Ratking by Michael Dibdin

fact that the authorities were permitted to make free with the private papers of a man above suspicion, a pillar of the community and a repository of every known human virtue. Ubaldo Valesio himself made a ghostly fourth presence, smiling at them from photographs, haunting a wardrobe full of clothes, proclaiming his taste in books and records, even trying to lay claim to a non-existent future by way of a scribbled note on his desk jotter reading ‘Evasio Thursday re plumbing’.
    It was not until they were driving back to the city centre that Bartocci produced the photographs.
    ‘Just in case you still think it was a mistake,’ he commented as Zen studied the images of horror.
    ‘No, I meant that Valesio may have accidentally caught sight of one of the gang,’ Zen explained. ‘These would have been the top men, don’t forget. No one else would be entrusted with the negotiations. They might well have been worried that he would be able to identify them.’
    Bartocci seemed to be about to say something, but in the end he just turned away and looked out of the window, leaving Zen to wonder once again why he had been invited along on this routine errand.
    The studio which Ubaldo Valesio had shared with two other lawyers was in the centre of the city, just behind the cathedral, in a street so narrow there was barely room for Palottino to park. It consisted of one wing of the first floor of the building, two huge rooms divided into separate work areas by antique screens and potted shrubs. Valesio’s partners were both present. They were very correct, very polite, and very unhelpful. Yes, they had known that Ubaldo was acting for the Milettis. No, they had never discussed it. They watched discreetly but attentively as the two representatives of the State looked through diaries, memo books, files and folders. Then they drew up an inventory of what had been taken, obtained a receipt, said goodbye, and went back to work.
    ‘When may I expect your report on this material?’ Bartocci asked Zen when they got back to the law courts.
    ‘Tomorrow, I hope. But if anything important comes up I’ll phone you.’
    He turned back and started to get into the car, but Bartocci called him back.
    ‘Listen, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you. Off the record, as it were.’
    Zen gazed at him, his face perfectly expressionless.
    ‘In fact I thought we might have lunch. That little restaurant down the street there is where I usually eat, the one with the neon sign and the awning.’
    ‘Today?’
    ‘If that’s convenient.’
    Bartocci’s tone was polite, almost deferential. It scared Zen stiff.
    ‘I’d be delighted,’ he replied with a ghost of a smile.
    As Palottino drove him back to the Questura he saw that the restaurant Bartocci had indicated was called the Griffin and displayed a sign with a beast similar to those he had seen at the law courts.
    Back in his office, Zen thought about griffins and Luciano Bartocci and Ubaldo Valesio. Griffins, he discovered from the dictionary kept in the desk drawer to help the less literate officials write their reports, were mythical creatures having the head and wings of an eagle and the legs and tail of a lion. He was still not quite sure why they had been carved above the entrance to the law courts. Were they symbols of Justice? Certainly Luciano Bartocci seemed to be something of a hybrid. Zen had never been invited to lunch by a member of the judiciary before, and he found the prospect as unattractive as the invitation to Crepi’s the previous evening. Once again he felt that he was being drawn into an area where the stakes were high and the rules not clearly defined. ‘A few things I’d like to discuss with you, off the record.’ What was Bartocci up to?
    Almost with relief, his thoughts turned back to Ubaldo Valesio. Although they had never met, Zen felt he knew the dead man well: a successful and ambitious lawyer in a city which despite its recent growth was still a