragrant with camellia blossom. Like a stuck insect, an immobile fan blade was fixed to the ceiling. The headmistress came forward. She held out her right hand while with her left she tapped at the hair of her bun.