Medusa

IV

The torch acted as the genius loci, its scope and sway strictly limited but within that ambit omnipotent, calling a myriad objects and vistas into being before dismissing them back into latency with a flick of its narrow beam.

The world was made of rock, and always hemming in, but lately it had become more disorganized. The bounds had burst somewhere, allowing massive lumps and clusters to fall, or in some cases erupt upwards, almost blocking their path. But at the last moment the torch would always find a way. Some slit or aperture would appear, and they would crawl or squeeze through, mindful of the jagged edges all around, and patch together from disjunctive glimpses an impression of yet more rectangular tunnel strewn with debris.

‘Now we must be careful,’ announced Anton in his stalkily precise Italian. ‘This is the pitch head.’

The beam of the squat orange torch dashed about, speedily brushing in their notional surroundings like a manic cartoon sequence, and then, unaccountably, its power ceased. The darkness in front of them, just a few metres distant, seemed no different or more intense than that which had surrounded them ever since they entered the tunnels, but the playful minor divinity of the place, out of his depth here, could get no grip on it.

‘Rudi wanted to go down and take a look, so we fixed an eight-millimetre self-drilling expansion bolt over here as a primary belay.’

He pointed the torch at the wall of the tunnel, picking out a glinting metal ring.

‘Then we ran a secondary to the natural anchor point on that boulder over there.’

The torch briefly illumined the chunk of raw rock.

‘We didn’t really count on much in the way of horizontal work when we planned the expedition,’ the young Austrian went on. ‘Nevertheless, we brought about fifty metres of static nylon rope, a harness and a minimum of other gear, just in case. What we didn’t have was any rope-protector, since we were thinking that if there were possible descents then they will be free hangs, with no rub points. But as soon as Rudi went over the edge he spotted a sharp protrusion. There was no way to belay around it so he carried on. It was safe enough for a single descent and ascent, but anything more than that would have been risky.’

His voice boomed around the confined space, evacuated only by the gulf that had opened up at their feet.

‘Rudi rappelled down as far as he could, until he came to the knot marking the end of the rope. And he was shouting something we couldn’t make out, and we were shouting too, you know, because we were excited, and also feeling a little foolish because we had got lost. Then there were a few flashes when he took the pictures, and after that he prusiked back up the pitch and we hauled him over the edge and he told us that there was a body down there.’

Anton gestured in an embarrassed way. ‘Been there, done that’ was the motto of him and his pals at the University of Innsbruck Speleology Club. That meant the Stellerweg and Kaninchenhohle, of course, but also the Trave and the Piedra de San Martin, two of the longest and deepest systems in Northern Spain, not to mention various expeditions to Slovenia, Mexico, Norway and even Jamaica. And then to spend a weekend break exploring a network of military tunnels dating from the First World War and get lost in a man-made shaft in what had used to be part of their own country? The indignity, the disgrace, and

… well, yes, a certain amount of fear had come into it, even before they’d found the body.

‘Let me take a look,’ said Zen.

‘All right, but on your hands and knees, please. Then on your stomach when I do. Your clothing will get dirty, but it’s perfectly dry here and it will brush off after. But we don’t want another accident.’

It seemed to Zen that ghostly quotation marks seemed to hover around the last word, but he made no comment. They both proceeded in the prescribed manner until they reached the brink of the chasm. Anton leant out and shone his torch down, but there was little to see except occasional hints of the sheer scale of the pit beneath. Somewhere very far below — Zen found it impossible to estimate the depth even roughly — a wild chaos of rocks was dimly visible.

‘Is this a natural formation?’ asked Zen.

‘No, no. The Dolomites are formed out of the rock that gives them their name. It’s a crystalline form of limestone and virtually impervious to erosion, even by acidic water. So there’s no caving here, although further north, where the limestone is softer, the situation is quite different. This was man-made. We’re now in one of the Austrian tunnels. The Italians counter- mined it in 1917. Over thirty thousand kilos of explosives. This is the result.’

He moved the torch beam closer to the edge.

