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

Volpi looked at him with a grimace of disapproval. “It gets dark by four o’clock. You’d be better going in the morning and getting back by lunch time.”

There was a kind of concern in his voice, but Soneri paid no heed. Volpi continued: “Mushrooms develop in the night air. You’ll find them first thing in the morning, or not at all.”

“I still say that if he’d wanted to let everybody know nothing had happened, all he had to do was take a trip into the village. What’s the point of posters?” Delrio said. The question was evidently preying on his mind.

“And when did he ever come to town?” Volpi said. “The only one who ever came to the piazza was his father, when he was doing deals to buy pigs. But he was born nearby.”

“Didn’t Rivara say a while ago that Mendogni saw him in the courtyard?” Maini asked.

Delrio looked at him, puzzled: “People are always seeing things that don’t exist. The road to Campogrande is quite a distance from the villa.”

“His Mercedes was parked in front of the pharmacy yesterday evening”

“It could have been his wife. She seems to get through a great many medicines,” Delrio said.

Soneri made every effort to concentrate on something else, especially the paths in the woods. Meantime, while the cloudy sky closed off every beam of sunlight on the mountains, he watched the stall-holders in the piazza begin to shut down their stalls. One of them, wearing heavy boots, came into the bar to get out of the cold.

“You leaving already?” Rivara asked.

“What’s the point of staying on? Nobody’s buying. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“It’s the feast of San Martino,” the barman said.

The man did not seem convinced. “It’s not San Martino that’s on their minds. Their heads are full of this Rodolfi business. Any idea what’s going on?”

“It seems he disappeared, then turned up again. And today they went round sticking up posters to tell people he’s safe and sound.”

“I saw them. It’s a funny business,” the stall-holder said, swallowing his
grappa
in one gulp.

Delrio turned to the others: “You see? Even someone who’s not from here understands immediately that there’s something not right.”

“The commissario came here for just that reason,” Rivara said, nodding in the direction of Soneri.

The stall-holder turned to look at him in disbelief. “Is it really that bad?”

“It might be,” Volpi said.

“Who knows how it will all end?” Delrio said.

“Look, I’m only here for the mushrooms,” Soneri said. The stall-holder grinned, paid and went out.

It was not altogether true. As he rose to his feet and watched the people moving out of the piazza, he realised that the story did intrigue him, but this unlooked-for interest irritated him, somewhat as would the symptoms of a cold.

“Are we going to see you tonight for some
torta fritta
?” Maini asked.

Soneri looked up at the sky, which was growing darker by the minute, before replying: “I think so.”

“It’s a pretty futile hope,” Maini said discouragingly, referring to the weather. “There’s going to be no change today.”

The commissario stretched out his arms, took his leave
and walked over to the
Scoiattolo,
the
pensione
where he had booked a room. As he went in, the scent of
tortelli
with chestnut filling, served with mushroom sauce, re-awoke childhood memories of long-forgotten dishes and flavours not found in the undistinguished eating places his work too often obliged him to frequent.

Sante Righelli, the proprietor, greeted him with a reserve typical of mountain men, a gruffness easily mistaken for discourtesy. Soneri looked him up and down and was struck by how much he resembled the pork-butcher on the Rodolfi label.

“You’re out of luck with the weather,” Sante said.

“It’s November,” the commissario said. “The damp weather will bring out the mushrooms.”

Sante shook his head. “I don’t think you’re going to be lucky there either.”

“We’ll see how it goes, but at least I’ll get a rest.”

Sante showed him into the room where several diners where already seated. He stopped in the doorway.

“I really hope that you do get a rest,” he said in a low voice, but there was some doubt in his tone.

“Do you think I won’t sleep at night?”

“No, no,” Sante said, “I’m sure you’ll sleep just fine. The problem is that there’s a lot of unrest in the village.”

“I know. Those posters…”

“Let’s hope that’s all there is to it,” Sante said, with a doleful expression.

