Valerio Varesi - River of Shadows

The other drew back and seemed lost in thought. From the expression on his face, the commissario deduced that he had been very convincing.

“Until this moment, I had been under the impression that the current could have carried the barge downstream and through the arches of a bridge, but you’ve undermined this conviction and with it any real possibility that we’re dealing with an accident. You have simplified the hypotheses, but complicated the story.”

Vernizzi and Torelli nodded in the style of a priest hearing confession.

“So then,” Soneri started up again, “There must have been someone on the barge. Someone who knew what he was doing, who knew the river well enough to be able to navigate at night-time, in the dark, using only the tiller. Someone who started off from the boat club, casting off the moorings, giving the impression that the rising water of the Po had made the barge break free, or else that Tonna himself had decided to sail without engine or lights. After all, that was strange, was it not? But to make this last hypothesis credible, there needs to be some indication that there was a boatman on board.”

“The light,” Barigazzi said. “The light on the barge was switched on a couple of times while it was on the river.”

Soneri smiled at this confirmation, while the music rose in a crescendo at a crucial point in the opera, even if he couldn’t recall exactly which. It was the first supposition which stood up, but it was followed immediately by the realization that it was worthless, no more than a straightforward deduction from facts which he had not yet sifted.

Barigazzi looked at him. “Commissario, do you see the Po? The river is always smooth and placid, but deep down it’s turbulent. No-one ever thinks about life down there, fish struggling for survival in an unending duel in the murky depths. And everything is endlessly changing, according to the whim of the water. None of us can imagine those depths unless and until we end up scraping against them. Dredging is always provisional work. Like everything in this world, wouldn’t you say?”

Angela kept him awake during the return journey to the city, twenty minutes winding through the mist which followed the rain, her voice cutting into his brain and setting off electric shocks each time the Fortanina threatened to carry out its digestive and somniferous duties. He had failed to call her at the agreed hour and this had been taken as a sign of indifference. She was not as yet entirely accustomed to his lapses of memory, and if she were, he would have viewed that as a matter for concern. When he came off the telephone, he tried to call Juvara, but had insufficient battery on his mobile, as he was advised by a slightly mocking, double bleep. He tossed the implement on to the seat beside him, but before he had time to get worked up about it, he was turning into his own driveway.

He collapsed into the armchair in the living room, lit a cigar and surveyed the apartment. This was his favourite moment of the day: slippers, pyjamas, dressing gown and his own home, always the same. The house where he had grown up, the house complete with furniture his parents had left him, all unaltered after so many years. When the day was done, he had the impression of escaping to a place whose map was known to him alone, and where he could think freely, leaving everything outside in a street which he saw as grey and featureless, as though through a windowpane with trickles of water running down it.

Angela had asked him if he would be coming back to the city or staying by the banks of the Po. He did not know. He could have decided there and then, but he felt he could pull either end of that particular ball of wool and arrive at the same point. However, the banks of the river seemed to offer the least demanding of the alternatives, and anyway, the barge aground at Luzzara, sealed off by the carabinieri, needed to be inspected.

He grabbed the telephone and placed it on his knees, just at the moment when it began to squeal like an animal in pain. He recognized Juvara’s voice. “What is it? Can’t you get to sleep?” he asked, glancing at his watch.

“I didn’t expect to find you at home. Your mobile is switched off.”

“The battery’s dead.”

“Tomorrow, will you be in your office or down at the Po?”

“I’ve got to look over Tonna’s barge.”

“Do you need a hand?”

“No, you carry on delving into Decimo and I’ll attend to Anteo. I guess that working on two fronts we might make more headway.”

“Tomorrow Nanetti hopes to get the results of the tests on the blood from the broken windows in the ward.”

“Good, let me know.”

“I will, and don’t forget to recharge your battery.”

Once again he awoke very early and found himself seated at the edge of the bed before his eyes were properly open. By the time he got to the coffee-maker, he decided he should have his blood pressure checked. Whenever he was on a case, it invariably shot up, and this time, to make matters worse, he had to cope with Alemanni and his scepticism. If he were to fail, every single one of them in the H.Q. would hold him responsible for the fiasco and for giving the old magistrate the chance to bring his career to a glorious end by humiliating a commissario of the squadra mobile.

The mist had settled on the roofs as he journeyed along the deserted, early-morning streets. Once out of the city, he observed the swamps in the flat countryside from which it appeared impossible to take off for the skies, since the skies with their vapours had descended to kiss the earth. He had yet again to present his identity card before he was allowed to pass the security barrier and drive on to the embankment. On the road, he met lorries, vans and tractors loaded with household goods coming in the opposite direction, all fleeing the threat of the barely contained flood waters several metres above the vulnerable plain.

From the elevated road, the river seemed boundless, like a mud-coloured sea confined inside a system of dykes. The current was flowing approximately two metres below the summit of the main embankment, and on top of it rows of sandbags had been lined up to provide extra protection. The barge appeared before the commissario between leafless branches tossed this way and that by the current, an enormous, squat, rusting monster on which there was only one thing that could be called new — the word tonna in big letters on the bow. At first sight, it looked like a catfish, with a cover over it as flat as the plain and only the wheelhouse sticking up at the stern. For the rest, all that stood out were the topsides of the hull surrounding the deck and a few small vents to allow air into the hold.

Soneri parked amidst the puddles below the embankment, within sight of the barge, now circled with mist. From time to time, it rose and fell in the current, but this movement, far from being a sign of life, seemed the death throes of a moribund beast.

He had moved only a few paces forward when he noticed the carabiniere car. A youthful officer, plainly suffering from the cold, got out. He showed him his identity card, and the man pointed to the gangplank and helped him hoist it on to the deck. The commissario noted the solid marine hawsers holding the craft in place, while the young officer, with fussy deference, removed the seals from the cabin and, after a lengthy struggle with the spring handle, opened it for him. Soneri advised him to keep his gloves on and not to touch anything until the forensic squad had been able to examine the interior of the barge. The officer remained at the entrance, stock-still.

The cabin was somewhat cramped. The helm, only slightly larger than a car’s driving wheel, held pride of place. Through the windscreen, the deck and stempost were clearly visible. The instrument panel, with its fuel, oil-pressure and engine-temperature gauges and an array of light switches stood to one side. Alongside the steering column, there was a conduit for the cable that activated the combustion-chamber pre-heat plugs, as with old-style diesel engines. Behind the column, there was just space for a seat and a trapdoor leading down below.