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  Contacted to comment, Fabrizio Bassi pulls at his American tie [use different photo, try second spread, Loredana] and speaking in his deep voice remarks, “There’s a desire to suffocate the inquiry. And the desire comes from the top.”

  Meanwhile, Gennaro Maluccio’s family continues to wait for him. His wife has moved into a hotel near the prison while the children have gone to Imperia to stay with their maternal grandmother.

  Vissuto will spare no effort or expense in helping Gennaro Maluccio regain his liberty and his good name.

  Yet again, the public is forced to observe that while many politicians remain free during the Mani Pulite inquiries, the State does not hesitate to throw humbler members of society into our overflowing prisons.

  36: Journalist

  TROTTI HANDED THE two sheets of typescript to Pisanelli, who was sitting on the other chair. Turning back to the journalist he asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Me?”

  “This magazine.”

  The man laughed.

  “What’s Vissuto going to do about Gennaro Maluccio? You’ve decided he’s not guilty?”

  The journalist looked up from behind the cluttered desk, from behind the antiquated Olivetti, the bundles of paper and the various photographs. There was an opened can of Nastro Azzurro beer. “We journalists have many vices—but not cocaine.”

  “Why not?”

  “Can’t afford it.”

  “Maluccio could’ve been dealing.”

  “Unlikely.” A ripple of amusement went through the pot belly beneath the sweater. “Too middle-class. Too upright and virtuous.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Nobody likes the chief editor. I’m the cop on this floor. I don’t wield the biggest truncheon—but I get in there first.” Again the large man laughed. The eyes remained carefully watching Trotti. “I scrub an article and your family’s eating Simmental corned beef until the end of the month.” He placed the unlit cigar back in his mouth. “Why d’you want to know?”

  “You believe Gennaro Maluccio’s been framed?”

  “What do you think?”

  Trotti could feel himself getting angry. There was an intellectual arrogance about the journalist—Ambrogio Negri, according to the adhesive sticker on the side of the typewriter—that irked him. And the patronizing Milanese accent. “Let me ask the questions, Signor Negri.”

  A shrug of indifference. Negri was in his mid-fifties. His face was red, round and smooth. The eyes were bloodshot from too much cigar smoke, there were burst veins beneath the nose.

  “You’re Trotti, aren’t you?”

  “Commissario Trotti.”

  “And you don’t even recognize me.”

  “I try to forget a lot of people.”

  “Because they remind you of yourself?”

  “Because, like a journalist, I have to deal with a lot of people who are not particularly savory.”

  “I interviewed you five or six years ago about a murder case. In your city, Commissario Trotti—the once-upon-time capital of Lombardy. I came down with a photographer and you allowed yourself to be interviewed. I was working on another paper. You had more hair then.” He added, “The article was scrubbed.”

  “And your children ate corned beef?”

  “In a manner of speaking. At the time, Commissario Trotti, I rather admired you. I got the impression you were halfway honest.”

  “In your opinion, why was Gennaro Maluccio arrested?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I’m asking you, Signor Negri.”

  “I’d’ve thought you were out of your jurisdiction here in Milan.”

  “Why would anybody wish to frame Gennaro Maluccio?”

  “Commissario Trotti—the one policeman who’s above everyday corruption. The man who believes in the State.” A mocking laugh. “I forgot that you see yourself as the conscience of the Polizia di Stato.”

  “My conscience won’t stop me from hitting you in the nose.”

  “You’re almost as unfit as I am—all those boiled sweets, I imagine. And you must be at least ten years older. Don’t try any roughhousing in here.” He gestured conspiratorially beyond the glass partition to the people working at typewriters and screens beneath the white neon lights. “I’m the only alcoholic in here. The girls wouldn’t like it. They’re a crowd of maiden aunts. Feminists and maiden aunts—during the day at least.” He settled back against the grimy headrest of his chair and unexpectedly roared with laughter.

  “Is that funny?”

