Ratking (12 page)

‘But how did the Milettis know, for that matter?’

‘Because it was they who had you sent here, of course! You don’t, for heaven’s sake, think that things like that happen without someone pulling strings, do you?’

Zen looked away. He had just remembered where he’d heard the phrase with which Crepi had rung off. It had been the signature of the anonymous letter Bartocci had received suggesting that the kidnapping of Ruggiero Miletti was a put-up job. He found himself writing CREPI??? in block capitals on the pad in front of him. He hastily crossed it out, then covered the whole area with tight scribbles until all trace of the name had been obliterated.

‘I don’t quite understand, signora,’ he said. ‘First you claim that the family is collaborating with the kidnappers, then you say they must have used their influence to have me sent here. Isn’t there some contradiction in your ideas?’

With a convulsive movement Patrizia Valesio got to her feet.

‘Don’t you speak to me of contradictions! That whole family is a living contradiction, consuming anything and anyone that comes within its reach, one of them smiling in your face while another stabs you in the back. My poor husband, who wanted only to help, ended up as their victim. Be careful you don’t share his fate!’

Zen also rose.

‘Anyway, since this case is under investigation by the judiciary, the proper person to inform is the magistrate in charge, Luciano Bartocci.’

His visitor picked up her gloves and handbag.

‘Oh, I
shall
inform him, don’t worry! And I shall inform him that I’ve informed you. And then I shall inform the Public Prosecutor’s department that I’ve informed both of you. Do you know why I’m going to inform so many people, Commissioner? Because I am expecting there to be a conspiracy of silence on this matter and I intend to make it as difficult as possible for the Milettis and their friends. If there is to be a conspiracy, at least everyone will see that it exists and will know who is involved. That will be some poor consolation, at least.’

At the last moment Zen remembered the diary. He showed it to Patrizia Valesio and asked if she knew anything about the asterisks which Chiodini had pointed out. The sight of her husband’s writing was clearly a great shock, but she held herself together.

‘Those are the days on which Ubaldo had a meeting with the kidnappers,’ she replied in a dull voice. ‘He marked the diary as soon as they phoned. He thought it might be useful later.’

Well, perhaps it might, Zen thought when she had gone. But he couldn’t see how.

He opened the door to the other room. Lucaroni was standing almost immediately inside, studying a notice concerning action to be taken in the event of fire breaking out in the building. Geraci was sitting at his desk, a paperback edition of the Penal Code open in front of him. Chiodini had slumped forward on his newspaper and seemed to be asleep.

‘Well, I’ve got some work for you, lads,’ Zen exclaimed breezily. ‘From what Valesio’s widow has told me, it’s clear that her husband’s contacts with the gang began with a telephone call that was simply a signal for him to go to some prearranged meeting-place. The chances are that it was a bar, somewhere not too far away. I want you to find it. Draw up a list and visit each in turn. Take a photograph of Valesio along. It shouldn’t be too difficult. A smart young lawyer driving a BMW will have been noticed.’

When they had gone Zen went back to his office and dialled an internal number.

‘
Records
.’

‘I want a check run on any firearms licences issued to the following persons. Family name Miletti, first names Ruggiero, Pietro, Silvio and …’

Again that sound next door. Zen put the phone down, got up quietly and went over to the door into the corridor. He looked out. The corridor was empty, but the door to the inspector’s room was slightly ajar. Zen walked along the corridor and pushed it wide open. Geraci was standing by his desk. He whirled round as the door hit the rubbish bin with a loud clang.

‘Forgot my notebook,’ he explained.

Zen nodded.

‘Listen, Geraci, I want you to keep an eye on the other two for me.’

The inspector stared uncertainly at Zen.

‘Keep an eye on them?’

‘That’s it. Just in case.’

He winked and tapped the side of his nose.

‘Better safe than sorry. Know what I mean?’

Geraci clearly didn’t have the slightest idea what Zen was talking about.

‘I should get going,’ he muttered nervously.

‘Good thinking. Don’t want to make them suspicious.’

