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  “There are a lot of younger men who can do this job.”

  The Questore held down his fingers as he counted, “Polizia, the Ospedale San Matteo, the university, the computer people. Bruni at Sociologia won’t talk to me about anything else. Don’t you see this city’d be ideal? We’ve already got the expertise. And with you staying on for what?—another two or three years—we could set up something really exciting.”

  “Younger men, Signor Questore.”

  “You set up a sezione violenza infantile and then we’ll snatch this thing away from Milan.”

  “Milan?”

  “Doesn’t your daughter work with the UISL in Bologna? If ever she wanted to come north, we could find a place for her on the team. She’s a bright woman.”

  “Milan?”

  There was a gleam in the Questore’s eye. “The Ministry will accept the regional headquarters for Lombardy in this city. We’ve got the Lega Lombarda giving us support. Not in Milan, but here. We’ve got the brainpower here, the manpower. And above all, we’ve got Commissario Trotti.”

  11: Lamborghini

  “YOU HAD BETTER give me the number and I’ll call you back in half an hour, Magagna. There’s a couple here wanting to talk to me.”

  Trotti jotted down a telephone number with the Milan code as he placed the receiver back in its ancient cradle. Then he stood up, facing the two young people. “I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “If you can’t, commissario, then nobody can.”

  Trotti turned away and kicked the radiator contemptuously. “They could’ve changed the heating when they did this place up.”

  The couple watched him in silence as Trotti tugged at his scarf and returned to the chair behind the desk. He glanced at his watch and sat down. He had not removed his jacket.

  “You knew Papa, commissario.”

  For a brief moment, Trotti was silent. He took a deep breath before speaking. “There are three reasons why I can’t help you.” Trotti leaned against the grubby canvas backrest. He held up a hand, thumb and two fingers extended.

  “Of course you can help us, Signor Commissario.” Like her brother, the girl was wearing a black anorak, a logo for Lamborghini on the chest. The bulky anorak and the sweater beneath it did not hide her youthful figure. Tight blue jeans over high boots. Black hair tumbled from beneath the woolen clasp of a ski cap. There was rouge on her cheeks—rouge, or perhaps the cold of the Questura.

  Trotti raised one finger. “Because the Carabinieri are in charge, one.”

  “We need your help, commissario.” She was pretty, in her early twenties, probably still at university. No wedding or engagement ring.

  “The magistrate in charge of the dossier has sufficient confidence in the Arma not to feel the need to call in the Polizia di Stato. And you know what police rivalry can be like.”

  Cristina Pavesi glanced at her brother for reassurance. “That doesn’t stop you and the Polizia from carrying out your own inquiry.”

  “Two.” Trotti tugged a second finger. “Castel San Giovanni’s not in this jurisdiction—it’s not even in Lombardy. Emilia, not Lombardy. Without a judge’s warrant, there’s nothing I or anybody else in this building can do.”

  “We live here, commissario. Our home’s here in the city. We live at Burrone.”

  “And thirdly,” Trotti said, holding up his thumb, “last but not least …”

  “What?”

  He did not return her glance but turned to stare at the grey, monotonous sky. “Signorina, as much as I’d like to be of use …”

  “You knew Papa, commissario. You know he wouldn’t just disappear.”

  Trotti pulled vigorously at his thumb. “Thirdly, this is really not the sort of inquiry for someone like me.” Trotti smiled blandly. “The Carabinieri are doing a good job—of that you can be sure.”

  “You’d be doing my brother and me a personal favor.”

  “The Carabinieri are quite competent.”

  “Cristina and I need you.” Davide nodded.

  “You’ve contacted the television. You don’t need me.”

  “We can’t leave any stone unturned.” Cristina’s hand took hold of her brother’s. “We want our parents back. We know they’re alive. They’d never have left us without so much as a word. We must get them back—that’s why we went on television.”