The unfinished sentences he had heard seemed to hint at something deeper, but Soneri had resolved not to let himself get involved. He turned his attention to the owner’s wife, Ida, a large lady, dripping with perspiration, who emerged from the kitchen. She was a real woman of the mountains, with the wide hips which had the indestructible appearance of a peasant dwelling.

“No man could resist those scents surrounding you,” the commissario complimented her.

“If only!” the woman replied. “Those days are long gone!” She threw a disappointed glance in the direction of her husband, who said nothing.

“The quickest way to a man’s heart is… how does it go?”

“It’s the only way. And it works. They come here in droves, some even turning off the main road, people on their travels, lorry drivers who go up and down the motorway. I’ve admirers everywhere,” she laughed.

“And today is the feast day.”

“Every day is a feast day now. They get the same menu on Mondays as on Sundays. It’s other things that are changing.”

“At table, I prefer the tried and tested,” Soneri said, warding off the question he saw coming and moving to a free seat.

“So you don’t want the menu then?” Sante said.

“I’ll leave it to the chef.”

It was not a mistake to give Ida free rein. A first course of
tortelli
with three types of filling – chestnuts, potatoes and herbs – was followed by a main course of assorted rabbit, boar and goat meats with a little polenta on the side, and finally by
crema di zabaione
, all washed down by a blood-red Bonarda. When the meal was over, the substantial helpings, the wine and the rising chatter in the restaurant left the commissario so drowsy that his mobile had to ring several times before he heard it.

“So you’ve arrived?” It was Angela. And on a poor line, which meant her voice had a kind of quiver.

“I can’t hear you very well,” he said, moving outside.

“You’re at the
Scoiattolo
?”

“Yes.”

“I might have known.”

“What do you expect? I feel at home here. I know the owners.”

He heard a sigh at the other end. “Just think how many better places there must be that you’ve never been to.”

“And why should I change if I’m comfortable where I am?”

“One of these days I’m going to come and check up on you,” she said in a good-humoured way. “Is there something up? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

“No, no, it’s not what you think,” Soneri mumbled, but his denial did not carry conviction. “It’s just that everybody here is talking about a man who’s supposed to have disappeared and then turned up again. Nobody has any idea what’s going on, so there’s no end of rumours and counter-rumours. They know what I do for a living, and they’re all keen to get me involved.”

“Isn’t it you that’s getting curious?”

“Well, maybe a little. I want to talk about mushrooms, but everyone I meet is determined to raise this other subject,” the commissario said.

“Who has disappeared? Someone important?”

“Paride Rodolfi, the salame and
prosciutto
manufacturer.”

“Good heavens! So he
is
important. I know the lawyer who looks after the company’s affairs, and I can well believe everybody’s talking about it. Everybody there has some connection with the Rodolfis. They either work for him, or they’re suppliers.”

“I know, but the fact is…” the commissario’s voice trailed off because he had suddenly lost his train of thought. He realised he had no idea why this business seemed so odd to him.

“Tell me,” Angela said.

Soneri outlined the facts, chiefly to clarify them to himself. “Some posters have been put up to say that Rodolfi is alive and in good health, but no-one had ever said he was dead in the first place. They all assumed he’d gone off somewhere.”

“Whenever someone disappears, there’s always a suspicion
that they might be dead,” was Angela’s tentative explanation.

“Certainly, but even after these posters have gone up, noone’s still really sure whether he’s alive or not. One or two people claim to have seen him, but nobody will swear to it.”

“Good God, Commissario,” Angela murmured, “I’ve never heard you so confused. I hope it’s only because of the heavy meal you’ve just had. Go for a walk and clear your head and then try to get some rest.”

“I have the feeling that they all know more than they’re letting on, but since I don’t have any facts to go on, I’m getting steadily more puzzled myself. I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Do you want my advice? Steer clear of the whole thing. Go for a walk in your mountains and let them look for Rodolfi by themselves – if he really is lost.”

