The Dark Valley cs-2 Read online

  The Dark Valley

  ( Commissario Soneri - 2 )

  Valerio Varesi

  Valerio Varesi

  The Dark Valley

  1

  The posters were first seen in the village on the feast of San Martino. They said that Paride Rodolfi had not disappeared, that he was alive and in good health. The last one had been stuck up shortly before Commissario Soneri arrived. He could see, as he stood reading it, that the glue was still wet. Something about the wording, with its suggestion of disputes and mysteries, troubled him, and that was even before he heard the rumours that the Rodolfis were in deep trouble, rumours in part prompted by envy and restrained only by the dull respect accorded a family which owned a huge villa on the coast and an enormous salame factory in the village. The name Rodolfi brought back to Soneri the once-familiar trademark featuring a chubby, moustachioed pork-butcher standing alongside a plump pig. The image, which had haunted his imagination since boyhood, appeared on the coloured, oval labels attached to the hams hanging from hooks in grocers’ shops which smelt of lard. This memory had nothing in common with the ambiguity of the newly issued posters which, even if they appeared to convey good news, could not entirely conceal the impression that something was awry.

  A curiosity he found irksome began to niggle at him. He looked up at the ring of surrounding mountains, cut in half by low, mouse-coloured clouds, and his imagination transformed those jagged peaks sticking into the underside of the clouds into a well-used set of dentures. Further down, the chestnut woods were losing their leaves and becoming moist with the heavy dew that would keep them damp until the first frost. The thought of that humidity cheered him, since it would promote the growth of the mushrooms — the very reason he had returned to the valley he had known since boyhood. He hoped to acquaint himself again with the guttural dialect of the mountain people, and with the pleasure of walking with only himself for company. This summer in the city, passed perspiring in a heat he detested, had been particularly oppressive. Autumn had brought a change of police chief, with the round of new regulations, circulars and directives which such changes invariably involve, and all this had left him thoroughly out of sorts. In spite of the years spent in the questura, he felt his exasperation grow day by day. For that reason Angela, his partner, had more or less ordered him to get away. Rather than spend two weeks on the Costa Azzurra, he had decided to go foraging for mushrooms.

  Having seized the opportunity to escape from the mists of Parma, he now found himself in a valley in the Apennines where the faint winter sun hardly ever arrived.

  “It’s true,” he had said. “I need a bit of peace, I can’t stand any more of this office politicking.”

  “Go anywhere you like,” she had said. “I won’t be able to go with you just at the moment. I am up to my neck in work.”

  So he was able to leave without any sense of guilt, but as soon as he set foot in the village he found it in the grip of a feverish turmoil. There was a chorus of malevolent whispers beneath the tranquil surface, like a cold sweat soaking an immobile body.

  There was a poster on the notice board at the Comune in the piazza. Soneri read the words carefully as he lit his cigar: “We are happy to reassure the community that Paride Rodolfi is in excellent health and is perfectly capable of meeting all obligations. We are grateful to everyone for the good wishes they have expressed.”

  He tried to keep his mind on mushrooms and on the fallen trunks of beech trees which would provide the perfect environment for their growth. He could not wait for the sky to lighten a little to allow him to climb into the hills and pick a mature cep. He wanted to get away from it all and lose himself in the woods.

  He didn’t give another thought to the posters until Maini, the boyhood friend with whom he had remained most closely in touch, reminded him about them.

  “You couldn’t have come at a better time. We really need a commissario here,” he said.

  “I want nothing to do with any kind of police work,” Soneri said.

  They were sitting in the Rivara bar, looking down at the piazza lined with stalls for the Sunday morning market, but the continual murmur which arose from them seemed to carry with it an underlying sense of disquiet.

  “What brings you here in November?” Maini said.

  “You know I’m a great one for mushrooms,” the commissario said, gesturing vaguely towards the mist-covered mountains.

  “You’ve chosen a bad year. The summer was too dry and they got burned before they could ripen.”

  “They always say that.” Soneri shrugged. “It’s either too dry or too wet or there’s some disease. You’re not going to put me off.”

  Maini laughed, looked over at the tables where the older men and women were seated, and changed the subject: “What do you make of these posters?”

  “It looks to me like somebody’s idea of a joke. This is the local feast day, isn’t it?”

  At that moment Volpi, the gamekeeper, and Delrio, the municipal policeman, turned up. They each gave a nod and sat down beside them.

  “The fact is no-one’s seen Rodolfi around,” Maini said.

  “Someone did, yesterday evening,” Volpi said. “There was a car like his parked in front of the pharmacy.”

  “Who said so?”

  “They were talking about it this morning” was the vague reply.

  “About a week ago he left word he was leaving,” Delrio said. “A business trip, or so his secretary, Biavardi’s daughter, heard him say.”

  “And yet on Friday that team of hunters from the Case Bottini recognised his dog wandering about Costa Pelata,” Volpi said.

  “Maybe there was somebody else there,” Delrio said.

  “He might have had a row with his wife.” Maini laughed. “It’s hardly a secret there’s no love lost between them nowadays, and every so often he takes off to spend time in the woods in the company of the wild boar.”

