Converging Parallels (12 page)

“I don’t get in until late. Christ, what’s the time?”

Trotti could smell his body; there was an acrid note to the odor of sweat. He was grateful for the smell—perfume by comparison—that came from the kitchen. Coffee and warm bread.

“Who told you about Anna Ermagni?”

Angellini yawned—a wide ugly yawn that showed yellowing-grey teeth.

“You could cover your mouth.”

Angellini looked up sharply. “Who invited you?”

Trotti kicked the side of the bed angrily with his heel. “Tell me about Anna Ermagni.”

“There’s nothing I want to say.”

“There should be. Your article—your scoop on the front page of the
Provincia
. Where did you get your information from, Angellini?”

He pulled the kimono closer about him and shivered. He then scratched at an armpit. “What time did you say it was?”

“You’ll get time to sleep.”

The flat face blinked at Trotti. “My glasses. Pass them to me. They’re on the typewriter.”

Trotti handed over the glasses. Angellini put them on and the eyes came into focus behind the thick lenses.

“What the hell do you want?”

“How did you find out about Anna Ermagni?”

A light of understanding came into the eyes.

“Well?”

“I checked.”

“You checked? Who did you speak to?”

“I phoned her home. I spoke with her mother.”

“Her mother is dead.”

He shrugged, it was not important. “Her grandmother. I phoned and she sounded quite distraught. I think she thought I was one of the kidnappers.”

“How did you know the child had been kidnapped?”

There was a discreet tap on the door and the aunt came in carrying a large tray that she placed on the floor beside Angellini’s feet. A jug of coffee and two chipped cups; a basket of bread, some butter, some jam. She gave her nephew a wan smile. She ignored Trotti and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

“One of the last real pleasures in life,” Angellini rubbed his hands. “I’m lucky to have an aunt who dotes on me.”

“Where did you get your information from?”

Angellini was in the process of opening a bread roll. He stopped and looked up at Trotti. He was a lot younger than Trotti had at first thought. Twenty-five—if that, Trotti thought. What aged him physically was the prematurely high forehead.

“A phone call.”

“Where?” Trotti leaned forward in the deckchair.

“I was on duty at the
Provincia Padana
—in the main office.”

“When was this?”

Angellini returned to his roll and was lowering the knife into the butter dish when Trotti knocked roll and knife out of his hand. “When was this, damn you?”

“I don’t know,” he answered petulantly. “About half past nine, I suppose. About two hours before deadline. It’s a local paper, the
Provincia
, and we like to get it printed early.”

“Who phoned?”

Angellini ignored the question. “A kidnapping—it’s not the sort of thing that happens often around here. I didn’t have much time to cross-check.” He stopped, looked at Trotti. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I forgot. I’ve got to have my prod—if you’ll excuse me.” He stood up and moved towards a bookcase. There was a leather box on the floor.

“Who did you speak with on the phone?”

“A man.” He took something from the box and held it up to the light. “And I didn’t talk with him, he talked with me.” He screwed a small container into the syringe and slowly squeezed the plunger. A few drops, like dog urine, arched in the air and fell onto the floor. A few minute splashes, tiny bubbles of liquid.

“Who was this man? What did he say?”

“That he had the girl.”

“That’s all?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t very pretty—but you weren’t invited.” He pulled back the skirt of his kimono and lifted a foot onto the edge of the bed. The skin of his thigh was pocked with red marks, like a rotting orange. He dabbed at the skin with a piece of cotton wool. “Drink your coffee, Commissario.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Cancer and being woken up by uninvited visitors.”

A sharp jab—Trotti winced—and then Angellini pressed on the plunger and the yellow liquid was pushed through the needle into the deformed skin. “He even put the kid on the line,” Angellini said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“You spoke with Anna?”

“She seemed to be enjoying herself. Well, perhaps not quite, but she certainly didn’t sound very subdued.” He unscrewed the needle and threw the empty cartridge into a shoebox. “But I don’t see why you’re asking me all these questions.”

“The child’s life is in danger.”

“You know her?”

Trotti nodded. “I know the father.”

“A taxi driver.”

“He used to work for me—a long time ago.”

