‘Yes.’
‘The first time, if I’m not mistaken, was in my absence.’
‘You were away on holiday, yes.’
‘Yes. And I might as well have been away on holiday this time, too, it seems.’
‘No, no. . . .’
‘And then, I’ve always felt you were so much better at dealing with people than I could ever be—but these are not excuses. I’ve neglected you. I’ve let you down. And there’s no excuse for that. My first duty of care is to you, not to the mayor. That you should come to this . . . without my even being aware that you were in difficulty— I’ll tell you the truth, Guarnaccia: If there’s one thing that grieves me more than the idea of losing you, it’s losing your trust. That’s just vanity, I suppose.’
‘No. No, that’s not right, not right at all. You haven’t— no, no . . . it’s what I have to do. It’s better if the responsibility’s mine, believe me.’
‘I am your superior officer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Taking responsibility is what I’m here for. The only reason for keeping this report of yours to yourself is that revealing its content to me would compromise your investigation. Would it?’
Why couldn’t he leave it? Go back to his office, get on with his life, his career. He was too clever at talking.
‘Would it compromise your investigation?’
‘No.’ It would compromise you, though. Don’t insist. Please don’t insist—but wasn’t that what Piazza had said? Don’t insist, Guarnaccia. And he had gone his own way because he was incapable of any other.
‘Your little
independent ways . . . ,’
as the prosecutor said.
‘And yet you insist on taking it upon yourself to be the only one responsible. You’re not. That’s not how the army works. It may be how you work inside your own head; but have you thought about what happens if what you’re trying to do goes wrong? Are you sure you’re capable of dealing with whatever this problem is, all alone? It’s clearly something very serious indeed, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m the last person to doubt your capabilities, Guarnaccia. I’m just saying think about the consequences—you know what they would be, I don’t—if this report is inadequate in some way, if it doesn’t communicate the urgency, the seriousness which I—knowing you and trusting you—believe in without question. Just remember that you’re sending it to someone who doesn’t know you and without my recommendation.’
The prosecutor had said the same thing, hadn’t he?
‘You take too much upon yourself.’
He hadn’t thought, it was true. He’d done his best; but if his best wasn’t good enough, if his best was an ill-written report—and he was no writer, any more than he was a talker—resulting in delays, even in a failure to convince at all? A florid man, balding, leaving the bedroom. A crying child. And all the weight of power and wealth against him.
The captain had picked up the letter of resignation and was holding it out. He took it and, in silence, gave him the report. The rain was coming down harder.
* * *
‘Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon her. . . .’
The church was very small but, even so, the marshal was puzzled by its being so full. His plan of sitting right at the back so as to watch everyone coming out was foiled since all the benches were full. Nevertheless, he remained at the back on his feet and soon worked out that the greater part of the congregation was not in mourning and probably consisted of regular churchgoers here.
‘We don’t know anybody. . . .’
Hadn’t the younger daughter said that one morning as they walked in the garden? Even some of those in black at the front of the church were a bit uncertain about kneeling and sitting, and the marshal felt sure that they were employees from Paoletti’s club, under orders to dress for the occasion, who couldn’t remember when they had last been at mass.
‘I confess to almighty God, to the Blessed Mary ever a Virgin, Blessed Michael the Archangel. . . .’
If it came to that, he wasn’t sure he could remember when he had last been at mass himself, so he was hardly the one to criticise.
‘Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. . . .’
He’d been crazy to think he could take it upon himself . . . now he was following the captain’s instructions to the letter.
‘Just listen to whatever the prosecutor says and look compliant.’
He’d done that, silent, respectful, and, above all, expressionless.
‘If he tells you to take some particular line of inquiry, as I
imagine he has been doing until now. . . .’
‘Oh, yes. The daughter’s private life, finding an ex-gardener
who has a record, that sort of thing. . . .’
He was doing that, too. And since Paoletti, as expected, had to go back into hospital for tests, he was going to to follow the prosecutor’s orders and stay close to the family. After all, they didn’t want something happening to the second daughter in his absence.
