Persona Non Grata (14 page)

Trotti nodded. “Outside the Questura, Brigadiere.” He frowned as a voice came on the line. “Fra Gianni?”

“Don’t you ever work, Piero?”

“I was at the hospital.”

“Have you started checking?”

“Checking for what?”

“The man I told you about.”

“Primula Rosa, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I have been busy all morning. I do have a job to do—and a city to worry about.”

“You promised me you would start looking for him.”

“I told you. Santa Maria is not part of my jurisdiction.”

“But you are concerned.”

“A trace on somebody—somebody who has no criminal record, who has done nothing wrong—do you realize the effort involved?”

“You have computers.”

Trotti laughed. “You don’t even know what a computer is.”

“You promised, Piero.”

“It’s not up to me. It’s up to the Carabinieri.”

“And you know what the Carabinieri are like.”

“Fra Gianni, I am not—”

“Piero, you gave me your word.”

The pigeons. They were cooing beneath the roof; beyond the window, the terra-cotta tiles of the city, the towers and the dome of the cathedral were bright and clear now that the mist had lifted.

“Piero, you gave me your word.”

“And how am I going to find him?”

“Use the computer.”

“Primula Rosa is not his real name.”

“Don’t make excuses. You know his real name.”

Trotti waited.

“His name is Vecchioni, Mario Vecchioni. Class of twenty-three.”

Trotti was silent.

“Well?”

“What was it you said the other day? That, with my singing voice, I should have gone into the Church.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“That’s what you said, isn’t it—I should’ve gone into the Church?”

“I’ve always thought that.”

“And you, Gianni, you have all the single-mindedness of a policeman.”

The priest laughed, said, “God bless you, Piero,” and hung up.

T
HE TWO MEN
shook hands.

“You’re not looking any younger, Trotti.”

Trotti sat down in the leather armchair.

Spadano returned to his desk and picked up the stub of a Toscano cigar from where he had placed it on the ashtray. A plastic ashtray, chipped and advertising the
Provincia Padana
. “What brings you here?”

“Good to see you, Spadano.”

“It’s always good to see you, Trotti—when you’re not asking for favors.”

“I need a favor, Spadano.”

“Coffee?”

“I need a favor.”

“Then you know the answer.”

The office was spacious and well-furnished. For unimaginative southerners, the Carabinieri did well for themselves.

Spadano lit the black end of the cigar with a kitchen match. “Trying to give them up.” He looked at Trotti, “One of the remaining vices.” He blew out the match.

Later a man in uniform brought in a tray of coffee. Little cups with the insignia of the Carabinieri. There was also a bottle that Spadano took and opened, twisting the cap with a rapid movement.

“Grappa?”

Trotti shook his head. “I’m having lunch soon—with a friend.”

“Never known you to refuse, Trotti.” Spadano poured grappa into both cups.

They drank—Spadano in one gulp, Trotti slowly.

“Lunch with a lady friend, Trotti?”

Trotti nodded.

“And the family?”

“My wife’s in America.”

“So I heard.” Regular features, tanned skin and hard eyes behind the acrid cloud of cigar smoke. A perfectly ironed khaki shirt. “So I heard.”

“Probably better for everybody.”

“A very sophisticated woman, Signora Trotti.”

“Too sophisticated for me.”

“Being a policeman is a full-time job—and it takes the place of wife and family.” Spadano leaned forward and placed the cup on its saucer. “You have a wife. And you have your daughter. You must not complain.”

“Pioppi is in Bologna.”

Spadano tapped his left shoulder. “The pips and the insignia. This is my life. Nearly thirty years in the Carabinieri. They have been good years—and the friends are good friends.” He gave a brief shake of his head. “At least those who are still alive. The Years of Lead haven’t been kind to any of us.”

“The Years of Lead are over, thank God.”

“We knew then who the enemy was. Urban terrorism. And in Dalla Chiesa we had a man—a Carabiniere—who knew what he wanted. Terrorism was the enemy—and we defeated it.”

“The Carabinieri defeated terrorism?”

