A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  And then she shuddered, but not because of the water as she recalled the anonymous note that had arrived just a few weeks before.

  N***er lover. Bitch. Whore. We know where you live.

  But she was tough, she had to be. But she was human too, and even her skin was only so thick. She also knew that the events of the previous winter – especially the body of the murdered African that she had tried so hard to get identified – still weighed on her conscience. She wondered again what might have become of Jibril, the young immigrant she was sure had some connection to the corpse he had viewed in her presence. But he had just disappeared then and the body had remained unclaimed.

  As she thought about it, it stung her conscience and the holiday suddenly seemed like another cowardly attempt to flee her responsibility, an extravagance she did not deserve.

  Driving in Rome in August was as close to a pleasure as it could ever get. Traffic was down to its annual minimum and a hint of space could finally be seen and felt. As Rossi looked out at the sky and its default-setting of blue, a little of his tension fell away. The air too felt cleaner, while colourful, carefree, smiling tourists seemed to mop up some more of his previous negativity with their languid sweep through the city. Tradition dictated that the lion’s share of the citizenry would be out of town for the whole month and the pervading feeling was usually one of mild and welcome liberation. In the suburbs away from the well-worn tourist trails every second shop had its shutter lowered. Closed for holidays. See you in September. But then there was also something final and obstinate about those shutters – like the sealed lips of a witness who will never speak, holding the secrets back, the unstated “Fuck You” if you want an answer. Try as he might to let the spirit of summers past dominate his thoughts, Rossi knew his work was just beginning.

  Carrara was waiting under a tree as Rossi approached. He held out his newspaper so Rossi could check the front page. They’d got their story but not all the facts. “A possible electrical fault” was one theory, and Rossi had made sure they kept a lid on the forensics, at least for now. As usual the man from Puglia was looking fit and focused in an apparently laid-back way. The years in undercover anti-mafia work had kept Carrara sharp and adaptable, and family life with kids had scarcely seemed to sap his energy.

  “Coffee?”

  Rossi glanced at his watch.

  “Why not?”

  The corner bar was the only one open within walking distance and catered mainly for the skeleton staffs of the nearby public offices and time-killing locals. Most offices had coffee machines on every floor and any employee worth their salt knew which was the best. Some had their own bars too, but there was nothing like leaving the office behind for the dark gunshot of an espresso to banish the morning lethargy. Some, however, lingered over a cappuccino or a caffè latte. There were even those that didn’t bother to go back to the office at all, having clocked in, and then went about their daily tasks with complete nonchalance until they saw fit to put in at least a token appearance before lunch.

  In the bar there was the usual hubbub and high-octane gossip; at peak times there would be the kind of crush more typical of a British pub on a Friday night than a café at ten o’clock in the morning. Fallen and discarded napkins and cornetti flakes littered the floor as Rossi and Carrara edged and nudged their way towards the counter to catch the bartender’s eye. Once they had been served their respective macchiato and espresso, they established themselves at a standing-only table in the corner.

  “So, do we have an appointment at the morgue or do we just walk in?” said Carrara stirring his espresso with energy. “Lallana will have been already, of course. Do you think they might consider it irregular?”

  Rossi stirred a half sachet of brown sugar into his macchiato.

  “We just say we have a wide brief to investigate all acts of arson and we’re cross-checking facts. Thoroughness never goes amiss and Lallana’s off it now anyway. Maroni’s busy with some internal audit business. I say we press ahead until we encounter an obstacle.”

  Carrara finished stirring his espresso.

  “But have you got a theory about this or are you going on instinct or what?”

  Rossi knocked back his coffee and waited for the rush.

  “The more we know the better. I don’t like taking the easy way out. All this open verdict stuff. That’s a gift to criminals and an affront to investigative police work. We have to eliminate any doubt about this being accidental, which it can’t have been, and then find out if there was more than blind racial hate behind it. So we need to get down to the hospital before they’ve forgotten all about this Ivan guy. He might have said something. Seen something. It has to be worth a try.”

  “And last night’s business? I’ve had some more info through on Okoli.”

  “Set up a chat with him. What does he do?”

  “Playwright, investigative journalist. Rubbed the government up the wrong way it seems.”

  “So a target or a coincidence?”

  “See what he has to say for himself,” Carrara replied. “I’ll give him a call.” He glanced at his watch. “Should be up and about by now.”

  He moved away from the babble and noise of the bar.

  A slim but strong woman, perhaps approaching forty but easily passing for five years younger, had seated herself at the bar to Rossi’s left. Her off-white summer dress was elegant without being provocative, thus going against the dominant Roman trend which saw the season’s clothing often resembling more négligées than daywear. The dress’s broad straps framed a rich, evenly tanned rectangle between her shoulder blades.

  “He’s going to swing by the Questura later,” said Carrara returning to the table. “Any news on Iannelli, by the way?” he said, recapturing Rossi’s attention.

  “Iannelli?” said Rossi with a pronounced exhalation. “It’s going to be a steep learning curve for Dario. Life under 24-hour police escort. I don’t know if he’s realized yet how tough it will be.”

