The Cold Summer

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  “Don’t look at me like that. I told you I only use it to receive calls. The thing that costs you an arm and a leg is making calls. You should get one. That way they can call you from the station and piss you off even when you’re out.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Fenoglio replied, dismissing the subject. “How did you get this information about the phone bills?”

  “A friend at the phone company owed me a favour.”

  Fenoglio omitted to point out that this favour amounted to an offence. It wasn’t the first and it wouldn’t be the last in this investigation. They were deep inside the grey area.

  “You know the most interesting thing?” Pellecchia went on.

  “What?”

  “Before, the two of them spoke on the phone five times a day. After the kidnapping of the boy, the calls became less frequent until they almost stopped completely. Since then, there’ve been just nine calls between them, always from Savicchio’s phone. And all very short, less than a minute.”

  “Did you find anything else?”

  “Ambrosini gave us a good description of Ruotolo. People who saw him a few days ago say he’s going around like a tramp. He never used to be like that. A bit of a pain in the arse, but a good-looking guy, always well dressed, sometimes in expensive things.”

  “Which —”

  “Wait, now comes the most interesting part. You know what a colleague from his team told me?”

  “What?”

  “Ruotolo has been seen in the cemetery several times in the last few weeks.”

  Fenoglio took a few seconds to process the information. “The cemetery where the Grimaldi boy is buried?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did this colleague find out?”

  “From the police.”

  “The police?”

  “The flying squad has the cemetery under surveillance because of a gang of guys who deal there. They saw Ruotolo there several times, and as some of them knew him they wondered what he was doing there. And I mean, several times. An inspector from the flying squad talked to a marshal from Ruotolo’s team … Are you following me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyway, they asked how come this Ruotolo was going to the cemetery so often. They wanted to know if his team were doing an investigation and if that was why he was there. They were worried that some of the dealers would notice him and that would ruin their work, or worse, that it would all end up with a shootout, like two years ago.”

  Fenoglio remembered that episode well. The police and the Carabinieri had both managed to track down the perpetrators of an attempted extortion. The problem was that neither body knew of the other’s investigation. And they had all taken up position, ready to catch the criminals red-handed just as the money was being handed over. There was a shootout; one of the criminals and one of the carabinieri were wounded and only narrowly escaped death.

  “The marshal in charge of the team called Ruotolo, and asked him if he’d had a bereavement. He told him that showing his face in the cemetery was causing problems.”

  “And what did Ruotolo say?”

  “He stammered something about someone close to him who’d died recently and assured him that he was going to stop these visits anyway.”

  “Someone close to him who’d died recently,” Fenoglio repeated.

  “That’s right.”

  “Isn’t it possible it’s some relative of his?”

  “Ruotolo is from the province of Avellino. He doesn’t have any relatives in the cemetery in Bari.”

  “You’ve already checked?”

  “Yes.”

  From the courtyard a siren sounded briefly, two notes and that was it. As if someone had pressed a button by mistake.

  “It was them, Pietro.”

  “It was them.”

  “Let’s go and get him and turn the screws on him.”

  Fenoglio stood up, grabbed his jacket and went to the door.

  “What are you doing?” Pellecchia said.

  “I have to think. See you later.”

  11

  At least three or four times a year, Fenoglio was in the habit of visiting the City Art Gallery. As far as he was concerned, the place was one of the mysteries of Bari: a museum full of beautiful works by great artists, where there was never anybody around. Every time he went there, he counted the number of visitors. The most he had ever counted was eight.

  It was something he couldn’t understand, something that made him angry. It seemed absurd to him that such riches should be somehow hidden, wasted. On the other hand, with the passing of time, he had started thinking of the gallery as a kind of private collection of his own and enjoying the privilege of these solitary visits. It was only three minutes on foot, at an unhurried pace, from the station. He went there when he was tired, when he wanted to think in peace, or even just to take another look at one of the works he liked most.