  “And there’s someone firing a gun during the night,” Volpi said. “Some shots were heard up there. They seemed to come from a double-barrelled Franchi.”

  “There’s plenty of gunfire, and no way of telling who’s doing the shooting. They’re always single shots, apparently fired by someone lying in wait for something,” Delrio said.

  “These mountains are overrun with poachers. You’d need a whole army to catch them all,” the gamekeeper said.

  “If they’re quick on their feet, nobody could ever catch them. Not even the Germans managed it with the partisans,” Maini said. “Anyway, are you sure they’re poachers?”

  That sentence was left hanging in the air. Soneri, who had been listening with a gathering sense of unease, became aware of the rising volume of noise in the bar, and found the stench created by the stale smoke and the dampness uncomfortable. After a few seconds, Volpi raised a hand and let it fall heavily on the table, a gesture the commissario recognised as sign language. The others understood too and smiled, allowing Maini to say, “It seems that recently Rodolfi was not exactly…” and he moved his hands so that the palms were facing upwards. “A nervous breakdown?”

  “Exactly, anyone who goes round putting up posters…”

  Rivara, the bar owner, came over with the Malvasia, put down the glasses and opened the bottle. Every movement of his big, calloused hands was calm and precise, but then, quite suddenly, he said: “They saw him this morning.”

  “Where?” Maini said.

  “In his own house,” Rivara replied, jerking his chin in the direction of the mountains. “He was moving around the courtyard, but he seemed to be in pain.”

  “Who saw him?” Volpi asked.

  “Mendogni. He passed by in his tractor on his way to Campogrande.”

  “Is there anyone to b
ack him up?” Soneri said.

  “I’m more worried about the gunfire,” Delrio said. “At any hour of the day or night, and after the closure of the boarhunting season… maybe there’s something going on.”

  “Let the carabinieri know,” the commissario said.

  “They know already. And they can hear it for themselves,” Delrio said.

  They raised their glasses in a toast.

  “I imagine you’ve all been out already,” Soneri said, referring to the mushrooms.

  “There’s not much to find. It’s a matter of luck this year,” Volpi said.

  The clouds were higher now in the sky, allowing the men to make out the Passo del Duca with its dark stretches of pine trees.

  “I’m half inclined to go up there this afternoon,” the commissario said.

  Volpi looked at him with a grimace of disapproval. “It gets dark by four o’clock. You’d be better going in the morning and getting back by lunch time.”

  There was a kind of concern in his voice, but Soneri paid no heed. Volpi continued: “Mushrooms develop in the night air. You’ll find them first thing in the morning, or not at all.”

  “I still say that if he’d wanted to let everybody know nothing had happened, all he had to do was take a trip into the village. What’s the point of posters?” Delrio said. The question was evidently preying on his mind.

  “And when did he ever come to town?” Volpi said. “The only one who ever came to the piazza was his father, when he was doing deals to buy pigs. But he was born nearby.”

  “Didn’t Rivara say a while ago that Mendogni saw him in the courtyard?” Maini asked.

  Delrio looked at him, puzzled: “People are always seeing things that don’t exist. The road to Campogrande is quite a distance from the villa.”

  “His Mercedes was parked in front of the pharmacy yesterday evening”

  “It could have been his wife. She seems to get through a great many medicines,” Delrio said.

  Soneri made every effort to concentrate on something else, especially the paths in the woods. Meantime, while the cloudy sky closed off every beam of sunlight on the mountains, he watched the stall-holders in the piazza begin to shut down their stalls. One of them, wearing heavy boots, came into the bar to get out of the cold.

  “You leaving already?” Rivara asked.

  “What’s the point of staying on? Nobody’s buying. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  “It’s the feast of San Martino,” the barman said.

  The man did not seem convinced. “It’s not San Martino that’s on their minds. Their heads are full of this Rodolfi business. Any idea what’s going on?”

  “It seems he disappeared, then turned up again. And today they went round sticking up posters to tell people he’s safe and sound.”

  “I saw them. It’s a funny business,” the stall-holder said, swallowing his grappa in one gulp.

  Delrio turned to the others: “You see? Even someone who’s not from here understands immediately that there’s something not right.”

  “The commissario came here for just that reason,” Rivara said, nodding in the direction of Soneri.

  The stall-holder turned to look at him in disbelief. “Is it really that bad?”

  “It might be,” Volpi said.

  “Who knows how it will all end?” Delrio said.

  “Look, I’m only here for the mushrooms,” Soneri said. The stall-holder grinned, paid and went out.

  It was not altogether true. As he rose to his feet and watched the people moving out of the piazza, he realised that the story did intrigue him, but this unlooked-for interest irritated him, somewhat as would the symptoms of a cold.

  “Are we going to see you tonight for some torta fritta?” Maini asked.

  Soneri looked up at the sky, which was growing darker by the minute, before replying: “I think so.”

  “It’s a pretty futile hope,” Maini said discouragingly, referring to the weather. “There’s going to be no change today.”