  Dario Iannelli, investigative reporter, Rossi’s long-time friend and confidante, and now with a Mafia contract out on his life. He had made it big with his scoop on high-level corruption during The Carpenter case, but had fallen foul of Cosa Nostra and had been fortunate to escape a car bomb with his life.

  The woman had finished her coffee and, rising from her stool, appeared to make for the exit, but then stopped, as if struck by some sudden realization.

  “Excuse the intrusion,” she said, moving back and then coming alongside Rossi and Carrara’s table. “But I couldn’t help overhearing something. You mentioned Dario Iannelli. The journalist.”

  “Yes,” said Rossi. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he began and reached out to take her hand. “Inspector Michael Rossi. And this is Inspector Luigi Carrara.”

  As Carrara turned to take her hand, he too was struck by her unostentatious elegance.

  “Well, yes. Maybe there is.” She glanced around at the chattering clientele. “Could we talk somewhere, in private. But perhaps not in my office. I work at the hospital of legal medicine. The mortuary to be exact.”

  Four

  “If I don’t get the job this time then we go, right?” said Francesco. “We pack our bags and leave Italy for good.”

  Paola replied on the other end of the line with the usual consternation.

  “Where?” she said. “Where do we go? I mean do you have an idea, a plan?”

  Francesco let out a sigh.

  “To Spain, to Ireland, or Germany, or anywhere a researcher can make a decent living. Anywhere where they appreciate and value me for my knowledge and experience not just my loyalty and my contacts or my family connections.”

  It was the old story. She knew it but didn’t want to hear it, and he was tired of telling her.

  “But what about Mum and Dad? And your mother on her own?” she shot back.

  It was true that it would be a wrench, a sacrifice for him too, but he had decided.

  “Paola, I’ve ha
d enough! I’m going to grow old here trying to get a job in the university, don’t you see? I want to settle down. I want us to settle down and have children. Then we see. And I want you to be able to choose whether or not you want to go back to work, not get thrown on the scrapheap at forty because you’ve had a kid. If we go abroad you can have that chance.”

  There was a long pause. He could hear the random noises of a train station in the background. She’d called to wish him well but the conversation had turned sour. But he had to get it out in the open.

  “I’ll call you later, when it’s over,” he said, with little real conviction. He wanted to be alone.

  He finished his coffee and bit on a breakfast biscuit then went over again the possible questions they could ask him, trying to conjure the unforeseen from thin air, the unseen questions in the envelopes they would proffer him, smiling at him from behind the desk they so loved to interpose between themselves and the mere mortals in the other, real world. The uninitiated, the hopeful, the desperate.

  So this was to be the last Concorso. He had decided. The Concorso or “public competition” was, in theory, an open, transparent method of selecting candidates for positions in state bodies or for publicly funded research projects. You applied, sending off the forms and all the relevant paperwork and then you were called to take an exam. Then you got to the interview, which was when they could do what they wanted.

  He had been from pillar to post, to deliver conference papers, often at his own expense, to take low-paid temporary teaching positions in this or that university, to win a research grant, which meant he could live just above the breadline for a year. And then when the money ran out? Back to square one. In and out of offices. Up and down the country. Moving. Moving back. Working for free. This was the life of the researcher who could not count on patronage, or a powerful relative, or a favour due from on high. This was the life of that singular and sorry category of person who was not a raccomandato – not “recommended” for a job or a grant. Not useful for someone. Not worthy of being a token to flip across the baize in their feudal game.

  He didn’t want to leave Italy, but he had tasted freedom once and had liked it. For the six month post he had been awarded in San Francisco, after he had completed his PhD, the university had contacted him! They came looking for his expertise after they had seen his research. They had decided to go to the States together, and Paola had then had to persuade her parents, old-style Catholics that they were, that the cohabitation abroad would be a prelude to marriage. They went. The wedding, however, had remained on hold.

  They had not committed themselves to a longer stay as Paola was less keen to tear up her roots in the old country. So they had come back, hoping to make a go of it and use the experience gained to get a leg-up. He had been obliged to make the expected compromises – working for free, waiting, biding his time. But he had believed that it might just be worth it. That there would be an outlet in Italy for his ideas. Now the nagging fear always at the back of his mind had become the simple realization that he had been wrong.

  And it could all have been so different. He had done his compulsory military service in the carabinieri, the military branch of the police, and had enjoyed it, thriving on its culture of rigour and seriousness and dedication to duty. He’d also been drawn to the increasing use of technology, science, and psychology for the solving and prevention of crimes. So much so that after his initial one-year conscription he had signed on for another one as a paid, working recruit. He hadn’t wanted to fall back on his parents again. That would have been the easy way out; whereas he enjoyed a challenge, like when he was in the mountains with his friends and he would head for the highest peaks. He wasn’t content with the view of the top from halfway up.