  That afternoon the gallery was quite crowded, by its usual standards. There was a man in his fifties observing the works of the Apulian masters through a magnifying glass and scribbling in a notebook, and a small group of five German tourists moving from one room to another, somewhat incredulous at the privilege of having a museum all to themselves.

  Fenoglio did a quick tour of his favourite works from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, lingering as usual over a small oil by Silvestro Lega – Reading – which had always seemed to him a perfect painting. Then he went and sat down in front of a painting by Felice Casorati – a girl in an armchair – which was a minor obsession of his.

  Who was this adolescent with the precocious circles under her eyes? What was she looking at outside the painting, behind the painter? What had she understood, young as she was, that gave her that melancholy awareness?

  As he did during every visit, Fenoglio wondered what kind of job he would have to do – oil tycoon, film producer, industrialist? – to afford a collection like this. But when it came down to it, he often told himself, what is a collector’s greatest pleasure? Having his works within easy reach and being able to look at them over and over, whenever he likes. In other words, the same thing he was doing now, but for the small price of an entrance ticket.

  After studying Casorati’s girl for about ten minutes without solving the mystery, he decided that the moment had come to get his head back to questions of work.

  Had it really been those two? Probably, yes. It was hard to see what had emerged so far as merely an accumulation of coincidences. In any case, it didn’t look as if there was any alternative to the simple plan of trying to put Ruotolo on the spot and urging him to cooperate. Simple and risky. If Ruotolo didn’t break down – or if he had nothing to do with the affair, which was unlikely but not impossible – he and Pellecchia would be in serious trouble. In the last few days they had conducted an investigation against fellow carabinieri without informing their superiors and without putting anything in writing.

  If Ruotolo were to confess, all these irregularities would fade into the background, nobody would notice, and nobody would ask for an explanation. But if he didn’t, they would have to provide a lot of explanations, and in all probability they wouldn’t be enough. Picking up Ruotolo, taking him somewhere – but where? – and giving him the third degree, without a lawyer present and without any legal guarantees, would involve at least three or four serious offences, from kidnapping to abuse of office.

  He thought, almost inadvertently, that he would have liked to discuss this with Serena. They had almost never talked about his investigations, but whenever they had, she’d always had a few ideas, mostly just thrown out as casual observations. For a moment, he felt something like a sense of breathlessness at the awareness of his loss.

  In investigations, there are rules of various kinds. There are legal rules, rules of investigative method and rules of opportunity. The most important, though, have to do with awareness, which, if you think about it, are valid for any activity.

  Not lying to yourself (lying
to others is inevitable), not making it personal (the very concept expressed by the barman Nicola), not getting too fond of your own conjectures, not abusing your own power. These are rules of behaviour, and in order to respect them you have to be aware of a fundamental truth: sooner or later, you will break all of them. You’re always walking a thin line, where balance is precarious. You always have to be on to avoid slipping and falling on the wrong side.

  None of this concerns you if all you do is stamp reports and check that the statistics are up to date.

  In fact, there’s another rule – Fenoglio would not have said it out loud for fear of appearing rhetorical – which is the most important of all: you always have to do your best. He remembered a quotation – who was it by? He couldn’t remember – that Serena had liked very much: if one is forever cautious, can one remain a human being?

  His reflections finished with that phrase.

  He left the gallery about an hour after going in. He felt serene, like someone who has made a decision and now just needs to put it into effect. The most difficult part was over. Before going home, he would call an old friend and ask for a favour, so that he could proceed in comparative tranquillity. The next day, he and Pellecchia would pick up Ruotolo and do what needed to be done.

  That was all.

  He told himself that Serena would approve of his incautious plan, and the thought made him absurdly cheerful.

  12

  Ruotolo was a tall young man with an athletic build. He was walking with his head down, dragging his feet; he wore cotton trousers that were too big for him and an un-ironed polo shirt.

