And Then You Die (6 page)

‘Yes.’

‘At Via del Fosso number 73·’

‘Correct.’

‘You will be returning there tonight?’

It was said with just a hint of impertinent innuendo.

‘Of course,’ Gemma retorted.

‘Then let us try and get you on your way as soon as possible, after which I will deal with your companion.’

‘How do you know he’s not coming with me?’ demanded Gemma brazenly.

The
carabinieri
major gave her a look which Zen found himself quite unable to decipher. He seemed to be trying to think of a suitable answer to Gemma’s question. Failing to do so, he ignored it and asked one himself.

‘What time did you arrive at the beach today, signora?’

‘I got there this morning at about ten and left again just before one, then returned after lunch.’

‘According to the chart of the
bagno
drawn for us by the owner, Signor Rutelli apparently occupied the place immediately
opposite
yours.’

‘Well, today he did. But in fact that’s Pier Giorgio’s place.’

She glanced at Zen, who leaned forward and cleared his throat.

‘It is actually rented by the Rutelli family,’ he said, ‘but Girolamo, the elder brother, is an acquaintance of mine and gave me permission to use it. Massimo Rutelli evidently didn’t know about this arrangement, so when he showed up unexpectedly he naturally took their usual spot.’

The major nodded absently, as this was merely a confirmation of old news.

‘Did you see Signor Rutelli arrive?’ he asked Gemma.

‘No. I must have been sunning myself. But when I started
sorting
out my stuff before leaving, I noticed that there was someone else in Pier Giorgio’s place.’

‘Didn’t you recognize him?’

‘How could I? He was lying on his stomach with his face turned away from me. It could have been anyone.’

‘So how did you know he wasn’t Signor Butani?’

Gemma gave a throwaway gesture, as though this was obvious.

‘His fingers.’

‘What about his fingers?’

‘They were thick and blunt. Women notice men’s bodies a lot, they just don’t notice them in the same way that men notice women’s bodies. Pier Giorgio has very fine, tapering fingers. This man’s were quite different. You could imagine them building a wall or castrating a horse. You couldn’t imagine them caressing your skin.’

Zen looked away. For the first time he could remember, he was blushing. The major harrumphed.

‘So the victim was present when you left shortly before one o’clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when you returned in the afternoon?’

‘He was still there.’

‘What time was that?’

Gemma shrugged.

‘I went to the Bar Centrale and had a
panino
and some salad. About two, probably.’

She turned to Zen.

‘What time did you get there?’

‘I left home at one,’ Zen replied. ‘It takes about fifteen minutes to walk. I prefer the beach in the lunch hour. It’s less crowded.’

‘He was there when I arrived,’ Gemma explained to the
cara
biniere
. ‘He’d taken the next place up and looked like he was asleep.’

‘I was. I had lunch at home and finished off a bottle of Vermentino. As soon as I sat down on the beach, the heat just knocked me out.’

The major stood up, as if to impose his authority on this
mutual
dialogue.

‘Please respect the sequence of questioning,’ he said testily.

‘I didn’t realize there was one,’ Gemma retorted.

Don’t push him too far, thought Zen, but fortunately at that point the phone rang.

‘Yes?’ barked the
carabinieri
major. ‘Very well. Tell them to

He hung up and turned to Gemma.

‘We have established that, according to your testimony, Signora Santini, the victim arrived shortly before one o’clock and was still there at two. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you notice a towel draped over his back?’

Gemma reflected for a moment.

‘No, I don’t think so. Wait a minute. There was one when I saw him in the afternoon. I’m not sure about the morning.’

‘When did you leave the beach?’

‘About four, earlier than usual. There was a rather unpleasant incident.’

Everything the major had picked up from his seemingly avid perusal of the chapter on basic interrogation techniques in the training manual now deserted him. He leaned forward, eyes bulging, all agog.

‘What was that?’

Having achieved her effect, Gemma proceeded to dismiss it.

