Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (12 page)

Pastorelli blanched visibly but said nothing.

‘On the other hand, I’m not sure that’s in my own best interests/ Zen went on, setting down the receiver again.

‘So we may have to pass up this chance to make the record books and settle for the usual cover-up. Where’s Caputo?’

‘On his way, sir. His wife passed on the message and he called in to say he’d be here as soon as he can.”

Zen took out the pack of Nazionali he had bought earlier that day and lit up.

‘The only way to lie effectively is on the basis of the truth/ he observed philosophically. ‘If I’m going to condone a cover-up, I don’t want it blown because some

essential detail was concealed from me. You will therefore tell me exactly what happened, step by step, holding nothing back/

Pastorelli nodded earnestly.

“I came on duty at five/ he began.

‘Was the prisoner still here then?’

“I didn’t check. The night shift is always very quiet..
p>

He broke off as a particularly raucous laugh from the top floor rent the night air.

‘Go on,’ said Zen.

‘The prisoner’s meal was taken down to him at seven thirty, as per regulations. Pasta, chicken, bread, half a litre of wine.’

‘Except that the prisoner decided to dine out this evening.’

Pastorelli looked down at the floor.

‘When Armando didn’t return…’

‘Who’s Armando?’

‘Bertolird, sir. He’s the other man on nights this week.

He took the prisoner his meal tray. About eight I wanted to step out for a coffee, so I went looking for him to man the front desk. The corridors and offices on the first floor were all dark, and I knew he wouldn’t have gone upstairs…’

‘Get on with it, Pastorelli! Where was he?’

‘In the prisoner’s cell, sir. Handcuffed to the bars and gagged with strips torn from his undershirt. His uniform was missing.’

Zen rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

‘He said that when he’d come down with the meal, the prisoner was rolling about on the floor of his cell, apparently in agony and claimed that he’d been poisoned.

Bertolini knew this was a very important case, and of course you keep hearing rumours about people who know too much getting poisoned in jail, so he sort of lost his head

‘And instead of reporting back to you, went right ahead and tried to administer first-aid himself, at which point the prisoner made a miraculous recovery and hit our Armando over the head with the chamber-pot, right?’

‘No, sir. It was a stool.’

A maniacal light appeared in Zen’s eyes.

‘Ah, a stool! That changes everything/

‘It does?’ queried Pastorelli with a puzzled expression.

Zen smiled horribly.

‘You know, Pastorelli, you remind me of some cartoon character. One of those lovable, gormless, anthropomorphic rodents. If you do end up getting fired, I bet we can find some lonely old lady who’d be happy to keep you as a pet/

He crushed out his cigarette on the floor.

‘So the prisoner tied up Bertolini and took his uniform.

How did he get out?’

‘Sir?’

‘You were on duty at the front desk from the time Bertolini took the meal down until you went looking for him. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir/

‘Did anyone enter or leave the building in that time?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And I take it you had the wit to search the premises since then, to check he’s not hiding out somewhere.’

‘Yes, but…’

Pastorelli hesitated.

‘Spit it out/ Zen told him.

But at that moment the door swung open and Giovan          Battista Caputo appeared, waving a newspaper, his face wreathed in smiles.

‘We’re off the hook, dottoreV He laid the newspaper on Zen’s desk.

‘Tomorrow’s Mattino/ he said. ‘You can get it early, if you know where to go.’

He ran a stubby forefinger under the banner headline.

political terrorism returns, it read, and in slightly smaller type below, new organization behind THE MYSTERY OF THE ‘ILLUSTRIOUS DISAPPEARANCES’?

Inset in the text were three photographs, one larger than the rest, showing three men, all in their fifties, all wearing suits and ties. One was visibly ducking away from the photographer’s flash, another was smiling and relaxing at a party, the third and largest was staring deadpan into the camera, as though sitting for an enforced portrait.

Zen skimmed rapidly through the accompanying article.