He watched Geraci walk all the way down the corridor before going back to his office, leaving the connecting door open so that if anyone came in he could see them reflected on Pertini’s portrait. Then he picked up the receiver again.

‘Hello?’

‘
So far
I’ve
got
Miletti Ruggiero, Pietro
and
Silvio
.’

‘Right. Also Miletti Daniele, Santucci Gianluigi and Cinzia née Miletti.’

‘
Who’s speaking?
’

Zen seemed to see again that glare of hostility and hear the Questore murmur, ‘Until today he was handling the Miletti case for us.’

‘Fabrizio Priorelli.’

‘
I’ll call you straight back,
dottore
.’

‘Eh, no, my friend! Sorry, but you’ll do it now, if you please. I’ll hold.’

‘
Of course,
dottore
! Right away
.’

There was a clunk as the receiver went down, followed by receding footsteps. While he waited Zen looked round his office. Something about it was slightly different today, but he couldn’t decide what it was.

The footsteps returned.

‘
There are three cards,
dottore
. A
Luger
9mm pistol in the
name of
Miletti
Ruggiero
, issued 27 04 53. Then
Santucci
Gianluigi
registered a rifle on 19 10 75. Finally
Miletti
Cinzia
,
a
Beretta
pistol, 4.
5mm
, dated 11 01 81
.’

Zen noted these details in the margin of his earlier doodles.

‘
Shall I send a written copy up to your office,
dottore
?
’

‘No! Definitely not. I’ve got what I wanted. Much obliged.’

He hung up, studying the information. Ruggiero’s Luger would be war loot, belatedly registered once the menace of an armed Communist insurrection had faded. That might possibly have done the damage to Valesio’s head, at close range. So might Gianluigi’s hunting rifle, for that matter. But he didn’t really believe any of it, not for a moment.

He got an outside line, dialled the law courts and asked to speak to Luciano Bartocci. While he waited he looked round his office with a deepening frown, trying to track down the detail which had been altered. What
was
it? The filing cabinet, the coat-stand, the rubbish bin, that big ugly crucifix, the photograph of Pertini, the calendar. Of course, the calendar! Someone had thoughtfully turned the page to March and now the glossy colour photograph showed the Riot Squad drawn up in full battle gear in front of their armoured personnel carriers.

‘
Yes?
’

‘Dottor Bartocci? It’s Zen, at the Questura.’

‘
Finally!
I’ve
been trying to get hold of you since yesterday
afternoon! Where have you been?
’

‘Well, I was …’

‘
Listen,
there’ve
been developments. Come and see me at
once
.’

‘Patrizia Valesio has been here. She claims that …’

‘
I’ve already seen her. This is something else. Be here in
twenty minutes
.’

Outside the weather was hazy and dull. In the car park between the Questura and the prison Palottino had taken a break from polishing the Alfetta to chat to a pair of patrolmen. He looked hopefully at Zen, who waggled his finger and walked off up the street.

It was market day, and the wide curving flight of steps leading up to the centre was lined with flimsy tables covered in kitchenware and watches and clothing and tools and toys. Music blared out from a stall selling bootleg cassette tapes. The traders called like barnyard cocks to the women moving from one pitch to the next, uncertain which to mate with.

‘… at prices you simply won’t believe …’

‘… never before in Perugia …’

‘… thanks to the miracle of American technology …’

‘… ever wears out I will pay you twice the …’

‘SOCKS!!! SOCKS!!! SOCKS!!!’

‘… one for thirty thousand, two for fifty …’

A man sitting on a three-legged stool emptied a dustpan full of rubbish over his suit and then removed it with a battery-powered mini-vacuum cleaner. On the wall behind him the name UBALDO VALESIO appeared over and over again in large black capitals. It was a notice-board devoted exclusively to funeral announcements, and the lawyer’s death was well represented. There were posters signed by his partners, by the local lawyers’ association, the Miletti family, various relatives, and of course his wife and children. The wording changed slightly, depending on the degree of intimacy involved, but certain formulas recurred like the tolling of a bell.

