by Aidan Conway
He began opening drawers and cupboards. Some were locked. The others were filled with the usual bundles of paperwork one was, by law, forced to accumulate. In the bedroom there were little chests of drawers with jewellery and nick-knacks, a stopped watch, a sea-shell from a place he couldn’t quite remember. In the wardrobe he delved deep into hampers of rolled up stockings and underwear. Another time, he might have lingered over the slick fabrics, the lightly grazing gauzes and lace trims, but now he searched. There were boxes inside boxes, medicines, a travel hair-dryer, and a shoebox closed with a length of yellow ribbon. He undid it and lifted the lid. Letters, perhaps a hundred letters, folded and tied into bundles and all in Russian. Get them all translated? And maybe they’d tell him nothing.
But there could still be some useful information that had never come to light when Yana had escaped from the hell she’d been living all those years ago. But, now, as then, he wanted to protect her and that had been the price to pay. Maybe he had allowed love to get in the way of procedure, sacrificing for Yana’s sake the freedom and even the lives of other unknown girls. Perhaps some poor soul chained to a radiator in a dank Roman cellar, living as a sex-slave, or others being shipped across the continent still believing their dreams of becoming dancers or actresses were going to come true.
Rossi knew he had saved many and he had rightly been praised for doing so but the snakehead had evaded him. He knew Yana might have been able to tell them more but he’d held back, to spare her. He’d also been boxing shadows because someone higher in the chain of command was in it up to his neck and the mafias always got their cut too. Or they ran arms and drugs operations on the same guaranteed routes. The silk-road, they called it, because it was so profitable and so smoothly run. Then there were the officials pocketing bribes and turning blind eyes first to the trafficking from Eastern Europe and then from the Middle East and Africa.
Rossi closed the box. He was shaking, sweating, his mind was racing out of control. It must have been the post-trauma stress catching up with him and which the alcohol had set free. He shoved back the drawer as if trying to cauterize the source of his mania. This grand theorizing over plots and conspiracies was clouding his judgement, making him cynical, yet his instinct was telling him that the plot had thickened. His father had always said to look out for instinct and then to nurture it. It was something like inspiration, he used to say, not a thing to be forced. But you also had to let negativity and frustration run their course until you got to the end of what seemed a dark and endless tunnel. Then, even before you saw the light, you might begin to feel a little difference in the air, a freshness, a breath.
He sat down on the crisply made bed. Thinking of plots and Iannelli’s theories had set him thinking, too, about the other side of the case and that Spinelli now had to be in the clear. If the attacker was still on the loose it seemed the only plausible conclusion to reach. And then there were the lab tests on the Rohypnol theory. He’d have to get in touch with Carrara. A dart of panic struck again as he realized he’d clean forgotten about his colleague. He reached for his phone then stopped. He was off the case! He didn’t have to radio in and, despite the force of his hardwired habits, he allowed himself, obliged himself, to stop.
He’d take the night off. A night off from himself. He could stay here, send out for a takeaway. Or maybe it was better to go out and be with people and for a fraction of a second his mind tricked him into thinking of calling Yana. He finished the whiskey and walked back through the flat to the lounge. He flicked on the TV. The usual rubbish. He ploughed through the channels in search of something if not decent, watchable, but it was even later than he’d thought. Hospitals could devour time as much as police work. So, too late for takeaway. Unlike London and New York, Rome was, perhaps sensibly, a city that slept.
He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, his stomach giving tentative indications of need though he had no mental appetite. There was an end of salami, some olives, a jar of gherkins, a couple of pieces of cheese. He opened up cupboards. A half bottle of Montepulciano. Not the best but it would help to get it down. Then, as if he and everything he touched weighed heavier than concrete, he put a pot of water on the stove and fried a little garlic in olive oil. He switched on the 24-hour news channel for company and while the pasta was cooking he snacked on salami and drank the smooth, rich wine. When the pasta was done, he tossed it into the frying pan and added a generous dose of dried chilli and a grating of pecorino cheese. Pasta agl’oglio, al Rossi.