“Italy, Trotti. The Italian people—it was they—us—who said we’d had enough of kneecappings and bombings, trains being blown up and policemen murdered. Innocent people being blown apart in Brescia or Florence. Terrorism from the extreme left and the extreme right. Years of Lead—but they were also years of hope.”

“And now?”

“They sent Dalla Chiesa to Palermo—this time to combat the Mafia. Within three months he was dead.”

“The Mafia killed him.”

“Rome killed him—because between an honest Carabiniere and the Mafia, Rome will always prefer the Mafia.” For a moment he was silent, his eyes bright and watching Trotti through the rising clouds of smoke. “Rome needs the Mafia because Rome is the Mafia!”

“You are bitter.”

Spadano put the cigar back on the ashtray and fumbled in a drawer. He produced a letter that he held out to Trotti.

Trotti did not take the letter. He recognized the heading: Ministry of Defense.

“They are sending me to Sardinia.”

Trotti whistled softly.

“Orgosolo in Nuoro Province.”

“At least you won’t be bothered by the Pubblica Sicurezza coming to ask you for favors.”

“I have grown to like this city.”

Trotti raised an eyebrow as he set the coffee cup down on its matching saucer.

“A northern city. Hard-working, conservative and quietly xenophobic. But kind. And decent—in its own provincial way.”

“Sardinia is the south, Spadano. You’re going home.”

“Who told you I wanted to go home?”

“We all want to go home. We are getting old—and there is nowhere else.”

“I like this city—and they’re sending me to Nuoro. Working with helicopters, looking for the shepherd kidnappers and their wealthy victims in the barren mountains of Sardinia.”

“Promotion, Spadano.”

“All my life I have thought about the Arma—about doing my duty. And about promotion. And the insignia have grown into my flesh, have become part of me. There has never been anything else. And now …” He shrugged. “The Ministry is pleased with me.” He glanced at the letter and shook his head.

“What more do you want?”

“I want what you have always taken for granted.”

Trotti smiled without understanding.

“The best men, the best equipment, helicopters and land vehicles. Night vision equipment and the full support of the Finanza. I will be part of one of the biggest attacks mounted against organized crime in this country’s history. A direct line to Rome and the Ministry. British and American advisers—there are even going to be watchers from the UN.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

“When all the time I find myself looking at the kids in the street, Trotti, and wishing that one was mine—wishing that instead of a barracks to come back to, there was a little boy just a little bit like me—perhaps a bit cleverer—who was going to grow up and become like me. Like me, but wiser.”

Trotti shrugged.

“I never gave marriage a second thought. Not once in thirty years. But now I am suddenly afraid that all that I have worked for will die with me. You have a daughter, Trotti.”

“I scarcely ever see Pioppi.”

“But you know that she is there.” Spadano sat back. “You know that when your time comes, a part of you will live on.”

“I genuinely believe that the Captain of Carabinieri is feeling sorry for himself.”

“A life in the hills, chasing bandits … How can I ever hope to find a … to start a family now if I am away from civilization?” A deprecatory shrug.

Trotti laughed, not unkindly. “We can’t all be Dalla Chiesa, Spadano. We can’t all be high-ranking generals. We can’t all be the man the country turns to in its moment of need. And above all, we can’t all hope to find a beautiful young wife to share the evening years of our lives. Dalla Chiesa had money and fame. A wealthy background—Piemonte. And an international reputation. But where are you and I—ageing policemen, Spadano—where are we going to find a young wife half our age?”

“You don’t need a wife, Trotti. You have a daughter, you should be happy.”

“My wife is in America and I see Pioppi at best a couple of times a year. She has decided that she’s happier without her father.”

“One thing’s certain—I’m not going to find anything in the Sopramonte. Other than sheep, wind and rain. And foul-smelling Sardinian peasants and murderers.” He poured himself another cup of coffee from the stainless steel pot. Spadano swallowed in one fast bob of his adam’s apple. Then he looked at Trotti, his face set. “Well?”

“I told you—I want a favor.”

“I don’t owe the Pubblica Sicurezza any favors.”

“Spadano—you don’t owe me a favor. But I have known you long enough …?”

The short hair was turning white at the temples. “What is it you want? About the little girl who was attacked?”

“You heard about that?”

