Trotti shrugged. “He saw him at the murder trial.” “That was years ago.” Maserati gave a self-conscious smile. “Why should he feel guilty about the murder of someone he scarcely knew?” “The letter—it shocked him.” “Judges receive threatening letters all the time.” “But not twenty years after the event.” Maserati was one of the new generation of policemen—one of the young men who had been recruited during the years of political tension. They were not interested in policing the streets or coming into contact with the public. Many of them had been to university or technical institutes and Maserati was a technician who was only really happy when given a laboratory coat and a precise task to perform. “I don’t see how I can help you, Commissario,” Maserati said, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses. “Maserati, the records must be here.” “What year?” Trotti found himself irritated by Maserati. He was intelligent and hard working—there could be no doubt that since his arrival in 1980, Sezione Archivi had been revolutionized.
