Free The Dark Valley: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 2) by Valerio Varesi Page A

of winter could not be far off. This thought and the sight of the remote bar made him think of his father with that lurching gait of his, as if he were pushing himself forward by putting pressure on one leg, a habit which spoke of experience gained over a lifetime of grim, debilitating hardship.
    Even in the dying days of autumn, the bar was open. Baldi, the owner, was still behind the counter, not yet ready to close up for the season. He was short and sturdy, with white hair and moustache.
    The two men exchanged greetings, before Soneri said: “Are there still many hunters around?”
    “The season’s nearly over.”
    “What about the roe deer?”
    “Not much doing. They’ve got cleverer and go down the valley into the reserve.”
    “And the trout in the lake?”
    “They’re not biting any more. You would swear they feel winter coming on.”
    “Same as us. When do you shut up shop?”
    “Any day now. Or at the first snow fall – which is more or less the same thing.”
    “You think the snow’s nearly here?”
    “Feel the air. There’s frost every morning now.”
    Two shabbily dressed men came into the bar. One ofthem, in a heavy foreign accent, asked for two coffees and two grappas.
    “Nowadays we have to put up with all kinds of foreign wildlife,” Baldi said contemptuously, but speaking in dialect so that he would not be understood.
    “What do they do here?” Soneri said. “I saw that other people had been down at the huts.”
    “Everything and nothing. They come from Liguria and Tuscany with all kinds of stuff. I’ve even seen some of them struggling up here with suitcases.”
    “Are the carabinieri aware of this?”
    Baldi shrugged his shoulders. “Occasionally they come to make checks, but by the time they get here, everything seems to be in order. These people bury whatever they have in the woods.”
    “Who do they sell it to?”
    “Well, you hear so many stories. They pass it on to other people who take it to the cities. Some of it’s given to the kids in the village. They’re at it now too.”
    “Drugs? Around here?”
    Baldi gave another shrug. “Everything’s changed. They get bored. The winters are long, there’s nothing to occupy their minds, so they look for something different. If they’d ever known hunger, like this lot…” Baldi said, indicating the strangers with his chin.
    Soneri’s thoughts went back to his father, setting off for work with three pears and a crust of bread for his midday meal. He changed the subject. “Do you see the Woodsman from time to time?”
    “He hasn’t been here for a while. The woods are his world. Here, it’s too open for his tastes. When you reach a certain altitude, the mountain’s no good for keeping secrets. You can see everything that’s going on, even if there are very few people watching.”
    Soneri took his time to decipher those words, the time needed to light a cigar, but he still failed fully to grasp their sense.
    “What does he do that anyone might watch?” the commissario said, instinctively, without thinking.
    Another shrug. “Nothing, but he wouldn’t find out here what he finds in the woods.”
    “You mean the wild boar?”
    Smiling, Baldi looked at him and murmured, “Yes, the boar.”
    Soneri understood there was more to it, but he chose not to ask. It would have been in vain, but he was left with the disagreeable feeling of having been outwitted.
    “Nobody knows Montelupo like him. He reckons he owns it. Who’s going to get the better of him? Delrio? Volpi?” Baldi spoke with a sneer in his voice.
    The two foreigners got up, paid their bill and were gone. The commissario had watched as the one who had done the ordering took out a thick wodge of notes and peeled one off, as the fixers and middlemen who had once been active in those parts used to do.
    “There’s no telling who’s coming and going on these mountains nowadays,” Baldi said.
    “Are you sometimes afraid?”
    “I’ve got my gun under the