‘He’ll be out in a day or two.’
‘And are you likely to be able to find this gardener?’
‘I’ll find him, just as slowly as the prosecutor wants. And to
make it more convincing, we’re doing a DNA check on the
child. I’d thought . . . I’d hoped he might not want that, to be
honest.’
‘You didn’t think De Vita could be—’
‘No. Not him, no . . . I suppose I should have done. If he
and Paoletti have been involved for years . . . and the murder
occurred on his watch. That can hardly be luck, can it? No.
You’re right, I should have thought about it, but no. It’s
Paoletti I’m thinking of.’
‘Incest?’
‘Well, it’s not a crime, strictly speaking, is it? Unless it’s a
public scandal or the child’s under age. Paoletti likes
respectability. He’s ostentatious in his religion and his charitable
donations. I know I’m not making myself clear, but everything
in his life is controlled by him. . . . He couldn’t have
killed her, it’s true, and he wouldn’t have wanted her killed by
anybody else—even if she was trying to get away from him—
not in his respectable household.’
‘No. From what you’ve told me about him, I can quite see
that. But that it happened on this particular prosecutor’s
watch is a consideration and, as you say, if you’re right about
the child’s paternity, one would expect him to be reluctant to
issue the warrant. Of course, he might not know.’
‘And I might be wrong.’
‘You might. In any case, the test will show if the child’s parents
are blood relations and besides, remember that what De
Vita’s trying to keep you away from may have nothing to do
with your murder case. It’s probably only about saving his own
skin.’
‘Yes. . . .’
‘You’re not convinced.’
He wasn’t. But how could he explain that he felt the way those girls felt? That it made no difference whether Paoletti was in hospital when it happened or not: The hand of Paoletti was everywhere in this story. Whatever happened around Paoletti, he was guilty of it because he controlled everything. Poor Cristina had transmitted her fear to him, and he was finding it hard to shake off. Thinking she’d be on television. Would they be in time . . . ? Don Antonino would arrive this afternoon and be briefed.
The prosecutor would be suspended pending an investigation; but once he knew that, then Paoletti would be warned and the children would disappear. Everything had to be coordinated so that there was no time for Paoletti to act.
And even then, would they succeed in getting a conviction? There was the priest in the pulpit now, not talking about Daniela so much as about the heartfelt generosity of her father. Not only had he paid for the heating that had been installed in the church last autumn. . . .
They must need it, too, the marshal thought, because it was ice-cold in here now, and it was still August.
He also intended, in the name of his dear daughter, so sadly taken from us, to restore the frescoes behind the altar. . . .
Pink cherubs fluttering around a madonna in blue and white, hand to heart, eyes raised, soaring up to heaven on a damp-ravaged cloud with gold rays coming out of it.
All that pink and blue reminded the marshal of the bedroom ceiling in that hotel. Paoletti had no doubt restored that, too. The cold in here was yet another reminder of that long, unhappy night.
‘Lord have mercy.
‘Christ have mercy.
‘Christ have mercy.
‘Christ have mercy.
‘Lord have mercy. . . .’
All the money Paoletti had contributed to the church would explain why the congregation had turned out this morning, urged, no doubt, from the pulpit last Sunday.
How had they managed to get the mother up and dressed and to church at this hour? Of course, things must be different with Paoletti at home. However sick he might be, he would still be obeyed. They say some caged birds wouldn’t fly away even though you left the cage door open. Paoletti knew how to choose his little birds. Fluttering captives.
‘Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord. . . .’
A child’s whimper echoed. It must be Piero. He was silenced.
‘And let perpetual light shine upon her. . . .’