  On recovering his composure Ambrogio Negri enquired, “You two flatfeet care for a beer? I hate drinking by myself.”

  Pisanelli had finished reading the article. He dropped it on to the desk. “Why don’t you use a computer? It would correct some of your spelling mistakes.”

  “Computer? What’s that?” Negri was leaning over sideways, opening a drawer in the desk. “A policeman that can read and write? There really is a shake-up going on in this wretched country. This isn’t the end of the First Republic, this is the end of the ancien régime. Next you’ll be telling me you can do joined-up letters.” Negri regained his semi-erect position and tossed a chilled can of beer to each man. Pisanelli unceremoniously caught one. The other can of Nastro Azzurro fell to the floor beside Trotti.

  “Who would want to make life difficult for Gennaro Maluccio?”

  “I’ve had a chilled drawer installed. Eight cans of beer—which just about covers a working day. Twenty-five percent of my reserves to a couple of intellectual cops—I must be losing my grip.” Negri looked at Pisanelli, “Maluccio’s good at pursuing a story. Not much of a journalist. Has a lot of difficulty with punctuation. And he’s got a—” The man hesitated for the word, “—a computer. Maluccio’s got a computer. One of those flashy things that he carries around with him. Perhaps that’s how he impresses people.”

  “How do you impress people?” Trotti asked, not hiding his annoyance.

  “Gennaro Maluccio’s style’s lousy and normally requires a rewrite. But Gennaro Maluccio’s stories are good.” A gesture of his thumb. “Not like them. Old maids. They go out on a job and they start feeling sorry for some Calabrian bastard who’s just eviscerated his wife. And when there’s some reporting that requires a bit of balls, they all start getting period pains or one of their god-awful nephews needs to be taken to the dentist.” He briefly glanced over his shoulder. “They all say I drink too much.”

  “Calumny.”

  “Pick up your beer, Trotti. Isn’t it about time you retired?”

  “Not always easy to frame somebody.”

  “You’ve tried?”

  “You’re tempting me.”

  Again the rippling of the belly as Negri laughed. “This isn’t the first time Gennaro Maluccio’s had trouble with your friends from the flatfeet factory. He manages to get the right information and that can irritate a lot of people. On a couple occasions we’ve had the Man on the phone telling us to remove an article.”

  “The Man?”

  “The proprietor lives in Switzerland while we sweat blood and ink and pay our taxes.” Negri opened his beer. The froth spurted out angrily, falling on to the desk and the typewriter. He raised the edge to his damp lips and drank. “Although why anybody should worry about an article in this shit magazine, I don’t know. Violence and scandal for the ignorant masses, for the sort of people who can’t read without moving their lips. The Osservatore Romano it isn’t. A shitty magazine that gives the punters what they want. Violence, sex and alternative medicine. All in twelve-word sentences and seven-line paragraphs. A shitty reactionary rag—that normally ends up cut into four neat little quarters in the lavatories the length and breadth of our beloved peninsula.”

  “Who’d want him to shut up?”

  “Gennaro Maluccio has a lot of enemies.”

  “Because of the articles concerning Turellini?”

  “Ah,” Negri said. Then there was silence.

  Pisanelli was leaning
forward. He had opened the beer and the stubble around his mouth was moist.

  Trotti watched the journalist carefully. The Peroni remained at Trotti’s feet.

  “It’s Turellini you’re worried about, Trotti?”

  “What do you think?”

  “There are lots of things that I think. And there are lots of things that I don’t necessarily put in an article.”

  “Listen, Negri, I know about power and I know about corruption. I also know a lot about the workings of the Polizia. It’s possible somebody’s trying to silence your man. Don’t think I’ve any delusions about the force I work for. Don’t think I’ve any delusions about the Ministry of the Interior. But I do know that if you need collusion from the police, you’ve got to have a lot of clout. Policemen are funny people. We’re a funny lot.”

  “Evidently.”

  “We don’t mind doing ourselves favors. But to get us to do favors for anybody else, you need a lot of friends. And that was before Tangentopoli, that was before the public was made aware of what was going on in the Palazzo.”