Angellini put the medical paraphernalia away and, crouching down beside the tray, the kimono scarcely covering his body, poured coffee into the two cups. He handed one to Trotti.

“What was the man’s voice like?”

“Don’t ask me, for heaven’s sake. It’s all monitored.”

“What do you mean, monitored?”

“On the tapes.”

“What tapes?”

Angellini picked up the knife and the roll. Speaking casually while he spread butter with the knife, he said, “All incoming calls are recorded. Standard practice in most newspapers since Moro’s kidnapping. You never know when the Red Brigades are going to give you a ring.”

Trotti stood up. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” He moved towards the door and opened it; it screeched against the floor. “Don’t go away too far—and thanks for the coffee.”

He ran down the dark corridor.

T
HE WORKMEN WORE
loose blue dungarees and hats made of folded brown paper. There was the sound of hammering and a low whine of feedback. A fingernail, scraping against a microphone, was amplified and the jarring sound echoed across Piazza Vittoria.

Trotti crossed the square. His head ached—four hours in the smoke-filled laboratory of the Polizia Scientifica—and he needed the fresh air. He also needed to be alone.

He stepped over the electric cables that lay on the cobbles of Piazza Vittoria.

“Commissario, we don’t see much of you.”

He sat down just inside the Bar Duomo and the proprietress brought him an analcolico and a saucer of pitted olives.

“I’ll take a sandwich, too,” he said, looking up at her.

She was a widow—her husband had died in an air crash while visiting Sicily—and for the last ten years she had run the bar single-handed. She had two daughters; when Trotti had left for Bari, they were little girls with blonde ringlets. Now they were in their early teens, a bit younger than Pioppi, and were rather plump. They were not as pretty as their mother, who had somehow managed to keep the figure of her youth. If anything, she had grown prettier with the passing years.

A friendly, happy smile and beautiful dark eyes. Signora Allegra; of course her clients called her “the merry widow.”

He sipped at the aperitivo while Signora Allegra prepared his sandwich behind the zinc bar. “They drive me mad with this noise.”

“Noise?”

“The hammering and banging and those wretched loudspeakers.” She laughed. “Yet another political rally tonight.” She nodded towards the piazza while her hands busied themselves with the operation of slicing salami. “The Socialists this time. And they are pulling out all the stops, they’ve even got the First Secretary speaking. He’s come up specially from Rome. Obviously they place a lot of importance upon our local elections. Down in Rome the Communists and the Socialists are at each other’s necks—with the Communists saying that a deal with the Red Brigades is out of the question while the Socialists maintain that Moro’s life is more important than political ideals. But up here, in our little provincial backwater, the PCI and the PSI are good bedmates.” She laughed again and Trotti smiled. “Our Communist mayor knows that he needs the support of the Socialists; and thanks to the Communists the local Socialists have a share in the power. So they can afford to overlook their national differences. A gherkin, Commissario?”

“Yes please.”

She brought him the sandwich wrapped in a paper serviette and placed it on the tablecloth.

Trotti looked out into the piazza and said softly, “These meetings remind me of the rallies when we were little.”

“I don’t remember.” Her eyes flashed.

A long time ago he had phoned up the transport department and checked on her driving license. She was the same age as him. “Of course not, signora.”

Like a surfacing whale, the coffee machine began to spout. Steam poured from the thin metal tap. She took no notice. She was standing by his table and he could smell her gentle perfume.

“And your wife, Commissario? I no longer see you with her in town.”

“Lately I have been very busy.”

“Women need affection, Commissario.”

For a few moments their eyes met; then he turned away and caught sight of himself in the tinted mirror behind the bar. His face looked back at him—a thin face, a narrow nose and closely set eyes. His dark hair oiled and no longer as thick as it once was. Thin creases running down his cheeks.

Like an old man, he thought, and he bit angrily at the sandwich.

Then he took another sip at his drink.

Signora Allegra had moved away and she was now wiping glasses with a stiff cotton cloth. Another whine of feedback came through the door.

“I’m an old man,” Trotti said softly.

She laughed lightly. “Commissario, I think you are fishing for compliments.” Her laugh was light like the sound of the glasses that she neatly arranged along the shelf.

