The Cold Summer

by Gianrico Carofiglio

“Talk to your husband first, signora. Unfortunately, the child … I mean, he was out in the country for a few days …”

  He wanted to tell her that the wretched body in the morgue had little to do with her son; he wanted to tell her that it was better for her not to see him, that it was better to remember his face when he was alive, rather than have those terrible, disfigured features fixed in her memory. He wanted to tell her these things, but he soon realized the woman had stopped listening to him or even looking at him. Nothing existed any more but her grief.

  “I have to see him. Right now, right now,” she repeated, shaking. Then her mouth twisted in a grimace and her voice turned into an animal sob.

  14

  Between Sunday 17 and Monday 18 May, many things happened.

  In the afternoon, Nicola Grimaldi, also known as Blondie, also known as Three Cylinders, was summoned to the station, where condolences were expressed and his statement was taken. He denied paying a ransom; he denied receiving any requests; he denied having any suspicion as to who might have kidnapped and killed his son. As he was about to leave, having refused to sign the statement, he merely whispered that he would tear the heart out of him and eat it. Nobody asked him who he was referring to. They all knew he was talking about Vito Lopez.

  The following morning, the postmortem took place. The pathologist gave them a summary of the conclusions he would put in his report. The child had rope marks on his wrists and lesions on his head. Someone had hit him, but the blows weren’t the cause of death. The postmortem had shown the existence of a congenital defect of the inter-atrial septum: basically, a cardiac defect that is sometimes diagnosed only in adulthood and which can be activated by stressful situations. The consequence of this activation is hypoxia – a shortage of oxygen – and possible cardio-circulatory arrest. The blows, the sudden fright, the physical constriction, were all possible preliminaries to a cardio-circulatory attack and death, the pathologist said.

  Asked a specific question, the doctor answered that the postmortem had revealed no signs of sexual violence.

  In the afternoon, someone set fire to the house of Pasquale Losurdo, one of the brothers of Simone Losurdo, the likely victim of an underworld execution. Someone else broke into the houses of Vito Lopez and Antonio Losurdo, another of Simone Losurdo’s brothers, destroying the furniture and tearing the doors and window frames off their hinges. All three houses were empty. The working hypothesis, supported by informants, was that the two Losurdos, Antonio and Pasquale, had left Bari to join Lopez in his war on Grimaldi’s group and avenge their brother Simone. Sources did indeed point to Nicola Grimaldi as being behind the murder of Simone Losurdo and the hiding of his body.

  That same afternoon, a report came in from the Carabinieri’s criminal investigation unit in Pescara, where the car used in the shootout at Enziteto had been stolen, indicating that Lopez had apparently spent the last two weeks in Pescara, as the guest of known local criminals. Right now, though, he was believed to have left the city. His current whereabouts were unknown.

  The general feeling was that even more serious incidents were imminent. Detectives and criminals alike were of the opinion that Lopez and his friends were responsible for the kidnapping and death of young Grimaldi.

  The boy’s father certainly wouldn’t stop at the destruction of a few wardrobes or the burning of a house.

  *

  Fenoglio was closing the files and getting ready to go home when Pellecchia came in without knocking, an uncharacteristically excited expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry, chief, you can’t leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lopez.”

  “Has he been killed?”

  “No. He’s in a bar near here, the one on the corner of Via Dalmazia and Via Gorizia. He called the switchboard and asked if De Paola was around.”

  “The corporal?”

  “Yes, he asked for him, they know each other.” He noticed Fenoglio’s puzzled expression. “De Paola arrested him once, many years ago. He says he treated him well, and since then they’ve kept in touch. I think he’s even given him a few tip-offs from time to time. Anyway, luckily, De Paola was in the station and took the call.”

  “What does he want from De Paola?”

  “We don’t know. All he said is that he needs to see him urgently. He asked if he could join him in that bar, without telling anyone.”

