Michael Dibdin - A long finish

Like the previous visitor, Lamberto rapped impatiently at the door, then tried the handle. He glanced at his watch. Just past ten. That was the time that they had agreed. By eleven at the latest he’d need to be at work back at his restaurant, which had been booked for lunch by a convention party from Asti who were being taken out for a ‘Traditional Langhe Country Meal’. But where the hell was Beppe? If he didn’t come through, Lamberto was in deep trouble. The cut-price dealings in truffles which took place in the back streets of Alba would be over by now, and if he had to pay the official price, including commission and tax, he’d hardly break even on the day.

Lamberto stood looking around in growing annoyance. Beppe had never let him down before. It was an excellent arrangement for both of them: truffles for cash, with no extra cut for middlemen or the fisco. Since Anna was there, he must have returned from his nocturnal hunting and gathering. Also there was the dented, mud-spattered old Fiat 500 which Beppe had cannily refused to trade in for something more comfortable and ostentatious, even though the sum Lamberto had paid him for a particularly fine specimen a couple of months ago would alone have paid for a new car. Whatever Beppe did with his money, it was nothing that might attract attention.

The dog was still mewling and worrying Lamberto’s shoes, making little forays towards the path leading down the hillside, then returning with a series of high-pitched whines. This increased the mystery of Beppe’s absence. Even if he’d been called away unexpectedly, or suddenly been taken ill, he would never have left his invaluable truffle hound tied up outside the house like one of her poor cousins, the half-starved watchdogs of the region.

Unlike Bruno Scorrone, Lamberto Latini liked dogs, to the extent — regarded locally as eccentric, if not perverse — of keeping a spaniel purely as a pet. So when he followed the increasingly distraught Anna round the side of the house, it was purely as a reflex action born of habit. But once they reached the back of the house and the bitch scampered off down the path, encouraged by this first glimmer of comprehension in the dim yet dominant species she had to deal with, Lamberto did not follow. He had no clear idea how to resolve the problem of Beppe’s dereliction, but taking his dog for walkies was certainly not it.

At a loss, and feeling vaguely ashamed of himself, he went over to the back door of the property and made a big show of knocking and calling out Beppe’s name. There was no reply, but the door opened a crack, as if under its own volition. Lamberto stared at it an instant. Then, ignoring Anna’s frantic entreaties, he stepped over the threshold, shutting the dog outside.

‘Beppe! Beppe? It’s Lamberto!’

He already knew that there would be no answer. The silence had that coherent quality, like settled soil, which houses only have when they are empty. Lamberto stepped cautiously into the large kitchen, with its board floor and bare walls where islands of brickwork showed through the crumbling plaster. The air was cold, the room empty. Moving into the hall, Lamberto continued his search, occasionally calling Beppe’s name aloud, less loudly now. Outside he could hear Anna’s persistent keening, as though she were answering him, but within the house the solid, complacent silence was unbroken. There was clearly no one there.

Lamberto returned to the kitchen and looked around, reluctant to admit failure. On the table stood a dirty dish with some sauce dried to a crust, an empty wine glass and a chunk of bread. The fire-place was cold, the ashes holding no ember. Lamberto picked up the bread and squeezed it. Yesterday’s. So Beppe had eaten, presumably before going out, but had not been back since. Except that his dog was there, and his car.

Then he noticed another item on the table. He picked it up and inspected it. At first sight it resembled a general-purpose knife such as might be used for slicing salami or cheese, except that the blade and handle were stained with a dark tawny substance resembling dried blood. Before he could begin to think what this might signify, his attention was diverted by the sound of a key being inserted into the front door.

Lamberto started to put the knife back on the table, then thought better of it. The silence had suddenly turned malign, no longer placid and compact but tense and still, loaded like a gun. Gripping the knife tightly, Lamberto stepped to his right and concealed himself as best he could beside a huge credenza where unused heirloom bowls and plates gathered dust. Steel-rimmed heels clacked steadily down the hall. Lamberto couldn’t think of anyone who wore boots like that, certainly not Beppe. Lamberto grasped the knife still more tightly, feeling simultaneously ridiculous and terrified.

At the doorway to the kitchen, the heels paused. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by one of Anna’s despondent yowls. Then the intruder moved forward into the room, revealing himself as a portly man in black uniform and hard cap trimmed with red braid and a gilt badge showing a flaming torch. Catching sight of Lamberto, he started slightly.

‘Signor Latini.’

‘ Buon giorno, maresciallo,’ Lamberto replied automatically.

The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then the Carabinieri official nodded towards the window.

‘Looks like it’s clearing up, finally.’

‘I came to see Beppe,’ Lamberto blurted out. ‘His car’s outside, and his dog, Anna. But he’s not here.’

Enrico Pascal nodded slowly.

‘No, he’s not here.’

Lamberto Latini finally became aware of what he was holding.

‘I found this on the table,’ he said, displaying the knife. ‘It’s got blood on it.’

Again Pascal nodded, as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

‘Why don’t you put it back where it was? he suggested.

Latini did so.

‘I thought something might have happened to Beppe,’ he mumbled haltingly. ‘And when I heard someone coming in… How did you open the front door?’

‘With a key.’

‘A key? Where did you get it?’

The Carabiniere did not reply at once.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Signor Latini?’ he said at length. ‘No, in that chair, please, away from the table.’

Latini did so.

‘You were asking where I got the key. I got it from Beppe. And how did you get in?’

Lamberto gestured behind him.

‘The back door. It was open.’

‘Open, or just unlocked?’

‘It wasn’t fastened. It must stick slightly. It opened when I knocked.’

The maresciallo raised his eyebrows.

‘So you took advantage to come inside the house. Why?’

‘I just wanted to make sure that Beppe was all right.’

‘Why shouldn’t he be all right?’

‘We had an appointment to meet here at ten o’clock. He’s never let me down before.’

‘When did you make this appointment?’

The Carabinieri official’s tone had become more peremptory. Lamberto Latini appeared to reflect.

‘Let’s see. Yesterday, it must have been. No, the day before. I phoned and suggested we get together for a chat, you know…’

‘It’s a long way to come for a chat, Signor Latini, particularly on a working day.’

Lamberto started to say something, then checked his watch and got up.

‘That reminds me, I must be going.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’

Lamberto Latini frowned.

‘I’ve got a business convention coming to lunch. They’ve booked the whole restaurant.’

Enrico Pascal sighed heavily.

‘No one appreciates the importance of good food more than I, Signor Latini, and your establishment is without doubt one of the finest in the region — although the last time I ate there, it seemed to me that the lamb was a trifle oversalted. But certain matters must take precedence even over gastronomy. Murder is one of them.’