The Girl in the Fog Read online

  Borghi abruptly hung up, and Martini stood there, the receiver stuck to his ear, not knowing what to do, although Clea and Monica were begging for an answer.

  Just then, a flash lit up the room for a moment.

  It hadn’t been a hallucination. All three looked around, uncomprehendingly. The flash came again, then again seconds later. It was like a storm, but with no thunder to follow the lightning.

  Martini went to one of the windows and looked out. His wife came up behind him.

  The flashes were coming from the street. Figures, as dark as shadows, were moving around the house. Every now and again they let off a flash. They were like Martians, curious and menacing.

  They were news photographers.

  6 January

  Fourteen days after the disappearance

  During the night, the network vans had taken over the street outside the Martini house. Those who had arrived first had monopolised the best positions from which to capture the quiet house which would now appear on TV in an endless loop, twenty-four hours a day.

  Along with the crews, the photographers and reporters, groups of onlookers had taken up position beyond the cordon the local police had put up for safety reasons. That cordon wouldn’t be enough to protect either him or his family if the crowd decided to apply summary justice, Martini thought as he peered out of the window at about nine in the morning.

  It had been a difficult night. None of them had got a wink of sleep. Monica had collapsed just before dawn and Clea had withdrawn into a tormented silence. Martini couldn’t stand it any more. He had to do something. ‘Borghi said they’d get in touch, but I have no intention of waiting,’ he told his wife. ‘I haven’t done anything, and they don’t have anything on me, or they would have arrested me by now, don’t you agree?’

  Thinking about this, Clea seemed to regain a little confidence. ‘Yes, you have to go to them and clarify your position.’

  Martini shaved and put on his best suit and even a tie, determined to go out there and show himself for what he had always been to those who knew him: a respectable man. When he stepped through the door, he was greeted by a barrage of flashes. They came from all directions, like a bombardment. He shielded his face with one hand, but only so as not to be blinded. Then he headed for the four-by-four, but thought better of it. After those videos, it wasn’t wise for him to be associated with the vehicle. And besides, it would be difficult to get out of the street with so many people there. So he decided he would walk.

  A police officer saw him and called out, ‘Signor Martini, it may be better for you to go home.’ It wasn’t an order, he was simply advising him not to confront the crowd because it might be dangerous.

  Martini ignored him and kept walking until he was beyond the cordon. Cameramen and reporters armed with microphones were on him in a moment.

  ‘Why was your car in all those places Anna Lou went?’

  ‘Did you know her well? Were you following her?’

  ‘Have the police summoned you for questioning?’

  ‘Do you think she’s been murdered?’

  Martini said nothing and tried to continue on his way, but they were slowing him down. In the meantime, the members of the public who were there were starting to yell. Martini could not hear the curses directed at him, but in the crowd that surrounded him he saw several angry faces. They hadn’t yet come closer, but their intentions were obvious. When the first object was thrown at him, Martini couldn’t even tell what it was. He only heard the dull thud it produced as it fell on the asphalt a small distance from him. Immediately, others started doing the same. More objects came flying over: beer cans, coins. Afraid of being hit, the reporters moved a few steps away, freeing a space around him and thus making him an easy target.

  Martini raised his arms to protect himself, but it was pointless. The police who were there wouldn’t do anything to contain the public anger. Just then, there came a screech of tyres. Martini had bent down to avoid the things raining down on him, but raised himself just enough to see a Mercedes with darkened windows coming to a halt a few metres ahead of him. The rear door opened wide and a man wearing a very elegant pinstripe suit held out his hand. ‘Get in!’ he said in a loud voice.

  Even though he had no idea who the man was, Martini couldn’t help but accept the invitation. He got in and the car set off again quickly, rescuing him from a certain lynching.

  First, the well-dressed man handed him a box of Kleenex. ‘Clean yourself up.’ Then he said to his driver, ‘Take us somewhere we can talk quietly.’