  “Where does that place you, Trotti?”

  “An old, old policeman.”

  “An old, balding policeman who enjoys pissing against the wind. One of the Northerners in the Polizia di State. A Northerner who has delusions of being honest.”

  “I’ll be out of this job before long.” Trotti allowed himself a thin smile. “Who ever said I was honest?”

  “I’m sure you’ve got other failings too.”

  “I’ll show you a few.”

  “Cops’ve never struck me as particularly nice people. You probably beat your wife and sleep with your daughter.”

  “My wife and daughter don’t live with me.”

  “See what I mean, commissario?”

  “Perhaps I’m curious, perhaps I just want to know about other people’s lives.”

  Negri sat back and swilled noisily at the can of beer. Then he spoke. “Gennaro Maluccio wrote several articles last year. The beginning of 1992, just before the Chiesa affair and the start of Tangentopoli. Nothing particularly earth-shattering, but a few weeks later di Pietro and his pool of judges started making their arrests. Arresting the same people that Gennaro Maluccio had been talking to.”

  “The articles were published?”

  Negri slowly nodded his head and Trotti wondered whether the man was wearing a wig.

  “Maluccio was looking into racketeering. He was very Lega Lombarda at the time—it was before the Lega went the way of all political parties. He wanted to show the effects of l’Infiltrazione mafiosa in the North.”

  “And Turellini?”

  “That was nearly two years ago. Before Craxi and Andreotti and all our other politicians became our public whipping boys.” An amused shrug. “Now people are just getting sick of Tangentopoli. Sick because nobody’s innocent. The difference between the politicians and the rest of us is a difference of quantity, not quality. A year ago l’Infiltrazione mafiosa would sell copies. Not any longer. Nobody’s safe, everybody’s got a skeleton in some cupboard. You, me, the cleaning woman, the pizzaiolo. Tangentopoli doesn’t sell copies anymore.”

  “What sells copies now?”

  “Murder. Murder and violence within the family. Murder that leaves the police stumped. Murder that can keep new copy coming in, week in, week out.” Negri began to scratch his head and Trotti had the impression the scalp moved. “Remember last summer? Ten, twelve unrelated murders of women. The papers for a couple of weeks in August would scarcely talk about anything else. Nearly four thousand murders a year in Italy—and ten women are an infinitesimal percentage. Yet when people are fed up with Somalia and Bosnia, with Tangentopoli and more taxes, with the apparatchiks in the RAI, the corpse of some mutilated Czech whore in Torre del Lago’s strangely reassuring. Plus ça change.”

  “You think there’s any connection between Turellini and Gennaro Maluccio’s arrest?”

  “I’m not paid to think.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You’re the policeman, Trotti. If you want to know why Gennaro Maluccio’s in jail, why don’t you and your literary acolyte in the classy checkered shirt go to Alessandria and ask your friends in the Questura? Perhaps they’ll want to tell you why they’ve thrown an innocent husband and father in jail.”

  37: Anna

  IT WAS VERY warm in the lounge. Young people were arriving for their five o’clock lessons. A majority were girls, many of whom wore fur coats over Benetton sweaters and jeans. Others wore waxed jackets like Trotti’s.

  “Signora Coddrington is still teaching. She’ll be with you in ten minutes. Why don’t you wait for her? Perhaps you’d like some tea?”

  They had sat down on the sofa. On the coffee table there were several magazines in English. The titles meant nothing to Trotti.

  “Perhaps we ought to go home now, commissario.”

  “I need to see the Englishwoman.”

  Pisanelli sat forward, propping his arms on his knees. “Why do you think Bassi’s death’s connected with Turellini?”

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Then what are we doing here?”

  “I never said I knew what I was doing,” Trotti said.

  “I need to sleep.”

  “Then sleep.”

  “I prefer sleeping in my own bed.”