He topped up his glass and plonked himself onto the couch for a TV dinner. On RAI 5 a documentary was about to begin. Rory Gallagher. He was almost too exhausted now to worry. Still it was only with an effort of will that he allowed himself to actually rest and after a bout of mental wrestling and yet more replaying of what had happened, what he could have done to avoid it, what he was going to do next, and the life that lay ahead of him, he allowed himself the one simple mercy of not thinking anymore about anything. He turned the volume up as high as he could as Rory’s Telecaster blues kicked in. Well, like a bad penny you’ve … turned up again. But for Rossi the penny was yet to drop.
Twenty-Four
True to form, Carrara had been hoovering up info and following leads with the natural diligence for which Rossi valued him so highly, his sweeper, his very own Franco Baresi. Rossi himself had woken up a little late but feeling the better for a few hours of decent sleep. He had slept on the couch until waking with a start at 3 a.m., decamping then to the bedroom. His head was not giving him any particular trouble and he took a bracing hot and cold shower then tidied himself up as best he could. He would soon make the short trip to the hospital, and getting his thoughts in order in that respect was the more difficult undertaking.
When he phoned, Carrara, ever courteous, had first enquired about Yana before moving on to the case. Again, there were no witnesses. Yana, it seemed, had her reflexes and self-defence skills to thank, managing to deflect the blows sufficiently to save her life until something unknown caused her assailant to flee. But Carrara had kept the most interesting news till last.
“Another note?” said Rossi.
“Found at the Marini scene. It was under a car some distance from the body. Possibly dropped in the confusion, if it was a rushed job, which is what it seems to have been. It was picked up after we’d left the garage.”
“Could be a fake, a hoaxer.”
“It looks consistent with the other notes.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Maroni’s got it. I managed to extract the info out of one of my lads on his team. Seems he wanted to keep it to himself.”
“And?” said Rossi.
“And what?”
“What does it say?”
Carrara cleared his throat.
“English, again.”
Then, as if reading from his notes,
“‘Damn you rotters! I’ll be the last!’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Rossi turned the phrase over in his mind, scanning for clues. The last. A shoemaker’s last, a sort of anvil? Something to do with the hammer, the murder weapon. A trade perhaps? And the rotters? Putrefaction? Decay? He was looking for a way in but he also knew he was rushing at it, like a novice, and he didn’t want to fall for the any-port-in-a-storm solution. Besides, a note always had to be taken with a pinch of salt.
“How’s work going on the psychological profile?” Rossi asked.
“Fairly standard fare, Mick.”
No. He’d get on to that himself later. After the hospital. After he’d decided what to do about the other issue.
“Mick, are you there?”
Carrara’s voice from far-off jolted Rossi back to attention.
“Thinking, Gigi. Just thinking.”
Rossi could tell from the tone that there was more.
“Is there anything else, Gigi?” he enquired, steeling himself for a blow of probably medium to high intensity.
&n
bsp; “Ah, yes. The tests. The Rohypnol.”
“Go on. Don’t tell me it’s negative.”
“Worse, actually.”
“How worse?”
“Disappeared worse.”
“Disappeared!”
“The sample’s gone walkabout. No-one knows where. A ‘bureaucratic mix-up’, apparently. Could be days, could be weeks as things have been farmed out to private labs here there and everywhere.”
Rossi let out a deep sigh. He knew it! They were scuppering the investigation at every turn now, or at least stalling it, just to keep Spinelli in. It wasn’t the first time that key evidence had been tampered with or “accidentally contaminated” or had vanished from the face of the earth.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings and all that,” said Carrara, as crestfallen as Rossi to see the inexorable unravelling of what they had considered a tight operation. Their operation.
“We’re going to need extra help on this one, Gigi,” said Rossi. “The odds are stacking up against us. Have you got any ideas?”
