Authors: Michael Dibdin
Somewhere safely far away – north of Asti, for instance, up in the Monferrato – Bruno could easily have disposed of a trained
tabui
like this for cash with no questions asked. But he had quite enough legal worries already, and knew exactly how much the hound meant to its owner. This made it all the more remarkable that she should be running around loose, her leash trailing behind her, at the mercy of less scrupulous and responsible citizens than Bruno, of whom there was no shortage in the locality. In the end he loaded the reluctant, hysterical Anna into his car and drove the two miles along back roads to Beppe Gallizio’s house. The rain had finally stopped, at least for now. The air was cool and slightly hazy, yielding a diffident, diffused light.
When he reached the house, on the outskirts of the village, there was no sign of Beppe. His car was there, but the front door was locked and Bruno Scorrone’s increasingly irritated thumping produced no response. Anna was behaving oddly, too. She circled the yard continually, sniffing and searching, running back to Bruno, planting her nose on his shoes and pawing the ground, then scuttling off to one side, where a path led down the hill. Bruno’s only interest in dogs was to scare off intruders and undercover tax agents, and in terms of their cash value as sniffers-out of truffles. He had no time to play whatever childish game the bitch was proposing. Fetching a length of rope from the barn, he tied one end to the leash dangling from her collar and the other to a spike protruding from the wall of the house, and then drove away.
Several hours passed. There is no way of knowing what this interval might mean to a dog, let alone one desperate to communicate urgent and terrible news. One of our days? One of our years? At all events, by the time Lamberto Latini showed up, Anna had worn her neck to a bloody mess in her frantic efforts to escape. Appalled at her condition, he freed the dog, which immediately displayed the same behaviour as she had with Bruno Scorrone, sprinting to and fro between Latini and the path winding down the hill between Beppe’s vegetable garden and a neighbour’s ploughed field.
Like the previous visitor, Lamberto rapped impatiently at the door, then tried the handle. He glanced at his watch. Just past ten. That was the time that they had agreed. By eleven at the latest he’d need to be at work back at his restaurant, which had been booked for lunch by a convention party from Asti who were being taken out for a ‘Traditional Langhe Country Meal’. But where the hell was Beppe? If he didn’t come through, Lamberto was in deep trouble. The cut-price dealings in truffles which took place in the back streets of Alba would be over by now, and if he had to pay the official price, including commission and tax, he’d hardly break even on the day.
Lamberto stood looking around in growing annoyance. Beppe had never let him down before. It was an excellent arrangement for both of them: truffles for cash, with no extra cut for middlemen or the
fisco
. Since Anna was there, he must have returned from his nocturnal hunting and gathering. Also there was the dented, mud-spattered old Fiat 500 which Beppe had cannily refused to trade in for something more comfortable and ostentatious, even though the sum Lamberto had paid him for a particularly fine specimen a couple of months ago would alone have paid for a new car. Whatever Beppe did with his money, it was nothing that might attract attention.
The dog was still mewling and worrying Lamberto’s shoes, making little forays towards the path leading down the hillside, then returning with a series of high-pitched whines. This increased the mystery of Beppe’s absence. Even if he’d been called away unexpectedly, or suddenly been taken ill, he would never have left his invaluable truffle hound tied up outside the house like one of her poor cousins, the half-starved watchdogs of the region.
Unlike Bruno Scorrone, Lamberto Latini liked dogs, to the extent – regarded locally as eccentric, if not perverse – of keeping a spaniel purely as a pet. So when he followed the increasingly distraught Anna round the side of the house, it was purely as a reflex action born of habit. But once they reached the back of the house and the bitch scampered off down the path, encouraged by this first glimmer of comprehension in the dim yet dominant species she had to deal with, Lamberto did not follow. He had no clear idea how to resolve the problem of Beppe’s dereliction, but taking his dog for walkies was certainly not it.
At a loss, and feeling vaguely ashamed of himself, he went over to the back door of the property and made a big show of knocking and calling out Beppe’s name. There was no reply, but the door opened a crack, as if under its own volition. Lamberto stared at it an instant. Then, ignoring Anna’s frantic entreaties, he stepped over the threshold, shutting the dog outside.
