LITMIR.BIZ

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of sorts.

      “I feel,” he began, “about last night, that I owe you and your fellow officers something of an apology. I was really quite,” he began to search for the exact word, then as if contenting himself with a cliché, concluded, “not myself.”

      “Think nothing of it,” said Rossi. “It is quite understandable, really, isn’t it?”

      Silence reigned for a few moments as the two men reprised their different parts in the previous night’s drama.

      It wasn’t exactly changing the subject but Rossi thought he had better begin to at least get the ball rolling with a more predictable question.

      “Was Maria seeing someone?”

      The judge gave a shrug of sorts.

      “I believe there was someone,” he said. “But it was all very casual, as far as I knew.”

      “Did she mention a name?”

      He shook his head.

      “We didn’t have that kind of relationship,” he said. “She would always go to her mother for advice about boys. But that was a long time ago.”

      “Was she in trouble in any way? Did your daughter ever mention having enemies?” Rossi asked.

      “Only mine,” he replied. “As far as I can possibly know. She was a very independent woman. Keeping on top of her home life and her work. I can’t imagine she had much time to make enemies. If that’s what you mean.”

      “I mean,” said Rossi, “was she perhaps involved with any investigations, in her line of work. She was a lawyer, was she not?”

      “Yes,” he nodded. “She always wanted to go her own way in the world. Not mine. Always did the opposite.” He almost gave a little laugh as he seemed to remember something. “I wanted her to take up ballet. I knew certain people at La Scala. But she wanted to do martial arts! Of course, I was misguided. Besides, she was always going to be much too tall to be a dancer. Still, that was her way.”

      “Admirable, wouldn’t you say?”

      “You could say that.”

      There was a loaded pause before Rossi continued. A clock was ticking somewhere.

      “She had a part-time position with a studio. I didn’t ask her very much. She spoke of regular work: family-law cases, small property affairs. Nothing remarkable. And then,” he added, with what appeared to be a melancholy emphasis, “she had her voluntary work.”

      “For whom?” Rossi enquired, interested now.

      “Whomsoever required it. She was good like that. Very generous. Willing to give of herself. Always off travelling to this place or that place.”

      “So you don’t feel that someone could have wanted to murder your daughter because she was creating problems, getting in the way of anything?”

      The judge was looking across the table at Rossi. In his lined and fissured face, Rossi could see some other preoccupation, something other than the investigation.

      “I believe you are English, aren’t you?” he said suddenly.

      “You could say that,” Rossi replied.

      “How do I say my daughter has died, is dead? What is the word for la morte?”

      It didn’t seem quite the moment for language lessons, but Rossi felt a certain duty.

      “My daughter is dead. She was killed. She was murdered.”

      “Oh,” said the judge. “I see.” He looked up, suddenly, in an almost sprightly manner. “Do you ski, Inspector? You know, I am a member of the Alpine Club of Italy. We had planned a week together, in the Dolomites. We go most years.”

      “I am sorry,” said Rossi, a little confused, not sure what question, if any, he was answering. “I have never learned.”

      “But you could learn!” he countered. “It’s never too late!”

      Rossi smiled and shook his head.

      “No, it’s not for me, really.”

      But the judge had already drifted elsewhere with his thoughts.

      “And do you think they will come for me, Inspector?”

      Rossi looked across the table at the judge. He appeared, for all the world, like someone who had simply enquired as to whether or not it would be a fine day tomorrow.

      “No, I don’t believe so, sir. I really don’t believe it is a question of them.”

      The judge was looking straight at him now, his gaze stony, his mouth pursed tight, as though holding back an avalanche of emotions or profound knowledge.

      “I want you to know,” Rossi continued, “that I feel sure your daughter was the victim of a killer who chooses his victims according only to his own deranged criteria and not because of who you are or who your daughter was. And besides, his methods,” he began again, before feeling an irresistible pressure to lower his gaze, “are not consistent with the type of murder you perhaps fear. I am sure the killer doesn’t even know who you are. Just as he didn’t care who the first two victims were, and who the next will be, if we don’t stop him first.”

      “Yes,” the judge nodded. “Yes. He must be apprehended. At all costs,” he added, seeming to have re-conquered some of his old fight and voglia di vivere, the will to live. It would have made it all so much more perversely understandable. A mafia-pool judge and the worst possible revenge – that of taking a loved one. It was, instead, a senseless killing. A random folly, like being struck by lightning on a family picnic.

      “You know,” he began again, “she always refused the protection she would have been entitled to. She maintained she could look after herself pretty well. She refused to live like a prisoner in her own life.”

      “She was very brave,” said Rossi.

      “Yes, she was. But it would have saved her.”

      Rossi reached for the glass and took a sip.

      Feeling that it was time to bring things to a close, he asked if he might use the bathroom. He splashed his face and, on coming back into the dining room, his incorrigible reader’s curiosity led him to turn over the book lying flat on the corner of the table.

      “Ah,” he said, “Buzzati.”

      The book was The Seven Messengers, one of his favourites. Its title story told of a prince who, on leaving his father’s kingdom to discover what lies beyond the confines of the realm, takes with him seven riders to relay news between the old world and the new one he is to discover. As time passes, however, the narrator realizes the growing futility of his system as the future relentlessly and inexorably eclipses the past.

      “You can have it if you like,” said the judge. “It was for my daughter. I had been putting aside the whole series for her as they came out with the newspaper. She loves, loved to read.”

      Although he knew he had a copy of the book on a shelf somewhere in his flat, Rossi accepted it then handed the judge his card, should he need to get in touch.

      “There was just one more thing,” said Rossi. “I was wondering whether I could ask you if you have a picture of your daughter, sir, one I can use for the investigation.”

      “A picture? A photograph? Yes, of course, one moment.” And he slipped out and into an adjoining room. He returned carrying a large album into which, over the years, many extra pictures had been accommodated, so much so that when he opened it some spilled onto the table. For a moment the judge seemed to be lost in some bitter-sweet melancholy of reminiscence as he searched for a recent image.

      “No. She seems to be just a little young in these,” he said, “her hair’s quite different. Now, let me find something more up to date,” he said, almost jumping up

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