cleaning it, the garage owner recognized dry traces of blood
.
Douglas Ramoverde has been arrested and awaits trial; such things take a very long time in Italy and it is possible that many months will go by before the alleged assassin goes on trial. In the meantime, by the very bloodiness of its nature, the murder remains a burning subject of conversation for our neighbors beyond the Alps
.
15: Questura
T HE TAXI DRIVER helped him into the building. Then Trotti leaned against the wall, waiting until the elevator arrived. His ribs still hurt and awkwardly he stepped inside, recognizing the familiar smell of garlic. The hammer and sickle were still there, engraved into the soft surface of the corrugated metal.
The elevator stopped on the third floor and Trotti stepped out.
“Ah, Commissario!” Gino lifted his head. Behind the thick lenses, his sightless eyes seemed to recognize Trotti. “So good to see you.” It was Gino’s joke. “I thought you were still on holiday.”
“Where’s Pisanelli?”
The old man shrugged, “Probably taking time off to visit his nurse friend.” Gino smiled. “Commissario, you were young once.”
“And I knew what it was like to be poor and have no work.”
“You are hard on the young generation.” Gino shrugged. “Pisanelli may seem a little sleepy, a little absent-minded. But he’s got the makings of a good policeman. And the determination.”
Beneath Gino’s desk, Principessa stirred and yawned to reveal bright teeth and a pink tongue. The watery eyes glanced at Trotti without interest and then closed again. Gino laughed and at that moment Trotti realized that Gino was getting old. His face was pale and looked tired.
“Being a policeman is a full-time job. If he wants to havewomen, he’s in the wrong profession.” Trotti turned and, walking slowly, went down the familiar corridor. There were scattered packets of sugar around the foot of the coffee machine. Probably the cleaning women had gone on strike again. Spilled sugar caught under the soles of his shoes. Trotti leaned on the door handle and entered his office.
Very untidy.
The files that he had carefully stacked and catalogued a couple of weeks earlier were now in a state of collapse; on the desk there were sheets of typewritten paper and the half circles of spilled coffee. The air was stuffy.
Trotti took off his jacket slowly and then hobbled over to the window. Traffic in Strada Nuova. The morning mist was clearing and the terracotta tiles of the old city were beginning to take on their summer glow. At last, spring had arrived after a long cold winter and a wet April. Within a few days the hot weather would be back, and the still, windless air would hang over the Po valley.
He let the desk take his weight and sat down. Then he picked up the phone. “Gino?”
The voices came simultaneously over the line and through the wooden partition in the wall. “Commissario?”
“You’d better put me through to the Questura in Piacenza.”
Gino laughed. “They’ve been phoning for the last two days.”
“And what did you say?”
“Commissario, I’m paid to know nothing.”
“Thanks, Gino.” Trotti put the phone down and riffled through the top drawer of the desk. He had finished the bottle of grappa before going up to the Lake. Apart from a few sticky sweet wrappers, a few isolated grains of sugar and an old, crumpled football coupon, the drawer was empty.
The red light began to wink.
“Questura, Piacenza.”
“Trotti, Commissario Trotti here.”
“Well?” The voice was unhelpful.
“The Questore—if he’s available and not too busy.”
A series of muffled clicks.
Trotti waited, the phone against his ear, while he looked through the other drawers. Empty.
“Ah, you decided you couldn’t make more use of our hospitality, Commissario?”
“Signor Questore, I felt I had abused your kindness long enough.”
“And that’s why you borrowed an entire suit from the changing rooms of the
.
Douglas Ramoverde has been arrested and awaits trial; such things take a very long time in Italy and it is possible that many months will go by before the alleged assassin goes on trial. In the meantime, by the very bloodiness of its nature, the murder remains a burning subject of conversation for our neighbors beyond the Alps
.
15: Questura
T HE TAXI DRIVER helped him into the building. Then Trotti leaned against the wall, waiting until the elevator arrived. His ribs still hurt and awkwardly he stepped inside, recognizing the familiar smell of garlic. The hammer and sickle were still there, engraved into the soft surface of the corrugated metal.
The elevator stopped on the third floor and Trotti stepped out.
“Ah, Commissario!” Gino lifted his head. Behind the thick lenses, his sightless eyes seemed to recognize Trotti. “So good to see you.” It was Gino’s joke. “I thought you were still on holiday.”
“Where’s Pisanelli?”
The old man shrugged, “Probably taking time off to visit his nurse friend.” Gino smiled. “Commissario, you were young once.”
“And I knew what it was like to be poor and have no work.”
“You are hard on the young generation.” Gino shrugged. “Pisanelli may seem a little sleepy, a little absent-minded. But he’s got the makings of a good policeman. And the determination.”
Beneath Gino’s desk, Principessa stirred and yawned to reveal bright teeth and a pink tongue. The watery eyes glanced at Trotti without interest and then closed again. Gino laughed and at that moment Trotti realized that Gino was getting old. His face was pale and looked tired.
“Being a policeman is a full-time job. If he wants to havewomen, he’s in the wrong profession.” Trotti turned and, walking slowly, went down the familiar corridor. There were scattered packets of sugar around the foot of the coffee machine. Probably the cleaning women had gone on strike again. Spilled sugar caught under the soles of his shoes. Trotti leaned on the door handle and entered his office.
Very untidy.
The files that he had carefully stacked and catalogued a couple of weeks earlier were now in a state of collapse; on the desk there were sheets of typewritten paper and the half circles of spilled coffee. The air was stuffy.
Trotti took off his jacket slowly and then hobbled over to the window. Traffic in Strada Nuova. The morning mist was clearing and the terracotta tiles of the old city were beginning to take on their summer glow. At last, spring had arrived after a long cold winter and a wet April. Within a few days the hot weather would be back, and the still, windless air would hang over the Po valley.
He let the desk take his weight and sat down. Then he picked up the phone. “Gino?”
The voices came simultaneously over the line and through the wooden partition in the wall. “Commissario?”
“You’d better put me through to the Questura in Piacenza.”
Gino laughed. “They’ve been phoning for the last two days.”
“And what did you say?”
“Commissario, I’m paid to know nothing.”
“Thanks, Gino.” Trotti put the phone down and riffled through the top drawer of the desk. He had finished the bottle of grappa before going up to the Lake. Apart from a few sticky sweet wrappers, a few isolated grains of sugar and an old, crumpled football coupon, the drawer was empty.
The red light began to wink.
“Questura, Piacenza.”
“Trotti, Commissario Trotti here.”
“Well?” The voice was unhelpful.
“The Questore—if he’s available and not too busy.”
A series of muffled clicks.
Trotti waited, the phone against his ear, while he looked through the other drawers. Empty.
“Ah, you decided you couldn’t make more use of our hospitality, Commissario?”
“Signor Questore, I felt I had abused your kindness long enough.”
“And that’s why you borrowed an entire suit from the changing rooms of the
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