The marshal had this feeling about Paoletti: that, somehow, he would slip through their fingers. Even if the operation they were planning went perfectly, even though they had witnesses. After all, all those years ago, he’d been in a much tighter spot. He’d been arrested, there were witnesses, including his victim, and he hadn’t the experience then that he did now—or a priest already on his side. How had he managed it that time? Thinking about Piazza and Paoletti’s approach there, it occurred to him that the man had probably started out by having his confession heard and recruiting the priest that way. We all like to think we’ve saved somebody. Wasn’t he guilty of that himself? Paoletti was such a clever manipulator. His antennae picked up people’s weak spots and their little vanities too. And what about the sort of fancy lawyer his money would buy—no, he wouldn’t even have to pay. That lawyer on his list of victims would do the job for free to protect himself. So clever . . . he would never go to prison, unless it was to leave right away by the back door like last time. The marshal admitted to himself that he was afraid of the man. Those children. . . .
‘Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who taketh away the sins of the world. . . .’
Communion was given at one side of the altar, since Daniela’s coffin stood in the nave. Paoletti and his wife and daughter took communion before the rest of the congregation.
Just before the mass ended, the marshal retreated very quietly and stepped outside into the sun’s heat, fishing for his dark glasses.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
‘Nesti—you shouldn’t be seen here, and especially not with me—’
‘Let’s go, then. Get in my car, I’ve got a surprise for you—and don’t start! I’ve kept my word, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, but . . . who is that?’
‘An important witness with something interesting to tell you about our friend Paoletti. Get in. They’ll be coming out.’
‘My own car and driver are here, and I have to go to the cemetery. What’s this about?’
‘Follow us, then. We’ll go up to Trespiano and tuck our cars out of sight somewhere inside the cemetery gates. You can join the funeral when it arrives.’
Whoever the man in Nesti’s car was, the marshal didn’t recognize him, but he followed them down through the city and up the via Bolognese. The steep, narrow road was strewn with purple ribbons and lost flower heads blown from speeding hearses.
Inside the cemetery, the marshal and the stranger stood in the strip of shade offered by a line of cypresses while Nesti walked up and down, smoking, keeping an eye out for the arrival of the Paoletti cortège.
The stranger introduced himself as an ex-colleague with the same grade as the marshal.
‘I saw that piece in the paper and so I rang up. Nesti said I should talk to you.’
‘You know something about this murder?’
‘Murder? No. But I know something about Paoletti. I was marshal out there up to a couple of years ago, before Piazza.’
‘You . . . you look young to have retired. . . .’
‘Retired? Well, I suppose you could say retired. I took on Paoletti and lost—not deliberately, I’m no hero. I heard rumours about that hotel and decided to do a bit of nighttime investigating. Saw people I shouldn’t have seen. Anyway, I found myself transferred.’
‘Where?’
‘Basilicata. I’ve nothing against the south, but my wife’s from Bologna . . . you know how it is. Anyway, to cut a long story short, they didn’t come with me, they went to her mother’s—just at first, the wife said, and then. . . . After a while I realized they’d never come. Kids liked their schools there, and so on. So, I took early retirement.’
‘Could you afford it? I mean. . . .’
‘Of course I couldn’t afford it. Could you?’
‘No. No, I. . . .’
‘Watch your back, then. He’s dangerous and he’s well-connected.’
‘I know. Lucky for me, my commanding officer—’
‘A company captain? Don’t kid yourself. You’ll both be out on your ear. Don’t mess around with him. You’ll be the one to lose out. There are politicians involved. You follow me?’
‘Is that all you came to tell me?’
‘No, it’s not, but it’s one of the things, so if you’ve got a family. . . .’
‘What . . . what did you do? I mean, after you left the army?’
‘Moved in with her mother. What else could I do?’
‘And. . . .’ He wanted to ask if it had turned out all right, but he could see that it hadn’t. Everything about the man showed that he no longer had a wife. The day was very hot, of course, but that was yesterday’s shirt giving off the smell of stale sweat and his hair was just a bit too long and smelled of . . . hair. The marshal changed his question. ‘Did you find work?’
‘Eventually. Security job. Boring. Didn’t get on too well with the mother-in-law, though, so. . . . You know how it is.’
‘You said that you had something else to tell me.’