Ignoring him, Zen turned away and followed the clattering boots of Bettino Todesco leading his charge upstairs.
Zen sat behind the desk, Bon in front of it. A female uniformed officer stood over a reel-to-reel tape recorder on a metal stand, threading the yellow leader through the slit in the empty reel. Outside, the sky lowered dull and flat over the furrowed red tiles and tall square chimneys of the houses opposite, on the other side of the canal.
The policewoman straightened up. ‘Ready,’ she told Zen, who nodded. The reels of the recorder started to revolve. Zen recited the date, the time, the place.
‘Present are Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen and Sottotenente…’
He glanced inquiringly at the policewoman, a svelte but rather severe brunette who contrived to make her duty-issue uniform look as though it sported a designer label from one of the better houses.
‘Nunziata, Pia,’ she replied, having paused the tape.
‘… and Sottotenente Pia Nunziata,’ Zen continued. ‘Also present is Signor Giulio Bon, resident at forty-three Via della Traversa, Chioggia, in the Province of Venice.’
He cleared his throat and turned to gaze at the subject of the interview.
‘What is your occupation, Signor Bon?’
Giulio Bon had been staring at the floor between his feet. He shuffled uneasily, working the toe of his right shoe about on the fake marble, and mumbled something inaudible.
‘Speak up, please!’ Zen told him.
‘I’m a marine engineer.’
The voice was hoarse and clipped, with the characteristic boneless accent of Chioggia.
‘Meaning what?’ Zen demanded.
Bon shrugged.
‘I’ve got a diploma as a marine engineer.’
‘I don’t care if you’ve got a degree in Greek philosophy,’ snapped Zen. ‘I asked about your occupation, not your qualifications.’
Giulio Bon stared mutely at the floor for some time.
‘I run a boatyard,’ he said at last.
‘You’re the sole owner?’
‘My brother-in-law has a financial interest, but I look after the work.’
‘Alone?’
‘I employ two men full-time, and there are others I can call on when it’s busy.’
‘Their names?’
Bon mumbled a series of names which Zen noted down.
‘What sort of work does the yard handle?’ he asked.
‘Repairs, servicing, laying up.’
‘Do you also sell boats?’
Bon became very still. Only his foot moved jerkily about on the glossy paving.
‘From time to time,’ he said.
‘How many do you sell every year?’
‘It varies.’
‘Roughly?’
Bon shrugged.
‘Perhaps half a dozen.’
Zen nodded. He lifted a paper from the desk.
‘I am passing Signor Bon the extract from the Register of Vessels supplied by the Provincial authorities, reference number nine five nine oblique six oblique double D stroke four.’
Bon scanned the sheet of paper quickly. His expression did not change except for a minute tightening at the corner of the mouth.
‘Do you recognize any of the boats listed?’ Zen inquired.
‘No.’
‘I refer to the vessel identified as VZ 63923.’
‘I can’t be expected to remember the registration number of every boat that passes through the yard.’
‘This was rather a special boat. A topa. Beautiful craft, but they’re getting quite rare these days. Dying out, like so many of our traditions.’
Bon did not respond.
‘And there’s another reason why you might remember this particular boat,’ Zen went on once Bon’s failure to reply had registered. ‘It was one of the very few which you sell each year. And you sold this one less than two months ago. On the fifteenth of December, to be precise.’
Bon sat absolutely still and silent. Zen let the tape run some more.
‘Now do you remember?’ he demanded.
His tone was as sharp as the crack of a whip. Bon flinched as though struck.
‘It’s possible,’ he mumbled.