Zuin looked down at the floor.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Pity. Anyone I know?’
‘You should do,’ Zuin replied caustically. ‘He worked here.’
Zen gazed out through the window.
‘Of course,’ he murmured.
He got up, walked quickly round the desk and picked up the phone.
‘Get me the Law Courts,’ he told the switchboard operator.
He looked over at Domenico Zuin.
‘I’m going to take a chance on you,’ he declared. ‘If we move fast, we might just be able to pip Bon at the post.’
He turned back to the phone.
‘Hello? This is Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen phoning from the Questura. Please send a court-appointed lawyer over here immediately. I have a witness who wishes to make a statement.’
The bells of the city were all pealing midday as Zen left the Questura and crossed the small square on the other side of the canal. Trapped by the walls on every side, the sound ricocheted to and fro until the whole campo rang like a bell. Nevertheless, the chronology they represented was only one — and by no means the most important — of a number of distinct strands of whose progress he was aware.
Since Francesco Bruno had issued his ultimatum, time had become as real a player in the Durridge case as any of the people involved, and Zen knew that success or failure depended on how well he mastered its ebb and flow, its tricky, shifting tidal currents. The clock hardly came into it. Already he had accomplished more in a single morning than in most weeks of his professional life. What mattered was the sense of utter commitment to the case which had come to him as he stood before Francesco Bruno like a schoolchild before a master and heard himself being dismissed. As a result of that experience, Zen knew exactly what he was working for.
The ideal which inspired him was nothing as abstract as Justice or Truth. His dream was personal, and attainable. Having scored a great coup by solving the Durridge case where everyone else had failed, he would apply for a permanent transfer and return in triumph to his native city. He would bring his mother back from her exile in Rome, back to her friends and the way of life she had been forced to give up. Once the Durridge case came to court, Cristiana Morosini would have the perfect excuse for divorcing her disgraced husband. And a year or so later, she and Zen could marry without exciting any adverse comment. The Zen house would be a home again, once more to resound with laughter and life.
He checked his euphoria. Much remained to be done. The next hurdle to be surmounted was lunch with Tommaso Saoner.
‘I’d be delighted, Aurelio,’ Saoner had replied urbanely when Zen phoned to invite him, ‘but unfortunately I’ve already got an engagement.’
‘Break it.’
There was a pause before Saoner’s laugh. He sounded embarrassed by his friend’s peremptory tone.
‘I’m afraid I can’t, Aurelio.’
‘I’m afraid you must.’
This time Saoner’s laugh was drier.
‘Don’t play the policeman with me.’
‘I’m playing the friend, Tommaso. But the policeman isn’t far behind, and neither are the judges and the courts and the reporters and the television cameras. I’ll be at El S’ciopon at half past twelve.’
As he walked towards the restaurant, situated in an alley near the church of San Lio, he was suddenly brought up short. The scene before him — a certain combination of bridge, canal, alley, courtyard and wall — was just one of an almost infinite repertoire of variants on that series which the city contained, and it took him a moment to work out why this particular example seemed so significant. Then he realized that this was where he had seen the moored boats of the emergency services and the jointed metal tubing which led to the septic tank in which Enzo Gavagnin had met his hideous death.
The Carabinieri were evidently still hard at work on the case, for there were two of their launches tied up alongside. As Zen crossed the bridge, a uniformed officer emerged from one of them. He glanced up at Zen, then looked again.
‘Rodrigo! Pietro!’
Two Carabinieri rushed out on deck, brandishing machine-guns. The officer had already leapt ashore. Zen looked round, trying to spot the object of their attentions.
‘Stop!’ yelled the officer.
‘Halt or I shoot!’ cried a younger voice.
Zen stepped back to let them pass, and promptly tripped over a panic-stricken cat dashing past. Both went flying, but the cat recovered quickly and scampered off. Running boots clattered to a halt by Zen’s ear. A rough hand grasped his collar and rolled him over to receive a gun barrel in the eye.
‘Move and you’re dead,’ the man holding the gun informed him succinctly.
Zen did not move. He did not speak or even, to his knowledge, breathe. Slower footsteps neared on the cobbles.
‘That’s him all right! It’s the old story of the murderer always returning to the scene of the crime. He’s a cool one, though! He was standing right next to me when we pulled the body out of the cesspool. Even asked me what had happened! Then he turned to me and brazenly admitted that he’d killed him. Well, we’ve got him now.’
Zen gasped in pain as a pair of plastic handcuffs bit into his wrists. One of the patrolmen held a machine-gun to his forehead while the other searched him for concealed weapons.
‘He’s clean, boss.’
‘Right, let’s go!’
The two patrolmen hauled Zen to his feet.
‘Have a look at my wallet,’ Zen murmured to the Carabineri officer.
‘Trying to bribe me, eh?’ the man shouted. ‘That’s a very serious offence!’
‘In my jacket pocket, left-hand side.’
The major looked at Zen sharply.
‘Keep him covered, Rodrigo!’ he barked. ‘Pietro, search him!’
Knows how to delegate, this one, thought Zen.
‘Here it is, sir,’ said Pietro, flourishing Zen’s black leather wallet.
‘Check the identity card in the window,’ Zen told him.
The Carabiniere’s eyes flicked down.
‘ Cazzo! ’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it?’ the major demanded irritably. ‘What’s the matter?’