  He saw Fenoglio and Pellecchia when he was about twenty yards from his front door, where they were waiting for him. He stopped and for a few moments appeared about to turn and walk away. Then he must have thought that wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “Hi, Ruotolo, what are you doing around here?” Pellecchia said in a cheerful tone.

  “I live here,” Ruotolo replied cautiously. There was something weak and evasive in his features. His lips quivered, a sign that Fenoglio had learned to associate with those who are inclined to bully the weak and be submissive towards the strong.

  “Imagine that. There was me thinking: that’s my colleague Ruotolo, he’s on foot, we have a car, let’s give him a lift.”

  “Thanks, but I live here.” He made a move towards the door. Pellecchia blocked his way.

  “What are you doing at home at this hour, Ruotolo? Aren’t you on duty?”

  “I’m convalescing.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that. Have you been ill?”

  Ruotolo nodded without conviction. Then he looked around, as if to size up the situation.

  “It’s true, you don’t look too good. Sorry to be nosey, but what exactly’s the matter?”

  “Headaches. I get these really bad headaches.”

  “Right. Isn’t an aspirin enough? I don’t know, whenever I get a headache I take an aspirin or an ibuprofen and after a while it goes.”

  “These aren’t normal headaches.”

  “Come on, don’t make that face, we’re not the tax people. What’s this kind of headache called? A cluster headache?”

  “How did you know —”

  “Hey, Ruotolo, don’t get excited. What’s our job? We’re carabinieri, aren’t we? We like to be informed about everything, you should know that. You know a lot of things, too, I bet. Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better now. Have you been out for a walk?”

  “Yes, I —”

  “Have you been to the cemetery by any chance?”

  “The cemetery? Why —”

  “Just a guess. You look to me like someone who goes to the cemetery.”

  Ruotolo said nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Ruotolo, I don’t remember your first name.”

  “Antonio.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Look, why don’t we go for a nice ride? We’ll have a coffee, you can relax a bit. Maybe we’ll also have a bit of a chat.”

  “No, thanks. I have to get home.”

  Pellecchia went closer to him. He was smiling, but his eyes were half closed and motionless. He took one of Ruotolo’s arms, just above the elbow, and squeezed it. Ruotolo made an attempt to break free, but Pellecchia squeezed harder. This was the first, delicate phase. Fenoglio held himself ready, in case Ruotolo retaliated. Nobody would want to come to blows with Pellecchia – you just had to look at him – but Ruotolo was a martial arts expert.

  It wasn’t necessary to intervene.

  “Come with us,” Pellecchia said, and led him towards the car, still holding him by the arm.

  Fenoglio walked with them, placing himself on the other side of Ruotolo. Anyone seeing them would have thought they were arresting him.

  Getting out of the car, Fenoglio grabbed the copy of the Penal Code he had brought with him. Outside the main entrance, they found the station’s commanding officer waiting for them. They were in the middle of the Murge, at a height of thirteen hundred feet. It was warmer here than in Bari.

  “Hi, Michele.”

  “Hi, Pietro.”

  Marshal Michele Iannantuono was of medium height, very sturdy, his shaved head attached directly to his shoulders without the mediation of a neck, his blue eyes somewhat Slav. He was a good carabiniere, a fine person, and a dog lover: in his free time, he trained Alsatians.

  He and Fenoglio had attended officers’ school together and they had remained friends ever since. When his old classmate had called to ask if he could use a room in his station – a large building, recently built – for something connected with a private investigation, he hadn’t asked any questions.

  He led them down deserted corridors to a windowless room used for records. Apart from metal shelving filled with folders, there were a desk with an ordinary looking armchair and a few wooden chairs against the wall. Fenoglio placed the code well in view on a clear surface.

  Iannantuono asked him if he needed anything. He said, no, thank you, Michele, he was fine like this. Michele gave an imperceptible bow and withdrew.

