Michael Dibdin - Back to Bologna

‘No. He lived outside Parma. His reason for leaving the motorway there is still unclear. It’s a moderately rough area at that time of night, but the element of premeditation and the implicit message sent by the post-mortem stabbing with the cheese cutter virtually rules out the possibility that this was an opportunistic or casual crime committed by some hitchhiker, drug dealer or pimp. In fact it’s virtually certain that the killer was known to Curti, and extremely probable that they had either made an appointment to meet at the scene of the murder or had travelled back together from Ancona. Why else, on a dark, cold evening, should Curti have left the autostrada at San Lazzaro instead of continuing straight on to join the A1 for Parma?’

‘So you’ve been looking for someone among the victim’s social or business contacts with a motive to kill him?’ suggested Zen helpfully.

‘That’s naturally what we have been doing,’ Brunetti replied.

‘But so far without result.’

‘On the contrary! It turns out that just about everyone Curti knew personally or professionally had a reason to wish him dead. As you probably know, his business empire has virtually crumbled overnight, the shares are now worth next to nothing, and our friends over at the Guardia di Finanza are starting a serious fraud investigation which will almost certainly result in jail sentences for many of those involved-including Curti himself-had this not happened.’

‘But now he won’t be able to testify.’

‘Tempting hypothesis, isn’t it?’

There was a silence.

‘Unfortunately…’

Brunetti let the word hang heavily for a moment.

‘The bad news is that virtually all the potential suspects were either at the game, out with friends, or at home in the bosom of their families. Of the rest, several were abroad and one was in labour.’

‘A woman?’ Zen queried.

Brunetti kindly ignored him.

‘Meanwhile the Curti clan have issued a statement hotly denying any insider involvement, and offering a one million euro reward for the arrest and conviction of the killer. In short, we have a vast list of potential suspects, but no hard evidence against any of them, while almost all seem to have unbreakable alibis.’

‘What about the forensic tests on the car? Fibres, hairs and so on.’

‘Masses of it, ninety-nine per cent canine. Curti kept a Labrador. And swathes of fingerprints, too, but even if we made a match it would prove nothing. Almost all the suspects will have been in that Audi at one time or another, most of them very recently.’

‘And the gun?’

‘A spent cartridge case was found in the car, suggesting an autoloading pistol. It’s a rimless, brass-coated steel model with as yet unidentified headstamps, probably of foreign origin. Ballistics ran the markings on the bullet through the system. Nothing. It looks like a virgin.’

‘A hired assassin? It sounds as though plenty of people wanted Curti dead, just as long as they had an unbreakable alibi. And there’s any number of under-employed people with the necessary skills and equipment in eastern Europe these days.’

‘It’s conceivable,’ Brunetti acknowledged.

Zen stood up, clasping his briefcase.

‘Well, sounds like an interesting challenge. Please let me know if anything new should emerge. At any hour of the day or night. Otherwise I’ll just try to keep out of your way.’

He was walking with bowed head along the interminable corridors of the Questura when he heard running footsteps behind him. A young man in patrolman’s uniform appeared.

‘Dottor Zen! Forgive me, but we just passed and I recognised you.’

Zen stared at him blankly. The patrolman touched his cap.

‘Bruno Nanni, dottore. I was your driver during your visit last year to the Alto Adige.’

Zen smiled broadly.

‘So it all worked out?’ he said with genuine pleasure.

‘My transfer came through about ten days later. Incredible, eh? And all thanks to you, capo!’

Zen made a self-deprecatory gesture.

‘I had a word with a certain person, but that sort of thing doesn’t always work.’

‘Well, it worked this time, dottore, and I can’t thank you enough. But what are you doing here in Bologna, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Just another routine job. A temporary secondment to review and assess an ongoing case.’

‘Have you any plans for this evening?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Then you might care to go to the stadium.’

‘The football stadium?’

Nanni nodded.

‘The club’s holding a memorial service for Lorenzo Curti. Funnily enough, I was the one who discovered the body. Anyway, all the players will be there, the rest of the staff, and of course the supporters. They’ll all pay tribute, in their different ways, to the late president of Bologna FC.’

‘Doesn’t really sound like my sort of thing, Bruno.’

‘It might be interesting from a professional point of view,’ Nanni remarked, rather too casually.

‘In what way?’

‘This case that you’ve come to look into. It has to be the Curti murder, right? The Ministry isn’t going to send a senior man like yourself up here for anything else that’s happened lately. Well, the event itself may be pretty dreary, but the stadium will be packed with every diehard fan in the city.’

‘So?’

Bruno Nanni smiled mysteriously.

‘What I’ve heard from friends is that a certain individual, one of the craziest and most violent of the ultra mob, has been putting the word about that he killed Curti. He’ll certainly be there tonight, and I know the bar where that gang goes to booze it up afterwards. It might just be worth your while taking a look at him.’

Zen weighed up the options. After all, what did he have to lose? The only alternative was to eat a solitary dinner and then spend a lonely evening in his hotel room watching television. He might even get desperate enough to read the copy of the file that Brunetti had given him.

‘Very well. I’m staying at the Hotel Roma, just round the corner.’

‘I’ll pick you up just before six, dottore.’

A blinding flash.

‘Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!’

Vincenzo straddled the doorway in an extravagantly debonair pose, one leg cocked up behind him and a tiny metallic object held to his eye. Another flash of halogen brilliance. Vincenzo laughed and tossed the object across the room to Rodolfo, who put down his book and just managed to make the catch.

‘Wicked, huh?’

Rodolfo turned the thing over. It seemed to be some sort of camera, but smaller than any he had seen, or indeed imagined possible. But Vincenzo was clearly high, so he decided to appear underwhelmed.

‘Very clever,’ he remarked coolly. ‘How much did it cost?’

Vincenzo laughed uproariously for some time.

‘Oh, I picked it up last night after the game. Along with another little toy that’s not bad either. What can I tell you? I got lucky. I finally got lucky.’

He started pacing restlessly about the room, occasionally kicking the furniture.

‘Have you been snorting Ritalin again?’ asked Rodolfo.

‘None of your fucking business. You’re not my mother.’

Rodolfo closed the book he had been leafing through and gently palpated the sturdy, plain, well-worn leather binding. He must return it today, he thought. Volumes as rare and precious as this were not supposed to be removed from the university library, but graduate students of Professor Edgardo Ugo enjoyed certain privileges.

‘I’m trying to study, Vincenzo,’ he lied.

His flatmate grinned aggressively.

‘So are you planning to just sit here all evening reading a musty old book and then scribble some shit for that cocksucking prof to sneer at? Jesus, what a pathetic life!’