‘Oh, nothing really. Pier Giorgio woke up at about three-thirty or so. I was going to get a coffee from Franco’s bar, and I asked him if he’d like one too. On my way back, someone ran into me and spilt the coffee all over my bathing costume. I didn’t have a spare with me, so there was nothing for it but to go home.’

‘The man was running? Why?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, he wasn’t running at first. He was just standing there on the boardwalk down the centre of Franco’s strip. I thought he was staring at Pier Giorgio, to be honest.’

A gleam came into the major’s eye.

‘Are you sure it was Signor Butani he was staring at? Might it not have been Signor Rutelli, who was sitting in the next chair?’

Gemma made a moue of indifference.

‘It could have been. I didn’t have time to think about it. The next thing I knew, he’d whirled around and barged into me, spilling scalding coffee all over my belly and thighs.’

The major reflected a moment.

‘Why did he run?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’

‘Was it because he heard you coming?’

‘I don’t think so. He was facing the other way, and I was
barefoot
so he couldn’t have heard me. Besides, why should he be frightened of me?’

The major nodded and smiled the ironic, knowing smile of the master detective who alone has grasped the hidden clue
concealed
in the witness’s seemingly ingenuous answer.

‘Exactly. Why indeed should he be frightened of you?’

He turned to Zen.

‘Did you notice this man, signore?’

‘I saw him run off after he collided with Gemma, that’s all.’

‘Can either of you describe him?’

‘No,’ said Gemma decisively.

‘You must remember something!’ the major protested.

‘Why? How many people do you think I see every day here? Hundreds, maybe a thousand, none of whom mean anything whatever to me. If I paid enough attention to them all to be able to describe them, I’d go mad. The man who ran into me was young, that’s all I can tell you. And when you’ve said that, you’ve said everything. He looked young, he moved young, he acted young and he dressed young.’

‘How young?’

Gemma shrugged and looked at Zen.

‘Thirty?’

Zen nodded.

‘Early thirties, I’d say.’

‘That’s right,’ said Gemma. ‘He was wearing jeans and a
T-shirt
with some writing on the front. In English.’

‘He was English?’ demanded the
carabinieri
officer.

‘No, no. At least, I don’t think so. He looked typically Italian, like any of the young Florentine
teppisti
who hang out down at Viareggio at the weekend.’

‘Do you remember what this writing said?’

‘Only one word.’

‘What was that?’

‘“Beach”.
La spiaggia
. I recognized that from those signs the council put up everywhere in all the different European
languages
, warning people about the currents and all the rest of it. But there was another word I didn’t get.’

‘“Life”,’ said Zen unexpectedly.

The major regarded him with an air of professional triumph.

‘Signor Butani, you have testified that you did not see this man until he was running away after his collision with Signora Santini. How then could you possibly have seen anything printed on the front of his clothing?’

‘No, this wasn’t him. Well, it might have been, I suppose, but
it was later, after I left the beach. I was coming out of a shop in Via Puccini when I noticed some young man in a shirt like that. I didn’t understand “beach”, but the first word was “life’s”. That’s the Anglo-Saxon genitive form, so the whole phrase must have been “A life’s beach”.
La vita delta spiaggia
.’

His triumph at remembering this detail of English grammar from a long explanation once given to him by his American
girlfriend
Ellen was short-lived.

‘
La spiaggia di una vita
,’ Gemma corrected.

‘It still doesn’t make any sense!’ the major rapped out.

‘It’s probably the name of some pop group,’ said Gemma,
rising
. ‘Well, is that all? Because if so I wouldn’t mind getting home.’

‘Just one more question. This is to both of you. Did either of you at any point during your time on the beach either hear or see anything unusual occurring in the immediate vicinity of your chairs?’

‘Not apart from the incident I’ve mentioned,’ said Gemma.

The major looked at Zen, who shook his head.

‘No, that’s all.’

‘Very well. Signora Santini, you’re free to go. Thank you for your cooperation and good night.’