“An early lunch?” Carrara replied.
Rossi glanced at his watch. There was time to see Yana in the morning and go through some more case files.
“Where?”
“At Rosario’s.”
“Can I bring a friend?” Rossi enquired.
“If you can find one.”
Rossi almost laughed for the first time in he didn’t know how long.
“I’ll start looking,” he said. “After all, I’ve got nothing else to do, have I?”
“That’s the spirit,” said Carrara. “Chin up. Corraggio, eh?”
Courage, thought Rossi, steeling himself now as his journey to the hospital neared. He was going to need it and in spades.
He checked his watch. 2.20 p.m. Crowds spewed out of the Metro stop and onto the pavement, colliding with one another as they got lungfuls of relatively fresh air and tried to get their bearings having found themselves suddenly face-to-face with one of the wonders of the ancient world. That and a cacophonous din of the Roman traffic zipping up and down along the Foro Imperiali, with single-decker buses jockeying for position as the homeward-wending locals tried to secure a seat in the customary scrum around the doors. The traffic police had taken over where the lights had for some reason gone haywire and Fulvio Mirante, carabiniere on security detail, tried his best to marshal the sheep-like hordes of tourists out of harm’s way and towards safety as yet another contingent headed in the opposite direction down into the station. A few more signs in English might have made things easier, he reflected, as the tourists stumbled along the labyrinthine passageways or battled with the ticket machines and the pickpockets loitering and also keen to get in on the act.
He made a quick call on his radio. “Group of thieves heading down your way. Head ’em off at the pass, will you?” They were professionals, kids, no more than ten or eleven and trained by their Fagin-like guardians to gather maximum returns on this most profitable stretch of the tourist trail. The Colosseum metro stop was a must for anyone on a sightseeing trip and arriving on their first or second days, their wallets were bulging as their eyes gorged on the wonders to behold. The wise tucked their valuables in money belts inside zipped hideaways, but there were always enough with the devil-may-care attitude of the naive to keep it a happy hunting ground. Fulvio checked his watch. It had been a hard shift and he had been busy already dealing with a dispute between some tourists and travelling salesmen over the price of a selfie-stick that had ended up with their coming to blows.
The crowd ebbed and flowed as he kept his eyes peeled and his radio at the ready. His brief was to maintain a presence, for what it was worth, given the growing fears regarding the security situation. It puts people’s minds at rest, they said, to see a uniform. It’s psychological. So he was here to make people feel better, rather than putting his detective skills to work on finding this killer. That was all on hold, for now, though. Despite his having eased through the preliminary tests and examinations, his superior had passed on the news that the next stage was temporarily – he hoped – on ice. Cuts, redeployment, jargon, you name it. So promotion was going to have to wait for now. His wife had been philosophical, consoling, as always. Your time will come, Fulvio. Every dog has its day. You’ll be running the place before too long. He smiled to himself as tourists gorged on overpriced takeaway pizza and he wondered what he might have for his own now rather late lunch.
Another sightseer bearing a large, poorly folded street map resembling some sort of oversized origami and wearing shades and a baseball cap was weaving his way towards him through the crowd. What did they say? Ask a policeman if you get lost. Well, here he was, the detective-quality tourist guide. “Yes sir,” he began, professional as ever, as the tall stranger neared, seemingly engrossed now in the map, before looking up, pulling out a gun complete with silencer and blowing a hole through the historic centre. Then, as Fulvio crumpled to the ground, his assailant stood over him and followed up with two more shots to the chest to finish the job.