  Fenoglio could distinctly hear his own heart beat faster. The turning point he had been waiting for might have arrived.

  “He wants to cooperate.”

  “That’s what I think, too. What shall I tell De Paola?”

  “To get going in ten minutes’ time. That’s how long it’ll take to inform the captain and take up position around the bar.”

  ACT TWO

  Società Nostra

  1

  The room, which was on the ground floor, was large and anonymous. It looked out on an enclosed courtyard – like those in which prisoners in solitary spend their exercise hour – and there were bars on the windows. It smelled musty and contained only an old desk, a few chairs and an empty shelving unit.

  The captain looked around. “Maybe we should put the heating on, it’s cold in here. We don’t want to look bad when the prosecutor arrives.”

  It was something said just for the sake of it. Fenoglio shrugged. They were well into May, so obviously there was no question of putting the heating on.

  “Vito Lopez,” Valente said. “Known as the Butcher, because of his father’s job, if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s right. Actually, they use a Bari dialect word for ‘butcher’ – but I don’t think either of us should try to pronounce it.”

  The captain smiled. Fenoglio was Piedmontese, from Turin, while he himself was from Marche. Pronouncing the Bari dialect would have been an absurd undertaking for both men.

  “While we’re waiting for them to get here, tell me something more about him.”

  Fenoglio didn’t beat about the bush. Lopez was a highly dangerous criminal. According to informants, he had been responsible for a number of murders – between six and nine, depending on who you spoke to – but had never been arrested for any of them. His wasn’t the classic story of the young man led into a life of crime by social deprivation. His father owned a butcher’s shop and wasn’t at all short of money. Lopez had studied to be a surveyor, although he had never graduated: he had been failed twice for reasons of conduct – in one case for beating up a teacher – and had dropped out of school. His record was like a compendium of criminal law: it went from theft to driving without a licence, from drug dealing to assault, from smuggling foreign tobacco to extortion. And these were only the crimes for which he had been sentenced. Most of what he had done had never reached court.

  “Have you ever arrested him?” the captain asked.

  “No. Once, though, I was in the station when he was brought in by some colleagues. I can’t remember for what, but nothing serious. Maybe resisting arrest. I had a little chat with him and you know what struck me?”

  “What?”

  “How normal he was. A normal man. He spoke calmly, as if we were equals, he wasn’t either arrogant or submissive. And he was well spoken. I mean, it’s immediately obvious that he’s a cut above those in his circle. It’ll be interesting if he really does cooperate.”

  Valente was about to add something when the door opened and Assistant Prosecutor D’Angelo came in with Sergeant Calcaterra, who was acting as her secretary and factotum. Calcaterra had never been much of a detective. In fact, he had never been a detective at all. He was a clerk who just happened to be in the Carabinieri. But he did have one quality that marked him out: he was a very fast typist. First with mechanical typewriters, then with electric and electronic ones, now with computers, he was capable of writing at the speed of the spoken word, making hardly any mistakes. You dictated as if talking normally, he would write, and at the end the transcript was there, ready to use.

  “Where
’s Lopez?” D’Angelo asked the captain, after exchanging greetings.

  “They’re bringing him in, they should be here any minute.”

  “What made him decide to hand himself in?” she asked, lighting a Chesterfield.

  “We haven’t even talked to him yet, dottoressa,” Fenoglio replied. “About an hour ago he called the station and asked for an officer he knew, Corporal De Paola. The corporal joined him in a bar and Lopez told him he’d decided to cooperate with the law, that he had a lot of things to tell us about, including the events of the last few weeks. He made it clear he would only make a statement to you.”

  D’Angelo sat down on the edge of the desk. “Who is this Corporal De Paola?”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever met him, he’s a veteran officer. He used to be on the streets, but for years now he’s been behind a desk. He arrested Lopez many years ago and, as sometimes happens, a relationship grew up between them. Luckily he was here when Lopez phoned.”

