Dead Lagoon - 4 (18 page)

Zen sat behind the desk, Bon in front of it. A female uniformed officer stood over a reel-to-reel tape recorder on a metal stand, threading the yellow leader through the slit in the empty reel. Outside, the sky lowered dull and flat over the furrowed red tiles and tall square chimneys of the houses opposite, on the other side of the canal.

The policewoman straightened up. ‘Ready,’ she told Zen, who nodded. The reels of the recorder started to revolve. Zen recited the date, the time, the place.

‘Present are Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen and Sottotenente …’

He glanced inquiringly at the policewoman, a svelte but rather severe brunette who contrived to make her duty-issue uniform look as though it sported a designer label from one of the better houses.

‘Nunziata, Pia,’ she replied, having paused the tape.

‘… and Sottotenente Pia Nunziata,’ Zen continued. ‘Also present is Signor Giulio Bon, resident at forty-three Via della Traversa, Chioggia, in the Province of Venice.’

He cleared his throat and turned to gaze at the subject of the interview.

‘What is your occupation, Signor Bon?’

Giulio Bon had been staring at the floor between his feet. He shuffled uneasily, working the toe of his right shoe about on the fake marble, and mumbled something inaudible.

‘Speak up, please!’ Zen told him.

‘I’m a marine engineer.’

The voice was hoarse and clipped, with the characteristic boneless accent of Chioggia.

‘Meaning what?’ Zen demanded.

Bon shrugged.

‘I’ve got a diploma as a marine engineer.’

‘I don’t care if you’ve got a degree in Greek philosophy,’ snapped Zen. ‘I asked about your occupation, not your qualifications.’

Giulio Bon stared mutely at the floor for some time.

‘I run a boatyard,’ he said at last.

‘You’re the sole owner?’

‘My brother-in-law has a financial interest, but I look after the work.’

‘Alone?’

‘I employ two men full-time, and there are others I can call on when it’s busy.’  

‘Their names?’  

Bon mumbled a series of names which Zen noted down.  

‘What sort of work does the yard handle?’ he asked.

‘Repairs, servicing, laying up.’

‘Do you also sell boats?’

Bon became very still. Only his foot moved jerkily about on the glossy paving.

‘From time to time,’ he said.

‘How many do you sell every year?’

‘It varies.’

‘Roughly?’

Bon shrugged.

‘Perhaps half a dozen.’

Zen nodded. He lifted a paper from the desk.

‘I am passing Signor Bon the extract from the Register of Vessels supplied by the Provincial authorities, reference number nine five nine oblique six oblique double D stroke four.’

Bon scanned the sheet of paper quickly. His expression did not change except for a minute tightening at the corner of the mouth.

‘Do you recognize any of the boats listed?’ Zen inquired.

‘No.’

‘I refer to the vessel identified as VZ 63923.’

‘I can’t be expected to remember the registration number of every boat that passes through the yard.’

‘This was rather a special boat. A
topa
. Beautiful craft, but they’re getting quite rare these days. Dying out, like so many of our traditions.’

Bon did not respond.

‘And there’s another reason why you might remember this particular boat,’ Zen went on once Bon’s failure to reply had registered. ‘It was one of the very few which you sell each year. And you sold this one less than two months ago. On the fifteenth of December, to be precise.’

Bon sat absolutely still and silent. Zen let the tape run some more.

‘Now do you remember?’ he demanded.

His tone was as sharp as the crack of a whip. Bon flinched as though struck.

‘It’s possible,’ he mumbled.

‘Possible? It’s not possible that you
don’t
remember. You are on record as saying that selling boats is not your main business, just something you do from time to time, no more than half a dozen a year. How could you possibly forget selling a craft as rare as a
topa
just before Christmas?’

‘Okay, all right! Maybe we did sell it!’ shouted Bon, his restraint suddenly cracking. ‘So what?’

‘Where did you get it from?’

Bon closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

‘I’d need to consult my records.’

Zen lit a cigarette. He leant back in his chair, staring coldly at Bon across the desk.

