Captain Carbone had left a message, and two hours later they met in the café on the square, not far from the bus station.
It was a quiet place, with few customers, small tables, background music and a display of cakes. The owner, a fat man who looked like a drunk, was talking to Carbone. He had a wary expression, while Carbone was all smiles. The Trusted Man knocked on the glass window and gestured for them to come outside. You could never be too careful.
Despite the cold weather, the fat man was in his shirtsleeves. He looked the Trusted Man up and down, arms crossed. The Trusted Man did not introduce himself. Carbone obliged: a trusted colleague, a friend.
“Tell us again what you told me earlier.”
The fat man did not need to be asked twice. “He was tall. I’m one metre eighty and this guy was almost a head taller than me. Old, maybe sixty. Looking older, if you see what I mean. I see a lot of people here, and trust me, this man had come down from the mountains. A cheapskate.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Your oddity,” Carbone said.
The Trusted Man had ordered him to report anything out of the ordinary that might have happened on the day of Wegener’s murder, no matter how insignificant. The fat man’s story was not the only one. Funny how so many bizarre events could occur in such a sleepy town. On the other hand, even just looking at the clouds you can make out all kinds of shapes.
Carbone had neglected nothing. As soon as his men reported a burglary, a tip-off, a drunken brawl, he would rush to the scene, investigate, ask questions. The Trusted Man was doing the same.
Even though up to now none of his meetings with the captain had led anywhere and the trail was going cold, the Trusted Man knew that looking at the clouds was not always a waste of time.
“For crying out loud, he actually grunted like a pig.”
This rekindled his interest. “Who?”
The fat man huffed with annoyance. “Are you listening to me or are you deaf?”
The Trusted Man smiled.
The fat man turned pale. “I . . . mean no offence.”
“A tall man, you say. One metre ninety, could we say?”
“It’s possible.”
“And he scared you.”
“Yes, he did.”
The Trusted Man raised an eyebrow. The bar owner had biceps like hams and looked like someone who picked fights. “An old man. You were scared of an old man.”
“You’d have wet yourself if you’d been there.”
“I doubt that.”
The fat man was about to retort, but Carbone took hold of his arm to restrain him.
“Tell us everything from the beginning. Calmly.”
The old man, dressed in black, had sat at the table. That one. The waiter had immediately seen that he wasn’t all there in the head. Because he had taken out bread and speck and started eating. A kind of travel bag like the ones sailors carry. No, not a rucksack. A bag, alright? Just a bag.
“Please go on.”
The fat man was becoming incensed. It was a bar, not a damn soup kitchen for retards and the homeless. So the waiter had told him to clear off. Nothing doing. Yes, perhaps he was scared, too. In fact, he really was scared, because he had come back inside and told him to get the rifle he kept under the counter.
“A rifle?”
Just to be on the safe side. There are a lot of weirdos around. But he had not brought it out. After all, it was just an old man, right? And they didn’t realise just how crazy he was. He had a knife, with a blade this long. A hunting knife. No, he hadn’t used it to threaten him. He had just put it down on the table. Are you even listening to me?
As the café owner talked, the Trusted Man nodded. It all fit together. The bus station. The Wolf. A scary old man.
Once he had what he needed, he left Carbone and the café owner talking and, without saying goodbye, headed for the bus station.
There were not that many buses listed on the timetable as arriving around the time the Wolf had been kicking up all that fuss in the café on the square. They all came from the west. A good sign.
The captain joined him. “What do you think?”
“The picture’s becoming clearer.”
“That’s what I think.”
The Trusted Man cocked his head, intrigued. “Really?”
“He’s not a professional. A professional doesn’t leave traces. There’s no way a hitman would pick an argument with a guy like that.”
“One more point for me. It was you who mentioned a hitman.”
Carbone nodded. “That’s true. You were right. And he might have left other clues. Plus, if he took the bus, it means he doesn’t own a car.”
“A man who came down from the mountains.”
“Which tells us . . .”
Far from being annoyed by Carbone’s attitude, the Trusted Man cut him some slack. “That Marlene got lost. Or that she changed her mind at the last minute. It’s a possibility. Perhaps the clinic business was a diversion.”
“Bull’s eye.”
“There’s one thing I don’t agree with you on, Captain.”
“What?”
The Trusted Man took a deep breath of bus-station air saturated with exhaust fumes. “Although he isn’t a hitman, I think he is a professional. I think he’s used to death. You see, if what our friend in the café said is true, then the Wolf didn’t attack but merely bared his teeth.”
Carbone lit a cigarette. “He growled. He’s crazy.”
“Pigs are nasty animals. But they’re not stupid.”
“I still don’t follow you.”
“I’m saying he bared his teeth because death is something he’s familiar with.”
“He’s used to violence.”
“Not to violence. It was a clean, efficient cut, remember? He’s used to death.”
“Aren’t violence and death the same thing?”
The Trusted Man put a hand on Carbone’s shoulder. “You stick to using violence, Captain. Leave death to people like me.”
He moved a few steps away.
Carbone threw the cigarette he had just lit down on the pavement. “What are my orders? Do you want me to keep looking?”
“Forget about this business.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll ask around. I’m very good at making friends, you know.”
They had reached Carbone’s car.
“What about us? Are we friends?”
The Trusted Man studied his face. “Would you like us to be?”
“I’d like to be able to sleep with both eyes shut.”
“Who wouldn’t like that, Captain?”
Carbone did not know how to respond. He opened the car door.
The Trusted Man put up the collar of his coat. “Give my regards to your wife.”