Michael Dibdin - Dead Lagoon

‘In most cases it would certainly have been very difficult,’ the pathologist replied. ‘But this one is perfectly straightforward.’

He pointed to the base of the skull.

‘Observe this lesion. The cervical vertebrae have been driven straight up into the skull. And again here, the fracture dislocation of the hips and the multiple pelvic fractures.’

He looked at Zen.

‘The evidence speaks for itself.’

‘And what does it say?’ Zen inquired dryly.

‘The man fell to his death.’

Zen gaped at the pathologist.

‘Fell?’

‘Oh yes. And from quite a considerable height. At least the fourth floor, and probably higher.’

Zen laughed.

‘That’s impossible!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ the pathologist returned with a piqued expression.

‘There are no buildings where this man was found! There are no structures of any kind, only bushes and shrubs.’

The pathologist zipped up the body bag.

‘Perhaps he died elsewhere and the corpse was subsequently moved to the site where you found it. There is no way of telling once the flesh has gone. But I can assure you that injuries such as these can occur only in the way I have described.’

Zen nodded meekly.

‘Of course, dottore. I didn’t mean to…’

‘There are minor variations, depending on the primary point of impact. I recall a case a few years back, an air force trainee whose parachute failed to open. He landed on his head, with the result that the vault of the skull was driven down over the spine. That presents very similar lesions to this one, but with cranial impact you also get extensive fracturing of the vault and the base of the skull. That is absent here, so he must have come down feet first. It’s purely a matter of chance.’

He removed his rubber gloves and shook Zen’s hand.

‘Leave these medical details with me and I’ll send over a full report in due course.’

Zen was so deep in thought as he left the hospital that he did not notice the funeral when he tried to push his way through the cortege and was indignantly repulsed. Only then did he become aware of the dirge-like bell strokes, and the blue motor launch bearing a coffin submerged in flowers and wreaths with sprays of lilies and palm leaves crossed with violet ribbons. He took off his hat respectfully as the hearse cast off for the short trip to San Michele, followed by a line of watertaxis bearing the mourners.

Once the crowd had dispersed, he began to walk slowly back to the Questura. But though his pace was deliberate, his mind was racing. The Durridge case had entered a phase of extreme delicacy, and Zen knew that he needed to decide exactly what he was going to do and not do before making his next moves. A mistake at this point would not only jeopardize any hope of bringing the investigation to a successful conclusion, but might well leave Zen himself at risk, professionally if not personally.

All the elements of the case were now before him. It was just a question of fitting them together in the right way, so that the overall picture could be deciphered. And the key to the puzzle, he felt sure, was the question of how Ivan Durridge had died. How could a man fall to his death when there was nowhere to fall from? As for the pathologist’s idea that the corpse might have been moved subsequent to death, that was simply not credible, given the terrain. It would have been possible to transport the body to Sant’ Ariano by boat, assuming you knew the lagoon well, but no one could have carried it across the island through that dense undergrowth. It would have had to be hoisted into place using a crane, or…

As he entered the Questura, the policeman on guard behind the armoured glass screen in the vestibule called to him.

‘The Questore wants to see you in his office immediately, dottore. Top floor, first on the right.’

Francesco Bruno was sitting behind his desk initialling papers when Zen entered. Well dressed, carefully groomed and quietly spoken, there was nothing about him to suggest the policeman. He could equally well have been a senior manager in a multinational company, or indeed a political figure with a high public profile.

‘Ah, at last!’ he murmured as Zen came in. ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone back to Rome already.’

‘Sorry, sir. I just slipped out for a moment to look into one or two things…’

Bruno waved impatiently.

‘I’ve got nothing against my officers popping out for the occasional coffee. Unfortunately the matter I have to raise with you is rather more serious.’

He picked up a copy of a newspaper lying on his desk, folded it carefully and handed it to Zen. The article was headed ELDERLY VENETIAN ARISTOCRAT THREATENED BY UNDERCOVER POLICEMAN. The text below described how Contessa Ada Zulian had been accosted in the street by an official working for the Ministry of the Interior, who had attempted to blackmail her into altering her testimony to allow the State to prosecute her nephews. When Contessa Zulian refused, the official — ‘whose name is known to this paper’ — made a number of cruel and gratuitous references to a personal tragedy suffered by the Zulian family. The contessa, whose health had long been extremely fragile, collapsed and had to be taken to a nearby house, where she made a slow recovery. The article went on to condemn this ‘typical example of the arrogance and brutality of Rome’, and invited readers to make their indignation clear by voting overwhelmingly for the Nuova Repubblica Veneta in the forthcoming municipal elections.

Zen glanced at the cover of the newspaper.

‘This is a party journal,’ he remarked, tossing it down on the desk. ‘They’re just playing politics.’

‘Playing to win!’ retorted Francesco Bruno. ‘If the opinion polls are right, they’re likely to be the biggest party on the city council after the local elections. Ferdinando Dal Maschio will be a person of immense power and influence in the capital of the province whose police chief I am.’

Bruno kept looking straight at Zen, but there was a strangely absent quality about his gaze, as though he weren’t really seeing what he was looking at.

‘Times have changed, dottore! It’s just not good enough any longer for police officers to swagger about like a pack of licensed bully-boys. It’s essential for all of us to realize that we are the servants of the public, not its masters. Accountability is the name of the game.’

He got to his feet, sighing loudly, and wandered over to the window.

‘Here we are, trying to build a new Italy, with nothing but the old materials to hand! I appreciate that it’s difficult for the older personnel such as yourself to change your ways overnight, but this incident involving the Contessa Zulian is completely unacceptable by any standards. There is simply no excuse for it.’

He turned to face Zen.

‘I simply won’t permit this sort of heavy-handed loutishness to wreck the carefully nurtured public relations which I and my staff have been at such pains to build up. You Criminalpol people come and go, but the rest of us have to live and work here. To do so successfully involves winning and retaining the respect and trust of the local population, and more especially their elected representatives.’

Francesco Bruno sat down and started initialling documents again.

‘I’ve issued a press statement to the effect that your transfer here will cease as of midnight tonight,’ he said without looking up.

Zen did not move. After some time, the Questore raised his head and nodded once at Zen.

‘That’s all.

On the way back to his office, Zen met Pia Nunziata and asked her to come and have a coffee with him.

‘You’re supposed to be on sick leave and I’ve just been told to clear my desk,’ he said when she looked doubtful. ‘Technically speaking, we’re not here in the first place.’