‘You can see the overhang down there, about two metres below,’ Anton went on in his slightly pedantic manner. ‘It is this which prevented us seeing the body from here, of course. But when Rudi reached the end of the rope, he illuminated his torch so that he could see how far there is to go and where he will land, and…’

‘And then he saw the corpse.’

‘Yes. Of course we were anxious to inform the authorities, but we were also lost in this maze of tunnels, so Rudi took some photographs to confirm and then we started back, this time keeping a sketch map for reference. After two hours and many false starts we found another way out, not the one by which we had entered. From there I called to the carabinieri on my mobile phone and then we waited some time for them to arrive. Quite a long time, actually.’

He crawled back a metre or so before standing up.

‘So, I think that is all there is to show you. Shall we go back?’

‘We won’t get lost?’

‘No, after returning with the police I know the way well now.’

Back in its element, the torch became their guide and saviour again, pointing out the crooks and crannies they had to negotiate, the low-hanging clumps of rock in the roughhewn tunnel, the subterranean barracks and storerooms, and the various junctions and steep flights of spiral steps which at long last led them back out into the cold wan twilight.

They emerged on to a broad track cut as a supply route into the rock face of a cliff overlooking the valley almost a thousand metres below. With relief, Zen removed the additional skull of the helmet that Anton had insisted he wear. Underground, he had had to follow his guide, and the noise of their feet on the broken rock, as well as the constant need to pay attention to their surroundings, had made silence at once necessary and easy. Now that they could walk side by side, and the only sound was the whine of the unpredictable squally breeze with fistfuls of sleet in its folds, that silence became oppressive. Invisible behind the clouds, the sun had already set.

‘The case is being treated as an accident?’ Anton asked at length.

‘Apparently.’

‘So who was he? What happened? And when?’

‘That’s still unclear.’

They walked on along the rock road marked by the ruts carved almost a century before by the metal wheels of carts and gun carriages.

‘Strange,’ remarked Anton. ‘Of course, this is also what we thought when we found the body. Someone who had tried to do what we were doing, only badly equipped and alone. But there was no sign of any rope at the top of the pitch. Or at the bottom, I think. Even if it had frayed and broken on that rub point, the upper length should still be there attached to the belay and the rest should be with the body. Unless he was one of those free-style alpine climbers, and tried to descend without aids. But he wasn’t dressed correctly for this, or even for walking at such an altitude, still less exploring those tunnels, which are cold, as you know. In fact, from what the photographs show, he didn’t seem to be wearing any shoes or boots.’

‘He was barefoot?’

‘Apparently, yes. Of course, people who come alone into the mountains for adventures are often a little bit strange, but I have never heard of this before. Besides, if he was going to do something extreme in this way, he would surely have informed a relative or the hotel keeper of his intentions and estimated time of return. If someone goes missing, there’s always a search and an enquiry, at least in my country. Even if they don’t find him, the police keep an open file in case a body turns up. We get a few up in the Alps once in a while, particularly now that the glaciers are receding so fast. Those bodies are often chewed up by the ice, but even then they are almost always identified, even if they have been there fifty or more years. In this case the corpse was not so badly decayed, because of the cool stable air in the tunnels. You would think it would not be so difficult to put a name to this person.’

‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

At the point where the path up the face of the massif crossed the old military road, they turned right and started zigzagging down the way they had ascended over four hours earlier, Anton effortlessly, Zen taking frequent pauses to admire the view.

‘You mentioned some photographs,’ Zen said as they picked their way down the steep, rock-strewn track.

‘Yes, Rudi was carrying a camera on his belt, and he took a few shots of the scene just to prove that we hadn’t touched anything or interfered in any way. In the event we forgot all about them, but it didn’t matter. The officers who answered our call weren’t interested. They just took our names and addresses and a brief statement and then said we could go. And of course we were only too happy to do so, and still perhaps a little in shock from this experience. So it was only when we got back to Innsbruck that Rudi remembered the photos.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘I have a set with me. I’ll give them to you when we get back to the rifugio, if you like. But these are just amateur snapshots, taken in a moment of some stress and anxiety. The quality isn’t that good, and of course you’ll have access to the official photographic record taken when the body was removed.’

‘Yes, of course. Still, it would be interesting to see them, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not a problem. I brought them just for that.’

