The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) (16 page)

He had never before wondered where that photograph had been taken, but now he knew. The discovery was sufficient to bring back the doubt that his father too had gone to the Rodolfis for help, as Manuela had insinuated. He felt more implicated than ever in the case. As his mood grew darker, he saw Don Bruno coming out of the chapel, covered in dust, dressed in layman’s clothes without even the Roman collar. He was kicking ahead of him some dried flowers which had become detached from old bouquets.

“I’ve even got to do the tidying up. There’s not one single woman in the whole village who’s prepared to give a hand. Not even part time.”

“They’ve all turned anti-clerical, have they?” Soneri joked.

The priest was not amused. “They’re all indifferent, which is even worse. Once there was a belief among them that they could make up for aridity of spirit by doing some service for the church, but now they can’t even be bothered with that.”

“Priests used to awaken consciences.”

“In fact, we were accused of the opposite. Anyway, it is not like that any more. You can say anything you want. They’ll listen silently and won’t be ruffled in any way. That’s the worst of it. They prefer to isolate themselves in the smallness of their own minds, wasting away in the pettiness of a few,
utterly insignificant things. They haven’t even reacted to all that’s been going on. I’d rather have the anti-clericals back, the communists that I would debate with. At the very least you had the impression of hearts beating. But now I am left with a handful of old folk who come to Mass out of habit, or else with a nest of vipers who genuflect before the altar but who would cheerfully murder their husbands the minute they get home. And don’t even talk to me about young people! To get the rest of my flock interested, I’d need to be a car salesman or a banker.”

“Bankers are not everybody’s favourite at the moment,” the commissario said.

“Oh, wait a while and it’ll pass. Money is all they think about nowadays. And here am I devoted to the care of souls.” The priest gave a bitter laugh before adding with an onrush of pride, “But I’m not giving up. They’ll all come back to join the flock, I’ve no doubt about it. This catastrophe is the first sign that the things of this world will pass away and that sooner or later every human being has to settle his accounts with his Maker. His real accounts, I mean. Take Palmiro Rodolfi. He only cared about power, but at the end, all of a sudden, he realised it was all in vain. He settled his accounts alright, but the outcome was terrible.”

“The outcome is always terrible, for everybody.”

“That’s not true. It’s true only if you believe you can settle everything in this world.”

“Were you getting the chapel ready for Palmiro?” Soneri asked.

The priest looked him straight in the eyes and nodded.

“But he committed suicide.”

“God’s mercy is infinite. We will pray for him too. I happen to believe that his final act implies repentance, do you not agree?”

“Perhaps. He no longer had the strength to show himself to those he had betrayed, but neither did he have the strength to show himself to God and beg forgiveness. This might mean he did not recognise him.”

Don Bruno paused in silence for a moment, then said, “We’ll never know what went on, but the Almighty Father does.”

The commissario reflected that this was true of his own father as well. Perhaps he would never know what went on between him and the Rodolfis.

“I heard you came to look for mushrooms.” This time it was the priest who changed the subject. “Your father shared that passion.”

“So did you,” Soneri said.

“Once upon a time, yes, but now my legs have let me down.”

The priest was short but had heavy bones. Only the metal-framed glasses undermined the image of a man of the mountains and woodlands. He was bow-legged, like a jockey, but the bend was due to the weight of his body.

“Who told you I was here to gather mushrooms?”

“Priests get to know everything, sooner than the carabinieri, who in fact come to us for information.”

“Were you summoned to the police station?”

Don Bruno made a gesture which was half fatalism, half resignation. “They’re not aware that we have precise obligations.”

“They didn’t actually ask you for the name of the person who had confessed to the crime?”

The priest laughed. “Hardly anyone comes to confession nowadays. Maybe that is because we obstinately continue to take an interest in other people and go round sticking our noses into their business.”

“And they have no idea which saint to pray to.”

“I understand they are following a definite lead.”

“Yes. Revenge for the fraud. But so many people have the same motive,” Soneri said.

