A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘Don’t worry, Mother. Is Maria with you?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a great comfort.’

  ‘’Bye, Mother.’

  ‘Don’t be angry with him.’

  The photographs were spread out across the table. All of them in colour, 7 × 5 prints, sharp quality.

  They were passed around and carefully examined.

  It was nine in the evening in Colonel Trimarchi’s office.

  ‘Foti, perhaps you’d take us through it,’ the colonel said.

  Captain Foti told them about the meeting between Antonio Russo and the three men who had then driven off in the dark car.

  ‘We know this is the same car - a BMW - that Alfredo Prestipino was seen getting into.’

  ‘Do we have any idea who the three men on the farm were?’ Trimarchi asked.

  ‘Yes, they’re all known to us. Members of the Russo ’ndrina. One, the tallest, seen from the front here, and getting behind the wheel in this shot, is Russo’s driver, one of his most trusted men, the son of a former estate manager of his.’

  There was a long silence. They were thinking.

  Foti broke the silence. ‘At six twenty-five our men saw the BMW arriving at the farm. They’d been alerted by our colleagues in the Squadra Mobile, who’d followed it all the way from San Piero d’Aspromonte. There can’t be any doubts. Our men in the off-road vehicle got the licence number this morning.’

  Everyone was listening even more attentively now. Foti went on to tell them that three men had got out of the car and entered the farmhouse, while the driver had left.

  ‘Did they come out again?’ the colonel asked.

  ‘So far, only two. After about an hour. They set off on a motorcycle.’

  ‘Have we managed to find out who the third man was, the one who stayed inside?’

  ‘No. It was too dark. But, logically, it must have been Alfredo Prestipino.’

  ‘Are we sure that Alfredo Prestipino went to Russo’s house of his own free will?’ Trimarchi asked.

  ‘My men got the distinct impression that Alfredo Prestipino went reluctantly,’ Bruni said.

  ‘You mean he was under duress?’

  ‘Let’s say there wasn’t any overt violence, but from the way they were walking, and the way the BMW took off at such high speed, it certainly seemed he was taken under duress, yes.’

  ‘Then we may have a new element here,’ Trimarchi said. ‘Kidnapping.’

  They all looked at each other.

  ‘Any other developments, Chief Superintendent Bruni?’ the colonel asked.

  Bruni explained that they were already in possession of the first batch of data concerning ships originating from the port of Turbo and carrying bananas. Almost all the ships in question had arrived at ports in Liguria. Now, with the support of the Customs and Excise Corps, they were focusing on those ships that had made the most journeys.

  ‘Excellent, Chief Superintendent.’

  The last person to speak was the man in charge of the DIA’s phone taps, Carabinieri Lieutenant Marco Oliva, a tall, thin, young man with crewcut hair and a nose sprinkled with freckles.

  ‘It’s been mostly normal, everyday conversations,’ he said. ‘Except for those from the phone in the Fedeli house.’

  ‘Go on,’ Trimarchi said.

  ‘The wife phoned her mother a couple of times. Both calls were short. The first one was at 5.46 p.m., the second at 7.40 p.m. On each occasion Angela Fedeli told her mother she was worried because her husband hadn’t come home yet.’

  ‘Keep listening,’ Trimarchi ordered. ‘I repeat, we’re dealing with a kidnapping. And considering the people involved, we can’t rule out murder.’

  She was sitting in the kitchen. Still alone.

  Angela couldn’t stop wondering what had happened to her husband. She still hadn’t heard from him. She had never known him to do anything like this before. It was as new to her as last night’s quarrel. She could still hear the words spoken, the answers she’d managed to drag from him after a lot of beating around the bush. But it was his lies which had hurt her the most.