The path narrowed to wind over the shoulder of a rocky bluff, followed by an even more precipitous descent, and silence once more became an acceptable option.

It was pitch-dark by the time they reached the small hostel in the bleak, rock-strewn plain where the road crossed the pass towards Cortina and the valleys to the east. Once through the double set of doors, the smoke-laden fug was initially overwhelming after the icy air outside. Bruno was propped up in a booth at the far end, pointedly ignoring the fact that he was being pointedly ignored by everyone else in the bar. Catching sight of his superior, he hurriedly straightened his uniform, replaced his cap and stood up, but Zen waved to him to stay put. The young patrolman nodded, sat down again and picked up the crossword puzzle magazine he had been working on.

The bar was crowded with a gang of German motorcyclists of both sexes, all sheathed in garish leather suits, as well as a smattering of elderly people who looked local, although where they could have come from was a mystery. Zen led Anton into the restaurant area at the side of the building. There were the same red and white checked curtains over the tiny windows, the same glossily varnished wooden chairs and tables, the same dim lighting from elaborate brass fixtures with frosted glass bowls, but this space was unoccupied and much quieter, apart from a muttered news bulletin from the inevitable television set mounted on a cabinet at the end of the room.

A blank-looking girl of perhaps fifteen came over, a notebook in her hand. After a brief discussion, they settled on a selection of cheese and salumi, a bottle of red wine and two large bowls of soup. Out of sheer habit, Zen initially ordered minestrone, until Anton sensibly pointed out that to be worth eating this required fresh vegetables and high-quality olive oil and parmesan, none of which was likely to be available at this remote spot. Instead they both opted for lentil soup made with chunks of smoked bacon.

‘So, I hope you feel that your visit has been worthwhile,’ said Anton.

It took Zen a moment to realize the oddity of the question. Anton had spoken German to the waitress, who had replied in the same language. Everyone else in the room was speaking either German or, like the TV newscaster, Ladino, the archaic dialect of Latin which had survived only in this isolated mountain range. There wasn’t a word of Italian to be heard or seen anywhere in the place. Zen felt very much as if it were he, and not Anton Redel, who had travelled to a foreign country.

‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘You too, I trust.’

The Austrian laughed.

‘Oh yes! It is always a pleasure to come down here to our former transalpine provinces. Everything is so cheap, too. But this is the first time I’ve had the additional pleasure of doing so at the expense of the Italian government.’

When their food arrived, Anton’s choice proved to have been inspired. The lentils and bacon were a thick, unctuous, rib-sticking delight, more stew than soup. The cold cuts, too, were subtly different from their southern cousins, darker and smokier in flavour and texture. The wine was from the Adige valley where they had both started their journey that morning. It was a very young light red with a tart raspberry taste and a slight prickle of spritz. It was utterly delicious, and cut the rich, heavy food perfectly.

When they had eaten, Anton lit a small cheroot.

‘So, the photographs.’

He got up and went over to the stairs leading to the bedrooms. Zen’s driver appeared at the table.

‘Ready when you are, capo.’

Zen relaxed into Italian as if into a warm lavender-scented bath. He dug out his battered pack of Nazionali and lit up.

‘Calm down, Bruno. I’m not quite finished yet.’

‘ Benissimo. Only it’s just starting to snow. We should be able to make it down the mountain if we start soon, otherwise…’

He shrugged expressively.

‘I’ll be as quick as possible,’ Zen told him.

‘I’ll go and get the car warmed up.’

Bruno walked off back to his table as Anton reappeared, holding an envelope which he placed on the table between them. It contained four colour prints which Zen looked through one by one without saying anything. Indeed, it was difficult to find anything to say. The pictures looked like reproductions of modern art, all blobs and scurries, masses and evasions of colour and form whose presumed significance could only be their apparent lack thereof.

‘Rudi didn’t have much time, and his camera is not so good,’ Anton explained through a cloud of cigar smoke. ‘But it is digital, so I’ve enclosed a diskette with the files.’

‘Files?’

‘In case you want to do an enhancement. They’re compressed, of course. You’ll need to unzip them.’