  D’Angelo looked at her half-smoked cigarette, the precariously balanced little column of ash. “Is there an ashtray here?”

  “I’ll have one brought in,” Fenoglio said.

  Just then, footsteps and indistinct voices were heard in the distance, out in the corridor. Gradually, the voices faded and the steps grew louder. Someone knocked at the open door; then, without waiting for a response, Pellecchia looked in with the usual cigar butt in his mouth.

  “Come in, Corporal Pellecchia, just you for now, and please close the door,” the captain said. “Is he here?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s with De Paola.”

  “What impression did you get, corporal?” D’Angelo asked. “Does he really want to cooperate?”

  Pellecchia hesitated for a moment. Without realizing it, he glanced at the captain and Fenoglio, as if asking permission to reply. He wasn’t used to the idea of a woman being in charge. He sniffed, as he always did when he was uncomfortable. “I think so, yes. With what he’s done, Lopez is a dead man walking. We’re his only hope.”

  “Who’s his lawyer?”

  “It’s always been Romanazzi, in other words, the same one as Grimaldi. Obviously he doesn’t want him this time. We’ve called in a lawyer who’s the cousin of one of our officers. She’s a civil lawyer, but she’s willing to defend him.”

  “Is she already here?”

  “We’ve sent a car to pick her up. In the meantime, if you like, we can get Lopez in here.”

  D’Angelo let the ash fall on the floor. “All right, bring him in.”

  Lopez was just as Fenoglio had described him. Normal. Medium height, medium build, a prematurely receding hairline. Dark jacket and blue shirt, like an office worker who has just removed his tie on leaving work. He moved warily, as if checking there was nothing dangerous in the room. His face was a little red. He said good evening and immediately turned to the assistant prosecutor.

  “Are you Dottoressa D’Angelo?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to be careful, dottoressa. Grimaldi has bad intentions towards you.”

  “What do you mean?” Fenoglio asked.

  “Grimaldi kept saying that the dottoressa was causing him a lot of trouble. She’d arrested several of his men for extortion, and he got very pissed off about it, especially when the lawyers said they’d be out soon and they’re still inside. He said we needed to teach her a lesson, so that she’ll think twice next time.”

  “What kind of lesson?” D’Angelo asked. A well-trained ear would have caught a slight crack in her voice.

  “It hadn’t been decided. But Grimaldi had you followed, so we knew that when you get home you drive your car down into the garage. We talked about it. Grimaldi wanted to have you shot there. I told him it would be a stupid thing to do, because if you shoot a judge or a carabiniere the shit really hits the fan – pardon the expression – and it only makes things worse.”

  “How long ago did this conversation take place?” Fenoglio asked.

  “A few months ago. Nothing was decided, but Grimaldi was obsessed with the idea that Dottoressa D’Angelo here needed to be taught a lesson, that way everyone would think twice before … before causing us trouble.”

  “Everyone meaning the judges, the police, the Carabinieri?” the captain asked.

  “Yes. After we talked, a few months ago, the shit really did hit the fan, all kinds of things happened, things I’ll tell you about, and I didn’t hear anything more about the plans to take out the dottoressa. But I know Grimaldi: when he gets an idea in his head it stays there, and sooner or later he decides to do something about it. So I thought it was only right to mention it from the start.”

  “You did the right thing,” Fenoglio said. “Where are your wife and son?”

  “I’ve left them with relatives of my wife, near Piacenza.”

  “Give us the exact address. Then call them and tell them that someone will collect them tomorrow and take them to a safe place. Do you have any other close relatives we need to worry about?”

  Lopez shook his head. “My brother left Bari many years ago. He said he didn’t want to live in the same city as me. My mother joined him after my father died. They live in Switzerland, in a little village I don’t even know the name of.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Avvocato Formica has arrived,” a uniformed carabiniere announced, looking in.