At half past two, the village was still sleeping off its
brodo di carne
. Soneri went up to his room, put on his wellington boots and slipped out without letting Sante see him go. Just this once, being familiar with the woods and feeling totally at home among them, he was happy to follow Angela’s advice. He took the road to Montelupo intending to climb for a couple of kilometres and then turn into the beech groves. He felt the need to stretch his legs and clear his lungs, so he set off at a relaxed pace, turning back from time to time to watch the village grow smaller behind him. He raised his eyes to the hills only when he reached the reservoir, where there was a small, familiar fountain. The mist was not so much higher above him, no more than ten minutes’ walk away. At Boldara, the point where the road ends, the first wisps began to float around him, and from there on he walked into and out of the swirling greyness of mist and low cloud carried on the wind. Only when he took the path through the beech woods did
everything close in on him. The trees and brush all around him, the thick mist pressing down from above and the black earth beneath his feet made him shudder. He was uneasy as he made his way along a tunnel of trees which grew darker with every step. He had the sense that he was not alone. Birdsong and the squeals of hedgehogs alternated with the sound of a large animal not far distant in the woods. The mist and the breeze carried the sounds deceptively in all directions.

He had walked quite a distance before he began to feel warm. His heart was beating wildly and he was gasping for breath. Were his cigars presenting their bill? He looked down at his boots encrusted with mud and understood. At every step, he was carrying what looked like a kilo of earth. He scraped the boots clean on moss-covered roots. In less than an hour, he reckoned, it would be dark. He went on a little way, but stopped when he heard the sound of breaking branches. It might be a wild boar, he thought, and for a moment he feared it might charge him, but the beast, without emerging onto the path, could be heard racing down a gulley which cut across the slope to seek shelter in the thickets.

As he was setting off again, a shot rang out. Its echo swelled across the valley like thunder. The bullet passed no more than ten metres ahead of him, allowing him to hear its whistle and the crack of the branches it struck. Instinctively, he crouched on the wet forest floor, waiting for a second shot which did not come. He stayed in that position for a few moments, wondering if the shot was aimed at the boar or at him, and deciding that thinking about it was going to get him nowhere. Twenty minutes later, he came out onto the road, and even before emerging from the mist he heard the band striking up on the piazza below.

According to tradition, on the feast of San Martino things were taken from houses as a joke and left somewhere in the village where they could be rediscovered. All the various objects which had been spirited away the night before were piled up in a quiet lane behind the church. There were farm implements, bicycles, hats, cars and even a pony, which was feeding quietly from a nosebag. A man was cursing as he attempted to pull an old scooter out of a tangle of rubbish, but just as he had succeeded and was about to move off, the town band turned up and the street was closed off.

Soneri waited until the majorettes and bandsmen, decked out in uniforms, hats and sequins, had passed by. He could not understand why the sound of drums and trumpets in all their solemnity always made him laugh, but as he was thinking this over, Maini emerged from the disorderly crowd shuffling along behind the band, took him by the arm and led him into the body of the procession.

“So you’ve had a go, eh!” he exclaimed, glancing down at Soneri’s mud-covered boots. He had forgotten to change but no-one in the village would notice.

“I went to stretch my legs and get a breath of fresh air,” Soneri said.

“How far did you get?”

“Up past Boldara, towards Montelupo.”

“You’ve got guts,” Maini said.

“Is there someone from around here who goes shooting in the mountains?” the commissario asked, abruptly.

The din from the band gave Maini an excuse for taking his time. “Did you hear anything?” he asked.

Soneri nodded, without turning to face him.

“Where?”

“I have just told you where.”

“But do you know where the shot came from?”

“I only know it wasn’t more than ten metres away when it went whistling past. There must have been a boar in the gulley, judging by the noise coming from there.”

“These mountains have become very dangerous. I don’t know what’s been going on recently.”

“There’ve always been poachers in these parts,” the commissario said without much conviction.

“During the day? With this mist, in a hunting reserve?” Maini’s tone was incredulous.

“In the mist you can do anything you want. It gives you cover.”