The memory of her laughter accompanied him back to the Questura.

G
INO WAS SITTING
back in his chair, his hands folded across the plumpness of his belly. He looked benign, like a favorite uncle. It was the effect of the thick lenses that magnified his sightless eyes.

Principessa dozed beneath the desk.

“They’re waiting for you.” Gino jerked a thumb towards the small antechamber where visitors could sit and thumb old magazines—
Famiglia Cristiana, il Carabiniere
—while waiting for the law and its officers to take their ponderous, inexorable course.

“You can send them through in a minute—but first, get me Spadano on the phone.”

Trotti went into his office and started to tidy. He opened the windows, letting the enclosed air escape into the mid-morning. Outside it was hot and it was getting hotter; on the roof, the pigeons cooed languidly. Trotti’s eyes ached. For no apparent reason, the radiator started to vibrate with distant banging. He put several folders into a pile and tidied up the newspapers. He stopped to look at the headlines on the morning’s
Corriere della Sera
. A photograph of one of the directors shot in the leg, and the continuing debate on Moro. “Reasons of State cannot outweigh humanitarian reasons,” the Socialist First Secretary said. “We must save Moro at all costs.”

Trotti snorted.

“Spadano’s on the line.” Gino banged against the wooden hatch panel. “Number six.”

Trotti picked up the telephone and pressed the blinking rectangle.

“Hello, Spadano?”

“Capitano Spadano. Who am I speaking to?”

“Commissario Trotti. Good morning.”

“Ah, you, Trotti.” The voice was less aggrieved but more cautious. “How can I help you? You realize I am busy. I imagine you’ve heard the news.”

“What news?”

“There’s just been a communiqué from the Red Brigades—in Rome, Genoa, Turin and Milan. It looks genuine—at least at first sight.”

“What do they say?”

“Communiqué Number Nine states that Aldo Moro has been executed. And at the same time,” Spadano went on in a brisk, military tone, “Signora Moro has received a farewell note from her husband.”

Trotti turned to look out of the window. The neighboring roofs were dazzling beneath the high sun.

Spadano was still talking: “And I quote, ‘Dear Norina, they have told me that they are going to kill me in a few minutes. I kiss you one last time. Kiss the children,’ signed Aldo.”

“So it’s certain?”

“Nothing is certain until we find his corpse. However, the Red Brigades have been silent for eleven days. Moro’s assassination now would certainly fit in with the logic of their strategy.”

The pigeons continued to coo.

“So you can understand, Trotti, that I am busy.”

“I am busy, too, Capitano Spadano.”

“Of course. How can I help you?”

Trotti breathed deeply. “It’s about the gypsies—the camp on the far side of the river. I believe that one of your men arrested a gypsy yesterday in Borgo Genovese.”

“Yes?”

“Can you confirm?”

Spadano sounded irritated. “I have more important things to do at the moment. It’s quite possible—really, Trotti, I don’t know.”

“Please check. It is important, Capitano. I had come to an agreement with their chief—and now it looks as though I can’t keep to my side of the agreement. I can’t expect them to understand the difference between Carabinieri and Pubblica Sicurezza.”

“A pity,” Spadano replied drily. “I’ll ring you back—but please understand it’s not easy. I’ve got other—”

“When?” Trotti interrupted.

“Within the hour,” and without another word, the captain of Carabinieri hung up.

Trotti put the receiver down slowly and then took a packet of sweets—aniseed—from the top drawer. Perhaps he was being stupid. One of the most powerful men of the country had probably been executed—and he was worrying about a handful of nomads. He sat in silence for a few minutes while he thought and while he sucked noisily at the pale lozenge of boiled sugar.

“Okay, Gino, you can send them in.”

Signor Rossi wore a tweed jacket that was too large for him; it had a large check pattern, the color of boiled rutabaga and parsnips. It stood away from the collar of his poplin shirt. But the material, Trotti noticed, was smooth and of good quality.

“Please come in.”

He entered the office, steering his wife by the arm. She was broad but a lot shorter than her husband. She was dressed completely in black. Her strong legs were scarred with protuberant veins.