  Avvocato Formica was a blonde young woman, thin and slight. She looked around, lost. She was from the chaotic, boring but safe world of the civil courts. A world with few accidents and no dangers. And now here she was, on the verge of entering totally unknown territory. Perhaps, Fenoglio thought, she was wondering right now if it had been a good idea to accept the brief.

  2

  At 21.30 on 18 May 1992 in Bari, at the offices of the Criminal Investigation Unit of the Carabinieri, Vito Lopez, alias the Butcher, born in Bari on 7 July 1964, resident there in Via Mayer, currently under investigation for offences as laid out in Articles 416b, 575 and 629 of the Penal Code and Article 73 of the unified code regarding narcotics and other matters, appears before the Public Prosecutor as represented by Assistant Prosecutor Gemma D’Angelo, assisted in the drafting of the current document by Sergeant Ignazio Calcaterra, and also in the presence, for the purposes of the investigation, of Captain Alberto Valente, Marshal Pietro Fenoglio and Corporal Antonio Pellecchia, all detectives in the Criminal Investigation Unit of the Carabinieri of Bari. Lopez is assisted by Avvocato Marianna Formica of the Bar Association of Bari, whose office he has elected as his domicile for all legal purposes.

  The Public Prosecutor informs Lopez that

  a) his statements may be used in evidence against him;

  b) except where laid down in Article 66.1 of the code of procedure, he has the right to remain silent in response to questions, although proceedings will nevertheless continue.

  Vito Lopez declares: I intend to answer and preliminarily renounce my right to have my lawyer prepare a defence within a fixed period of time. I have asked of my own free will to confer with yourself because I have decided to cooperate with the law and therefore to report all that I know about the criminal activities directly committed by me or of which I have knowledge due to my belonging to criminal circles.

  I acknowledge that I will be able to enjoy the benefits laid down for those who cooperate with the law only if my statements are complete and exhaustive, without any omissions. I also acknowledge that said benefits will be revoked if it transpires that I have made incomplete, reticent, mendacious or slanderous statements.

  QUESTION Before beginning a detailed chronological account of your activities, I would like to ask you if you are in a position to provide us with information with regard to arms caches or with regard to any imminent criminal acts.

  ANSWER I can help you recover the arms with which my group was equipped, by taking you personally to the cupa. The expression cupa in our jargon refers to a hiding place for weapons, ammunition and explosives. When I say “my group” I am ac
tually referring to a small group of three people: myself and the brothers Antonio and Pasquale Losurdo.

  I will explain to you how and for what reasons said group was formed: as the result of a split from the criminal organization dominating the area of Santo Spirito and Enziteto, known as Società Nostra, under the leadership of Nicola Grimaldi, known as Blondie or Three Cylinders (a reference to the cardiac defect from which he suffers), and will report on the conflict in which it has engaged against said organization. Some of the weapons I will help you recover are clean, in other words, they have never been used in any acts of violence, while others have been used for assaults, knee-cappings and murders.

  Apart from the cupa where our arms are, I can take you to other hiding places used by Grimaldi and his associates. I am not in a position to tell you if the arms are still in these places or if they have been moved, which is more likely. In one of these hiding places there is even a bazooka from the former Yugoslavia.

  I can in addition indicate to you the places, all related to individuals without criminal records and unaffiliated to Grimaldi’s criminal organization, in which considerable quantities of narcotics were (and perhaps still are) kept. I will explain for what reason and by what methods these individuals without criminal records were induced, often against their will, to cooperate with that organization.

  Last but not least, I want to point out to you that for some time now Nicola Grimaldi has been considering the possibility of an attack on yourself, Dottoressa D’Angelo. It is known to everyone that you have not been provided with bodyguards, while your investigative activities have for some time been considered very harmful to the interests of said group. In particular, the possibility has been considered of an assault inside the garage of your building, at a time when you go there to get your car and drive to your office. I specify that my information on such a plan dates back several months.

  3

  They moved well after nightfall, to minimize the risk of encountering any of Lopez’s old friends.