  Martini realised there was a yellowish substance on his clothes. From the smell he knew it was mustard. ‘They threw all kinds of things at me out there.’

  ‘You shouldn’t confront the crowd like that. If you do that, you provoke them, don’t you understand?’

  ‘What should I do, then?’ Martini asked, angrily.

  ‘Put your trust in me, for example.’ The man laughed, then held out his hand and introduced himself. ‘Giorgio Levi, attorney at law.’

  Martini looked at him suspiciously. ‘You’re not from around here.’

  The man laughed again. ‘No, I’m not.’ He had a deep, sincere laugh. Then he grew serious. ‘The way suspicion spreads in a community is just like an epidemic, did you know that? It doesn’t take much for the contagion to become uncontainable. People aren’t looking for justice, they simply want a culprit. They want to put a name to their fear in order to feel safe. In order to continue harbouring the illusion that everything’s fine, that there’s always a solution.’

  ‘Then maybe I should accuse the media and the police,’ Martini said.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that.’

  ‘So what can I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ was the curt reply.

  ‘In other words, I should let them destroy me without reacting?’ He was incredulous and indignant.

  ‘It’s a war you can only lose, so it’s pointless to fight it. The sooner you realise that, the better. No, we must concentrate on your image as an honest man, a good husband, a good father.’

  ‘But on TV they’re saying I’d been following the girl for almost a month before she disappeared. That’s absurd!’

  ‘Not you. Your car was following her. From now on, be very careful about the words you use. All that’s visible in those videos is your four-by-four.’

  ‘The reporters are also saying it was a pupil of mine who took that footage.’

  ‘Yes, his name’s Mattia.’

  Martini seemed surprised.

  ‘Let’s say those videos are merely an absurd coincidence,’ Levi went on. ‘You and Anna Lou live in the same place, so it’s plausible. But there’s something else I need to warn you about.’

  The Mercedes stopped. Through the window, Martini recognised the open space behind the cemetery, where the young people of Avechot sometimes went in their cars to have sex or smoke marijuana.

  ‘The policeman who’s after you is called Vogel.’ He had uttered the name in a worried tone. ‘I wouldn’t call him a particularly good detective. He doesn’t know much about criminology and isn’t interested in things like forensics or DNA. He’s someone who uses the media to get what he wants.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Vogel knows those videos aren’t proof of anything. Apart from anything else, they were made by a young man obsessed with Anna Lou, a young man with a criminal record for violence, who’s taking psychoactive drugs and is being cared for by a local psychiatrist, a man named Flores. In other words, this Mattia isn’t a reliable source. Vogel can’t use him. That’s why you’re still free.’

  ‘Aren’t they afraid I might run away?’

  Levi laughed again. ‘Where could you go? You’ve been on national television, Signor Martini. Right now, the whole country knows your face.’

  Martini took a closer look at the man. He was older than him, but looked younger than his years. Maybe it was because of his hair, which was still thick and the original colour.
Women probably found him attractive. He gave off a pleasant scent of eau de Cologne, but it wasn’t just that. His calm, his self-confidence instilled trust. ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to defend you, obviously!’ the lawyer replied with a smile.

  ‘But how much is it going to cost me to hire you?’

  ‘Not a cent,’ Levi said, raising his arms. ‘I’ll get my payment from the publicity for the case. But there will be expenses.’ He started to list them: ‘For the moment, a private investigator to conduct an investigation parallel to that of the police. And then, if the case comes to court, we’ll need experts of various kinds, as well as legal researchers.’

  Martini tried in vain to imagine what the cost of all that might be. ‘I have to talk to my wife.’

  ‘Of course.’ The lawyer slipped a hand into the leather bag that was by his feet and took out a white box: it was a brand-new mobile phone, still in its wrapping. ‘From now on, use this to contact me, because it’s very likely your phone’s being tapped. And don’t leave home if you can’t move about safely.’