Apparently the local media had received a communiqué from a previously unknown group calling itself Strade Pulite, claiming responsibility for the recent disappearances of three leading social and commercial figures in the city:

Two years after the political events which promised so much, it is clear that nothing has changed but the names. The work of the judges and investigators

continues to be obstructed and blocked at every turn.

The list of those accused of corruption and criminality grows ever longer, but so far not one of them has been brought to trial, much less condemned and sentenced.

In short, the usual cover-up and procrastination is taking place, while the guilty continue to walk the streets of our city, as free men!

Since the law cannot - or will not - touch them, we have decided to take the law into our own hands.

Three of the most scandalous examples of civic putridity have already been removed: Attilio Abate, Luca Delia Ragione and Ermanno Vallifuoco. Their fate and their present whereabouts are of no more concern than those of any other item of garbage. It is enough that they defile the streets of our city no longer.

But our work has only just begun. There are many other instances of such ordure still to be dealt with.

We know who they are, as does every Neapolitan who has studied the sad history of our city in recent years. They are the men who grew fat on the sufferings of the earthquake victims in 1980, the men who grew rotten on the money which the Christian Democrats handed out to save their henchman Cirillo from the clutches of his kidnappers, the men whose greed and arrogance have made our city a national and international byword for public and private corruption, waste and inefficiency.

For years they flouted the law with impunity, secure in the protection of their allies in Rome. Berlusconi promised to make a new start, a clean sweep, but as always this turned out to be just another proof that ‘Everything must change so that nothing will change’. And nothing has, until now. But now things are changing! We have seen to that, and we will continue to do so. Our enemies - the common enemies of every right-thinking Neapolitan - cannot escape us.

We go about our work as invisibly as the men who clean our gutters and remove our rubbish. Indeed, our job is the same: to return the city to its citizens, pristine and purified, a source of civic pride once more.

Strade Pulite per una citta pulital

Zen pushed the paper away.

‘“Clean streets for a clean city.” Well, it’s a good slogan. Sounds as if some Red Brigade cell went to a PR firm who told them to drop the Marxist rhetoric and get snappier copy.’

He looked at Caputo.

‘But what’s it got to do with us?’

‘It’ll buy us time, dottore. Some foreign sailor getting knifed in the port is going to look small time in the context of a full-blown terrorist campaign dedicated to wiping

out all the local politicians’ nearest and dearest cronies.’

Zen nodded.

“I suppose you’re right.’

He turned to Pastorelli, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

‘You were about to tell me something when Caputo walked in. Let’s have it.’

‘Well, sir, the thing is, I searched the building, like I told you. I didn’t find the prisoner, but I did notice that his belongings had been tampered with.’

‘What?’

‘You remember you gave me that video cassette yesterday evening and told me to put it back with the other stuff. Well, I did as you said, but when I checked the room just now the stuff was all over the floor. All except the cassette, that is.’

Zen put his head in his hands and stared at the desk.

‘How do the clients of that operation on the top floor come and go?’ he demanded. ‘Obviously they don’t use the front entrance.’

‘There’s a fire escape at the side,’ Caputo volunteered.

‘It’s nice and secluded, and we have excellent security at the door. There’s never any trouble

‘What about the normal entrance from the main staircase?’

‘That’s entirely closed to the clientele, dottore. There’s no risk of anyone getting into the building that way.’

‘I’m not interested in anyone getting in,’ Zen snapped.

‘I’m interested in someone getting out. Someone in police uniform.’

Caputo looked grim.

‘I’ll go and check,’ he said, turning away.

‘No! I need you here. You go, Pastorelli. But first, who knows that the prisoner has escaped?’

Pastorelli frowned.

‘Well, Bertolini obviously. Then there’s me, and you

‘Besides us and Bertolini, you idiot!’

‘Nobody’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I phoned you and Giova… Inspector Caputo. That’s all.’

‘OK, get going.’

With an expression of infinite relief, Pastorelli fled. Zen turned to Caputo.

‘When you escorted the prisoner to my office the other day, you stopped to pick up his belongings on the way, right?’

Caputo frowned.

‘How did you know?’

‘Because you wouldn’t have wanted to carry them all the way down to the cells and back. And because that’s how the prisoner knew where they were being kept.’

