Zen nodded.
‘Separately in space and time. Several hours later, in fact, while I was searching the gallery.’
There was a timid knock at the door and the elderly nun appeared, carrying a tray covered with a spotless white cloth. She set it down on the table and removed the cloth like a conjuror to reveal two steaming bowls of coffee, an appetizing assortment of pastries and a glass ashtray. The cleric gave a curt nod and the nun slunk out.
‘So none of this can now be proved?’ Lamboglia asked.
Zen selected a pastry.
‘Well, there were some marks on Ruspanti’s wrists. I thought at first that they were preliminary cuts showing where he’d tried to slash his wrists, but in fact they must have been weals made by the pressure of the twine. A post-mortem might reveal traces of the chloroform or whatever they used to keep him unconscious, but I don’t suppose there’s the faintest possibility of the family agreeing to allow one.’
‘But if the killers left before Ruspanti fell, how did they release the bonds that were holding him to the gallery?’
Zen washed down the pastry with a long gulp of the creamy coffee and got out his cigarettes.
‘They didn’t. He did.’
Lamboglia merely stared.
‘This is just a guess,’ Zen admitted as he lit up, ‘but they probably tied him up with a slippery hitch and looped the free end around his wrists. The family said that Ruspanti suffered from vertigo, so when he came round from the chloroform to find himself suspended two hundred feet above a sheer drop to the floor of the basilica he would have panicked totally. The witnesses all talked about the terrible screams which seemed to start several seconds before the body appeared. During those seconds Ruspanti would have been desperately struggling to free his hands so that he could reach the railings and pull himself to safety. What he didn’t realize was that by doing so, he was clearing the hitch securing him to the gallery.’
Lamboglia stuck one finger between his teeth for a single moment which revealed him to be a reformed nail-biter.
‘You should have informed us.’
Zen shrugged.
‘The way I read it, you either knew or you didn’t want to. Either way, it was none of my business to tell you.’
Lamboglia stood up. He switched off the tape-recorder and replaced it in his briefcase.
‘Look, there’s no problem,’ Zen told him, getting up too. ‘Just deny everything. I’ll back you up. Without hard evidence, the media will soon drop the case.’
Lamboglia buttoned up his coat and took his hat.
‘There is also the question of the mole.’
‘You want me to tackle that?’ offered Zen, eager to show willing. ‘Someone must have supplied Ruspanti’s killers with keys to the galleries. I could make a start there.’
Lamboglia stared at the wall as though it were an autocue from which he was reading a prepared text.
‘The matter of the keys can be left to our own personnel. As far as the mole is concerned, we already have a suspect. The anonymous letter was faxed to the newspapers from a machine in the offices of Vatican Radio. At ten in the evening, there is only a skeleton staff on duty, and it was a fairly simple matter to eliminate them from suspicion. The only other person who had access to the building that evening was the duty security officer, Giovanni Grimaldi.’
Zen let his cigarette fall to the floor and stepped on it carefully.
‘The man who showed me round on Friday?’
Lamboglia inclined his head.
‘He was at the scene when Ruspanti fell, wasn’t he?’ Zen demanded. ‘Was he already involved in the case in some way?’
The cleric looked at him blankly.
‘That is neither here nor there. We are concerned to determine whether or not he sent that letter to the press, and if so to prevent it happening again. The problem is that Grimaldi is himself a member of the force which normally undertakes operations of this kind.’
‘ Quia custodet ipsis custodies,’ murmured Zen.
‘ Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, actually. But you’ve got the right idea. Who is to investigate the investigators? We normally have every confidence in our staff, but in this case it is simply too much of a risk to expect Grimaldi’s colleagues to act against him. It is essential that the mole shouldn’t be tipped off before we can act.’
He looked at Zen.
‘Which is where you come in.’
Zen returned his stare.
‘You want me to… “act”?’
Lamboglia placed his hands on the table, fingers splayed as though on the keyboard of an organ.
‘A positive and decisive intervention on your part would contribute greatly towards bringing this unfortunate episode to a mutually satisfactory conclusion,’ he said.
Zen nodded.
‘But this time, perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what you want done,’ he said. ‘Just to avoid the possibility of any further confusion.’
‘The first thing is to search Grimaldi’s room. With any luck, you might find some incriminating material which we can use. He’s on duty this afternoon, so you won’t be disturbed.’
He handed Zen a brown envelope.
‘This contains his address and a telephone number on which you can call us this evening to relay your findings. Any further instructions will be conveyed to you at that stage.’
He turned to go.
‘Oh, there’s just one more thing,’ Zen said.
The cleric turned, his glasses gleaming with reflected light like the enlarged pupils of a nocturnal predator.
‘Yes?’
‘Can you recommend a good doctor?’
He closed the door with great care, lifting it slightly on its hinges to prevent the tell-tale squeak, and stood listening. The sounds he could hear would have meant little to anyone else, but to Zen they provided an invaluable guide to the hazards he was going to have to negotiate.
At the end of the hallway, beyond the glass-panelled door to the living room, his mother was talking loudly in short bursts separated by long intervals of silence. Zen couldn’t make out what she was saying, but the singsong intonations and the buzzing of the Venetian ‘x’ revealed that she was speaking in dialect rather than Italian. So unless she was talking to herself — always a distinct possibility — then she must be on the phone, almost certainly to Rosalba Morosini, their former neighbour in Venice, whom she called regularly to keep in touch with the news and gossip in the only city that would ever be quite real for her.
Further away, a mere background drone, came the sound of a vacuum cleaner, indicating that Maria Grazia, the housekeeper, was at work in one of the bedrooms at the far end of the apartment. Zen moved cautiously forward along the darkened hallway. The room to his left, overlooking the gloomy internal courtyard, was crammed with boxes of papers and photographs, trunks full of his father’s clothes and miscellaneous furniture which had been transferred wholesale to Rome when his mother had finally been persuaded to abandon the family home just off the Cannaregio canal. The thought of that emptied space pervaded by the limpid, shifting Venetian light made Zen feel as weightlessly replete as a child for a moment.
With extreme caution, he opened the door opposite. The elaborate plaster moulding, picture rail and ceiling rose revealed that this had been intended to serve as the dining room, but following his mother’s arrival Zen had commandeered it as his bedroom. As far as he was concerned, whatever it lacked in charm and intimacy was more than compensated for by its proximity to the front door. High on the list of problems caused by his mother’s presence in the house was the fact that every time she saw him putting on his coat Signora Zen wanted to know where he was going and when he’d be back, while on his return she expected a detailed account of where he’d been and what he’d been doing. Exactly as though he were still ten years old, in short. It was, Zen had concluded, the only way in which mothers could relate to their sons, and therefore not something for which they were to be blamed, still less which there was any point in trying to change. Nevertheless, it got on his nerves, particularly since his relationship with Tania Biacis had begun to make ever greater demands on his time.