Marcello Mamoli raised his eyebrows.
‘In short, a free hand.’
Zen shrugged.
‘In my experience, it’s quite normal for Criminalpol operatives to be granted a relatively wide degree of latitude in their investigations.’
‘And you would naturally check with me before taking any initiatives which might prove, ah, controversial.’
‘Naturally.’
Marcello Mamoli walked over to the window. It had started to rain again, and fat drops slid slowly down the panes, leaving tracks like slugs. The magistrate consulted his watch.
‘It’s now almost four o’clock,’ he said without looking round. ‘You’ve got forty-eight hours to come up with something solid.’
It was only then that Zen remembered his appointment with Cristiana.
Filippo Sfriso’s return to the Questura was in stark contrast to his unceremonious departure two days earlier. The police launch which had been dispatched to fetch him from Burano cut through the Arsenale, avoiding the more direct but constricted backwaters where it would have had to slow down. Although it was still light, the curtains in the cabin were tightly drawn. Next to the helmsman stood a patrolman in grey battledress cradling a machine-gun.
Emerging at the south end of the Arsenale canal, the launch turned hard to starboard, passing astern of a vaporetto landing-stage being towed away for installation or repair, and shot in under the Selpolcro bridge without any slackening of pace. It screeched past an orange-and-green garbage barge hoisting a street-sweeper’s cart aboard and surged along the canal, creating a wash which had the tethered vessels heaving at their moorings like frightened horses, before revving loudly in reverse at the last moment to slide in alongside the Fondamenta di San Lorenzo.
While the helmsman jumped ashore and secured the mooring ropes, the armed patrolman took up a position on the quayside, glancing alternately to left and right. Then the door of the cabin opened and the burly figure of Bettino Todesco appeared in the cockpit. He surveyed the scene briefly, then disappeared back into the cabin. A moment later he emerged, handcuffed to a figure whose head and shoulders were swathed in a blanket. The pair stepped ashore and hurried across the quay and into the open doorway of the Questura.
Forty seconds later, Filippo Sfriso was sitting in an office on the second floor of the building. The shutters were closed and Todesco stood guard at the door. Sfriso looked as though he were in shock. His body was subject to uncontrollable spasms of trembling, his face was pale and expressionaless, his gaze vacant. Neither man spoke. The door opened and Aurelio Zen walked in. Filippo Sfriso rose slowly to his feet. He stared at Zen, his eyes widening in terror.
‘You!’
Before Zen could answer, Sfriso picked up his chair and threw it at him. Zen managed to raise one hand in time to fend it off, but one of the legs scraped his forehead painfully. Meanwhile Sfriso was off and running for the door. Bettino Todesco was taken by surprise, but managed to grab one of Sfriso’s legs as the Buranese got the door open. They fell to the floor in the corridor, locked together in a violent struggle.
Sfriso started kicking his captor’s head with his free leg, but Todesco hung on gamely until Zen came to his aid. Between the two of them they succeeded in subduing the prisoner, but Todesco was understandably keen to administer some punishment for the abuse he had suffered, and under the circumstances — the scrape on his forehead was quite painful — Zen was content to indulge him. Then they dragged Sfriso back into the office, where Zen dangled his police identity card in front of Sfriso’s battered face.
‘That was stupid, even by your standards. You’re already under arrest for reticenza. Now I can add resisting arrest and assulting a police officer.’
‘I thought you were…’ Sfriso began.
‘I know what you thought,’ Zen interrupted hastily, before Sfriso revealed too much about Zen’s irregular activities in front of Todesco. ‘You thought I was another “bent policeman”, like Enzo Gavagnin.’
He took out his pack of cigarettes and lit up.
‘But you were wrong,’ he went on. ‘You said more than you should have done, the other evening, and you said it to the wrong man. That was stupid too. But you are stupid, Filippo, aren’t you? You and your brother. Otherwise you would never have got mixed up in any of this.’
Sfriso hung his head and said nothing. Zen smoked quietly for a while, looking down at him.
‘These men are killers,’ he said at length. ‘They kill indirectly, by peddling drugs to kids in Mestre and Marghera. But they also kill directly, as you know only too well.’
He walked over to Sfriso, sitting down next to him.
‘You told me what they did to Giacomo,’ he said. ‘They seem to like drowning people.’
After what seemed like an age, Sfriso’s head slowly came up. He stared blearily at Zen, who nodded.
‘This time it was the turn of Enzo Gavagnin,’ Zen murmured. ‘They wired his thumbs together and threw him into a cesspool. Like with Giacomo, they did other things to him first. Do you want to see the photos? Clearly they didn’t believe Gavagnin’s protestations of ignorance any more than they did your brother’s.’
He leant close to Sfriso.
‘What about you, Filippo?’ he breathed. ‘You’re the only one left now. Do you think they’ll believe you?’
He leant his head quizzically on one side.
‘I wouldn’t rate your chances particularly high, myself. They didn’t believe Giacomo. They didn’t believe Gavagnin. Why should they believe you?’
He crushed out his cigarette underfoot.
‘No, I think it’s a pretty solid bet that they’ll assume that you’re holding out on them too. I wonder what they’ll do to you. Leave you to drown slowly in a tank of shit like Gavagnin? Or will it be something even more original? What do you think they’ll come up with? And when? How long will it be before your mother loses her other son?’
Sfriso’s face crumpled and he began to weep.
‘Stop tormenting me!’
Zen laughed harshly.
‘No problem, Filippo! I’ll leave that to them. Unless you agree to co-operate.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Everything. Names, dates, places, people. The whole story from the beginning, up to and including your brother’s death and your interrogation by Gavagnin.’
A sly glint came into Sfriso’s eye.
‘And in return I get a free pardon?’
This time Zen’s laughter was openly contemptuous.
‘Of course! Plus a state pension for life and a villa in Capri. No, Filippino, all I can undertake to do for you is to save your miserable skin. When you come to trial, the fact that you’ve co-operated will of course weigh in your favour, but I’m afraid you’re still going to have to spend several years behind bars. Not an attractive prospect, I know, but it beats moving permanently to San Michele.’
Conflicting emotions chased each other across Filippo Sfriso’s moist features.
‘You’re trying to trap me into confessing,’ he blurted out.
Zen waved casually around at the office.
‘Do you see anyone taking notes or making a tape recording? We’re just having a chat, Filippo. If you agree to my proposition, I will summon the lawyer of your choice before starting the interview, which will be conducted in his presence and according to the usual rules.’
He broke off, glancing at Sfriso.
‘Which lawyer would you nominate, incidentally?’