  Francesco got up from the breakfast bar in the kitchen and began closing all the windows despite the heat. He was cautious, prudent, suspicious of the opportunist ready to exploit any weakness in their defences. His family had always expected him to pursue an academic career, their view being that the police force and the army were for those who didn’t have it in them to go any further. They were also institutions tainted by their association with the “regime”. They had been a well-respected and quietly influential family until the fascists had seized power before the war, something which had set in motion their gradual decline towards irrelevance. Yet they had clung on to some of the trappings, the values, the pride, the culture. As for what had actually happened back then, Francesco didn’t know the details but, according to his mother, it was something that had continued to rankle, at least for his father, while he had been alive.

  Five

  They left the bar and walked across the almost-deserted Piazza Verano, the nearby cemetery not visible but always a presence.

  “The park, perhaps,” she suggested, walking slightly ahead. “There are tables and it’s quiet now.”

  They stopped at a dark green art-deco kiosk and a wide esplanade where cast-iron tables occupied the space under the shade of several tall eucalyptus trees.

  “May we?” said Carrara, addressing a white-shirted and tieless employee moving about without particular urgency while a mop in a steaming bucket stood propped against some flower pots. The bar seemed in general disorder with teetering piles of ashtrays and cases of mineral water dumped here and there. His grudging nod of assent meant they were technically open for business.

  “The coffee’s not the best and gossip doesn’t travel well if it’s not in a confined space,” she commented. “So you can always count on getting some breathing space.”

  Rossi imagined that it was a commodity she was in need of.

  “Here?” he said, indicating the most isolated corner and the cleanest-looking table and chairs. Their new guest gave her approval and Carrara was first to pull out a chair for her.

  “Well, gentlemen, I suppose now I should introduce myself,” she said, placing her light, coffee-coloured handbag on the table. “My name is Tiziana Belfonte. And as I said, I work in the hospital.”

  “And you have something you would like to tell us?” said Rossi. “With regard to Dario Iannelli.”

  “Well,” she began, “yes, but indirectly. It concerns a murder victim. An as yet unidentified murder victim.”

  “Do you mean from the Prenestina fire?” said Carrara.

  “No, actually. An earlier victim. The African murdered last winter. I have reason to believe Dario Iannelli may be in some way connected.”

  “Go on,” said Rossi. “We know something of the case, among others. It was a busy time.”

  “Well, it all goes back to the winter and when your colleagues were trying to identify the victim. His body has not been identified or claimed but sooner or later he will have to be buried: in a pauper’s grave, if no one comes forward. It’s policy I’m afraid and it’s all to do with the demands of cost and space.”

  “The fate of many,” said Rossi. “In this day and age.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I am afraid so. And not only migrants or foreigners. But the point I want to make is that someone did come forward to identify him. At least I thought he would make an identification but, as it turned out, it wasn’t to be.”

  An accumulation of guilt, perhaps, or unresolved doubts seemed to surface now, as her voice began to betray more emotion. Rossi knew the signs. The secret knowledge that could devour the thoughts of the well-intentioned and conscientious, just as it could eat away at the souls of the remorseful. This had been backing up for God knows how long and he wondered what trap she might have felt she was in.

  “Could you perhaps clarify what you mean by ‘it wasn’t to be’?” said Rossi.

  The waiter had begun his slow walk towards their table.

  “Perhaps we should order something,” said Rossi, noting the approach and sensing the need to ease the tension.

  “Tiziana?”

  “Oh, just water for me, thank you,”

  “Solo un’acqua minerale per la signora,” said Rossi dismissing
the waiter before he could materialize.

  “There’s no rush, Tiziana,” said Rossi. “Just tell me what you remember and then we’ll see what we can do. But when you are ready,” he added, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  She almost smiled and some of the rigidity in her elegant form softened. Plenty of men had put their hands on her in plenty of other situations, something she neither sought nor appreciated, but she didn’t find Rossi patronizing or threatening. He seemed genuine and she was warming to him already.

  “My job is very important to me, Inspector. I have considerable responsibility and I am the only woman in my department. I oversee the clerical side of things but I have become a de facto factotum, if you will.”

  “A sort of Girl Friday,” said Rossi. “The go-to person.”

  “It’s frequently the way, in the public sector.”

  Rossi gave a knowing nod. He sensed she didn’t have any sounding board in her work life.

  “Otherwise,” she continued, “nothing gets done and we would be doing a disservice to the citizens we are supposed to be there for. It doesn’t go down well with everyone, however, my attitude to work and duty, and I’ve had to put up with my fair share of bitching.”

  The water arrived, and Carrara filled her glass but Tiziana didn’t drink.

  “Anyway, that day, last winter, a young man came – I don’t remember the exact date but it’s all recorded in my diary. He was African and he said he was looking for his friend who he feared might have been murdered. He had no form of identification and the front office staff had given him the brush-off, while neglecting to inform me of his presence. It was common practice on their part. Trying to isolate me, trying to get me to slip up, withholding information, that sort of thing. However, I happened to be passing through the office – I had come to find a file or something – and I noticed the gentleman still waiting. I enquired as to who he might be and asked him to come with me and then I assessed the situation on the merits of his story. He seemed to have a genuine interest.”