Back to Bologna

33

As a newcomer to La Carrozza, Aurelio Zen had been allocated a small table set apart between the end of the bar and the front door. This afforded a close-up view of interactions between the overworked waiters and the foulmouthed owner, with much interesting commentary on both sides, and a blast of freezing air whenever the door opened to offset the searing heat of the wood-burning pizza oven at Zen’s back. He ordered a glass of beer but no food, on the grounds that he was waiting for someone.

‘Eh, like everyone!’ the thinner of the two waiters had replied cryptically.

Zen looked around the premises, but the only person who seemed to fit the waiter’s comment was a young woman sitting at a table near by, who kept glancing up from her book at the front door. She had surveyed Zen for a moment when he entered, with a look of hopeful eagerness that immediately faded as recognition failed. She had blue eyes of the most astonishing clarity, as bright and guileless as ice, but much warmer. She was very attractive in other ways too, and Zen found his own gaze returning to her both for this reason and because the title of the book that she was reading seemed to be The Prisoner of Zen, although her plumply elegant forefinger partially covered it.

In the end she gathered up her things and left, rather to his disappointment, only to collide in the street outside with a young man who kissed her spectacularly and then led her back to her table, where the couple were now canoodling and chatting enthusiastically over a bottle of bubbly wine. ‘Ah, youth!’ thought Zen, glad to have someone to feel happy for. Now that his brief interlude of high spirits-probably a delayed reaction to the shock of his arrest-had passed, his own prospects for the evening seemed considerably less promising. The news that Stefano’s girlfriend had miscarried promised to add a vast new uncharted minefield to the blighted warzone that his relationship with Gemma had become. He had apparently acquired an almost infinite capacity for saying or doing the wrong thing, and this new development, which could hardly fail to be the main topic of conversation between them in the immediate future, offered plenty of scope for his talents in this respect.

It was then that a thought occurred to him. As matters stood, he had no real standing in the Santini family, but as Stefano’s stepfather he would have to be accorded at least a grudging toleration. So if the situation started to get out of hand back at the hotel later that evening, he would simply make a proposal of marriage to Gemma. That would at least clarify the situation, whatever the result. If she turned him down, they would have to part. If she accepted, they would have to put up with each other. It might not be the most romantic solution, but it was eminently practical.

Another ten minutes passed before Bruno Nanni finally turned up.

‘So what’s this “important lead” you mentioned?’ Zen demanded once they had ordered their pizzas. ‘You were very mysterious about it on the phone.’

Bruno leant forward.

‘Well, apparently some anonymous informant called the Questura this afternoon…’

‘Claiming he knows who shot Edgardo Ugo,’ Zen interrupted. ‘Stale news, Bruno. The Carabinieri told me hours ago.’

‘You’ve been in touch with the Carabinieri?’

‘They got in touch with me. The officer in charge of the Ugo shooting is an old friend of mine and a fellow Venetian. He naturally wanted to compare notes.’

‘Did they tell you the name that the caller mentioned?’

Zen thought back.

‘No, actually they didn’t mention a name.’

Bruno smiled smugly.

‘They couldn’t, because we haven’t told them.’

‘How come you know all this, Bruno?’

‘Got it out of the duty sarge who took the call.’

Their pizzas arrived, and for some time both men were absorbed in eating.

‘Do you also know the name involved?’ asked Zen when his first wave of hunger had passed.

Bruno was in the middle of chewing a gargantuan bite and couldn’t reply immediately.

‘Vincenzo Amadori,’ he finally replied in a choked whisper.

‘Probably just a nuisance call.’

Bruno shook his head.

‘There’s been no public reference to the ballistics tie-in between the two cases,’ he pointed out. ‘The buzz around the Questura is that the same gun was definitely involved, but they’re not going to release that news to the media for fear of setting off an Uno Bianca feeding frenzy. It looks like they’re going to keep it under wraps for a while, with the excuse that further tests are needed, and hope to get a quick break in the case before they have to come clean.’

He finished his beer and signalled the waiter to bring a refill.

‘And without the knowledge that the same gun was used, there would be no point in anyone trying to smear Vincenzo with the Ugo affair. I doubt he even knew who Ugo was, never mind had a motive to shoot him.’

Zen felt a sudden sense of lassitude and indifference, a brief backwash from the storm that had so recently threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Well, that’s the basic problem with the whole investigation,’ he heard himself say, as though at a great distance. ‘On the face of it, the two victims had nothing whatever in common beyond the fact that they were well-known public figures in Bologna. There are plenty of killers who attack only certain demographic groups, usually prostitutes, but celebrity stalkers are invariably obsessed with one particular person. No others need apply.’

‘Perhaps there were two men involved,’ Bruno suggested, waving a forkload of pizza in the air. ‘One shot Curti for reasons of his own, the other Ugo ditto, but with the same pistol.’

‘You should retire and write thrillers,’ said Zen sarcastically. ‘Anyway, it no longer has anything to do with us. On the basis of the possible analogy you mentioned, the judicial authorities have handed over the Ugo case to our colleagues in the Carabinieri. Assuming that the ballistics tests verify the identity of the weapon concerned, they will get de facto control of the Curti murder as well, leaving us free to deal with such really important issues as policing football games.’

He broke off as a party of about a dozen entered the establishment, laughing and chatting loudly, filed past Bruno and Zen and took their places at the large table that had been assembled at the back of the room. One of the waiters appeared and collected the empty pizza plates.

‘Tutto bene, signori?’

Zen nodded, but Bruno scratched the back of his neck.

‘You go if you want, capo, but I’m still hungry.’

Aman in a filthy apron had just emerged from the rear of the premises to lay two plates of pasta on the counter next to the pizza oven. He was pudgy, with a bald head, a vestigial moustache, no eyebrows and an air of immense resentment.

‘Who’s that?’ Bruno asked the waiter.

‘The new help. Normo’s mother’s been taken poorly, so we had to get someone at short notice to do the made dishes.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘He’s only just started. A foreigner. I haven’t had any complaints. La nonna is keeping a close eye on him.’

‘God help him. Well, let’s see how good a team they make. Bring me a bowl of penne all’arrabbiata and half a litre of red.’

‘In that case, I’ll have a dessert,’ said Zen. ‘That chocolatey thing on the bottom shelf of the cooler.’

Behind them, the whoops, giggles and guffaws from the large table soon rose to such a level that there was no need for Bruno and Zen to try and find something to talk about.