persuade the man I was on his side. ‘And if someone just waited in the station? Where would someone go to kill time?’
‘There’s the bar.’
‘Which one?’
‘There’s the station bar. Or that other one outside the station, the other side of the bus-stops.’
I nodded. It was going nowhere. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘you must have seen a lot in forty-two years. A lot of people coming and going. Did you ever see anything that you had to take to the police?’
He smiled whilst blinking slowly. ‘All the time. Every week I see couples screaming at each other. There are knife fights and the Ultras and political extremists. You see them all when you work here.’
‘But you never saw anything, back in the summer of ’95?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘This man.’ I pulled the mug-shot from my pocket. ‘He disappeared from this station in 1995.’
The man took the photo from my hand and held it up to the light. ‘I know the face, I’m sure.’
‘That’s because it was in the papers back then.’
‘That’s right.’ He squinted at the photograph again. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing him around the station, but there was some policeman who came and asked me all about it. The times of the trains and so on, just as you are.’
‘Colonello Franchini?’
‘I don’t remember his name. We went for a drink after work—’
‘That was Franchini.’
‘He asked me about the trains, showed me some photographs.’
‘Photographs of who?’
‘He didn’t say anything except they were suspects and had I seen them one particular Saturday night.’
I pulled out the photograph I had knocked off Tonin’s mantelpiece.
‘He show you either of these two?’
He looked very briefly, but looked at me with tiredness. ‘This was many, many years ago. I see thousands of faces every day. I see millions in a year …’
It was useless. I would have to ask Franchini if he had ever got this far, whether he had ever got as far as the Tonin link.
I decided to take the train back to Rimini. I had a box of photocopies of Riccardo and walked up and down the train distributing them.
The carriages had corridors down one side with little rooms of six seats off to the other. My arm was soon tired from having to yank the doors open, leaning away from the handle to pull with my chest as well as my arm.
In each I handed out the photocopies. People either looked at young Riccardo’s face in silence or else started asking too many questions. There was no middle ground. I answered them all patiently, telling them what little I knew.
‘I remember reading about this. I can’t believe it was fourteen years ago, it feels like three.’
‘That so?’ I said and let another door suck itself shut.
I had walked up and down the train before it even pulled into Modena. I changed at Bologna, but the connecting train was late. I sat on the platform wondering what percentage of trains were late. When I finally got into Rimini it was already past midday. As soon as I stepped out of the station the air smelt of seaweed and salt. There were fat gulls swooping on to the pavements to take any spare crumbs that the pedestrians left in their wake.
I walked over to Via dei Caduti. The di Pietro woman clicked the gate open after a little protest about wanting to be left alone. I walked up the short path towards the front door of her block of flats. She was on the third floor, a door half-ajar at her back.
‘What is it now?’
‘I wanted to ask you a couple more questions. Has anyone ever tried to contact Elisabetta, someone claiming to be a relative?’
She shook her head.
‘No one? No calls or letters out of the blue …?’
‘You think Ricky has tried to contact her?’
‘No, not Ricky. I fear the only person he’s talking to now is his maker. I was thinking about someone from a different generation. Her paternal grandfather.’
‘Ricky’s father?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But he died in
‘There’s the bar.’
‘Which one?’
‘There’s the station bar. Or that other one outside the station, the other side of the bus-stops.’
I nodded. It was going nowhere. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘you must have seen a lot in forty-two years. A lot of people coming and going. Did you ever see anything that you had to take to the police?’
He smiled whilst blinking slowly. ‘All the time. Every week I see couples screaming at each other. There are knife fights and the Ultras and political extremists. You see them all when you work here.’
‘But you never saw anything, back in the summer of ’95?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘This man.’ I pulled the mug-shot from my pocket. ‘He disappeared from this station in 1995.’
The man took the photo from my hand and held it up to the light. ‘I know the face, I’m sure.’
‘That’s because it was in the papers back then.’
‘That’s right.’ He squinted at the photograph again. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing him around the station, but there was some policeman who came and asked me all about it. The times of the trains and so on, just as you are.’
‘Colonello Franchini?’
‘I don’t remember his name. We went for a drink after work—’
‘That was Franchini.’
‘He asked me about the trains, showed me some photographs.’
‘Photographs of who?’
‘He didn’t say anything except they were suspects and had I seen them one particular Saturday night.’
I pulled out the photograph I had knocked off Tonin’s mantelpiece.
‘He show you either of these two?’
He looked very briefly, but looked at me with tiredness. ‘This was many, many years ago. I see thousands of faces every day. I see millions in a year …’
It was useless. I would have to ask Franchini if he had ever got this far, whether he had ever got as far as the Tonin link.
I decided to take the train back to Rimini. I had a box of photocopies of Riccardo and walked up and down the train distributing them.
The carriages had corridors down one side with little rooms of six seats off to the other. My arm was soon tired from having to yank the doors open, leaning away from the handle to pull with my chest as well as my arm.
In each I handed out the photocopies. People either looked at young Riccardo’s face in silence or else started asking too many questions. There was no middle ground. I answered them all patiently, telling them what little I knew.
‘I remember reading about this. I can’t believe it was fourteen years ago, it feels like three.’
‘That so?’ I said and let another door suck itself shut.
I had walked up and down the train before it even pulled into Modena. I changed at Bologna, but the connecting train was late. I sat on the platform wondering what percentage of trains were late. When I finally got into Rimini it was already past midday. As soon as I stepped out of the station the air smelt of seaweed and salt. There were fat gulls swooping on to the pavements to take any spare crumbs that the pedestrians left in their wake.
I walked over to Via dei Caduti. The di Pietro woman clicked the gate open after a little protest about wanting to be left alone. I walked up the short path towards the front door of her block of flats. She was on the third floor, a door half-ajar at her back.
‘What is it now?’
‘I wanted to ask you a couple more questions. Has anyone ever tried to contact Elisabetta, someone claiming to be a relative?’
She shook her head.
‘No one? No calls or letters out of the blue …?’
‘You think Ricky has tried to contact her?’
‘No, not Ricky. I fear the only person he’s talking to now is his maker. I was thinking about someone from a different generation. Her paternal grandfather.’
‘Ricky’s father?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But he died in
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