‘According to a sworn statement made in this office this morning, you informed the purchaser that the vessel had been laid up for years prior to being overhauled and fitted with a reconditioned engine. The witness, Sergio Scusat, further deposed that the price had been substantially reduced owing to the fact that no documents were available for the boat. He said that you claimed this was because she had been out of the water for so long that no one could trace the previous owner and she would have to be re-registered. Is that true?’

Guilio Bon shifted in his chair but said nothing.

‘Why are you being so evasive?’ murmured Zen silkily.

‘I’m not being evasive! I just can’t remember. Is that against the law?’

Zen allowed the silence to frame this outburst before continuing tonelessly.

‘The
Nuova Venezia
has confirmed that you placed an advertisement in the paper to run for the second week of December, offering a diesel-engined
topa
for sale. Sergio Scusat has testified that he bought the boat from you on the fifteenth. All I’m asking you to do is to confirm or deny the truth of the account you then gave him as to the vessel’s provenance.’

Bon looked at his knees, at the wall, at the ceiling.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘It’s all coming back to me.’

Zen puffed a smoke ring which hovered in the air above the desk like a detached halo.

‘Of course!’ Bon continued. ‘It was that old hulk we found round the back of the shed when we resurfaced the yard. God knows how many years it must have been sitting there. The hull was still sound, though. They built them to last in those days. All we needed to do was replace a few timbers here and there.’

‘And install an engine,’ Zen put in, apparently addressing the neon light fitting.

There was no reply. Zen lowered his head until his gaze met Bon’s.

‘Where did you get the engine?’

Bon waved one hand vaguely.

‘There are various suppliers we use from time to time, depending on …’

‘You told Scusat that the engine was reconditioned. There can’t be many suppliers of reconditioned Volvo marine engines in this area.’

‘“Reconditioned” is a relative term. It was probably some engine we had lying around the yard somewhere which we’d stripped down ourselves and reassembled.’

‘But it would still have had a serial number,’ Zen mused quietly. ‘To sell a craft without papers is one thing, but no one’s going to touch a motor whose serial number has been filed off. Besides, as you probably know, these days there are techniques for recovering markings which are no longer visible to the naked eye.’

There was a knock at the door. Zen gestured to the policewoman, who paused the tape. The door opened to admit a burly man with a bushy beard and a mass of fine wavy hair. In his grey tweed suit and black cape, he looked like a bear got up for a circus act.

‘Carlo Berengo Gorin,’ he said, thrusting out an enormous hand. ‘I represent Signor, er …’

He gestured impatiently at Giulio Bon, then swung round on Zen.

‘Are you Valentini or Gatti?’

‘Aurelio Zen.’

The
avvocato’s
eyebrows shot up.

‘Zen? Weren’t we at school together? Yes, of course! The basketball ace! The height, the grace, the movements which so bewitched the opposition that they stood like statues while you danced your way through them to notch up yet another point!’

Zen stared dumbly at the lawyer. Despite his height, he had never played basketball in his life. Gorin beamed reminiscently.

‘Happy days!’ he sighed. ‘Now then, will you kindly inform me of my client’s precise legal status?’

Zen felt his stomach tense up. The revised Code governing police procedure which had come into effect in 1988 had changed many aspects of its predecessor, especially regarding the rights of witnesses and suspects and the degree of latitude accorded the police. In many ways this had been a positive step, putting an end to practices which had led to so many abuses in the past, when they had been justified by the need to win the battle against political terrorists such as the Red Brigades. Nevertheless, the new approach suited neither Zen’s habits nor his temperament.

This possibly explained why he could never remember the precise norms and procedures which the revised Code prescribed. Like all senior officials, he had had to attend a course on the new system, but his position with the élite Criminalpol squad meant that in practice he had been largely spared any need to change his working practices. Criminalpol officials intervened only in the most important cases, and were usually accorded a fairly free hand by the magistrates involved.

