‘I must speak to Dottore Marcello Mamoli.’
‘Must you, indeed?’ retorted the other sarcastically. ‘And who might you be?’
‘My name is Aurelio Zen. I’m with Criminalpol, on temporary secondment to the Questura here in Venice.’
The magistrate smiled coldly.
‘Extremely temporary, from what I hear.’
He straightened his shoulders and glared at Zen.
‘I am Mamoli. What possible justification do you have to offer for bursting in on an important and confidential meeting in this way?’
Marcello Mamoli was a pale, fastidious-looking man of about forty whose small, sharp features were partially mitigated by a large pair of bifocal glasses.
‘I apologize to you and your colleagues for the interruption,’ Zen declared in grovelling tones, ‘but this is a matter of the greatest possible urgency.’
Mamoli regarded him with disfavour.
‘On the contrary, dottore, it has been a total waste of everyone’s time! I am shocked and surprised that the Ministry thought it worthwhile troubling me with such a farce. My colleagues and I have had dealings with Criminalpol operatives many times before and I’m glad to say that we have generally been impressed by their level of professionalism. That makes it all the more unaccountable that you should have been taken in by something like the Zulian case, a transparent tissue of…’
‘This has nothing to do with Ada Zulian.’
Marcello Mamoli was clearly not pleased to have been wrong-footed.
‘Then what is it about?’ he demanded icily.
Zen took a step forward.
‘A colleague of mine has been killed. I think I know who did it, and why, and who else is in danger. But we must act at once. Every second is precious. That’s why I came directly here instead of going through the usual procedures. Let me speak to you in private — or, if you’re too busy, to one of your colleagues.’
Mamoli paused. Like the taxi drivers, he was impressed above all by the intensity of Zen’s tone. The hint that he might lose an important case was also well timed. With an apologetic smile to the other magistrates, as though to say ‘I’d better humour this maniac before he gets violent’, he walked past Zen to the door.
‘This way!’
Once in the corridor, he turned to stare levelly at Zen.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
Zen nodded confidently.
‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’
Mamoli led the way to an office at the end of the corridor and shut the door. He did not sit down, nor did he invite Zen to do so. Zen walked straight over to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled the Questura.
‘Aurelio Zen speaking. Do we have a commissariato on Burano? No? Then give me the squad room.’
‘Now listen,’ Mamoli exclaimed, ‘I’ve stood just about as much of this as…’
‘Is Todesco there? Put him on.’
He turned to the furious Mamoli.
‘Just one moment, please! This can’t wait.’
He put the receiver to his ear once more.
‘Todesco? Aurelio Zen. Now pay attention. You’re to take a boat and get over to Burano immediately. No, not Murano, Burano — B as in Brescia. Go to the home of Filippo Sfriso. The address will be in Gavagnin’s file on the case. Take two or three men with you. Put Sfriso himself under arrest. Don’t worry about the warrant. I’ll have one by the time you get back. He’s to make no phone calls, speak to no one. Understood? If at all possible, bring his mother along too. If she won’t budge, leave an armed guard on the house.’
There was a pause.
‘Well you’ll just have to find someone to cover for you,’ Zen resumed with silky menace. ‘And please try not to shoot any of your colleagues this time, Todesco. You almost killed someone last night. This is your chance to make amends before I write up my report.’
He hung up and turned to face Mamoli. The magistrate was by now bursting with indignation.
‘What the devil do you think…’
Zen cut him off.
‘I apologize for my apparent rudeness, signor giudice, but time is pressing. Less than an hour ago, the body of Inspector Enzo Gavagnin, head of the Drugs Squad at the Questura of Venice, was recovered from a cesspit in a courtyard by San Canciano. He had been murdered, thrown into the sewage with his hands tied and left to drown.’
Mamoli’s indignation instantly evaporated.
‘Go on.’
Zen paused, trying to marshal his thoughts, to remember what he could admit and what he must conceal, which facts he could present openly to Mamoli and those whose origin or significance he must disguise.
‘Three days ago, a fisherman named Giacomo Sfriso, resident on Burano, was found drowned in the lagoon. There was no evidence of foul play, yet Enzo Gavagnin insisted on opening an investigation and brought the dead man’s brother in for questioning.’
He broke off and gave an embarrassed smile.
‘Enzo told me all this himself, off the record. He and I had struck it off from the moment I arrived here. Our parents used to be neighbours, and…’
Mamoli nodded impatiently.
‘Quite, quite.’
‘I asked him why he was taking such a hard line. He told me a story which frankly I found hard to believe at the time. He claimed to have received death threats from a powerful drug cartel he had been fighting for years. When I asked what this had to do with the Sfriso brothers, he said that he knew that they were involved with this organization, although he lacked sufficient proof to make a formal request to proceed. He claimed that Giacomo Sfriso had been murdered by the gang, and hoped that Filippo, shocked by his brother’s death, would now agree to co-operate.’
‘And did he?’
Zen shook his head.
‘Not fully, although he apparently supplied some telephone numbers which Enzo hoped to exploit. But before he could do so, the threat to his life which he mentioned to me had been brutally substantiated. What I’m asking of you, signor giudice, is authorization to hunt down my friend’s killers!’
Leaving this passionate declaration ringing in the air, Zen quickly reviewed this fiction to ensure that it covered all the essential points. Satisfied, he looked up at Marcello Mamoli, who was gazing at him with renewed interest.