‘Beppe! Beppe? It’s Lamberto!’
He already knew that there would be no answer. The silence had that coherent quality, like settled soil, which houses only have when they are empty. Lamberto stepped cautiously into the large kitchen, with its board floor and bare walls where islands of brickwork showed through the crumbling plaster. The air was cold, the room empty. Moving into the hall, Lamberto continued his search, occasionally calling Beppe’s name aloud, less loudly now. Outside he could hear Anna’s persistent keening, as though she were answering him, but within the house the solid, complacent silence was unbroken. There was clearly no one there.
Lamberto returned to the kitchen and looked around, reluctant to admit failure. On the table stood a dirty dish with some sauce dried to a crust, an empty wine glass and a chunk of bread. The fire-place was cold, the ashes holding no ember. Lamberto picked up the bread and squeezed it. Yesterday’s. So Beppe had eaten, presumably before going out, but had not been back since. Except that his dog was there, and his car.
Then he noticed another item on the table. He picked it up and inspected it. At first sight it resembled a general-purpose knife such as might be used for slicing salami or cheese, except that the blade and handle were stained with a dark tawny substance resembling dried blood. Before he could begin to think what this might signify, his attention was diverted by the sound of a key being inserted into the front door.
Lamberto started to put the knife back on the table, then thought better of it. The silence had suddenly turned malign, no longer placid and compact but tense and still, loaded like a gun. Gripping the knife tightly, Lamberto stepped to his right and concealed himself as best he could beside a huge
credenza
where unused heirloom bowls and plates gathered dust. Steel-rimmed heels clacked steadily down the hall. Lamberto couldn’t think of anyone who wore boots like that, certainly not Beppe. Lamberto grasped the knife still more tightly, feeling simultaneously ridiculous and terrified.
At the doorway to the kitchen, the heels paused. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by one of Anna’s despondent yowls. Then the intruder moved forward into the room, revealing himself as a portly man in black uniform and hard cap trimmed with red braid and a gilt badge showing a flaming torch. Catching sight of Lamberto, he started slightly.
‘Signor Latini.’
‘
Buon giorno, maresciallo
,’ Lamberto replied automatically.
The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then the Carabinieri official nodded towards the window.
‘Looks like it’s clearing up, finally.’
‘I came to see Beppe,’ Lamberto blurted out. ‘His car’s outside, and his dog, Anna. But he’s not here.’
Enrico Pascal nodded slowly.
‘No, he’s not here.’
Lamberto Latini finally became aware of what he was holding.
‘I found this on the table,’ he said, displaying the knife. ‘It’s got blood on it.’
Again Pascal nodded, as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
‘Why don’t you put it back where it was? he suggested.
Latini did so.
‘I thought something might have happened to Beppe,’ he mumbled haltingly. ‘And when I heard someone coming in … How did you open the front door?’
‘With a key.’
‘A key? Where did you get it?’
The Carabiniere did not reply at once.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Signor Latini?’ he said at length. ‘No, in that chair, please, away from the table.’
Latini did so.
‘You were asking where I got the key. I got it from Beppe. And how did
you
get in?’
Lamberto gestured behind him.
‘The back door. It was open.’
‘Open, or just unlocked?’
‘It wasn’t fastened. It must stick slightly. It opened when I knocked.’
The
maresciallo
raised his eyebrows.
‘So you took advantage to come inside the house. Why?’
‘I just wanted to make sure that Beppe was all right.’
‘Why shouldn’t he be all right?’
‘We had an appointment to meet here at ten o’clock. He’s never let me down before.’
‘When did you make this appointment?’
The Carabinieri official’s tone had become more peremptory. Lamberto Latini appeared to reflect.
‘Let’s see. Yesterday, it must have been. No, the day before. I phoned and suggested we get together for a chat, you know …’
‘It’s a long way to come for a chat, Signor Latini, particularly on a working day.’
Lamberto started to say something, then checked his watch and got up.
‘That reminds me, I must be going.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
Lamberto Latini frowned.
‘I’ve got a business convention coming to lunch. They’ve booked the whole restaurant.’
Enrico Pascal sighed heavily.