  The commissario stretched out his arms, took his leave and walked over to the Scoiattolo, the pensione where he had booked a room. As he went in, the scent of tortelli with chestnut filling, served with mushroom sauce, re-awoke childhood memories of long-forgotten dishes and flavours not found in the undistinguished eating places his work too often obliged him to frequent.

  Sante Righelli, the proprietor, greeted him with a reserve typical of mountain men, a gruffness easily mistaken for discourtesy. Soneri looked him up and down and was struck by how much he resembled the pork-butcher on the Rodolfi label.

  “You’re out of luck with the weather,” Sante said.

  “It’s November,” the commissario said. “The damp weather will bring out the mushrooms.”

  Sante shook his head. “I don’t think you’re going to be lucky there either.”

  “We’ll see how it goes, but at least I’ll get a rest.”

  Sante showed him into the room where several diners where already seated. He stopped in the doorway.

  “I really hope that you do get a rest,” he said in a low voice, but there was some doubt in his tone.

  “Do you think I won’t sleep at night?”

  “No, no,” Sante said, “I’m sure you’ll sleep just fine. The problem is that there’s a lot of unrest in the village.”

  “I know. Those posters…”

  “Let’s hope that’s all there is to it,” Sante said, with a doleful expression.

  The unfinished sentences he had heard seemed to hint at something deeper, but Soneri had resolved not to let himself get involved. He turned his attention to the owner’s wife, Ida, a large lady, dripping with perspiration, who emerged from the kitchen. She was a real woman of the mountains, with the wide hips which had the indestructible appearance of a peasant dwelling.

  “No man could resist those scents surrounding you,” the commissario complimented her.

  “If only!” the woman replied. “Those days are long gone!” She threw a disappointed glance in the direction of her husband, who said nothing.

  “The quickest way to a man’s heart is… how does it go?”

  “It’s the only way. And it works. They come here in droves, some even turning off the main road, people on their travels, lorry drivers who go up and down the motorway. I’ve admirers everywhere,” she laughed.

  “And today is the feast day.”

  “Every day is a feast day now. They get the same menu on Mondays as on Sundays. It’s other things that are changing.”

  “At table, I prefer the tried and tested,” Soneri said, warding off the question he saw coming and moving to a free seat.

  “So you don’t want the menu then?” Sante said.

  “I’ll leave it to the chef.”

  It was not a mistake to give Ida free rein. A first course of tortelli with three types of filling — chestnuts, potatoes and herbs — was followed by a main course of assorted rabbit, boar and goat meats with a little polenta on the side, and finally by crema di zabaione, all washed down by a blood-red Bonarda. When the meal was over, the substantial helpings, the wine and the rising chatter in the restaurant left the commissario so drowsy that his mobile had to ring several times before he heard it.

  “So you’ve arrived?” It was Angela. And on a poor line, which meant her voice had a kind of quiver.

  “I can’t hear you very well,” he said, moving outside.

  “You’re at the Scoiattolo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I might have known.”

  “What do you expect? I feel at home here. I know the owners.”

  He heard a sigh at the other end. “Just think how many better places there must be that you’ve never been to.”

  “And why should I change if I’m comfortable where I am?”

  “One of these days I’m going to come and check up on you,” she said in a good-humoured way. “Is there something up? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

  “No, no, it’s not wh
at you think,” Soneri mumbled, but his denial did not carry conviction. “It’s just that everybody here is talking about a man who’s supposed to have disappeared and then turned up again. Nobody has any idea what’s going on, so there’s no end of rumours and counter-rumours. They know what I do for a living, and they’re all keen to get me involved.”

  “Isn’t it you that’s getting curious?”

  “Well, maybe a little. I want to talk about mushrooms, but everyone I meet is determined to raise this other subject,” the commissario said.

  “Who has disappeared? Someone important?”

  “Paride Rodolfi, the salame and prosciutto manufacturer.”

  “Good heavens! So he is important. I know the lawyer who looks after the company’s affairs, and I can well believe everybody’s talking about it. Everybody there has some connection with the Rodolfis. They either work for him, or they’re suppliers.”

  “I know, but the fact is…” the commissario’s voice trailed off because he had suddenly lost his train of thought. He realised he had no idea why this business seemed so odd to him.

  “Tell me,” Angela said.

  Soneri outlined the facts, chiefly to clarify them to himself. “Some posters have been put up to say that Rodolfi is alive and in good health, but no-one had ever said he was dead in the first place. They all assumed he’d gone off somewhere.”

  “Whenever someone disappears, there’s always a suspicion that they might be dead,” was Angela’s tentative explanation.

  “Certainly, but even after these posters have gone up, noone’s still really sure whether he’s alive or not. One or two people claim to have seen him, but nobody will swear to it.”

  “Good God, Commissario,” Angela murmured, “I’ve never heard you so confused. I hope it’s only because of the heavy meal you’ve just had. Go for a walk and clear your head and then try to get some rest.”

  “I have the feeling that they all know more than they’re letting on, but since I don’t have any facts to go on, I’m getting steadily more puzzled myself. I’m not thinking clearly.”