‘… an innocent victim of barbarous cruelty…’

‘… tragically plucked from the bosom of his loved ones by a callous hand…’

‘… a virtuous and well-respected life extinguished by the criminal violence of evil men …’

The morning session at the law courts was in full swing, and the halls and corridors were crowded. Luciano Bartocci’s office was tall and narrow, with shelves of books that seemed to lean inwards like the sides of a chimney as they rose towards the distant ceiling. Two lawyers were facing the magistrate across a desk that occupied most of the floor space. One was clearly asking some favour on behalf of a client: bail or a visitor’s pass or access to official files. Meanwhile the other lawyer was growing impatient with Bartocci for allowing himself to be imposed upon in this way by his pushy and unscrupulous colleague instead of attending to
his
utterly reasonable request for bail or a visitor’s pass or access to official files. In the end Bartocci solved the problem by shooing both of them out of the office and leading Zen downstairs.

‘There’s something I want you to hear.’

He took him to a long narrow room in the cellars of the law courts, where phone-taps were carried out. A bank of reel-to-reel tape recorders lined the wall. A man was monitoring one of them over a pair of headphones. He jumped slightly as Bartocci touched his shoulder.

‘Morning, Aldo. Can you play us that recording I was listening to earlier?’

‘Right away.’

He selected a tape from the rack and threaded it on to a spare machine.

‘This was intercepted late yesterday afternoon on the Milettis’ home phone,’ the magistrate explained to Zen. ‘That’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

The technician handed Zen a pair of headphones and started the tape. There was a fragment of ringing tone and then a voice.

‘
Yes?
’

‘
Signor
Miletti
?
’

‘
Who is this?
’

‘
Go to the rubbish skip at the bottom of the hill, on the
corner of the main road. Taped to the inside there is a letter
for you. Get down there quickly, before the cops beat you to
it
.’

The caller had a thick, raw Calabrian accent.

‘
The time for games is over. You have three days to do what
we say, otherwise
we’ll
do to your father what we did to
Valesio
.
Only more slowly
.’

Zen removed the headphones, looking for clues to Bartocci’s reaction. The message had sounded genuine enough to him.

‘What was in the letter?’

‘That’s what we’re about to find out. Thank you, Aldo!’

As they walked back upstairs Bartocci went on, ‘Pietro Miletti has agreed to see me. I’m expecting him shortly and I’d like you to be present. We’ve just time for a coffee.’

They went to a tiny bar in Piazza Matteotti. The only other person there was a woman eating a large cream-filled pastry as though her life depended on it.

‘I had a phone call from Antonio Crepi,’ Zen remarked casually.

‘Really?’

Bartocci’s voice, too, was carefully expressionless.

‘He knows we had lunch.’

‘I’m sure he does. In fifteen minutes he’ll know we’ve had coffee, too.’

‘What did you make of Patrizia Valesio’s story?’ Zen asked.

The magistrate shrugged.

‘It doesn’t get us anywhere. A hostile Public Prosecutor would make mincemeat of her. The distraught widow trying to assuage her grief for her husband’s death by carrying out a vendetta against the Miletti family, that kind of thing. But this letter is another matter.’

It took Zen a moment to see what Bartocci was getting at.

‘If they try and fake a letter from the kidnappers, you mean?’

Bartocci nodded between sips of coffee.

‘They can’t fake it well enough to fool a forensic laboratory. I’m surprised they haven’t realized that. So this meeting with Pietro Miletti may well prove to be decisive. That’s why I want you to be there.’

The eldest of the Miletti children seemed about as unlike the others as was possible. Short and plump, with receding hair and a peeved expression, Pietro looked at first sight like an English tourist who had come to complain about his belongings being stolen from his hotel room, full of righteous indignation about Italy being a den of thieves and demanding to know when the authorities proposed to do something about it. From his tweed jacket to his patterned brogues he looked the part perfectly: not the usual designer mix from expensive shops in Milan or Rome, but the real thing, as plain and heavy as Zen imagined the English climate, character and cuisine to be.