Ratking by Michael Dibdin

about the police, the judiciary? Are they aware that Valesio is in regular contact with the gang?’
    Crepi waggled his hands again.
    ‘Yes and no. They know, of course. In Perugia everyone knows everything. But officially they’ve been kept out of it. You see, part of the problem all along has been that the investigating magistrate who’s handling the case, Luciano Bartocci, is a Communist who’s got it in for the Milettis on principle. Given half a chance Bartocci would like to use the kidnapping as an excuse to pry into the family’s affairs for political reasons.’
    ‘Couldn’t he be replaced?’
    After a moment Crepi gave another long, loud laugh.
    ‘My answer to that, dottore, is the same as a certain politician gave his wife when they went to the Uffizi to see that Botticelli which was cleaned recently. The wife is in raptures. I can just see it over the fireplace at home, she says. Listen, her husband replies, I can’t do everything , you know!’
    Zen joined in his host’s laughter.
    ‘Anyway, this is really beside the point,’ Crepi resumed. ‘If the family were united, all the Bartoccis in the world couldn’t touch them. As it is, they would starve to death for want of agreeing which sauce to have with their pasta if the cook didn’t decide for them. And meanwhile Ruggiero’s life is in the balance! He’s over seventy years old, dottore, and his health is failing. Ever since the accident that killed his wife he has suffered from bouts of semi-paralysis down one side of his body. Two years ago it looked as though he would have to give up working altogether, but in the end he pulled through. Who knows how he’s suffering at this very moment, while we sit here warm and well fed in front of the fire? He must be brought home! The family must pay whatever is being asked, immediately, with no further haggling! That’s what you must tell them, dottore.’
    To hide his look of dismay, Zen brought the glass to his lips and drained off the last drops of grappa.
    ‘What makes you think they’ll listen to me?’
    ‘I don’t mean the family.’
    ‘Who, then?’
    Crepi leaned forward.
    ‘Your arrival here in Perugia will be widely reported. I’ll see to that! You’ll be interviewed. They’ll ask you about your impressions of the case. Tell them! That’s all. Just tell them.’
    ‘Tell them what?’
    ‘Tell them that you wonder how serious the Milettis really are about getting Ruggiero back! Tell them that the family gives no impression of having understood the extreme gravity and urgency of the situation. In a word, tell them that you’re not convinced that the Milettis are in earnest! Naturally I’ll give you my fullest backing. We’ll shame them into paying! Do you see? Eh? What do you say?’
    But at that moment the phone rang.

THREE

    As the car leaned further and further into the curve he tensed for the inevitable smash. Cheated again! There was no getting used to it.
    ‘If that’s Valesio with his apologies I’ll tell him what he can do with them!’ Crepi had muttered as he went to answer the phone. ‘Hello? Who? Oh. Yes? I don’t understand. What? No! Oh, my God! Oh, Jesus!’
    He bent over, taking deep breaths.
    ‘What’s happened?’
    Crepi was panting as though about to faint. Zen took the receiver from him.
    ‘Hello? Who’s there?’
    The line went dead.
    ‘They’ve killed him,’ Crepi murmured as he lurched towards the door, ignoring Zen’s questions.
    Zen dialled the Questura, but they didn’t know anything. He told them to find out and call him back.
    He walked over to the hearth, picked up a log and threw it on the embers. Some dried moss and a section of ivy still clinging to the bark flared up. Gradually the wood itself took hold, first smoking furiously and then bursting into flame.
    A ladybird appeared from a crack and began exploring the surface of the log, now well alight. Zen took a splinter from the hearth and lowered the end of it into the path of the