“There’s also the question of the gunfire that was heard on Montelupo on the day after the feast, and which you can still hear occasionally,” the priest said. “But it could have been a poacher. There are so many guns around.”

Soneri looked puzzled but said nothing, so the priest went on. “I’m afraid they’re closing in on the Woodsman. They started digging up things from his past and they’ve uncovered something about an old rivalry over a woman. They must have some sort of proof.”

Soneri could not help thinking that if he had been in charge of the case, he too would have wanted to know more about the Woodsman. But then, why had he sent his daughter to make that appointment?

“Who called you in? Was it Bovolenta?”

“Yes. Crisafulli’s been sidelined.”

“What did he ask you?”

“Are you involved in the investigation?”

“No, I’m on holiday, but everything here brings up personal issues.”

“Of course. You’re part of this community.”

“Not any more, Don Bruno. In part because I’ve been away for years and in part because I’m finding everything different from how I remember it.”

“Bovolenta is expecting some assistance. He likes to appear sure of himself, but he admitted to me that he cannot fathom this village. It’s different for you. You’re
from
here.”

“The less I get involved, the better for everybody. My father worked for the Rodolfis, remember.”

“Of course, and I gather he had a good relationship with them.”

“What do you mean, a good relationship?”

“He didn’t see them just as employers. He was happy to work there and was fully committed to the company.”

“I was only a child then, and later I went off to study in the city. I don’t know much about my father’s work,” Soneri said.

“Neither do I, but I heard that’s how things were, at least until he threw it all up and moved into the city himself. But there’s no point in asking me what brought that about, because I simply don’t know. Perhaps there was some kind of argument, or maybe he just made up his mind it was time to go. Maybe he got fed up with village life. Or maybe he saw a better opportunity.”

The commissario thought of his father’s work as an accountant, but also of his love of the woods and of Montelupo and found it difficult to imagine that life in the city would have been in any way better for him. He found his father’s past more and more difficult to understand. He realised they had never spoken about his time as an employee of the Rodolfis. At most, he had thrown out a couple of hints, free of rancour or nostalgia. Any time he mentioned it, he used the phrase, “when I was under the Rodolfis”. Soneri found himself regretting for the hundredth time opportunities missed.

“Have you seen the Woodsman again?” Soneri said.

“He never comes down to the village, and if he did he would not come to church.”

“I know. He’s not a believer.”

“It’s not his fault. Palmiro wasn’t either. The pair of them were brought up in the Madoni hills among the beasts, and the only object was survival. It’s not much different now.”

“He lives like a savage and yet he’s the master of Montelupo,” Soneri said, with a trace of envy in his voice.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Up there many strange things go on, and they’re getting stranger by the day. On a
clear night, you can see lights that look like fires flare up in the clearings, but they go out quite suddenly only to reappear further up. There are lots of people living on Montelupo now, and they’re liable not to be officially registered.”

“Foreigners. They come and go from Liguria,” Soneri said.

“Not only foreigners. There are all sorts who turn up there. They come from far and wide and they don’t look like holidaymakers.”

“When do you see these lights?”

“At night, if there’s no mist. All you need is patience, and keeping your eyes peeled. I’m not a good sleeper.”

“Have you reported this to the carabinieri?”

“I told Crisafulli some time ago, but he gave me the same answer as when I spoke about the gunfire. There is nothing he can do about it.”

Dusk was falling rapidly and Soneri regretted he had not made better use of that sunny day. Don Bruno got into his old Fiat, leaving Soneri to stroll back to the piazza. He arrived as the streetlights were being switched on. A stronger light suddenly cut through the twilight, shining a bluish beam onto the surrounding houses. The carabinieri’s Alfa Romeo was coming up the street from the new village on its way to the police station. Soneri recognised Captain Bovolenta in the rear seat.

“They’ve got someone,” he was told by Maini, who had been watching developments from the
Rivara
. “They say it’s a foreigner, a dealer who operates on Montelupo.”