  Vogel was adjusting his cashmere tie in front of the mirror in his hotel room. He had bought it before leaving for Avechot, savouring in advance the moment – and the occasion – he would wear it.

  Below, a small crowd of reporters were waiting for him. He liked the idea of keeping them waiting, considering how much grief they’d caused him in the last few months.

  The case of the Mutilator, he recalled.

  He’d had to pay the price for that, but now he was back on track, and those bastards were at his feet again, hoping that he would throw them a few crumbs to momentarily appease their insatiable appetites.

  The Mutilator had been a mistake, he had to admit. But it was a mistake he would never make again. Just enough time had passed for him to restore his reputation and again become the idol of the media. He was one step away from recovering the power he’d once had, which was why he needed to proceed with caution.

  Stella had used Mattia’s videos well. That montage, zooming in on the teacher’s four-by-four, was a masterpiece. And Officer Borghi had proved a valuable ally, too, more valuable than he would ever have expected. The young man might have a future, he would make sure he had him along on his next cases. The problem, though, was Prosecutor Mayer. The conceited bitch. There was nothing worse than an idealistic prosecutor. But he’d be able to tame her, all he had to do was massage her ego, make sure she felt the warmth of the spotlight. Nobody could ever resist that, even if it sometimes got so hot it burned you.

  He had got burned himself in the Mutilator case. But the worst was over.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Borghi. ‘Sir, you have to go down. We can’t hold them back any longer.’

  Soon afterwards, Vogel appeared in front of a noisy audience anxious for news, who had gathered in the dining room of the hotel. The chairs were all occupied and many reporters were standing. At the back of the room were the TV cameramen.

  ‘I don’t have a lot to tell you, unfortunately,’ he said into the cluster of microphones by way of introduction. ‘I think we can get through this in a few minutes.’ Some protested, but Vogel was too much of an expert to be drawn into a collective interview. He would say only what suited him.

  ‘Why haven’t you arrested Martini yet?’ a newspaper reporter asked.

  ‘Because we intend to accord him all the protections guaranteed by the law. For now, he’s only a suspect.’

  ‘Apart from the videos of the white four-by-four, have you found any other link to Anna Lou Kastner?’ a female correspondent in a blue tailored suit asked.

  ‘That’s confidential information,’ Vogel replied. It was one of his favourite phrases: not a confirmation, but not a denial either. He wanted them all to think that the police had an ace up their sleeves.

  ‘We know Signor Martini recently moved here with his family.’ This time, it was Stella Honer speaking. ‘His wife gave up her job as a lawyer and followed her husband to Avechot. Do you think they were running away from something?’

  Vogel was pleased with the question: Stella was good at homing in on unexpected aspects of whatever story she was covering. ‘We’re investigating Signor Martini’s past, but for the moment all I can tell you is that he appears to be beyond reproach.’ This defence of Martini was calculated: it would make the public, who had already made their choice and didn’t like to be contradicted, more indignant than ever. ‘It was actually all of you who ruined his reputation with your leaks,’ he said shamelessly. ‘I have nothing else to tell you.’

  ‘Then why did you summon us?’ someone complained.

  ‘To reprimand you. We can’t stop you from broadcasting the news, but you need to be aware that every piece of information that comes out without the consent of the police may harm the investigation and, worse still, may harm young Anna Lou Kastner. The fact that she isn’t here with us doesn’t mean we can ignore her.’ He made sure these last words were addressed directly to the TV cameras. Then he moved away from the microphones and headed for the exit, while the questions kept coming. But Vogel wasn’t listening to them any more. He was distracted by the vibration of his mobile. He took it out and looked at the text on the display.

  I need to talk to you. Call me on this number.

  It must be some reporter in search of a scoop. He decided to ignore the message and immediately deleted it irritably.

