Mille? I didn’t know you were friends.”
“Durano’s a useful contact in the Carabinieri.”
“What does Durano say?”
“The Turellini thing’s political.”
“Why political?”
“Like everything else in Tangentopoli. As soon as there’s a whiff of political corruption, the Pubblico Ministero starts back-pedalling. There’s no alternative. For the last eighteen months, ever since the Mario Chiesa sting, the Mani Pulite pool of magistrates has been digging the dirt. And the dirt goes deep. They’re still a long way from the bottom.”
“There is no bottom.”
“Precisely. The more dirt they find, the more the investigating judges are accused of undermining the fabric—the political fabric of our republic. That’s why the PM’s got to be careful about anything that’s political. He can’t afford to make mistakes—not now.”
“After forty years of sitting on his hands.”
“Not now that all politicians, on both left and right, are on the defensive. On the defensive and united against the Pubblico Ministero. That’s why the Mani Pulite judges go for businessmen rather than politicians.”
“Why?”
“Look at Olivetti and Montedison. Pretty clear that businessmen don’t have the same clout—they’re the weak link.”
“Procuratore Abete’s involved with the pool at Mani Pulite?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then where’s the problem?” Trotti snorted derisively. “The Turellini thing is a straightforward murder—probably a crime of passion.
Cherchez la femme.
”
“What?”
“Look for the woman—it’s French.”
“Strange way of pronouncing French.”
“Why would you think it’s political, Magagna?”
“Abete’s got the reputation of sticking at things. One of the younger judges—honest and ambitious. From Calabria and wants to show that they’re not all Arabs down there. Used to be a young Communist.”
A brief silence.
“Magagna, are you telling me Bassi and everyone else are off on the wrong track?”
“Wrong track, commissario?”
“Turellini’s a political killing?”
“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”
“Turellini was never involved in politics—or at least, not directly. He was too far out—Destra Nazionale. Not really the sort of person the Christian Democrats and the Socialists would want to get into bed with.”
“Durano believes in Abete’s integrity as a judge.”
Over the line, Magagna’s Abruzzi accent was accentuated and Trotti felt an unexpected sense of fondness for the man. Magagna, Pisanelli, Maiocchi—the good men whose company Trotti would miss after his retirement. An unwelcome tightening in his chest. “Thanks, Magagna.”
“You’re really not interested in Turellini?”
“I never said I was interested.”
“A lot better that way, commissario.” On the far end, Magagna chuckled noisily and Trotti could imagine him lounging in his chair, sitting back with his large feet on the desk, the telephone propped beneath his cheek and the premature stubble. Even in winter, Magagna wore sunglasses.
“A few more months and you can take your retirement, commissario. There’s no need for you to make any more enemies.” Magagna paused, then said, “Particularly not among the magistrates.”
“Instant virginity.”
“What?”
“The judges spend thirty years living off the rest of us and suddenly they decide they’re the moral guardians of the republic.”
“What republic?” Magagna’s laughter surged from the Bakelite handset.
“See what you can do, Magagna.”
“Do?” There was incredulity in the younger man’s voice. “Do what?”
“I’d prefer it if you’d phone me in the evening. At my place after eight. Or better still, you can drop by—if you can endure my cooking. You liked the Sangue di Giuda.”
“Assuming I don’t have a wife and children at home waiting for me and assuming I enjoy crisscrossing Lombardy in my own car, paying for the petrol out of my own pocket, what exactly
“Durano’s a useful contact in the Carabinieri.”
“What does Durano say?”
“The Turellini thing’s political.”
“Why political?”
“Like everything else in Tangentopoli. As soon as there’s a whiff of political corruption, the Pubblico Ministero starts back-pedalling. There’s no alternative. For the last eighteen months, ever since the Mario Chiesa sting, the Mani Pulite pool of magistrates has been digging the dirt. And the dirt goes deep. They’re still a long way from the bottom.”
“There is no bottom.”
“Precisely. The more dirt they find, the more the investigating judges are accused of undermining the fabric—the political fabric of our republic. That’s why the PM’s got to be careful about anything that’s political. He can’t afford to make mistakes—not now.”
“After forty years of sitting on his hands.”
“Not now that all politicians, on both left and right, are on the defensive. On the defensive and united against the Pubblico Ministero. That’s why the Mani Pulite judges go for businessmen rather than politicians.”
“Why?”
“Look at Olivetti and Montedison. Pretty clear that businessmen don’t have the same clout—they’re the weak link.”
“Procuratore Abete’s involved with the pool at Mani Pulite?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then where’s the problem?” Trotti snorted derisively. “The Turellini thing is a straightforward murder—probably a crime of passion.
Cherchez la femme.
”
“What?”
“Look for the woman—it’s French.”
“Strange way of pronouncing French.”
“Why would you think it’s political, Magagna?”
“Abete’s got the reputation of sticking at things. One of the younger judges—honest and ambitious. From Calabria and wants to show that they’re not all Arabs down there. Used to be a young Communist.”
A brief silence.
“Magagna, are you telling me Bassi and everyone else are off on the wrong track?”
“Wrong track, commissario?”
“Turellini’s a political killing?”
“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”
“Turellini was never involved in politics—or at least, not directly. He was too far out—Destra Nazionale. Not really the sort of person the Christian Democrats and the Socialists would want to get into bed with.”
“Durano believes in Abete’s integrity as a judge.”
Over the line, Magagna’s Abruzzi accent was accentuated and Trotti felt an unexpected sense of fondness for the man. Magagna, Pisanelli, Maiocchi—the good men whose company Trotti would miss after his retirement. An unwelcome tightening in his chest. “Thanks, Magagna.”
“You’re really not interested in Turellini?”
“I never said I was interested.”
“A lot better that way, commissario.” On the far end, Magagna chuckled noisily and Trotti could imagine him lounging in his chair, sitting back with his large feet on the desk, the telephone propped beneath his cheek and the premature stubble. Even in winter, Magagna wore sunglasses.
“A few more months and you can take your retirement, commissario. There’s no need for you to make any more enemies.” Magagna paused, then said, “Particularly not among the magistrates.”
“Instant virginity.”
“What?”
“The judges spend thirty years living off the rest of us and suddenly they decide they’re the moral guardians of the republic.”
“What republic?” Magagna’s laughter surged from the Bakelite handset.
“See what you can do, Magagna.”
“Do?” There was incredulity in the younger man’s voice. “Do what?”
“I’d prefer it if you’d phone me in the evening. At my place after eight. Or better still, you can drop by—if you can endure my cooking. You liked the Sangue di Giuda.”
“Assuming I don’t have a wife and children at home waiting for me and assuming I enjoy crisscrossing Lombardy in my own car, paying for the petrol out of my own pocket, what exactly
Similar Books