  “Sit down, Tonio,” Pellecchia said. “They do call you Tonio, don’t they?”

  “No.”

  “What do they call you, then?”

  Ruotolo didn’t reply.

  “I think they call you Tony. Tony Ruotolo. A nice name, like a Neapolitan singer. I can just see the posters. An evening with the great Tony Ruotolo presenting his latest autobiographical album: Underworld Boy.” Pellecchia burst out laughing. It was scary.

  “Sit down,” Fenoglio said, pushing a chair towards him. Ruotolo sat down and Fenoglio did the same. Pellecchia remained standing.

  “So, do you want to tell us anything, Tony?” Pellecchia put the emphasis on the name – Tony – and uttered it in a tone of condescension, of fake benevolence, as if it were an insult.

  “I don’t know what —”

  The slap was launched, neither too fast nor too slow. It described a precise, geometric trajectory, from high to low, because Pellecchia was on his feet and Ruotolo sitting. It landed full on Ruotolo’s face, covering it completely, from the chin to the ear. A pianist stretching to a full octave, Fenoglio thought, unable to control the thought.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” Then, to Fenoglio: “Maybe I ought to worry now, because this guy’s a martial arts champion. What if he loses his temper?”

  Ruotolo tried to stand. Pellecchia pushed him back down onto his chair.

  “Stay in your seat, Ruotolo,” Fenoglio said. “Do you have any idea why we’re here?”

  Ruotolo shook his head, avoiding his gaze. If body language were admissible as evidence, that gesture alone would be a confession.

  “We hear you’ve been going to the cemetery quite a lot in the last few weeks. Have we been given the wrong information?”

  “Is it forbidden to go to the cemetery?”

  “No, of course it isn’t forbidden. Maybe you’d like to tell us whose grave you went to see? Because unless I’m mistaken you come fr
om the province of Avellino. Do you have any loved ones in the cemetery in Bari?”

  Ruotolo searched for something to say, but nothing came.

  “Let me ask you the question again,” Pellecchia said. “Do you want to tell us anything? For example: how you kidnapped that boy, how he died, what you and your friend did with the money.”

  “You can’t do this. You’re illegally detaining an officer of the Carabinieri. You laid your hands on me. You’re going to be in real trouble, I’ll see to that.”

  Pellecchia turned to Fenoglio. “You see, chief? We have a real tough guy here. You kept saying: I’m sure that poor son of a bitch is sorry for kidnapping and murdering a ten-year-old boy. We’ll just have to ask him and he’ll help us, because he wants to clear his conscience. But I kept saying: no, no. Ruotolo is a tough guy. And now you see: he said he’ll make sure we get in trouble. We even laid our hands on him. Which isn’t done, is it, Ruotolo? You’ve never lifted a finger to anybody, have you? Never touched some poor bastard of a junkie, have you?”

  Before Ruotolo could even think of an answer, the next slap hit him, followed by a backhander. Both much stronger than before. The image remained motionless, suspended for a few seconds. It occurred to Fenoglio that they were hitting a carabiniere. Not stopping it, while having the power to do so, is equivalent to inflicting the blow. The two of them were hitting him, even if Fenoglio hadn’t raised a finger.

  “That’s enough now,” he said. “Go and smoke a cigar.” Pellecchia let out a whistle, letting the air pass through a crack between his upper incisors and his lower lip. He turned and left the room.

  Fenoglio moved his chair closer to Ruotolo. The marks left by the slaps were quite visible. It crossed his mind that he would have liked to slap him, too. Not to make him talk. To vent his anger. Because this man was a carabiniere and had done what he had done.

  “What are you thinking?” he said. “Do you think we’re playing good cop, bad cop?” Saying this, he placed a hand on his shoulder. “You think that Pellecchia’s the bad cop and I’m the good one. I know you think that, but it isn’t so. He gave you a few slaps, but I’m the one who’s really going to destroy you.”