‘Wine?’ echoed Gianni.
‘That’s right,’ said Zen. ‘Specifically, the undocumented shipment you made to Bruno Scorrone the other day.’
The ensuing silence was broken by the click of Nanni Morino’s dental aid returning to join its numerous relatives and then the squeaks of his pen.
‘That’s all?’ Gianni Faigano blurted out.
Zen frowned.
‘What else would it be?’
Maurizio’s relief was evident in his laugh.
‘Well, you know, it’s just that we heard that you’d been sent up here from Rome to investigate Aldo Vincenzo’s murder. And then you tried to pump Gianni about it over lunch, so when your men came to bring us in we naturally assumed that…’
The scene was a second-floor office in the Alba police station. It was small and dingy and had been unused for some time. A thick layer of dust covered every horizontal surface like a natural secretion.
Zen got up from the desk and, with some difficulty, opened the window. It was evidently the first time in years that this had been done, and the musty, enclosed odours lingered in the air, mingled with currents from the cool darkness outside and the sounds of merriment and sociability drifting up from the street below.
‘Scorrone?’ Gianni Faigano remarked with exaggerated casualness. ‘Sure, we sent him some wine from time to time. When we had a back stock we couldn’t shift, or needed some cash right away. Bruno could always use some good stuff to bulk out his blend.’
He paused and shot Zen a shrewd glance.
‘But I don’t understand why someone like you should be taking an interest in this sort of thing, dottore. We might have been in technical violation of some law or other, but people round here do it all the time. It’s like borrowing a little oil or a couple of eggs from a neighbour. There’s no call for you to round us up at gunpoint over something like that.’
‘Let’s stick to the point, shall we? The sooner we get this cleared up, the sooner you can go home. Scorrone’s widow has testified that he went down to the winery after lunch to take delivery of a shipment of wine. We know that the wine was yours…’
‘We haven’t admitted that,’ Gianni put in sharply.
‘You don’t need to, although you would have improved your position by doing so. Scorrone kept an informal account book in which he recorded all shipments and deliveries, with the name of the producer, quantity and price paid. You’re clearly identified as the source of the two thousand litres of red wine due to be received that afternoon.’
He gave the brothers a moment to digest this piece of misinformation.
‘So what do you want from us?’ asked Maurizio.
‘The name of the person who made the delivery.’
Maurizio Faigano glanced away. Zen looked at his brother, who was studying a battered filing cabinet in the corner with mute intensity. A succession of disconnected noises wafted up from the street like fragments of wind-borne seed.
‘It was Minot,’ said Gianni.
Zen nodded.
‘I know.’
As though stunned by the failure of some party turn, Gianni Faigano stared at Zen with genuine rage.
‘Then what are we doing here, if you already know? First you tell us this is all you need to know, and now you claim that you knew all along!’
Zen fixed them with an intimidating glare.
‘The results of the autopsy held today confirm that Bruno Scorrone died as the result of injuries sustained in an assault with a broken bottle, the body later being dumped in the wine vat where it was found. Your friend Minot is thus our prime suspect at this point. I needed corroboration from you that he had indeed visited the winery at about the time Scorrone was killed.’
He looked back at the window, his back turned to the two brothers, observing their reflections in the glass.
‘Now we come to the matter of motive,’ he said. ‘After searching your house under the terms of a warrant I obtained this morning, I went to see Enrico Pascal, the local Carabinieri official. He told me various things of interest, notably that Bruno Scorrone had made verbal allegations which appeared to implicate this Minot in the death of Beppe Gallizio.’
‘What’s all this got to do with us?’ demanded Maurizio Faigano.
Zen turned round.
‘According to the maresciallo, Minot is citing you two as his alibi in the Gallizio affair.’
Another quick, mute, fraternal glance.
‘Apparently he claims that you were all three out after truffles that night. Is that correct?’
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘I want a lawyer,’ said Gianni.
‘So do I,’ said Maurizio.
Zen stared at them for a long time. Then he turned to Nanni Morino, who was just concluding another page of hieroglyphs.
‘How many cells do we have free?’
Morino consulted the ceiling.
‘All of them, at the moment. It’s been quite quiet recently.’
‘How many is all?’
‘Six. They’re down in the basement, three on one side and three on the other.’
Zen nodded lugubriously.
‘Do you like music, Morino?’
‘Music? How do you mean?’
‘I mean that half the cells here are going to be occupied overnight,’ Zen remarked dreamily, ‘and I don’t want any possibility of conversation between the detainees.’
It took Morino another moment or two to get it. Then his face lit up.