Twenty-Five
There had been no change in Yana’s condition. Neither better nor worse. He talked to her, trying to steer clear of the case but it was difficult now she was such an intrinsic part of it, of his world. At least they had posted a 24-hour armed guard on the door. He wondered again about her daughter and why she had never told him. He tried, with the aid of hindsight, to piece together parts of the puzzle, but it didn’t make things any clearer. Would the girl show up? Interpol had put out an appeal for her to come forward. They had nothing to go on other than a name – Anya – and an old address, presumably that of her adoptive parents, yet it had all drawn a blank so far. Progress was slow, in such cases, even with good information. Yana’s mother and stepfather, not possessing even a telephone, had not been reached. Rossi knew, however, that since Yana had left, they had consigned her fate to destiny and the intercession of the icons her mother venerated in their home deep in the wooded Ukrainian wilderness. At least that was the picture Yana had always painted for him.
Lunch with Carrara, though excellent, had been a muted affair. Everything was on hold and they were both letting the frustration get to them. They agreed to keep each other informed of any developments, but neither could see how they were going to make a breach. They went over it again. There were no witnesses, no murder weapon found, no reliable forensic matches with known criminals, and only the most circumstantial of motives attached to suspects, at least in the case of Marini. But they agreed that the attack on Yana had to be a clear message for Rossi. It could have been anyone, considering all the people he’d put away, but ploughing through the records to jog a memory would be another all-nighter, another coffee-fuelled slog that might then come to naught.
After lunch, Rossi had done some essential shopping partly to stop himself from mulling over the case, despite being on leave, before then driving back to the hospital for afternoon visiting hours. The traffic had been insane, again, and he had heard even more sirens than usual coming from all directions and converging on somewhere near the centre and a helicopter circling too. Instinct had kicked in. For once, though, he had decided to let it pass. I’m off duty, he had told himself. I’ve got enough on my plate.
The doctors had suggested he might profitably read to Yana, so he had done that too. It was something to pass the time for him but, as far as he could see, it had no discernible effect on her. He had stopped, put the book down and closed his eyes for a few minutes.
He woke with a start. He must have dropped off. He looked up, it was getting gloomy outside, competing with the gloom he was nurturing inside, but which was turning more and more to anger. He sat there for a few moments in silence as her bed-bound form dissolved into the invading darkness. He reached out to turn on a light. If only it were so easy. Then, after kissing her dry, motionless lips, he took his leave once more.
Then, on what he told himself was a whim, but which owed more to his not really knowing what to do with h
imself, he decided to drop in at the office. He slipped in through a secondary entrance to keep contact to a minimum but still encountered a familiar if not welcome face.
“And what brings you here, Rossi?”
It was Silvestre, loitering with intent.
“Thought you’d been seconded to ClearTech,” Rossi replied.
“Oh, just tying up some loose ends. Traffic violations and the like.”
“Me too,” replied Rossi. “Funny that, isn’t it?”
Satisfied with the opacity of his retort he left Silvestre scratching his scrawny chin and none the wiser before climbing the couple of flights of steps to the Incident Room and his office. What he wanted was to lift some old case files without anyone in either Silvestre’s or Maroni’s area knowing about it. As he pushed through the swing doors at the far end of the room he then wished he hadn’t bothered.
What the hell was going on? Everyone who was anyone was on a war footing and swearing blue murder. What was he doing here? So he must have heard. He hadn’t? They’d shot a carabinieri near the Colosseum. Who? No idea. Un pazzo. A madman. Melted into the crowds. Point-blank, in the face too, and no apparent motive. Only had to go and shoot a guy who’s got a wife and kids too, just for good measure. Bastardo. When they got him he was going to pay. They’d rip him apart.
Rossi felt numb, tired, and confused. One thing he was sure of was that he was relieved not to have to add this to his to-do list. Shouldn’t he have been feeling what they were feeling? A colleague gunned down on the street in cold blood. But none of it was registering. He managed to ghost through to his office and pick up what he’d been looking for. He slipped away by a back exit, unseen this time, and headed to Yana’s. After an uninspired attempt at dining, he set about trying to finish his investigations into her affairs then spent the rest of the evening revisiting the villains of his past. They were legion and it was no pleasant trip down memory lane.