  ‘Actually we didn’t see much of them. The wife and daughter seemed all right, but I never liked him.’ Odevis’s face could barely be contained within the portable TV set in the Martinis’ kitchen. ‘To be quite honest, I was always aware of a kind of … well, a strange attitude. For instance, the morning poor Anna Lou went missing, we ran into each other as he was leaving the house. I said hello to him but he didn’t so much as look at me. He put a rucksack in the boot of that rundown old four-by-four of his and … Yes, he was in a real hurry, I mean, like someone who has something to hide.’

  Listening to his neighbour’s incredible lie, Martini felt like punching the wall unit. But he stopped just in time, realising it was his bandaged hand.

  From her seat at the table, Clea switched off the TV with the remote. ‘That nasty wound hasn’t healed yet. I told you to get it seen to by a doctor.’ She said this with quiet resignation.

  Martini was still seething with rage. ‘That bastard.’

  ‘Why, what did you expect?’

  Martini tried to regain his self-control. He went and sat down next to his wife. It was after eleven at night, and the house was silent. The kitchen table, lit by the lamp in the middle, was like an oasis of light surrounded by darkness. On it, bills and receipts were piled, as well as a copy of the latest tax statement. Clea had run the figures through the calculator at least ten times. The result was always the same.

  ‘There isn’t enough money to pay for everything Levi’s planning,’ Martini had to admit, disconsolately.

  ‘Then let’s put off paying the rent for a while.’

  ‘Oh, sure. And how will we live when they throw us out?’

  ‘We’ll figure that out when it happens. In the meantime, you could ask my family for a loan.’

  Martini shook his head, as if to underline the fact that the situation they found themselves in was absurd and everything was happening too quickly. ‘We’ll have to do without Levi, we have no option.’

  ‘We’re out of food.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘I went to the supermarket today. Some people recognised me. I got scared and left without buying anything.’ Seeing the anger reappear on her husband’s face, Clea took his hand. She talked to him in a low voice, the tone full of pain. ‘Monica has been insulted on the internet. They’ve forced her to close her Facebook profile.’

  ‘They’re just crooks and losers looking for attention, I wouldn’t worry about that.’

  ‘Yes, I know … But in a few days she’ll have to go back to school.’


  She was right. With all the other things that were happening, he hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘You can’t let them lynch you like this without reacting. Any direct accusation against you also affects us.’

  Martini heaved a sigh. ‘All right, I’ll tell Levi to proceed.’

  Someone rang the bell. Martini and his wife looked at each other in silence, unsure who it could be at this hour. Then he got up from the kitchen table and went to open the door.

  ‘Good evening, Signor Martini,’ Borghi said, standing in the doorway. Behind him, there were at least five patrol cars with their lights on, a police van and a breakdown lorry. A big show for the media. Cameramen and photographers were capturing the scene. ‘I have here a search and arrest warrant.’ Borghi showed him the document.

  Clea came up behind her husband, but stopped when she saw all those police officers outside the house.

  ‘We also have to take your prints and get body samples,’ Borghi went on. ‘Do you agree to doing that here, or would you like us to go somewhere more appropriate?’

  Martini was disoriented. ‘No, it’s all right, let’s do it here.’

  Borghi turned towards the waiting police officers and gave a signal for them to approach the house.

  Martini was sitting in the middle of his own living room. Three forensics technicians wearing white coats and rubber gloves were busy around him. While one took saliva samples with a swab, another performed a subungual scrub on his right hand in search of organic material belonging to Anna Lou. The third was concentrating on the left hand. He took off the bandage, then proceeded to take a sample of tissue from the wound, which hadn’t yet healed. Finally, he photographed the cut with a special model of reflex camera, from which it was possible to extract very large images.

  Martini underwent all this without any reaction, as if dazed.

  All around him, police officers were searching through his things, the memories of a life. There was a constant coming and going. Some officers left the house with transparent bags containing the most varied objects: kitchen knives, shoes, even gardening tools. In the drive, the four-by-four was being loaded onto the breakdown lorry while the whole neighbourhood, awoken by the noise, stood watching, winter jackets over their pyjamas, and commenting on the scene with expressions of disgust.