  “You’ve got a wife to go back to?” Trotti asked harshly and Pisanelli fell into an angry silence. He sat back and let his head loll. He loosely clasped a black volume that he had taken from the pocket of the suede jacket. He closed his eyes but it took time for the angry blush to disappear from beneath his stubble.

  “Some tea and cake, gentlemen?” The woman spoke perfect Italian but Trotti knew she was foreign. Her skin was pale and she had large hips. She placed the tray on the coffee table. Trotti smiled and took a mug of tea. The woman nodded happily and went back to her desk, her typewriter and the telephone that never ceased ringing.

  Above her, on the wall, was a color photograph of a woman in a long white robe and a tiara.

  “Who’s Elisabeth R.?” Trotti asked.

  Pisanelli was sulking.

  Trotti sipped the tea. It was the color of water—of the water he had once seen in the Po delta when a car was being craned out of the estuary. “Tea and milk?” He pulled a grimace. “This stuff tastes like the Po.”

  “Add ten spoonfuls of sugar.” Pisanelli had opened his eyes. With his head propped against the coarse weave of the backrest, he was looking at the students from behind drooping lids.

  “What’s that book you’re reading, Pisa?”

  Several students had congregated around a service hatch where they ordered tea or coffee. Some people were talking in English and Trotti noticed that they used different gestures and different mannerisms. Keeping people at arm’s length.

  (In the last months of the war, there had been a few English pilots in Santa Maria trying to reach the Allied lines. Thin faces and an arrogant manner. One of them—on crashing, he had broken his jaw badly—had later gone on to become a prime minister somewhere in Africa.)

  Like the Po, but very sweet with sugar. Trotti made a mental note to look out for tea-flavored sweets.

  “You’re an unpleasant man, commissario.”

  “Because you haven’t got a wife?”

  “I came to your house this morning because I thought I was doing you a favor.”

  “Thank you, tenente.”

  “I’m tired. I didn’t sleep last night and instead of going home to bed, I called you. I’ve spent the day with you.”

  “You didn’t have to bring me here.” Trotti took a bite of the cake. A taste of ginger. “And if you haven’t got a wife to go back to, it’s because you don’t want to.”

  “Because you don’t want me to.”

  “Ever since I’ve known you, Pisanelli, you’ve been going to get married. How old are you now? Soon you’ll be forty and if you’re not married, it’s because that’s the way
you’ve chosen to live your life. You could’ve married Anna Ermagni two years ago.”

  Pisanelli raised his head. “Don’t mention her.”

  “She was in love with you. Why didn’t you marry her?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “She wanted to get married.”

  “Anna’s in Rome,” Pisanelli said simply and letting his head drop back, closed his eyes. “She’s studying to become an interpreter.”

  Trotti felt a twinge of sympathy for the younger man. Like everybody else, Pisanelli was getting old. “It’s not too late, Pisa. Anna always said she wanted to have your children.”

  Pisanelli bit his lower lip without looking at Trotti. His hands played nervously with the pages of his book.

  “Gentlemen, you’re looking for me?”

  38: Cortina D’Ampezzo

  SHE CARRIED A pile of books.

  She was in her mid-thirties. She did not have the strong, fiercely blonde hair of the Scandinavians but the hair of the English, the kind of mousy hair that, like whisky, is left to age beneath the Atlantic rain. She held out a narrow hand. “I’m Signora Coddrington. You’re looking for me?”

  They stood up—Trotti briskly, Pisanelli stumbling sleepily to his feet—and turning away she led them down a corridor that smelt of paint, and into a small classroom.

  The Englishwoman had an attractive figure, long, strong legs. She wore a blue denim skirt and matching blue high-heeled shoes. She was broad but, strangely, had small hands and feet.

  The room was well-lit.

  There were posters on the walls showing scenes of England, with thatched cottages and swans on village ponds. There was one photograph that Trotti recognized as the Houses of Parliament in London.

  Mary Coddrington gestured them to sit down on the classroom seats. She set down the pile of books that she was carrying and slid on to a desk.