Zen extracted a black plastic rectangle from the envelope. He nodded sagely and puffed on his cigarette. Yet another foreign language. Compression and unzipping he could more or less understand, but what sort of magic was involved in an enhancement?

‘This one, for instance,’ the Austrian added, selecting one of the prints and turning it the right way up. Zen suddenly realized that it showed the outflung wreck of the corpse lying broken on the floor of the blast pit. It was dressed only in a shirt and slacks. The feet appeared to be bare. The face was turned away, but the right arm lay outstretched across the jagged rocks. Anton pointed to some markings just above the elbow.

‘It might be significant to know exactly what this is,’ he said. ‘But such details will naturally have emerged during the postmortem examination.’

Was there a hint of irony in his tone? It was hard to tell with the Austrians. They liked to present themselves as slow, cosy, complacent country bumpkins, but their empire had produced some of the most incisive thinkers and artists in Europe. Zen called the waitress and settled the bill.

‘Well, thank you for your cooperation, Herr Redel. I hope you have good walking tomorrow.’

‘It looks like it will be cross-country skiing with this weather. But they rent langenlauf equipment here, so either way I shall enjoy myself.’

The two men shook hands. Then Zen looked his guest straight in the eye.

‘What do you think really happened?’

Anton Redel looked understandably confused by this question.

‘Well, of course I am not a policeman. But if this had occurred somewhere else, say in the elevator shaft of an abandoned city warehouse, I’d probably suspect that others were involved.’

‘Others?’

‘Some gangsters, perhaps. Drugs or some such thing. They kill the man and then hide his body in the shaft. Or they just throw him down. Maybe the corpse will never be found. Even if it is, it may be too late to identify him.’

He gave Zen a charming, thick-lipped Austrian smile.

‘But of course this is ridiculous! There are many dangers up here in the mountains, but criminal organizations are not among them.’

Outside the insulating double doors, the snow was now descending in earnest frothy flakes that were deceptively insubstantial as they floated into the lights of the hostel, but already lay several centimetres deep on its concrete forecourt. Bruno had drawn the marked police Alfa right up to the entrance. Zen got into the back seat and they set off.

To Zen’s relief, Bruno was not one of those police drivers for whom the point of the exercise was to validate their virility. Indeed, for the first thirty minutes or so, when the snow was still heavy and the road treacherous, he was almost excessively cautious as they negotiated the frequent reverse curves and steep gradients in very poor visibility. After that, the snow gradually turned to sleet and eventually a slushy rain, the surface reverted to a reliable shiny black, and they were able to speed up.

In the back, Zen relaxed, dozy after so much unaccustomed exercise and fresh air, but also taunted by the question which Anton Redel had no doubt intended merely as a courtesy. Did he feel that his visit had been worthwhile? The honest answer was ‘No’, but this was in keeping with every other aspect of this case which had been tossed into his lap, he suspected, more than anything else as a sop to give him the illusion of being gainfully employed.

‘You might want to take a look at these,’ was how the departmental head had put it when he handed Zen a bunch of files at the termination of his weekly briefing at the headquarters of the Interior Ministry on the Viminale hill in Rome. ‘They’re mostly quite routine, I think, but it would be valuable to have any input or suggestions you might have to offer.’

Zen had accepted the files in the same spirit, and taken them back that evening to the apartment in Lucca that he shared with Gemma, the new woman in his life. There were eight in all, the very number confirming Zen’s suspicions that none of this was intended to be taken too seriously. Most of the cases indeed appeared to be fairly routine. The exception was the one that he had brought with him to the Alto Adige.

This already had a certain curiosity value based on its provenance. Rather than being forwarded to police headquarters in Rome by one of the Ministry’s provincial questure, it had been obtained ‘through channels’ from the carabinieri, who were handling the case. When Zen made a few phone calls to query various aspects of the report, his interest immediately quickened. He had done this often enough in the past, and was familiar with the standard response: a mixture of obscurantism, grudging disclosures and resentful passing off of the intruder to subordinates, the officer who had been called having more pressing matters to attend to. This was standard procedure, and he had frequently employed it himself when the boot was on the other foot.

