The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (17 page)

“To the best of my knowledge, he lives in the Madoni hills,” Soneri said, feeling he was taking on a role which he had not initially wished to assume.

The captain turned to Crisafulli, having no idea where the Madoni hills were.

“Drop it,” the commissario said. “This is a matter for gamekeepers.”

Bovolenta stared at him intently. “We can’t afford to neglect any angle.”

“And the Romanian?” Soneri said.

“He’s in custody. He had stolen objects in his car. For the moment, we’ve got him for handling stolen goods, and meantime we’ll proceed with this line of enquiry.”

Before the captain could make a move, Soneri jumped to his feet as rapidly as a private soldier.

“The invitation to dinner is still open,” Bovolenta said.

The commissario nodded and said goodbye. Crisafulli went with him to show him out. At the front door, looking over his shoulder to make sure no-one was within hearing distance, the maresciallo, as though offering an excuse, said to Soneri, “He’s new. He’s still got a lot to pick up.” As he spoke, he waved his hands eloquently in the air, as only a Neapolitan can.

For some ten minutes, Soneri wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets, still sunk in a tense silence. When he came out on the piazza, he noticed a bright light. It was coming from a fiercely burning fire, near a house outside the village, on the road to Montelupo. Livid flames engulfed the tops of the chestnut trees some way higher up. A few moments later the fire exploded and the flames leapt up towards the skies. He heard the carabinieri rush from the station, and imagined the curses of Crisafulli, forced out his office chair. Shortly afterwards, the strident sirens of the fire engines filled the valley, violating the peace of the evening. No-one in the village made a move, as had happened in times of war, when the curfew protected the solitude of the victims.

The vehicle of the municipal police, with Delrio at the wheel, moved off from the Comune. The usual group of evening customers was gathered outside the
Rivara
.

“Is that the Branchis’ farm?” Soneri said.

“They’ve been gone a good while. It belongs now to a family called Monica,” Rivara said.

“They burned the Branchis’ barn in ’65,” Volpi said.

“And in ’44. But that was the Germans,” Ghidini said, with an exaggerated precision which sounded malicious.

The flames were now through the roof, and already the fire-fighters were working from the neighbouring fields which were as bright as day. Someone was running to free
the desperately bellowing cattle tied up in the stalls. One cow was running in terror towards the woods, while others were scattered over the slopes.

“Poor beasts. It’s not their fault,” Volpi said.

Soneri would have liked to enquire exactly whose fault it was, but the profound indifference he saw etched on every face made him decide that this was not the best time. Maini took him by the arm and led him away from the group.

“They hate the Monicas here,” he said, when they had moved far enough away.

Soneri made a questioning sign with the fingers holding the cigar.

“The son is one of the Rodolfi accountants, and they say he’s salted a lot of the money away.”

“So it’s revenge?”

“Probably. Burning barns is an ancient custom.”

The commissario remembered various tales told locally, especially one about a house outside the village where a blackened skeleton lay for many years.

“Monica himself went to school with Paride. They dabbled in finance – investments in the stock exchange, shares, assetstripping, that sort of thing. They were the first generation in a poor village who’d gone to university, and they thought they were untouchable,” Maini said.

“You thought you were too.”

“I believed in Palmiro. How could anybody know it was all built on a fraud like this?”

“You’re right. When you get down to it, it’s always hard to believe how appalling reality is. It invariably takes you by surprise.”

Neither man had anything more to say. They watched the barn burn down in spite of the best efforts of the fire-fighters, and contemplated the senseless tragedy of the fire as it rose
diabolically up against the indifferent bulk of Montelupo. From time to time, a light breeze carried towards them gusts of tepid air and the scent of burning hay, creating an improbable spring-like heat.

The commissario turned towards the houses and became aware of furtive movements behind the shutters. He could detect the malevolent joy of revenge on faces fleetingly visible in a glimmer of light behind curtains or grilles. Bells began to toll like hammer blows, but the village remained imperturbable.