  Her brother tilted his head to one side. “The Carabinieri have come up with nothing. Nothing except the car where they found it, left by the roadside. The Carabinieri seem to think my parents wanted to get away by themselves for a few days.”

  Cristina shook her head vehemently. “They’ve been gone twenty days. We want our parents back. Before it’s too late.”

  “Where do you think they are, signorina?”

  She took a deep breath. “No idea, commissario. Mamma and Papa are people who get on well with everybody. They don’t have enemies—everybody likes them. If they’d intended to go anywhere, they’d’ve told us. Ours is a closely knit family.”

  “Your father was in local politics.”

  Davide said, “My father runs a prêt à porter shop—he’s not a millionaire. We never went to private school in Switzerland. Cristina and I went to school here, in this city. Ours isn’t a rich family. And Papa pays his taxes. There’s never been a ransom note. He used to dabble in politics—mayor of Castel San Giovanni for several years.” A shrug. “But he has no enemies. Everybody likes him. And everybody likes Mamma.”

  Cristina tapped the desk. “We love them.” An exasperated and unhappy sigh. “Nearly three weeks since they disappeared. Into thin air.”

  “Three weeks since they vanished into thin air,” Davide echoed. The voice had a rasping edge in discordance with the fresh, youthful complexion. “We’ve got to get them back.”

  Trotti glanced out of the window again. Light was breaking through the sky. The fog was lifting. It was nearly eleven o’clock and Trotti wondered whether the sun would appear.

  “Cristina and I spoke to our lawyer.” The boy’s face was pinched by the cold of the small office. Davide Pavesi was good-looking, despite a weak chin. A lock of hair—the same hair as his sister’s—fell into the dark eyes. “He thinks it was a good idea to go on national television.”

  “Your lawyer told you to come and see me?”

  “My idea,” Cristina mouthed silently and tapped her chest.

  Trotti opened one of the drawers of his desk. “I’m not able to help you.”

  “We can’t take no for an answer, Signor Commissario,” Cristina retorted, folding her arms against the bulky jacket.

  “I have other things to do.” Again he looked at his watch.

  “Put the other things aside.”

  Trotti now observed the girl while his hand fumbled around in the recesses of the drawer. “I don’t like being told what to do.” Trotti half rose in his seat. He tapped at his pockets.

  “You can put the other things aside, commissario. For a few days.”

  Davide adopted a conciliatory tone. “My sister and I would never have come here unless we felt there was no alternative.”

  From the inside pocket of his jacket, Trotti took an old packet of sweets. “One of the pleasures of old age, signorina, is you no longer have to take orders from anybody.” He offered a sweet from the packet of Kremliquirizia. “Not if you don’t want to. Not even from a pretty young woman.”

  “Help us. Please.”

  “I’ve other things to do.” Trotti smiled mirthlessly. “Anyway, if you were on national television, you don’t need help.”

  “We need all the help we can get.”

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you and your brother.”

  “We met before,” she answered coldly. “When you came to our house.”

  “Perhaps at another time. But not now. I understand how you feel. Your parents have vanished and you want to know whether they’re still alive. But understand, even if it had been here in the city that Signor Pavesi and your mother disapp
eared, even if it had been within my jurisdiction, I don’t think I could have helped you.”

  The voice was querulous. “Why not?”

  Trotti did not reply.

  “Why not, commissario?”

  “I’m a dinosaur, signorina.”

  “Because you’re losing your hair?”

  “I belong to an earlier age.”

  She shook her head, and the dark hair danced along the collar of her anorak.

  “I belong to the old school of policemen. The carrot-and-stick school. I’m the kind of flatfoot who thinks he can get to the truth by shouting, threatening and carrying a big stick.”

  “We want our parents back with us.” Cristina added simply, “We don’t care what methods you use.”

  “The big stick, signorina, doesn’t go down very well anymore. In a few months I’m going to retire. After many years of having had things my own way. I’m the sort of policeman who gets used to kicking people in the head.”