‘No one appreciates the importance of good food more than I, Signor Latini, and your establishment is without doubt one of the finest in the region – although the last time I ate there, it seemed to me that the lamb was a trifle oversalted. But certain matters must take precedence even over gastronomy. Murder is one of them.’
Lamberto Latini gave an irritated frown.
‘Murder? What’s the Vincenzo affair got to do with it?’
‘Where were you at five o’clock this morning, Signor Latini?’
The question seemed to rebound from Lamberto Latini’s face and strike various surfaces in the room before returning for a belated answer.
‘In bed, of course!’
‘At home?’
‘Where do you think I sleep?’
‘Alone?’
Now Latini’s anger was naked.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
The
maresciallo
appeared unperturbed.
‘I’m asking if you can name any witnesses to substantiate your claim to have been at home, asleep, at five o’clock this morning.’
For the first time, Lamberto Latini’s expression was one of open hostility.
‘My wife is dead. You know that.’
Enrico Pascal inclined his head.
‘And when you finally woke up, you got into your car and drove over twelve miles to have “a chat” with Beppe Gallizio. On a day when your entire restaurant has been reserved for an important business lunch.’
‘Ask Beppe! He’ll confirm what I say.’
Enrico Pascal stared at him in silence for some time. Then he went to the table, bent over and inspected the knife which Lamberto had been holding. He did not touch it, but his pudgy, rather feminine fingers drummed out a brief tattoo on the table-top. With a dismissive sniff, Lamberto Latini got up.
‘I’ve had enough of this!’ he proclaimed, heading for the door.
In one smooth gesture, the
maresciallo
undid the flap on the holster of his service pistol.
‘Don’t do anything rash, Signor Latini,’ he said equably. ‘You’re in quite enough trouble as it is.’
Latini turned, gazing at him in apparent incredulity.
‘I can’t stand here playing games all day, Pascal! I’ve got a business to run.’
‘It’s going to have to manage without you.’
Lamberto Latini squared up to his opponent.
‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’
‘I am placing you in detention pending further investigation. If you hand over the keys to your car, I won’t bother about the handcuffs.’
‘You must be out of your mind! The night Aldo Vincenzo was killed I was …’
‘Who said anything about Vincenzo? We’ve already made an arrest in that case, and it’s all in the hands of the judges. My concern now is with Beppe Gallizio.’
Latini sighed with theatrical emphasis and spread his hands in gestural surrender.
‘All right, I admit it! I came here today to buy some truffles from Beppe for this lunch, which thanks to you is now going to be ruined, along with my reputation. I know that it’s technically an illegal transaction, and you know that everyone around here does the same thing. I thought you cared enough about the good things of the Langhe to overlook a minor matter like this. Apparently I was wrong. Very well.’
He drew a bunch of clinking metal from his pocket and tossed it on the table.
‘Here are my keys,
maresciallo
,’ he said in a tone of sarcastic deference. ‘If I promise not to make a run for it, will you please try not to shoot me?’
Enrico Pascal watched this performance with a cool, slightly clouded gaze.
‘But what about Beppe?’ he murmured.
‘What do I care about Beppe? Let him look after himself!’
The Carabinieri officer looked at Latini for a moment.
‘He can’t. He’s dead.’
A long silence.
‘Dead?’
‘Shot. Down in a coppice by the stream. His whole face and half his head blasted away.’
Lamberto Latini staggered as though he had been struck. He said nothing.
‘Then I come up to his house and find you here, armed and in hiding,’ Pascal went on. ‘You have no verifiable reason for being here, nor any alibi for the time of the incident. Under the circumstances, Signor Latini, you’ll understand that I have no choice but to take you into custody pending further investigations.’
He awoke naked and covered in blood. A series of mirrors revealed the scene from every angle. In an intriguing
trompe-l’œil
touch, there was also real blood on the glass, blotching out large portions of the reflected gore. This came as no surprise. The stuff was everywhere: on the walls, the gleaming taps, the fluffy white towels. Some had even ended up in the toilet, staining the water pale pink. More to the point, it was all over him, trickling down his face, finding its way in irregular rivulets down his chest, belly and legs, and then dripping off to further complicate the pattern of crimson splotches, spatters and spots on the tiled floor.