But this was very different. Not only was Zen not acting under the aegis of the Interior Ministry in the present instance, he was not even supposed to be investigating the Durridge case at all. He was on his own, and any initiatives he took would have to respect the letter of the new law if they were to pass the scrutiny of the Public Prosecutor’s Office. He had known this all along, but he had been counting on the fact that a small-time boatyard owner like Giulio Bon probably wouldn’t know his exact rights under the new system either, still less have access to a lawyer who could make them stick.

Zen looked at the intruder, who was waiting expectantly for an answer. It was odd that a man like Bon should be prepared to pay the kind of money Gorin must charge. It was still odder that Gorin apparently did not know his client’s name.

‘I have reason to suppose that this man possesses information relating to a case I am currently investigating,’ he said carefully. ‘I have therefore had him brought here to answer a few questions.’

‘What is the case?’ asked Gorin.

‘It concerns the sale of a boat.’

Gorin frowned.

‘Involving an infraction of which article of the Code?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ Zen replied stolidly.

‘Have you informed the Public Prosecutor’s Office?’

‘Not yet.’

Gorin turned to Bon.

‘Signor, er …’

‘Bon,
dottò
. Giulio Bon.’

‘Have you answered any of this official’s questions?’

‘Yes.’

‘Since your legal representative was not present, whatever responses you may have given are inadmissible as evidence. Do you wish to answer the questions again in my presence?’

Bon looked up warily.

‘Do I have to?’

Gorin turned to Zen.

‘Do you intend to place Signor Bon in detention or under arrest?’

This was the crux. Zen had enough evidence against Bon to hold him for questioning, but under the new Code he would have to communicate this fact to the judiciary. That would mean officially revealing his involvement with the Durridge case, and his position was still too weak to risk that.

‘Not at present,’ he replied.

Gorin turned back to Bon.

‘There is therefore no necessity for you to answer any questions, or indeed to remain here, unless you wish to do so.’

Bon stood up quickly.

‘I’ve already told him everything I know!’ he blurted out. ‘I’ve got work to do! Why should I waste my time here if I don’t have to?’

‘Why indeed?’ echoed Gorin.

Bon looked from Gorin to Zen and back again. With a snort of defiance he pushed past the policewoman and walked out. Gorin waggled a hairy finger at the tape recorder.

‘Now then, what about that?’ he asked.

‘What about it?’

‘Since the interview it records was conducted irregularly, the existence of the tape constitutes a violation of my client’s civil rights. Under articles 596 and 724 of the Criminal Code, it is an offence to make recordings of speech acts and other discourse without the written consent of the parties involved. Did my client grant such consent?’

Zen shook his head.

‘Then I must ask you to surrender the tape.’

Zen frowned.

‘It is not the existence of the tape which is at issue, but that of the recording.’

Gorin smiled.

‘A fine distinction,
dottore
. But since the recording subsists through the medium of the tape, for all practical purposes the two are one and the same. I must therefore ask you once again to hand over the offending article.’

Zen wagged his forefinger negatively.

‘It is true that the recording cannot exist without the tape,
avvocato
, but the reverse is not the case.’

He turned to Sottotenente Pia Nunziata, who had been watching this exchange open-mouthed.

‘Rewind the spool and erase the recording.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Gorin stepped forward, waving his hands impatiently. 

‘No, no, I can’t be expected to hang around here for however long it takes to erase this illegal recording.’

The policewoman fended him off with an icy look.

‘Our equipment is fitted with a high-speed dubbing facility which makes it possible to erase a tape like this in a matter of minutes.’

To prove her point, she pressed a button and the tapes began spinning rapidly. Gorin stared at her for a moment, then stepped back and waved graciously, conceding the point.

‘In that case, I need detain you no longer. Good day!’

With a debonair smile and a courteous nod, the lawyer swept out. As soon as his footsteps had receded, Pia Nunziata switched off the tape recorder.

‘Shall I make a transcript,
dottore
?’ she asked Zen.

Zen frowned at her.

‘But that tape’s blank now.’

The policewoman shook her head.

‘I made that up. There’s no high-speed facility. I just put it on fast forward.’

Zen smiled slowly.

‘
Brava
! But now, if you please, erase it properly.’