He now sounded eager to be rid of her. Gemma bent towards Zen, who immediately stood up.

‘Thanks for a wonderful evening,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

‘I really did, despite all this nonsense.’

‘So did I.’

She pecked him briefly on both cheeks.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, and slipped out of the room.

Zen turned back to find the major regarding him with his knowing smile.

‘I fear you may have to postpone that appointment,
dottore
,’ he said.

Zen noted the title, which the
carabinieri
officer had not used before. He sensed that something was happening which he did not understand and could not control, for now at any rate.

‘What more do you need from me?’ he asked, sitting down again.

‘Just a few brief questions.’

‘But in that case I could have gone with Signora Santini!’ Zen exclaimed, genuinely annoyed. ‘She would have given me a lift. As it is, I’ll have to call a taxi and …’

‘No, you won’t,’ the major replied, sitting down heavily behind his desk.

He took a packet of cigarettes from a drawer and offered one to Zen, who accepted, mainly to see what this latest ploy forebode.

‘Shortly after seven this evening,’ the major went on, having lit their cigarettes, ‘I received a phone call from my immediate
superiors
at provincial headquarters in Lucca. They relayed a message from their superiors at the Ministry in Rome, but I was given to understand that the original source lay still elsewhere.’

Zen smoked quietly and said nothing.

‘The message was to the effect that a certain Pier Giorgio Butani, temporarily resident in this district, might fall within the scope of the murder enquiry I was undertaking.’

‘What murder enquiry?’

‘The one we’ve been discussing,
dottore
.’

‘But Rutelli died of a stroke!’

‘That’s the story which the owner of the
bagno
in question has been putting out, for obvious reasons. We have made no official statement.’

‘Rutelli was murdered?’

The major nodded.

‘Shot once through the heart from very close range with a nine-millimetre pistol which was almost certainly silenced. The bullet was of the fragmenting type which breaks up inside the body, so there was no exit wound and very little bleeding. What there was was soaked up by the towel, which may have been placed there for that purpose. No one I have interviewed records having heard anything unusual, although many of them were
sitting
or lying just a few metres away. Nor does anyone recall a stranger going near the place where Rutelli was sitting, apart from the usual watermelon sellers and itinerant African
merchants
and the like. In short, it has all the hallmarks of a very
professional
job.’

Zen crushed out his cigarette.

‘For reasons we won’t go into, I have been staying for some
time on the top floor of the Rutelli villa. The lower floor was unoccupied until yesterday, when I heard noises down there. This was presumably Massimo Rutelli arriving and settling in. For other reasons which need not concern us, I did not make myself known to him, and he clearly had no idea that I had been using the family’s
ombrellone
at the beach. He therefore went there the next morning and settled in as usual. When I arrived, I saw someone in the place I had been using. I had no idea who it was, but since the place next to it had always been vacant during the week I sat down there instead. The towel was in place when I arrived, so Rutelli may already have been dead at that point. At no point did I hear or see anything remotely suspicious or
untoward
. Have you any other questions?’

The major sighed histrionically.

‘There are numerous questions which I would very much like to put to you,
dottore
, but it has been made abundantly clear to me that this is not an option. Instead I have been instructed to turn you over to two operatives of a parallel authority who have
driven
up from Rome. That phone call earlier was to tell me that they have arrived.’

‘Which parallel authority?’

The major gave him an unusually incisive look which made Zen realize the fatuity of his question.

‘The persons concerned are waiting for you downstairs,’ he remarked dismissively.

And there indeed they were, pacing the floor of the entrance hall to the
carabinieri
station, a man and a woman in their
twenties
, both unexceptionably dressed in civilian clothing. The only thing that announced their profession was the single quick glance they both gave Zen as he appeared on the stairs, head to toe and back up again, like executioners mentally measuring him for the drop.

The man turned away and started speaking into a portable radio. The woman walked up to Zen.

‘We have a car outside,’ she said, gesturing at the door.