Michael Dibdin: Ratking

But despite the slightly more relaxed atmosphere, the situation remained blocked. There was continued speculation about what could have happened to Valesio, whose thoughtlessness in not ringing to apologize and explain was agreed to be typical. The origins of the problem were traced back to his mother, a Swede who had fallen in love first with Perugia and then with a Perugian, and who as a foreigner could not be expected to know how to bring up her son properly. But Zen was beginning to suspect that Crepi had been outmanoeuvred, that Valesio was staying away deliberately under orders from the Milettis in order to prevent any discussion of the kidnapping. So why didn’t they all go, for God’s sake? The farce had been played out to the bitter end and there was nothing to stop them making a graceful exit. The fact remained that no one appeared to have the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind.

At last the sound of a motor was heard outside, and everyone perked up.

‘Ah, finally!’ cried Cinzia. ‘He’s impossible, you know, really impossible, and yet such a nice person really. My mother always told me whatever I did never to marry a lawyer. He’ll be late for his own funeral, she used to say, and I must say Gianluigi for all his faults is always on time.’

This paragon of punctuality exchanged a glance with Silvio.

‘That’s a motorcycle engine,’ he remarked.

Crepi got up and walked over to the window.

‘Well?’ Cinzia demanded. ‘Who is it?’

‘There’s nobody there.’

‘Exactly, there’s nobody here!’ a new voice exclaimed.

Six heads turned in unison towards the other end of the room, where the door had opened a crack.

‘Or rather I’m here,’ the voice continued. ‘It comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?’

‘Stop playing the fool, Daniele!’ cried Cinzia sharply. ‘You know what my nerves are like. What must you think of us, dottore? You must forgive him, he’s a good boy really. It’s my mother’s fault, God rest her. A good woman, a wonderfully warm person, but she hadn’t read Freud of course. I shudder to think how she must have toilet-trained us all.’

The door swung open, but Daniele remained standing on the threshold. He was tall and shared his sister’s good looks, which were set off by about a million lire’s worth of casually elegant clothing: Timberland shoes, tweed slacks, a lambswool sweater and a Montclair skiing jacket.

‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed Silvio in a tone of sullen irritation. ‘Come in and close the door!’

A contrived look of surprise and puzzlement appeared on Daniele’s handsome features.

‘What do you think I am, some kind of gatecrasher? Someone who just barges into parties he hasn’t been invited to? I wasn’t brought up on a farm, you know.’

Antonio Crepi gestured impatiently.

‘Oh, come along, Daniele! We haven’t got time for this kind of thing. You know very well that I invited the whole family. If you couldn’t be bothered to come that’s your business, but don’t waste our time with these childish scenes.’

‘Oh, the whole family, eh? That’s not what I was told.’

He came in and closed the door, staring pointedly at Silvio.

‘If you’re so fussy about your manners suddenly, then you might at least greet Antonio’s guest,’ chirped Cinzia. ‘This is Commissioner Zen, who’s come up specially from Rome to help save father. He’s from Venice, lucky man. What a beautiful city! I’m just crazy about Venice.’

Daniele swung around and peered at Zen’s feet with comically exaggerated interest. He frowned.

‘That’s odd. I’ve always been told that the policemen in Venice have one wet shoe. You know, because when they’ve finished their cigarettes they throw them in the canal and…’

He mimed someone stubbing out a cigarette with his foot and started to laugh loudly.

‘But Commissioner Zen’s feet are perfectly dry!’ he resumed. ‘So clearly he can’t be from Venice. Either that or he’s not a policeman.’

‘Shut your face!’

The reprimand came not from Silvio or Crepi but from Gianluigi Santucci. Daniele continued to smile genially as though he had not heard him. He did not speak again, however. Neither did anyone else, and so silence fell.

In the end it was left to Silvio’s secretary to save the situation.

‘Well, I expect Commissioner Zen would like to get an early night,’ she remarked, as she stood up.

It was the first thing Zen had heard her say all evening, and he realized with a shock that she was not Italian. Of course! With those clothes he should have guessed.

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, signora,’ he said, rising to his feet to ensure that her gesture did not go for nothing.

‘She’s not a signora,’ Cinzia corrected him. ‘She’s not married. Are you, Ivy?’

It was a horrible and quite deliberate insult. Any woman of a certain age is entitled to be addressed as signora whether or not she is married. Everyone tensed for the reaction, but it never came. The woman stood there like a statue, smiling as beatifically as she had all evening.

‘That’s quite true, Cinzia,’ she replied evenly in her deep, chesty voice, enunciating every word with almost pedantic clarity. ‘But the Commissioner hasn’t been here long enough yet to know all these little details. However, I expect in a few days he’ll know more about us than we do ourselves!’

It was a remarkable performance. The woman’s foreignness made Zen think of Ellen, and so it was with genuine warmth that he replied, ‘Good night, signora,’ and received a beaming smile in return.

Everyone stood up, except for Daniele.

‘I don’t want to leave yet,’ he complained. ‘I only just got here.’

Gianluigi Santucci strolled over to the sofa where he was slumped and grabbed him by the ear.

‘Ah, these young people today!’ he cried with vicious playfulness. ‘No energy, no initiative. It makes me sick!’

With a mocking laugh he hauled Daniele to his feet and pushed him over to join the others.

At the front door hands were shaken and formulas of farewell exchanged. At the last moment Crepi plucked at Zen’s sleeve, holding him back.

‘Not you, dottore.’

The Milettis exchanged a flicker of rapid glances.

‘I thought he wanted to get anearly night,’ Silvio objected.

‘Don’t you worry about Commissioner Zen,’ Crepi smiled, all cheerful consideration. ‘Mind how you go yourselves, that driveway of mine is quite dangerous in places. I keep meaning to have it resurfaced but what with one thing and another I never get around to it.’

‘And if Valesio comes?’

Gianluigi Santucci’s question, unlike that of his brother-in-law, had real meaning.

‘If Valesio comes he’ll get a dish of cold tagliatelle and a piece of my mind! But we won’t discuss the kidnapping behind your backs, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Santucci grimaced.

‘Worried? Why should I be worried? It’s for others to worry, not me!’

A few minutes later the disparate noises of the Fiat, the Santuccis’ Volvo and Daniele’s Enduro Trail bike had all faded to a distant intermittent drone that was finally indistinguishable from silence.

‘Well, what did you think of them?’ Crepi demanded as they returned to the living room. ‘But first let me offer you something to drink. Do you like grappa? I’m told this one is good. It’s from your part of the world. My youngest girl married a dentist from Udine and they send me a bottle made by one of the uncles every Christmas. Actually, my doctor has forbidden me to drink spirits, but I haven’t the heart to tell them that.’

He handed him a glass of liquid as limpid as spring water.