The bar and the piazza were suddenly sunk in the silence of the falling night. The tragedy, with its ramifications of lost money and unexpressed shame, was now unfolding behind closed doors in every household. Soneri glanced at the thin, wiry figure of his friend, remembering races run along pathways and first cigarettes smoked furtively in mountain huts,
and felt confident enough to ask him about his own private affairs. “Did you trust the Rodolfis with your cash?”

Maini turned quickly, blinking rapidly in embarrassment. He gave him a wink, but on his face the commissario could read deep hurt mingled with a plea for absolution. Again Soneri felt ill at ease, but Crisafulli, with his prancing gait, turned up at that moment to spare them further awkwardness. “Good evening, Commissario. The captain would like to see you.”

Soneri nodded to Maini, whose expression was growing more and more melancholy.

“Am I under suspicion?” a decidedly displeased Soneri asked the maresciallo. He could not stand anyone interfering with the planning of his days. He liked to be in charge and decide for himself, moment by moment, how the day should go.

“Oh no! What do you mean? We’ve got somebody.”

“So what?” Soneri said, brusquely.

Crisafulli turned to him, shaken by this reaction. “Was that an important conversation?”

“A business matter,” Soneri said.

The maresciallo did not pursue it any further. “A Romanian. We found Paride Rodolfi’s mobile on him.”

The commissario shrugged.

“Isn’t that an important clue?” Crisafulli asked.

“It’s a clue of sorts, but I’d proceed cautiously.”

“Bovolenta, I have to say, is taking it very seriously.” Crisafulli winked at the commissario.

There was something treacherous in that remark which did not go down well with Soneri. “How did you get him?”

“Luck. You need a bit of luck, don’t you? We sent a fax to all the police forces in the Apennines, and we came up trumps.”

“Where was he picked up?”

“In Sarzana. He sells things in the street to camouflage other
kinds of dealing, if you see what I mean. Maresciallo Zanoni gave him the once over and found the mobile hidden in his car.”

Soneri nodded to say he had understood. They were at the police station and Crisafulli accompanied him to Bovolenta’s office.

When they were seated, the captain looked disapprovingly at Crisafulli, then turned to Soneri. “No doubt the maresciallo will have informed you…” he began, with a touch of irony in his voice.

“Yes, the Romanian.”

“Exactly, the Romanian. That’s why I asked you here. When you found the body, did you do a search of the surroundings? Even the most cursory of searches?”

“No, it was nearly dark and I didn’t want to grope around too much. I only took out the wallet to ascertain the identity.”

To Soneri’s annoyance, the captain uttered an “Ah”. It was not clear if this was a reproach or merely an aside, so he added, “It was completely empty.”

Bovolenta paused for a moment to reflect. “The man we have arrested claims to have found the mobile in the woods. From his description of the spot, it would not seem to be not too far from where the body was discovered.”

“Was he the one who removed everything from it?”

“Probably, but he’s never going to admit it. His story is that he found the mobile by chance, as though someone had lost it. He swears he never set eyes on the body.”

“There are so many people wandering about on Montelupo.”

“Exactly, so many. That’s why I have my doubts as to whether…” but he left the sentence unfinished.

“If I were in your position, assuming your doubts refer to the Romanian, I would share them.”

“But he talked at great length about Montelupo. And, as you said, there are lots of people moving about up there.”

“Always have been. But in the old days, they were a different type.”

“I know what you mean. But it’s not only foreigners. The Romanian spoke about a huge, tall fellow with a beard, who goes about armed and sometimes fires off his gun. He and his friends are terrified.”

“There are plenty of people who fire guns.”

“I know that too. But this is an Italian, a local man. We know his name, Gualerzi.” Bovolenta’s expression was almost venomous, an Inquisitor’s expression. “Do you know him?”

“Of course I do. The Woodsman. But what’s he got to do with it?”

“Do you think it normal for someone to go round armed, firing when he feels like it? The Romanian claims that twice, on separate occasions, bullets passed very close to him.”

“He’s a man of the woods. He’s spent his life on Montelupo, and as for poaching, they’ve always done it up there.”

“Where can I find him?”