  “So what?”

  “Get this old man anywhere near a television camera or a microphone or a journalist’s note pad and the entire Questura starts trembling. An earthquake worse than Belice.”

  “So far Chi l’ha visto? seems to have had no effect. Several phone calls from the South—but no real leads.”

  “Nice meeting you.” Trotti stood up and held out his hand. “I sincerely wish you the best of luck in your search. Your father’s a charming man.”

  “He was your friend, commissario.”

  Trotti nodded his head. “Very fond of him.”

  “He was your friend, Commissario Trotti, and when you needed him, Papa did several favors for you.”

  Trotti went to the door and opened it. “Signor Pavesi’s probably taken your mother on a surprise honeymoon to Prague.” He started tying a loose knot in his scarf.

  “He did you several favors.”

  A moment’s hesitation before Trotti replied. “I owe your father nothing, Signorina Pavesi.” He faced the pretty young woman. He smiled at her but there was no amusement in his dark eyes. “Piero Trotti’s a functionary of the Republic. He neither gives favors nor asks for them. I wish you both a pleasant day. Arrivederci.”

  12: Virginity

  HE SMILED TO himself grimly, imagining Pioppi scolding him for not wearing his glasses.

  Trotti always had difficulty remembering numbers. Now his cold fingers fumbled with the piece of paper that he held at arm’s length. He had to dial three times before he got through to the Caserma San Siro.

  “Magagna?”

  “You’re not in the Questura, commissario?”

  “Phoning from the Bar Duomo. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “You don’t trust the telephones in the Questura?”

  “It’s not the telephones.”

  “What don’t you trust?”

  “At my age, Magagna, I don’t trust anyone.”

  “A professional hazard?”

  “You can only trust people as long as their interests coincide with yours.”

  “You don’t have much faith in human nature.”

  “What was it you wanted, Magagna? I’m meeting an attractive young woman in a few minutes.”

  “Her interests coincide with yours?”

  Trotti laughed. “She’s not a transvestite, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And now you’re laughing?”

  “First time since the Rome Olympics, Magagna.”

  “You still interested in the Turellini thing?”

  Trotti hesitated, looking into the cracked mirror. “I never said I was interested in Turellini.”

  “Last night you said Bassi wanted your help.”

  “Well?” Trotti was standing by the old Bakelite telephone at the far end of the bar, beside the empty beer crates. It was the proprietor’s personal phone, which he allowed Trotti to use. As a personal favor.

  “You interested or not, commissario?”

  “Depends on what you’re going to tell me.”

  “Precisely nothing.”

  “That’s why you asked me to phone you?”

  “You read the article in Vissuto?”

  “Over a cup of chamomile, Magagna. I fell asleep before I got to the end.”

  “Bassi’s not making any friends here in Milan. Understandably, he’s been trying to get his hands on the Turellini dossier from the Pubblico Ministero.”

  “Who’s got it?”

  “Both Polizia and Carabinieri were involved in the initial inquiries, under the direction of the Sostituto Procuratore.”

  “Who?”

  “Abete.” Magagna paused.

  “Go on.”

  “Seems Abete’s decided to shelve the dossier.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s over—Abete doesn’t want anybody looking into it. Cold storage. Deep freeze.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning your guess is as good as mine.”

  Trotti lowered his voice. “According to Vissuto, Bassi received a court order.”

  “I made several phone calls earlier this morning—contacts in the Arma and at Giustizia. After twelve months the thing is still on Abete’s desk in the Milan Palazzo di Giustizia. Apparently Abete’s quite happy letting dust gather on the dossier.”

  “Why, Magagna?”

  “I also spoke to Durano.”

  “Durano in via dei Mille? I didn’t know you were friends.”

  “Durano’s a useful contact in the Carabinieri.”

  “What does Durano say?”

  “The Turellini thing’s political.”

  “Why political?”

