The stench of stale cigarette smoke in the air, and, beneath it, the smell of blood.
The Trusted Man looked down at Wegener, lying on his back on the floor. He was puzzled by the expression on his face. He saw fear in it (and who wasn’t afraid when faced with death?), but there was something else. He stood there for a long time, thinking, while the pale young carabiniere stood at the door and Carbone smoked one cigarette after the other.
The Trusted Man got down on one knee, taking care to avoid the pool of congealed blood. Wegener had not even tried to defend himself. The gun lay there, loaded and with the safety catch off. He could have used it, could have reacted. But he had not done so.
The Trusted Man stood up. He tried to picture the dynamics of the murder.
Georg, Wegener’s bodyguard, had been killed in the garden. The carabinieri had found his body in the snow-covered bushes. He had not died immediately, but had evidently taken a while to bleed to death. A rushed job, Captain Carbone said. The Trusted Man disagreed.
Whoever had killed Georg had sliced his jugular with a single cut. The blade must have been big and sharp, at least thirty centimetres long, something like a hunting knife. The killer had not been hasty, he had been thorough. He had come in through the front door, gone up the stairs and into Wegener’s bedroom. A tall, well-built man. There was a footprint in the pool of blood. A size forty-five mountain boot.
Not a vixen. Not a ferret. Something larger.
The Trusted Man went to the bookshelf, pulled out a couple of volumes of the Treccani Encyclopaedia and put them on the floor. Then he took the young carabiniere by the arm and made him stand in front of him, about an arm’s length away.
He stood up on the books. “How tall are you?”
The young carabiniere looked first at the Trusted Man, then at Carbone, who signalled to him to answer.
“One metre seventy-five.”
More or less the same as Wegener.
The Trusted Man added two more volumes of the encyclopaedia and once again stepped up onto the pile. Now he was towering over the carabiniere. He reached down, took a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his uniform and quickly ran it under the carabiniere’s throat.
The young man jerked back.
“Keep still.”
“You—”
“Do as you’re told.”
The carabiniere got back into position.
The Trusted Man added one more volume and repeated the action. The young carabiniere held his breath when he felt the point of the pen dragged across his Adam’s apple.
“Thank you. You can go.”
Relieved, the carabiniere took his pen and left the room.
“Our friend,” the Trusted Man said, “is no doe. She’s a vixen with many friends: a ferret and now . . . this is a different animal.”
Carbone studied the Trusted Man’s face intently. “What are you talking about?”
“A wolf. I think it was a wolf.”
The captain took a step back. “Can’t you see he’s been stabbed? Do you really think a wolf could have . . .”
The Trusted Man smiled. “I know, there are no wolves in South Tyrol.”
“And you know wolves can’t stab.”
“Ah, but this is a special wolf. One metre ninety, I think. Strong, with a firm hand. It’s a clean cut. No second thoughts, no hesitation. An irreversible act.”
“Maybe a Consortium man,” Carbone said in a low voice.
“In that case, why didn’t he use a gun?”
Carbone shrugged. “Strange business, don’t you think?”
“Why didn’t Wegener defend himself?”
“He was taken by surprise.”
The Trusted Man pointed to the space between the body and the door. “Six metres. The gun was loaded and the safety catch was off. Even if the killer had started running, Wegener would have had plenty of time to fill him with lead.”
Carbone lit his umpteenth cigarette and shook his head. “None of this makes any sense.”
“Have you looked at him carefully?”
“I was here for three hours before you deigned to arrive,” the captain snapped back.
“Look into his eyes. What do you see?”
“Fear. Death. Nothing. What do you expect to see in the eyes of a corpse?”
“Relief. Wegener had been expecting death for a long time.”
This startled the captain. “You think he knew the killer?”
“Not the killer. Death.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Wegener was a son of a bitch, and believe me, there’ll be a lot of us celebrating.”
The Trusted Man jabbed two fingers at Carbone’s chest. “I had a connection with this man, don’t you understand that? A very strong connection. There are some things I won’t allow you to say in my presence.”
Carbone let the cigarette slip from his fingers.
The Trusted Man was upset. The veins on his neck stood out, and he looked pale and drawn.
Good God, the captain thought, it’s as if an actual friend of his has died.
“Wegener’s death changes nothing,” the Trusted Man said. “Until I tell you otherwise, you’ll continue to report to me and me alone. Is that clear?”
Captain Carbone had been involved in five separate shootouts. He had once been grazed by a bullet. He had trampled over guilty and innocent men alike. He had lied to magistrates and to his own conscience. He had never experienced such terror before. “Of course.”
“Marlene is still out there. Somewhere. I know it. And she’s scared.”
“How can you tell?”
“If she’s behind this, it means she’s scared. And if she’s scared it means she knows she can be found. She’s still out there.”
“Where?”
“It’s never a matter of where. Trust me, it’s merely a matter of when.”