‘Ah.’
‘They’ll speak Spanish.’
‘At home?’
‘The kids, I mean.’
Guarnaccia sighed deeply.
‘I suppose you’re aware that Professor Edgardo Ugo was shot this afternoon.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘The bullet struck some sort of sculpture outside his house and ricocheted into the poor man’s left buttock. He’s seriously injured and in considerable pain.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘The victim alleges that he was involved in an accident in the adjacent street shortly before the shooting took place. He was cycling home after giving a lecture at the university when a woman came running out of a restaurant and collided with him. They both ended up on the ground. He further claims that a man then emerged from the restaurant, identified himself as one Aurelio Zen of the Polizia di Stato, and threatened to place Ugo under arrest for dangerous driving. Is this true?’
Zen limited himself to a confirmatory nod.
‘Ugo says that you then called an ambulance. When it arrived, you told him that you couldn’t proceed with an arrest since you had to accompany your lady friend to the hospital, but threatened to “take further steps” should she turn out to be seriously injured. According to his statement, however, you did not enter the ambulance when it left, but followed Ugo towards his house, where the shooting took place a few minutes later. His back was turned, so he was unable to identify his attacker, but the implication is obvious.’
Zen laughed lightly.
‘Guido, I’m a Vice-Questore on special duties with the Ministry in Rome. I don’t run around waving pistols.’
Guarnaccia produced the same Delphic smile.
‘Yes, I’d heard that you’ve risen quite high.’
‘You too.’
‘No fault of mine, I just outlasted the competition. Anyway, to clarify this point, you deny being armed at the time that this incident took place?’
‘I haven’t carried a gun for years, and if for some reason I needed one I would draw it from Supplies at the Ministry, where it would be duly logged out in my name. One phone call will prove that I have not done so.’
‘Where were you on the evening that Lorenzo Curti was shot?’
Zen recalled that his former acquaintance, despite his lackadaisical manner, had not been without a certain glutinous intelligence.
‘Tuesday evening?’ he replied. ‘Coming back from Rome. Why?’
‘Because it looks as though the bullet that hit Ugo was fired from the same weapon that killed Curti. Unfortunately the bullet was too damaged by the impact with the sculpture to yield much forensic data, but the ejected cartridge case is a perfect match.’
Zen laughed again, as though trying gamely to enter into the spirit of his host’s bizarre and slightly distasteful sense of humour.
‘Well, in that case I’m in the clear! I was on the train between Rome and Florence at the time that Curti was murdered.’
‘Can you present any witnesses to that effect?’
‘Witnesses? Of course not. I mean, there were other people on the train. Not many, though. I bought a ham roll or something in the buffet car. The attendant there might remember me, although I doubt it. Little brunette. Uniform didn’t suit her, or rather she didn’t suit the uniform, which was designed by some misogynous fag in Trastevere who’s decided that tits aren’t being worn this year. I didn’t get her name, but…’
‘There are three problems from my point of view,’ Guarnaccia broke in. ‘First, pending a definitive forensic examination, the indications are that the weapon used in the Curti murder and the Ugo attack was almost certainly identical. Second, Ugo’s statement, which is coherent and damning and has been confirmed by you, provides at least the semblance of a motive.’
He paused to light a cigarette, and possibly for effect.
‘And the third problem?’ asked Zen, digging out his battered pack of Nazionali.
‘Ah!’
Guarnaccia’s lips curled enigmatically once more. He really loved that smile, thought Zen. Perhaps he practised it in the bathroom mirror every morning after showering.
‘The third problem is that you’re a policeman.’
Zen savoured his cigarette for a luxurious moment, then laughed lightly.
‘Isn’t this taking interservice rivalry a bit too far, Guido?’
‘It’s no joking matter,’ Guarnaccia retorted with a touch of asperity. ‘My reference is to the spate of serial killings that occurred in and around Bologna between 1987 and 1994, the so-called Uno Bianca slayings. Twenty-four victims in all, of whom six were members of this force. They were apparently selected opportunistically and gunned down by a gang of men driving a white Fiat Uno. The conspiracy theorists naturally believed that it was another segreto di stato like the bombing of the waiting room at the station, a right-wing plot to destabilise the political situation and punish “red” Bologna. Others, including myself, thought and continue to think that it was just a bunch of homicidal maniacs out on a thrill spree. But whatever the truth about that, when the gang was finally captured it turned out to include five members of your force. In fact the leader, Roberto Savi, was assistant chief of police at the Questura here in Bologna at the time. It’s thus hardly surprising that the Procura has directed us to undertake this investigation, and that I had no option, on the basis of the points I have mentioned, but to have you brought in for questioning.’
Zen made a conciliatory gesture.
‘I understand that, Guido, and I’ll do everything I can to co-operate. In fact, we can do better. I was sent up here by the Viminale specifically to report back on the Curti investigation. That will suit the Procura’s conspiracy theory perfectly.’
‘Why didn’t you accompany your friend Signora Santini in the ambulance as you had allegedly told Ugo that you would?’
‘The paramedics said there was no space and told me to take a taxi. You don’t argue with doctors.’
This had the ring of truth, but was in fact the first lie that Zen had told Guarnaccia. It had been Gemma herself who had insisted that Zen should not accompany her in the ambulance. ‘He’s not my husband!’ she’d kept shouting, much to everyone’s embarrassment. ‘I told him that and he yelled at me to get out! That’s why all this happened! Don’t let him near me!’
‘Ugo claims that you followed him.’
‘I may have taken the same direction. I wasn’t paying any attention to him. It was simply the quickest way to the taxi stand just off Piazza Maggiore. I wanted to be with my wife, that’s all.’
‘According to the reports I have received, Signora Santini denied-with some heat, I believe-that she is your wife.’
‘Well, she isn’t, strictly speaking, but…’
There was an embarrassed silence while they both waited to see if Guarnaccia was going to pursue this point, but in the end he chose another tack.
‘How long did it take you to get a taxi?’
‘I don’t know. Ten minutes, perhaps.’
‘So yet again you have no alibi for the time of the shooting.’
Zen shrugged impatiently to indicate that this joke was in poor taste and had gone on quite long enough. The resulting silence was broken by the ringing of the phone. Guarnaccia picked it up and listened in silence for some time. Then he turned to Zen with his patented smile.
‘Well, Aurelino, you’re in luck. That was Brunetti at the Questura. It seems that they’ve had an anonymous phone call identifying the man who shot Ugo. The informant also claims to have proof.’
‘What sort of proof?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘So where does that get us?’
‘It tips the balance ever so slightly. I personally never suspected for a moment that you were culpable, of course, but following Ugo’s allegation I couldn’t have been seen to take no action. Under these new circumstances, however, I feel that I can exercise my discretionary authority to release you, on condition that you undertake not to leave Bologna for the moment. Agreed?’
Zen thought of the cold bed that awaited him in Lucca.