  “Like everything else in Tangentopoli. As soon as there’s a whiff of political corruption, the Pubblico Ministero starts back-pedalling. There’s no alternative. For the last eighteen months, ever since the Mario Chiesa sting, the Mani Pulite pool of magistrates has been digging the dirt. And the dirt goes deep. They’re still a long way from the bottom.”

  “There is no bottom.”

  “Precisely. The more dirt they find, the more the investigating judges are accused of undermining the fabric—the political fabric of our republic. That’s why the PM’s got to be careful about anything that’s political. He can’t afford to make mistakes—not now.”

  “After forty years of sitting on his hands.”

  “Not now that all politicians, on both left and right, are on the defensive. On the defensive and united against the Pubblico Ministero. That’s why the Mani Pulite judges go for businessmen rather than politicians.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at Olivetti and Montedison. Pretty clear that businessmen don’t have the same clout—they’re the weak link.”

  “Procuratore Abete’s involved with the pool at Mani Pulite?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then where’s the problem?” Trotti snorted derisively. “The Turellini thing is a straightforward murder—probably a crime of passion. Cherchez la femme.”

  “What?”

  “Look for the woman—it’s French.”

  “Strange way of pronouncing French.”

  “Why would you think it’s political, Magagna?”

  “Abete’s got the reputation of sticking at things. One of the younger judges—honest and ambitious. From Calabria and wants to show that they’re not all Arabs down there. Used to be a young Communist.”

  A brief silence.

  “Magagna, are you telling me Bassi and everyone else are off on the wrong track?”

  “Wrong track, commissario?”

  “Turellini’s a political killing?”

  “I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”

  “Turellini was never involved in politics—or at least, not directly. He was too far out—Destra Nazionale. Not really the sort of person the Christian Democrats and the Socialists would want to get into bed with.”

  “Durano believes in Abete’s integrity as a judge.”

  Over the line, Magagna’s Abruzzi accen
t was accentuated and Trotti felt an unexpected sense of fondness for the man. Magagna, Pisanelli, Maiocchi—the good men whose company Trotti would miss after his retirement. An unwelcome tightening in his chest. “Thanks, Magagna.”

  “You’re really not interested in Turellini?”

  “I never said I was interested.”

  “A lot better that way, commissario.” On the far end, Magagna chuckled noisily and Trotti could imagine him lounging in his chair, sitting back with his large feet on the desk, the telephone propped beneath his cheek and the premature stubble. Even in winter, Magagna wore sunglasses.

  “A few more months and you can take your retirement, commissario. There’s no need for you to make any more enemies.” Magagna paused, then said, “Particularly not among the magistrates.”

  “Instant virginity.”

  “What?”

  “The judges spend thirty years living off the rest of us and suddenly they decide they’re the moral guardians of the republic.”

  “What republic?” Magagna’s laughter surged from the Bakelite handset.

  “See what you can do, Magagna.”

  “Do?” There was incredulity in the younger man’s voice. “Do what?”

  “I’d prefer it if you’d phone me in the evening. At my place after eight. Or better still, you can drop by—if you can endure my cooking. You liked the Sangue di Giuda.”

  “Assuming I don’t have a wife and children at home waiting for me and assuming I enjoy crisscrossing Lombardy in my own car, paying for the petrol out of my own pocket, what exactly d’you want me to do, Commissario Trotti?”

  “There’s this veto on Bassi.”

  “I just told you why, Trotti.”

  “Bassi’s been told by the Milan magistrates—most probably by Abete—to drop his inquiries. That’s why Bassi went to Vissuto in the first place. There’s money in the Turellini case for him. It’s Turellini’s family who want to know why the doctor was murdered. Bassi’s trying to enlist my help because, as a private investigator, he’s being shouldered out. He doesn’t want the case to go cold on him before he gets paid.”

  “Why are you getting involved?”

  “I never said I was getting involved.”