“It’s gone. They could divert the river Macchiaferro onto it and they still wouldn’t extinguish the blaze,” Ghidini said.

The flames seemed longer, higher and unaffected by the water, which had as little effect as if it were tumbling down a crack in the rocks. No-one bothered any more to make an effort to save the barn, except for a few dispirited firefighters holding the hosepipes. There was only one man who had rolled up his sleeves and it seemed he wanted to leap into the burning building. There was no longer any sign of the animals. They must have all run off, perhaps up the mountain path they had only recently been brought down.

“The embers will smoulder for two days,” was Rivara’s reckoning, delivered with a sarcastic half-smile.

The breeze dropped quite suddenly and a shower of ash fell on their heads.

“Is it Ash Wednesday again?” Ghidini sniggered.

“I don’t see any sign of penitence,” Soneri snapped.

“It wasn’t us.”

“No, but you’re all quite pleased just the same.”

Maini looked at him sternly but imploringly. Soneri was setting himself up against them all, and he did not care. Ghidini and the others did not react. They held their peace, but exchanged sharp glances.

“As you sow, so shall you reap. Monica’s son was one of those who did the accounts up there,” Ghidini said, pointing to the salame factory. “He knew everything that was going on, but he got above himself with the money he’d stolen. If you play dirty, sooner or later someone is going to make you pay. He’s lost this hand.” He looked around, expecting the approval of the group.

“Playing dirty suited you all,” was all Soneri said by way of reply.

“The people in the village were not responsible. The banks should have put a stop to it once they’d run up all those debts. They could see the whole game,” Rivara said.

“The banks are hand in glove with the politicians, and the Rodolfis wallowed in political schemes,” Ghidini said.

“You voted for those politicians, don’t forget. Who was it who returned Aimi with majorities hardly seen outside Bulgaria?”

Soneri’s tone was calm but biting. Maini stayed on the sidelines, trying unsuccessfully to move the conversation to safer ground, even after it had turned bitter. Rivara stuttered that they were not all in agreement and that many had understood only now, but he did not carry conviction. The debate dragged on and ended in a hostile silence. The commissario was familiar with that state of mind among the mountain men, because at least in part it was his own. He was only too aware that when faced with a direct accusation, they invariably preferred evasion. Their silence transformed the words they would have liked to voice into apparent indifference and detachment.

The siren from a fire-engine winding its way along the twisting road in the valley had a mournful sound. It was sufficient to ease the tension which had been created.

“Another one on the way,” Volpi said.

“They’d have been better off staying at home at this stage,” Ghidini said.

Soneri took his leave with the excuse that he wanted to observe the operations at close hand, but as he left the group, he was conscious of a strange, niggling sense of embarrassment. Maini came after him, but as he caught up Soneri’s mobile rang. Angela’s voice came and went, but he could hear her when she shouted “I’m on my way.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m looking at a sign that says twenty kilometres. Are you asking me because you want to warn me off?”

“Not at all. It’s to know when to expect you. You’re arriving in a moment of particular turmoil.”

“That’s not surprising, with all that’s been going on.”

“Apart from all that, there’s been a fire. A barn went up in flames.”

“Arson?”

“It belonged to the family who were Paride’s closest collaborators, so draw your own conclusions.”

“I’ve a lot to tell you. I spoke to Gennari, the Rodolfi’s lawyer. Once he found out you were on holiday and not engaged on the case, he opened up. Obviously, I omitted to mention that you were holidaying in their home village.”

Soneri agreed to meet her in half an hour. When he turned to talk to Maini, he had disappeared. The village bells stopped ringing and the fire-fighters made no noise as they moved back and forth, so everything was plunged once more into silence. The barn was a smouldering wreck now, with only an occasional tongue of flame shooting up into the darkness. The crackle of the beams collapsing under the intense heat, dragging down sections of the wall with it, could be heard quite distinctly. It was the end, the final death spasm of a section of the village. The commissario decided the spectacle was
over and set off for the
Scoiattolo
through the narrow streets of the old quarter. He glanced into the
Olmo
, where some of the older customers were at their cards, watched by others leaning against the walls. Magnani was behind the bar, only half-awake but with a cigarette in his mouth. The contented calm of the older generation signalled that all was as it should be on any normal evening.

