Minot hesitated just a moment.
‘As a matter of fact, I did.’
Pascal shook his head.
‘Temperamental buggers. Sometimes you can set them down with a wallop and nothing happens, other times they crack apart if you just look at them the wrong way.’
He sniffed deeply.
‘Over at Bruno’s, was it?’
Minot flashed him a look of genuine shock.
‘Bruno’s dead!’
The maresciallo nodded morosely.
‘Shame about the funeral. It’s this busybody we have up from Rome, you see, on account of the Vincenzo business. He decided to start throwing his weight around, and there was nothing I could do.’
‘So why did you mention Bruno?’
Pascal looked up at the cold blue sky.
‘Well, shortly before he died Bruno took delivery of a consignment of wine. We think it came from the Faigano brothers, and I naturally assumed that you handled the carriage for them. You normally do, right?’
‘Not this time. I didn’t even know about any delivery. You’ve probably got the wrong supplier. Bruno used to buy wine from all over the place.’
‘That’s true.’
A silence fell.
‘Well, I can always check with Gianni and Maurizio, I suppose,’ Pascal remarked, as though to himself. ‘I don’t know when I’m going to find the time, though. This man from Rome has really stirred things up, I can tell you, what with impounding Bruno’s body and ordering an autopsy…’
‘What?’
Pascal smiled and shook his head.
‘Absurd, isn’t it? And of course the family are absolutely furious at the idea of their beloved relative being cut up, all on account of some sliver of glass which this Zen claims to have found in his neck.’
There was another long silence. Pascal heaved a long sigh.
‘So who were those friends you were out with the night Beppe died?’
Minot did not reply for some time, and when he did it was in a strange, halting voice, as though he was still learning this new skill but had not yet mastered it.
‘Gianni and Maurizio.’
Enrico Pascal opened his eyes wide.
‘What a coincidence.’
The maresciallo stuck his fingernails under his starched collar and scratched his neck.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ he said.
Minot watched the jeep drive away. At the cross-roads outside the village, it turned left, away from the Faigano property. He released the breath he had been holding all this time, leapt into the truck and revved up the motor. Why all these problems now? Was he losing his grip, his instinctive sense of what was and was not possible? At any rate, the key to the whole matter remained the Faigano brothers, he thought, pushing the truck as fast as he dared down the winding road. As long as they backed him up, he was in the clear. The trouble was that he didn’t know what they would do.
That was the problem with people, you could never be sure how they would react. If only they were like the rats, a collective whose apparent individuality was in fact an illusion, and whose behaviour was totally predictable. But people weren’t like that. They could do the craziest things, as Camillo had when the Fascists captured him. Instead of shutting up and taking his chances, he had danced — danced — in front of his captors and told them that, yes, he was a partisan and proud of it, and that they were doomed by history.
They’d shot him, of course, but not before he had taunted them one last time, when the Republican recruit detailed to pull the trigger had funked out and started to shake. One of the other prisoners, who had watched the whole scene, later reported what happened next. ‘So Camillo looked at the boy, and he smiled. “Go ahead and shoot,” he said. “You’re only killing a man. Nothing will change.”’
People did things like that all the time. Maybe Gianni and Maurizio would, too. What could he do to sway them, other than recite the usual formulas about their mutual interest and so on? Suppose they decided not to listen? Suppose, like Camillo, they just didn’t care? Since Chiara’s death, Gianni didn’t seem to care very much about anything.
It didn’t give him much to work with, not nearly enough, in fact. Perhaps he should try an alternative approach. Unpredictability, after all, was a game two could play. The thought of Chiara Vincenzo reminded him of Aldo’s death. That was what the cops were really interested in. Beppe and Bruno were just distractions, although inextricably linked to that main event. And if the Faigano brothers refused to help Minot, why should he protect them any longer?
Not only did he know exactly why and how Aldo had been murdered, but he could explain the grotesque and ferocious mutilations inflicted on the corpse as well. Once the truth about that crime had been established, the culprit would automatically become the chief and only suspect in the Gallizio and Scorrone killings. A community such as this didn’t run to two murderers, any more than it ran to two lawyers or newsagents. One was both necessary and sufficient, and once he was identified, no one would think of looking any further.
Minot pulled into the courtyard of the brothers’ house, strode up to the door and knocked hard several times. He had made his decision, and was in no mood to be kept waiting. There were footsteps inside and the door opened, but the person who appeared was not Gianni or Maurizio but the famous ‘busybody from Rome’ about whose activities Enrico Pascal had complained so bitterly.
‘I was looking for the Faigano brothers,’ Minot said hesitantly.
‘Come in.’
Caught unawares, Minot obeyed.
‘And Gianni and Maurizio?’
‘They’re not here.’
‘Out among the vines, are they? It’s a busy time of the year for wine-makers.’
The other held out his hand.
‘I think we’ve met. I’m Aurelio Zen. You were kind enough to give me a lift the other day. Minot, isn’t it?’
Minot clasped the proffered hand and gasped audibly. He turned away, trying to evaluate the inspiration which had been clear and powerful enough to force the spasm from him. He needed time to think it through properly, but time was just what he didn’t have. Gianni and Maurizio might return at any minute, but until then he was alone with the policeman in charge of the whole investigation — and no one would ever know that he’d been there!
‘Come through to the kitchen,’ the official told him, leading the way. ‘I want to show you something.’
The kitchen was where Gianni kept his butcher’s knives, lined up on the chopping block by the sink. One quick thrust would be enough, with a towel around the handle to eliminate fingerprints and staunch the blood. ‘Do it!’ said the voices in his head. What was that phrase the priest had explained to him once, long ago? Nihil obstat.
‘Who’s this?’ the policeman asked, pointing to a framed photograph standing all alone on one shelf of the sideboard. It was a studio shot, obviously quite old, showing a young girl dressed all in white, with a lace headscarf.
Minot hesitated. The question had no relevance to his plans, but he had grown up in a world where figures of power — schoolmasters, priests, commanding officers, policemen — were licensed to ask questions, and where you were expected to reply or face unpleasant consequences.
‘Chiara Cravioli,’ he said, eyeing the array of gleaming knives.