Michael Dibdin - Dead Lagoon

The Bar dei Greci was empty apart from two elderly men mumbling at each other over their glasses of wine. Pia Nunziata asked for a mineral water. Zen ordered himself a coffee and a grappa. He felt he deserved it.

‘Why have they told you to leave?’ the policewoman asked as they sat down.

‘I was sent here to investigate the Zulian case, and there is no Zulian case.’

‘But we caught them red-handed!’

Zen shot her a curious glance, then nodded.

‘Ah, I forgot that you’ve been away. They wriggled out of it, I’m afraid. The contessa refused to testify against her nephews, and without that we can’t proceed. So you got shot in vain, and I’m out of a job.’

He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke upwards and making the No Smoking sign revolve lazily.

‘Nevertheless, there is one small matter I’d like to clear up before I leave, and I was wondering if you would help me. I haven’t time to do it myself, and I need the answer quite urgently.’

‘I’ll be glad to help,’ Pia Nunziata replied simply.

‘But without telling anyone what you’re doing, understand? Now I’ve been given my marching orders, it might complicate things.’

The policewoman nodded.

‘You can rely on me.’

Zen held her eye for a moment.

‘I need some technical information relating to air traffic. I don’t know where flights in this area are controlled from, but it’s probably either the international airport at Tessera or the NATO airbase at Treviso. What I want is a record of any low-altitude flights over the lagoon on the eleventh of November last year.’

He sipped his grappa while Pia Nunziata laboriously copied this into her notebook.

‘Do you want me to write it for you?’ asked Zen.

‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m getting used to writing with my other hand.’

‘Get whatever information you can, in as complete a form as possible, and above all as soon as possible. By tomorrow, this will be history.’

‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’

The policewoman left to start her inquiries, while Zen finished his cigarette and grappa before returning to the Questura to interview Domenico Zuin, an encounter he regarded with considerable apprehension. Apart from Giulio Bon, there was no evidence that either of the men who had taken part in the first landing on the ottagono had also participated in the kidnapping of Ivan Durridge a month later. Bon was linked to this event through his sale of Durridge’s boat, but any attempt to interrogate him directly would result in the intervention of Carlo Berengo Gorin. As for Massimo Bugno, it now appeared likely that he had no connection with the kidnapping.

That left Domenico Zuin as the key to the whole affair. If he could be persuaded to co-operate, Zen stood a real chance of achieving enough progress in the Durridge case to force Francesco Bruno to extend his transfer. But that was a very big if. Zuin was a much tougher proposition than Bugno, and the tactics which had proved successful in that case would not necessarily work in the other. Bugno was an employee, accustomed to following orders and obeying those in authority, while Zuin was an entrepreneur, a member of the privileged elite who formed the city’s watertaxi monopoly. He couldn’t be so easily cowed or browbeaten, as he proceeded to demonstrate the moment he was led into Zen’s office.

‘I want a lawyer.’

Domenico Zuin had a trim, muscular body and one of those faces Zen associated with Americans: hair like an inverted scrubbing-brush, skin that looked as if it had been shaved down to the dermis, excessively white teeth and slightly protuberant eyes.

‘I’m saying nothing without a lawyer present,’ he insisted.

Zen shrugged.

‘I’m not asking you to say anything. I’ll do the talking. I want to fill you in on the situation, so that when we bring a lawyer in and make everything official, you’ll have a clear idea of how you want to play this one.’

He offered Zuin a cigarette, which was refused with an abrupt jerk of the head. Zen lit one himself and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air between them, transected by a seam of dazed sunlight.

‘Basically I’d say that you’re looking at a minimum of two to four,’ he continued conversationally. ‘I can’t see squeezing it below that, whatever we do. On the other hand, it could well be more. A lot more.’

He picked up Zuin’s file and scanned the contents.

‘Let’s see, what have we got here? Two counts of bribery. One aggravated assault, charges dropped when witness withdrew. A few run-ins involving under-age rent-boys. Nothing that need concern us.’

He tossed the file back on the desk.

‘I can see no reason why we shouldn’t land you a nice two to four in that VIP facility near Parma where they’re putting all these corrupt businessmen and politicians. You wouldn’t object to sharing a cell with them, I suppose? You might even make a few useful contacts.’

He gazed over at Zuin, who was staring at the floor, visibly struggling to keep his resolution not to speak.

‘That’s assuming we can position Giulio Bon correctly, of course,’ Zen went on. ‘Ideally, we need the third man to come in with us. It would look much better that way.’

Zuin glanced up quickly and their eyes met for a moment.

‘I can quite see why you decided not to take Bugno along the second time,’ Zen murmured. ‘Not a good man in a crisis.’

Zuin’s eyes started to twitch from side to side, as though dazzled by every surface they landed on.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he muttered.

Zen gave him a look, level and lingering.

‘Yes, you do. What you don’t know — what nobody knows yet — is that we’ve found the body.’

The skin over Zuin’s cheekbones tightened.

‘All that’s left of it, that is,’ added Zen, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘But that’s enough to tell us who it was and how he died. Which changes everything. It means we’re talking about murder.’

There was a knock at the door. Zen got up, walked over and opened it. Pia Nunziata stood in the passageway, holding a folder which she passed to Zen.

‘That was quick,’ he commented.

‘It was very straightforward,’ the policewoman said. ‘I phoned the airport, they looked out their records for that day and faxed them over.’

Zen thanked her and walked back to his desk, looking through the papers. Domenico Zuin sat staring at him with an expression of extreme anxiety. Zen suddenly had an idea.

‘It looks like you’ve left it too late,’ he murmured, shaking his head sadly. ‘I had hoped to let you off lightly, Zuin. Make out you just went along in the boat, didn’t have any idea what it was all about, that sort of thing. Bon is the one I had targeted. He was the one who screwed the whole thing up by selling Durridge’s boat, after all. It seems only fair that he should take the rap.’

Zuin’s shock was evident on his face.

‘Didn’t you know about that?’ asked Zen. ‘I suppose Bon claimed he’d scuttled the thing, but in the end his greed got the better of him. You can get quite a nice price for a topa these days, even without the proper papers.’

He sighed.

‘Anyway, he’s decided to go for a pre-emptive strike.’

He tapped the sheets of paper.

‘One of my colleagues has been interviewing Bon downstairs. This is a draft of his statement. I’m afraid he’s dropped you right in it. He claims he only went along to handle the boat and had no part in what followed. But what’s really damaging is where he says…’

He pretended to pore over the page.

‘Here we are. My colleague asked about how you left the ottagono. Bon replies, “I left in the same way we arrived, by boat.” Question, “With Domenico Zuin.” Witness, “No, he remained on the island.” Question, “Then how did he get off again?” Witness, “The same way as Durridge, presumably.”’