He walked on, leaving that cluster of houses behind and coming out on the road which overlooked the valley. The lights from the houses there seemed like reflected starlight. He continued quickly on his way until he saw the sign of the
pensione
, but at that moment he heard the gentle scrape of a dog’s paws on the road. He turned to see Dolly, wagging her tail. She had been waiting for him at a spot where she knew he would pass by.

“I’ll never understand what made you come to this place,” Angela said, as she got out of her car and looked around, still unsure of herself in the dark.

“It wasn’t a wonderful idea, I have to admit,” Soneri said.

“So move on. You’re on holiday, not in custody.”

At which the commissario, plainly uncomfortable, stretched out his arms.

“Oh God, is this you at it again, struggling with ghosts from the past? You manage to get free of the big chief in the office, but fetch up under an even more thuggish boss.” Angela gave him a hug, but Soneri remained impassive. “When I first met you, you never thought about the past. You were too caught up in your work.”

“Maybe that’s why the past weighs so heavily on me now. I feel the years grinding me down. Sometimes I think I’m without memory and I’ve wasted too much time on pointless things.”

“You’ll waste even more if you go on thinking that way. It’ll do you no good at all.”

“I regret everything I didn’t say, and all the time I could have spent with my father.”

Angela sighed but, guessing at what lay behind Soneri’s mood, she went on, “Never mind all these rumours. They’re nearly always malicious lies.”

This time it was Soneri who embraced her, with feeling,
holding the cigar away from her. But as he was kissing her, Dolly’s wet nose rubbed against the hand at his side with the cigar between his fingers.

“Don’t tell me you’ve acquired a dog. You’re getting more and more like a maiden aunt.”

“It was
she
who acquired
me
. She was Paride’s dog.”

“It’s either her or me,” Angela said, in a tone of playful jealousy.

“I’m going to take her back to her owner tomorrow. It’ll be the second time.”

“She obviously adores you.”

“I’m not the right man for her. She’s already suffered one loss, and I don’t want to put her through another one.”

“Definitely not, but she ran away to be with you again.”

Soneri determined not to grow too fond of Dolly, but he could not help patting her gently.

“Anyway, Angela, tell me about the Rodolfis’ lawyer.”

“The situation is more serious than anyone realised.”

“Isn’t every situation?”

“Paride and his accountants have been getting away with false accounting for years. The balance sheets were just so much fluff. In some cases, they invented credit by fabricating phoney documents and then using them as collateral for more borrowings. The thing came unstuck when they couldn’t redeem a parcel of bonds that fell due. They won a little time by making out that there was a fund where they had assets stashed away, but when that turned out to be a fiction, the whole house of cards collapsed.”

“And nobody had a clue. Not even the banks,” Soneri said sarcastically

“They couldn’t care less. They’ve loaded the majority of the debts onto the savers by selling them junk bonds.”

“Who’s investigating this mess?”

“The guardia di finanza, but it’s hard to find the way through an accountancy labyrinth where legal and illegal operations overlap. There’s no telling how big the final black hole will be. Add to that the fact that before they threw in their hand, the directors shredded the archives and wiped the computer files.”

“Who are the accountants?”

“Friends of Paride from school days.”

“A village gang! And nobody could stop them in time?”

“It’s been going on for at least ten years. They thought they could cheat everybody
ad infinitum
. They believed they were omnipotent, but that’s often the way with these get-rich-quick people.”

The commissario bowed his head. Although they were by now frozen to the bone, they were still sitting on the wall alongside the street, watching the moon travel across the sky. Dolly was lying at their feet, looking up hopefully from time to time to see when the next caress was coming. They walked towards the village until they drew level with the Monicas’ barn, now reduced to a gigantic, smoking ember.