This time, though, things went quite differently. Zen’s call was immediately transferred to the officer in charge, a Colonel Miccoli, who evinced an almost embarrassing readiness to address any and all questions that his esteemed colleague might have. Of course Zen wasn’t wasting his time! Full disclosure and cooperation between the two forces of order was of the essence to effective law enforcement in a modern democracy. ‘ Mi casa es su casa,’ quoted the colonel, adding that he had spent several months liaising with the Spanish anti-terrorist squad back in the nineties over some Basque suspects who had allegedly spent several years in hiding in Sardinia.

He had some interesting and amusing anecdotes to tell about that episode, but almost nothing to say about the case concerning which Zen had called. Everything was in limbo at the moment and it would be injudicious to draw any premature conclusions. The body had been removed from the tunnel complex and flown by helicopter to the central hospital in Bolzano. Yes, a post-mortem examination had been performed, but the results appeared to be inconclusive. No, it had not been possible to positively identify the victim as yet. Misadventure seemed the most likely cause of death, but foul play had not entirely been ruled out. In short, it was a question of time, and at worst the affair might turn out to be one of those minor mysteries associated with a mountainous district whose rugged remoteness naturally attracted — how should he put it? — amateurs of extreme sports and thrill-seekers of all kinds. He would of course pass on any further details should they become available. It had been a pleasure to have the opportunity of discussing the case with Dottor Zen. Not at all, on the contrary, the pleasure had all been his.

Zen had by now become accustomed to the widespread effects of what his friend Giorgio De Angelis termed ‘Italia Lite’: the new culture of empty slogans, insincere smiles and hollow promises overlaying the authentic adversarial asperity of public life. He was somewhat surprised to find that the rot had tainted a military body such as the carabinieri, with its long traditions and strong esprit de corps, but no more than that. It was none of his business anyway. He had duly ‘reviewed’ and returned the file. No one would thank him for exerting himself any further.

Nevertheless, he was left with a nagging feeling, based on decades of experience of how these things were handled, that something wasn’t quite right. After a few days, it became strong enough to nudge him into contacting the Questura in Bolzano and asking them to obtain a copy of the post-mortem report direct from the hospital. Their reply had been more than enough to confirm his doubts. ‘ The official response of the hospital authorities is that such a request can only be considered if routed through the Ministry of Defence, which has been designated the competent State agency in this matter. According to our sources, however, the post-mortem report and the photographs taken in the course of the examination, together with the cadaver itself and all clothing and objects appertaining thereto, are no longer in the possession of the hospital, having been taken in charge by officers of the carabinieri on the morning of the 15th inst.’

It was at this point that Zen had decided that there was a case to be made for him to travel north. Much as he liked Lucca, he was in a mood to leave for a few days, and was particularly looking forward to meeting Colonel Miccoli, given that their telephone conversation had taken place three days after the developments noted in the Questura’s fax. He had therefore booked a first-class sleeper on the night train which passed through Florence just before midnight and stopped at Bolzano about four hours later.

On his arrival at the carabinieri headquarters later that morning, he had been told that Colonel Miccoli was ‘out of town’. Not only that, but his adjunct claimed never to have heard of Zen, and to have no personal knowledge of the case in question.

Fortunately Zen had arranged a fallback position. One of the few substantive facts in the carabinieri report he had been given concerned the three young Austrians who had discovered the body. Their names, addresses and home telephone numbers had all been noted down as a matter of routine, and with a sense that he had nothing to lose Zen had taken the long shot of calling one of them. Initially this turned out to be abortive due to language difficulties, but on the third attempt Zen reached Anton Redel, who had been born and raised in the Alto Adige and spoke serviceable Italian. He had readily agreed to return to the scene of the tragedy and explain what had happened, in exchange for a reasonable sum to cover the expense of the journey down from Innsbruck, where he was now at university.

A straggle of low buildings appeared at a sharp bend in the road ahead, seemingly propped up against the precipitous slope of the mountainside. Most were abandoned, but a few showed lights, and in the centre of the village there was a bar and shop with petrol pumps outside. Bruno turned off and parked outside.

‘Need to pee, capo,’ he explained.