  Now, staring down at an almost-empty cup of camomile tea, she was wondering about Alfredo’s true nature. She knew perfectly well it was possible for a person to have a dark side to his character, which he tried to keep secret, even from his nearest and dearest. But the fact that she, of all people, hadn’t noticed this in the many years they had been living together was what really tore her up inside. Maybe the way of life in America, which was so different from here, had made it difficult for her to really know Alfredo. An old saying kept coming back to her: every cloud has a silver lining. Perhaps the misfortune that had befallen her, by bringing her back to her own country, her own world - to which she had always remained connected, like an unborn child connected to its mother by the umbilical cord - had opened her eyes. Fortunately! she said to herself, adding immediately afterwards, Thank you, Madonna. Protect me always!

  Slowly, she grasped the handle of the cup, raised it to her lips and took a last sip of the tea, which was now lukewarm. Irritated, she thrust it away from her, to a corner of the table. Her face showed the first signs of exhaustion. But she did not stop thinking. In the end, she somehow convinced herself that it was only hurt pride on his part, and that he wouldn’t be away much longer. Without her, she thought, shaking her head over and over, Alfredo would be helpless, without her he would lose everything. Then she sprang to her feet, and as she did so she murmured, almost as if she wanted to be heard by someone nearby, ‘As soon as he comes back with his tail between his legs, there’ll be hell to pay, or my name isn’t Angela Fedeli.’

  And with that, she went to bed.

  It was going to be a long night.

  22

  It was dark.

  Diego could no longer hear a thing, not even those low whispers that had previously reached his ears from time to time. Thinking that his guards were asleep, he grabbed the now-empty wine bottle, inserted it between the floorboards and started to use it as a crowbar. After much effort, he finally managed to unscrew the big board that was holding the chain. He tried to get the chain off, but it was impossible, thanks to the padlock. What he could do, however, was move, with small, shuffling steps. He rolled up the chain and held it with one hand, while with the other he picked up his shoes and put them on. Then he lifted the tarpaulin, just enough to peer through. Everything was black. He shuffled out of the hut. Cold, damp air enveloped him. There was silence all around. He turned his head in all directions. He could see the moon peering out from behind the clouds. He stood there for a few moments, listening, then took a deep breath.

  He remembered what one of his guards had told him: The roads are watched, they’ll kill you. So he avoided them, and headed south, towards the valley, where he thought he might run into the herd of sheep that had been the one sign of life during the day, along with the whistling of the shepherds and the barking of the dogs. With one hand he held the chain, while with the other he supported himself on the bushes and the holm oaks. As he advanced, all he could hear was the sound of his own footsteps on the broken branches and his laboured breathing.

  He slipped and fell, hurting his hands and tearing his trousers. But he did not lose heart. Ignoring the pain in his hands, he immediately got back on his feet. His one thought was to get as far as possible from his prison. To escape.

  He seemed to have found a new, unexpected strength. And all at once, after almost an hour of walking amid weeds and bushes, he heard a deafening noise, made all the louder perhaps by the silence of the night, and stopped dead.

  A few more minutes’ walk, and he discovered the source of the noise: a swollen stream, more than six feet wide. He followed its course. After a while, he came to a kind of waterfall, and stopped. He thought for a few moments. Then he started to cross it. After a couple of steps, the water came up to above his knees. He stumbled, lost his balance, and fell in the water. It was freezing. He felt his skin wrinkle and his legs and back stiffen. />
  He looked into the woods. All he could see were long, dark shadows behind the trees.

  He started shivering. At that moment, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. There was a rumble of thunder, then another, and another flash of lightning. It would soon be pouring with rain.

  He finally managed to get moving again, edging up out of the water with those same small, shuffling steps. He was soaking wet and still shivering. Unsteadily, he started up the valley again, hoping to find a way out.

  Instead, he found his way barred by brambles and thorn bushes. He felt as if he was in an impenetrable forest, something like the Amazon jungle. He tried to bypass these obstacles, and managed to get halfway up the hill, but after a while came to another stream - and another waterfall, even more swollen than the previous one. Here, he encountered the same difficulties as before. He changed direction. But it was no good. Every new place he came to seemed exactly like the place he had just left. There were no landmarks to help him orient himself. And in the meantime it was starting to rain. He came to a kind of cave. It was small, but big enough to shelter him. He entered and threw himself down on the ground, like a dead weight.