Spadano said, “I can read, Trotti. I can read the
Provincia
—for the last couple of days, it hasn’t mentioned anything else. I can recognize your name. I can see that our local newspaper is intent on creating an atmosphere of hysteria.” He paused. “And the Bianchini boy?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The Bianchini boy is innocent.”

“What are you talking about, Spadano?”

“I knew the father—a drinker and a womanizer. But he is my friend. And I know the son. Riccardo may be a bit reckless, a bit spoiled by his mother—but he is not a criminal.”

Silence.

“We all get telephone calls, Piero—that is what power in Italy is all about. People you’ve never heard of asking for favors, asking you to forget your responsibilities, your duty to your job and your country. It’s something I’ve never accepted—because my only duty is towards the Arma. So if you think I’m interfering, forgive me. I know the Bianchini family—and I know Riccardo. For your sake, Piero—for your sake and so that you don’t waste any time—I can tell you now that Riccardo Bianchini is innocent.”

Trotti was silent.

“Angry, Trotti?”

“Surprised, Spadano.”

The Carabiniere coughed. “More coffee?”

“No.”

The two men looked at each other without speaking. “You wanted to ask me a favor, I believe.”

Trotti lowered his voice. It was flat, devoid of emotion. “Access to Carabinieri archives, Spadano. That’s what I need.”

For a moment Spadano looked at Trotti in silence. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“You don’t think you can help me find out who murdered a Carabiniere in Santa Maria in Collina?”

“Saltieri? That was a very long time ago, Trotti.”

Trotti nodded.

“I’d like you to follow it up. Find out as much as you can from archives about Santa Maria.”

“You have your own good men in the Pubblica Sicurezza, Trotti.”

“Santa Maria is not in my jurisdiction. And I want to know about the murders—the mysterious deaths—that have occurred there since the war. At least six deaths in the last twenty years. And all within a few meters of each other.”

“Why?”

Trotti shrugged.

“Why?”

“As a favor to an old friend.”

“You mean the crazy old priest?”

Trotti tried to hide his surprise. “What do you know about Santa Maria, Spadano?”

“Slow, unimaginative southerners, Trotti. But careful and painstaking.”

“What do you know about Santa Maria? And about Fra Gianni?”

“An old man living in the past. Who hasn’t stopped pestering the Carabinieri for the last five years with his theories of mass murder.”

“Fra Gianni is a friend. And a friend of my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

“Italo Trotti was killed in the hills. At about the same time as Saltieri.”

Again the two men looked at each other. Rivalry and the unavowed affection of years spent working for and against each other.

“I’ve come for a favor. The Arma, Spadano—with its tradition of loyalty? Loyalty to the State—and to the partisans. The insignia tattooed into your flesh? You are a Carabiniere and I want to find out who killed the Carabiniere Saltieri because perhaps the same people killed my brother.”

Silence.

“The same people who have been murdering for the last forty years.”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“You can help me.”

Spadano’s dark eyes remained on Trotti. “Will you do it, Spadano?”

“Do what?”

“Will you let me have a look at the Santa Maria dossiers?”

Spadano said nothing.

“Not just for me or for the priest. But for Saltieri.”

“Saltieri is dead.”

“And for the good name of the Arma.”

Spadano took a deep breath.

“Well?”

“Have some more coffee, Trotti.”

Slowly Trotti’s face broke into a smile. “You forget I’m having lunch with a young lady, Spadano.”

“A
H
, C
OMMISSARIO
.”

Trotti turned and squinted against the light.

“I hear you were looking for me,” Maserati said and gave a forced smile. It was rare that he was to be seen out of his white lab coat. “Actually, I was about to go to lunch.”

“Bit early for lunch, isn’t it?”

He wore jeans and a loose jacket; the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. Although casually dressed, Maserati somehow appeared ill at ease away from his machines.

(Cardano in Scientifica maintained that Maserati was intending to get married before the end of the year.)

“I hear that Ciuffi dragged you in early this morning for an identikit. Our Brigadiere Ciuffi can be a very determined police woman.”

“But nice.” Maserati grinned and perhaps even winked, it was hard to tell in the light. “And very fond of you.”