Caputo gave one of his toothy grins.

‘Of course. So it’s important, this cassette?’

Zen gazed into the middle distance.

‘Not according to my sources. But if the prisoner risked recapture in order to take it with him, it begins to look as though they must have been wrong.’

He turned to face Caputo.

“I need a doctor.’

Caputo’s eyes widened.

‘You feel ill?’

‘Not for me, for the prisoner.’

Caputo goggled still more.

‘But dottore, the prisoner is gone!’

Zen resumed his abstracted expression.

‘Nevertheless, he needs to see a doctor. I’m sure you can think of someone suitable, Caputo. Un medico difiducia.

Someone you can recommend without reservation.

Understand?’

‘Of course!’

‘Someone who can be trusted to do whatever might prove necessary,’ Zen pursued, ‘even if the procedures demanded might prove to be slightly irregular. And who, above all, can be trusted to keep quiet about it.’

Caputo’s predatory grin intensified.

‘For the right consideration, dottore, this guy’d perform an abortion on the Virgin Mary. But don’t worry about the money. He owes me a couple of favours, and that makes him nervous. He’ll be glad to help.’

Zen smiled softly at Caputo.

‘Have I ever told you how much I like it here?’ he murmured.

Sulla strada

Via Duomo, later the same evening. Running almost due north from the port, this street is dead straight and relatively broad by the standards of the city, but the traffic was as stagnant at that hour as sewage in a backed-up drain. Double rows of parked cars to either side forced the moving vehicles into two narrow lanes just wide enough for a stationary file in either direction. Meanwhile pedestrians, the diminutive lords of this petrified

jungle, picked their way through the revving, honking,

impotent mass as though negotiating the impressive,

irrelevant ruins of a mightier but extinct civilisation.

But one car seemed to be making some headway,

despite everything. It was obviously expensive, a foreign import of some sort, painted a brilliant red. But there were plenty of Volvos and BMWs and Mercedes stalled in

the traffic jam, reluctantly rubbing bumpers with such

undesirable company as traders’ three-wheeled Ape

vans, old Fiat 500s on their third 100,000 kilometres and the usual slew of beaten-up cars, buses, taxis, TIR lorries - even a refuse collection truck. What caused the crush to loosen in front of this particular vehicle was the flashing blue light attached to the roof, and the official police wand insistently waving from the driver’s window.

Thus empowered, the red saloon nosed through the

traffic at all of 10 mph to just south of the cathedral, where it abruptly veered left into a narrow side-street, ignoring the ‘No Entry’ sign. Halfway down the block it pulled up outside a seven-storey house just like all the others and sounded its horn in a series of long blasts. Windows and curtains above opened, but the driver continued to lean on his strident, demanding horn. At length a young man

appeared at a window on the second-floor. He waved to

the driver of the car, who signalled back. The horn fell silent.

‘Who is it?’ demanded the other man, seated inside the

apartment before a table strewn with playing cards.

‘Gesualdo. I’ve got to run.’

‘Work?’

The first man shrugged.

‘Oh, Sabati! Just as I was finally starting to win! That’s a shitty excuse.’

‘We just need to check someone out. Come along, if you

want. Then we can come back and finish the game.’

His companion hesitated a moment.

‘Whereabouts?’

Sabatino took out a printed card.

‘Via Cimarosa.’

‘Wow! You bastards are moving up in the world.’

They ran down the steep, narrow stairs to the street,

where three vehicles now stood nose-to-nose with the red saloon blocking their passage.

‘Oh, Dario!’ called the driver. ‘Who invited you along?’

One of the waiting cars blasted its horn insistently.

Dario stood back and stared at the offending driver with slitted eyes.

‘This is a one-way street!’ the man yelled. ‘Clear the way immediately! You’re breaking the law six times over!’

At an exaggeratedly leisurely pace, Dario strolled over to remind the instigator of this rash protest that it

wouldn’t make that much difference if they made it seven by rendering his car, if not his person, unserviceable pending lengthy and expensive professional intervention.