The air inside the bar was as suffocatingly thick and hot as it had been at the establishment up at the pass, but when the half-dozen clients inside noticed Bruno’s uniform, the temperature immediately seemed to drop by several degrees.

Zen went up to the counter and asked for two coffees and a glass of an interesting-looking homemade liqueur in a litre bottle on the bar. He had to repeat the order several times before the woman who was serving finally nodded and shuffled off without the slightest acknowledgement. While he waited, Zen skimmed through a story in the German-language newspaper lying on the counter, something about a rich Venezuelan who’d been killed when his car exploded outside the gates of his villa in Campione d’Italia. Good, he thought. The sooner this dead-end case he had mistakenly got involved with ceased to be national news, the better.

Bruno reappeared, ostentatiously zipping up his flies and checking the positioning of their contents. Their coffees and Zen’s liqueur arrived without a word being spoken. In fact no word had been spoken by anyone in the bar since they had entered.

‘Quiet, isn’t it?’ remarked Bruno.

Zen lit a cigarette but made no reply.

‘On the face of it,’ the patrolman went on loudly, leaning back against the bar and gazing round the room. ‘But appearances can be deceptive. In fact, everyone in this village suffers from a rare and ultimately fatal condition whose inexorable progress can only be delayed by drinking the blood of a live human being.’

He nodded solemnly.

‘That’s the price you pay for centuries of incest. Poor things. There are few of them left now, because of course once in a while, when pickings from the passing trade are slim, they get desperate and draw lots among themselves. But their normal practice is to lure travellers in here with the promise of a hot drink or some petrol for the car. This dump used to be a mining community and there’s still a warren of shafts going back into the mountains. They stack the husks in there and resell the cars to the Mafia. Once in a while some tourist goes missing somewhere on the road to Cortina. No one can prove anything.’

He pointed to the floor.

‘That’s the trapdoor, right there where you’re standing, dot ¬ tore. Lucky you didn’t come in alone. Next thing you knew, you’d be lying down in the cellar with a broken leg and these creatures pouring down the stairs, giggling and squealing and knocking each other aside in their eagerness to open up an artery so that they could feast.’

Bruno swivelled round and stabbed a finger at one of the other drinkers, a man of diminutive stature.

‘You dwarf!’ he roared. ‘How many litres have you downed over the years, eh? Sucking the rich red curd down like mother’s milk! And that swine next to you, nuzzling his snout into the still-living entrails in hopes of finding a last drop of the good stuff clinging to some gizzard!’

Zen laid some money on the counter, took Bruno by the elbow and steered him outside. It was starting to snow, even at this lower level.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Zen asked the patrolman once they were back in the car. ‘You know the problems we have in this territory! What are you trying to do, start another terrorist movement up here?’

‘Sorry about that, capo. I just lost it for a moment. But it’s all right, they don’t speak Italian.’

‘They understand it.’

‘Of course, but they’d never admit that. It would be letting the side down. Hence my little game. Must be maddening for them.’

Zen sighed massively and lit a cigarette, cranking the window down slightly. Tufts of snow landed on his face like flies.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked in a subdued voice.

‘Bologna. I used to be bored there when I was growing up, but now I can’t wait to go back. It’s like being separated from your wife. And you, capo, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Venice.’

They drove on in silence for a while.

‘I hate the mountains,’ said Bruno.

‘So do I.’

‘And I hate the people who live here. Not because they’re foreigners. It’s their country and as far as I’m concerned they’re welcome to it. But all the bright, enterprising, intelligent people left long ago, because they hated the mountains too. I mean, who’d want to live up here? So the only people left are the scum. The village idiots, the child and wife abusers, the no-brain losers and retards of every variety.’

Another silence.

‘How long have you got to go?’ asked Zen.

‘Three months and thirteen days.’

Zen nodded.

‘From a professional point of view, I think it might be advisable to make a special exception in your case.’

Bruno peered back at him in the rear-view mirror.

‘You can do that?’

‘I’ll try. Provided you get me back to the valley, safe and sound, and by nine at the latest.’

‘You want the station, right?’

‘No, I’ve changed my mind. Drop me at the hospital. I’ll take a cab from there.’