  Friday, 14 November, New York

  Lieutenant Reynolds was woken by the phone ringing on the night table.

  He picked up at the sixth ring, almost knocking the phone to the floor, but grabbing it just in time.

  At the other end, he heard Rusty Sheridan: ‘John, they’ve burned down my gym.’

  These were the only words his friend said, in a grief-stricken voice.

  And they left him speechless.

  It was as if his breath had failed him. He looked at the luminous dial of the alarm clock. It was 1.53 a.m.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he replied.

  But he was talking to himself.

  His friend had already hung up. He hadn’t even heard the click.

  ‘They never leave you alone, even at this hour,’ Linda said, in a thin, sleepy voice. ‘I really hope this is your last case!’ She turned on her other side, pulling the blanket over her. He did not reply. There was no point. He pretended not to have heard her. Nodding to himself, he got out of bed. Less than ten minutes later, he was in his car.

  It was already day by the time Diego opened his eyes.

  It had stopped raining. Light was starting to filter into the cave.

  For a few moments, he was disoriented, and wondered where the hell he was.

  Then he remembered. He realised that he had slept, perhaps for a long time.

  He felt his body. It hurt all over. Slithering along the ground, he put his head out. The rays of the sun, filtering through the branches of the trees, illuminated his hair, which was full of earth and mud. All he could see was forest. But now, by day, the place didn’t seem so bad.

  Summoning up his courage, he left the cave and advanced along the ridge, panting with exertion. He was moving more easily now, his steps steadier, his hands better able to grip the trees, or at least the branches.

  Soon, he began to see gorges, precipices, brambles, trees surrounded by thick undergrowth and, all around, a chain of mountains that seemed determined to keep him prisoner. There was no cultivated land in the area, only wild nature. He became even more afraid. The light of day was making him fully aware of the fact that the place he had been brought to was a natural prison. He wandered for a long time before he found a path.

  He walked along it until he reached a wooden footbridge over a stream. For all he knew, it was the same stream in which he had slipped the previous night.

  The footbridge swayed from side to side, and he had to stop several times to avoid losing his balance. At last, he reached the other bank. Here, a surprise awaited him. A short, fat man in a hood stood blocking his way, a gun in his right hand. As soon as Diego saw him, his heart began to hammer so forcefully in his chest that he thought he was about to burst. He stood there, motionless, trying to slow his breathing.

  ‘Don’t run away, or you’re a dead man!’ the man cried.

  ‘Don’t shoot me,’ Diego replied in a weak, dry-throated voice, lifting his hands in the air. It was almost a supplication.

  ‘Good, that’s the idea!’ the man continued, approaching him and aiming his gun straight at Diego’s chest. ‘Did you think you could play the hero? We still need you alive. Now move, you bastard! Turn round and walk!’

  Silently, he obeyed, moving forward with unsteady steps. His face had turned as white as a sheet. Never in his life had he felt so threatened. All his self-assurance had suddenly evaporated. The hooded man followed him, the gun still pointed at his back. Several times, Diego had to ask the man to stop pushing him. They walked along the path until they reached the hut from which he had escaped. Here, Diego undressed and got under the blanket. He was shivering. He felt as if he had suddenly aged ten years.

  After a few minutes, another man entered the hut, a ski mask covering his face. He was taller than the two men who had first brought him here.

  ‘Where did you think you were going?’ the man asked. His tone was mocking and his voice seemed, to Diego, as grating as nails on a blackboard.

  Diego said nothing, merely lifted his head slightly.

