Michael Dibdin: Ratking

To Zen, the clash of slogans seemed eerily appropriate. Because if the events of 1978 had had a secret centre, and part of their horror was that he would never be sure, then in a sense it had been here, at the terminus of the 97c bus and the San Gallicano hospital opposite. If there had been an unspeakable secret, then one of the two men who had guessed it had died there. And since that moment, day and night, whatever else he might be doing or thinking, Zen had remained uneasily aware that he was the other.

‘The entire resources of the Questura of Perugia are at your disposal. Eager to obey, my men await only your commanding word to spring into action. Your reputation of course precedes you, and the prospect of serving under your leadership has been an inspiration to us all. Who has not heard of your brilliant successes in the Fortuzzi and Castellano affairs, to name but two? And who can doubt that you will achieve a no less resounding triumph here on Umbrian soil, earning the heartfelt thanks of all by succeeding where others, less fortunate or deserving, have failed? The city of Perugia has a long and historic relationship with the capital, of which your posting here is a concrete symbol. My men will, I am sure, wish to join with me in bidding you welcome.’

There was a feeble flutter of applause from the group of senior officials assembled in the Questore’s spacious top-floor office, all discreetly modern furniture, rows of law books, and potted plants. Aurelio Zen stood in their midst like a Siamese cat dropped into a cage full of stray dogs: tense and defiant, his eyes refusing to meet those fixed on him with expressions of more or less successfully concealed mockery. They knew what he was going through, poor bastard! And they knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Salvatore Iovino, their chief, a corpulent, vivacious fifty-year-old from Catania, had given a masterly performance. Fulsome and vapid, laden with insincere warmth and hidden barbs, his speech had nevertheless left no legitimate grounds for complaint. He had spoken of Zen’s ‘reputation’, without actually mentioning that his abrupt departure from the Rome Questura in 1978 had been the subject of the wildest rumours and speculations throughout the force. The two cases he had mentioned dated from the mid-seventies, underlining Zen’s lack of recent operational experience. He had referred to the transfer as a ‘posting’, thus emphasizing that it had been imposed on him by the Ministry, and had called it a symbol of the historic relationship between Rome and Perugia, a relationship consisting of two thousand years of bitterly resented domination.

‘Thank you,’ Zen murmured, lowering his head in a proud and melancholy gesture of acknowledgement.

‘And finally,’ the Questore continued, ‘let me introduce Vice-Questore Fabrizio Priorelli.’

Iovino’s bland tone did nothing to prepare Zen for the glare of pure hostility with which he found himself transfixed by Priorelli. The Questore’s next words followed an exquisitely judged pause during which the silence in the room assumed a palpable quality.

‘Until today he was handling the Miletti case for us.’

Iovino laughed weightlessly.

‘To be perfectly frank, that’s one of the many problems your unexpected arrived has caused us. It’s a matter of protocol, you see. Since Fabrizio outranks you I can’t very well make him your second-in-command. Nevertheless, should you wish to consult him he has assured me that despite his numerous other duties he is in principle at your disposition at all times.’

Once again Zen murmured his thanks.

‘Right, lads, lunch!’ the Questore called briskly. ‘I expect you’re about ready for it, eh?’

As the officers filed out Iovino picked up the phone and yelled, ‘Chiodini? Get up here!’ Then he turned pointedly away and stood gazing out of the window until there was a knock at the door and a burly man with a bored brutal face appeared, at which point the Questore suddenly appeared to notice Zen’s existence again.

‘I’ll leave you in Chiodini’s safe hands, dottore. Remember, whatever you need, just say the word.’

‘Thank you.’

As they walked downstairs Zen studied his escort: hair closely cropped on a head that looked muscle-bound, ears cauliflowered, no neck to speak of, shoulders and biceps that formed one inflexible block, the ‘safe’ hands swinging massively back and forth. Chiodini would be the one they sent for when old-fashioned interrogation methods were required.

At the third-floor landing the man jerked his thumb to the right.

‘Along there, three five one,’ he called without turning or breaking his stride.

Zen just managed to stop himself intoning another ‘Thank you.’

Yes, it had all been consummately handled, no question about that. Iovino’s speech had been a brilliant set piece, systematically exploiting all the weaknesses of Zen’s position. Words are not everything, however, and the Questore had by no means neglected other possibilities of making his point, such as the contrast between the bombastic formality with which he had rolled out the red carpet and beaten the big drum and the perfunctory way he had then dismissed Zen into the ‘safe hands’ of the local third-degree specialist. The message was clear. Zen would be offered the moon and the stars, but if he wanted a coffee he’d have to go and fetch it himself.

He opened the door of the office and looked around warily. Everything seemed normal. On one wall hung the mandatory photograph of the President of the Republic, facing it on another the inevitable large calendar and a small crucifix. There was a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner, the top two drawers empty and the bottom one stuffed with plastic bags. In the centre of the office, dominating it, stood a desk of some sickly looking yellow wood which had seemingly been grown in imitation of one of the nastier synthetic materials. Like every other piece of furniture in the room this carried a tag inscribed ‘Ministry of the Interior’ and a stamped serial number. Screwed to the back of the door was a list itemizing every piece of furniture in the room, down to the metal rubbish bin, together with its serial number. It was not that the Ministry did not trust their employees. They were just tidy-minded and couldn’t sleep at night unless they were sure that everything was in its place.

Zen walked over to the window and looked out. Down below was a small car park for police vehicles. Facing him was a windowless stone wall with a heavy gate guarded by two men, one in grey uniform with a cap, the other in battledress and a flak jacket. Both carried submachine guns, as did another guard patrolling the roof of the building. So that was it: they had given him an office with no view but the prison. He smiled sourly, acknowledging the hit. Sicilians were notoriously good at this kind of thing.

And the phone? He would never forget those first months at the Ministry, sitting in a windowless office in the basement, his only link to the outside world a telephone which was not connected. The repair men were always just about to come, but somehow they never did, and for over three months that telephone had squatted on his desk like a toad, symbol of a curse that would never be lifted. And when it finally was repaired Zen knew that this was not a token of victory but of total defeat. They could let him have a phone now. It didn’t matter, because it never rang. Everyone knew about his ‘reputation’. He had broken the rules of the tribe and been tabooed.

Here in Perugia his phone worked all right, but the same logic applied. Who was he going to call? What was he going to do? Should he fight back? Call Iovino’s bluff and start throwing his weight around? The Ministry had sent him and they were bound to back him up, if only as a matter of form. With a bit of effort and energy he could soon bring the Questore and his men to heel. The problem was that he lacked the energy and was not going to make the effort. At heart he just didn’t care enough about these provincial officials and their petty pride. He didn’t even care about the case itself. Nine kidnappings out of ten were never solved anyway, and there was no reason to think that this one would be any different. In the end the family would pay up or the gang would back down. As a spectacle it was as uninspiring as an arm-wrestling contest between two strangers.