  ‘You have guts,’ the man continued. ‘I admire you. But you would never have got away. Our men are watching all the paths . . . We warned you they would kill you. You were lucky that it was us that took you. Besides which, even if you had reached the village, you would have found more of us there. Lots of us. I’m not saying the whole village, but pretty much. You would have been caught at a roadblock and handed back to us. Or else they would have killed you. No one gets out of these mountains alive! No one ever has! This is our territory!’

  Diego said nothing. He was still shivering. He rested his head back down again. Then he began to cough so hard that he had to bend double and hold his stomach. Maybe it was flu, or maybe it was a way of venting his rage. The man approached and attached him to another floorboard. This time, though, with one more turn of the chain and with an even larger padlock.

  ‘And don’t try anything else stupid,’ he warned. ‘There’s no one for miles around. Have you finally got that into your head?’ And then he left the hut.

  Diego silently cursed himself for getting into this situation.

  The sun was shining in San Piero d’Aspromonte that morning.

  The sky was an unreal blue, the air strangely warm and inviting. It was a beautiful day.

  Angela decided to go for a drive with her daughter, perhaps to dispel the accumulated tension, or perhaps just to see again the places she loved. The two of them, alone together: an opportunity to talk woman to woman. Among other things, she wanted to discuss Alfredo’s absence. Maria didn’t know about that yet, but Angela couldn’t hide it from her any longer. She was bound to find out, and it would be better sooner than later. And so they set off in an old Fiat 127, climbing into the mountains on a winding road with many hairpin bends. They came finally to the Stoccato plain, where the great wooden crucifix stood out impressively against the sky. They parked nearby. There was no one about. No prying eyes. They got out of the car, and were engulfed in total silence. The chaos, noises, dust, roaring engines and smog of city life were a long way away. They could smell the fragrant scent of resin, wild flowers and herbs - nature uncontaminated.

  ‘Come on, Maria, let’s go!’

  ‘Just a moment, Mother,’ Maria replied, looking up at the crucifix.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  But Maria continued to look at the place on the chest where the crucifix had been retouched to cover the bullet holes.

  ‘What happened here, Mother?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She took her by the hand and pulled her away.

  Their feet sank into a carpet of needles. They walked through the pine grove until they reached the ridge. From here, there was a breathtaking view: a lush valley, with the Ionian Sea on the horizon.

  ‘Sit down, Maria, here, next to me.’

  The yo
ung woman obeyed. Then she pointed off to the right, towards a large rock shaped like a panettone. ‘How beautiful!’ she cried. ‘It’s like a sculpture!’

  ‘That’s Pietra Cappa, Maria. They tell lots of stories about it. Even today, they say the shepherds hear a strange noise coming from inside.’

  ‘Myths, I hope?’

  Her mother nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Why hasn’t Dad come with us?’ Maria asked. ‘With him here, this place would have been even better.’ Her eyes had moved from Pietra Cappa to her mother’s face.

  For Angela, the moment to speak had come. ‘Maria,’ she said, ‘your father didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’ A sadness came into her eyes.

  ‘The other evening we quarrelled and he left. But he’ll be back, you’ll see.’

  ‘What did you quarrel about?’

  Angela hesitated, unsure how to reply.

  ‘Tell me, Mother . . . Please!’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me the truth.’

  ‘About what?’

  That was an even more difficult question to answer.

  ‘It would take too long to explain, Maria, and I’m not sure you’d understand. You grew up in another world. America is another world. All you need to know is that he wouldn’t tell me the truth.’

  ‘No, Mother, you can’t just leave it at that. I want to know where Dad is!’

  ‘I don’t know where he went.’

  ‘Then let’s go to the Carabinieri. Something may have happened to him: he may have had an accident, he may have been taken ill. They’ll find him.’ She began to sob.

  Angela decided that the moment had come to explain a few things to her daughter. Things like the rules of the family, respect, loyalty, the law of silence, the way men of honour should behave. All this was new to her daughter, who listened wide-eyed.

  ‘I don’t like it here,’ she said when her mother had finished. ‘I just want Dad to come home. And then I want to go back to New York.’