A Known Evil

by Aidan Conway

  She and Giuseppe had been an item. Giuseppe had already been a part of that world, having made numerous visits to Spain, ostensibly for educational purposes, although Rossi was subsequently able to confirm that he had entered the underworld of heroin dealing and other illicit affairs. Giuseppe had met Rosa on one such visit but by the time Rossi got to Spain, cracks had appeared in the relationship and a few months later they had already split up. That was when she had come to live with Rossi in the house in Valencia’s Lonja area, via a chance encounter with one of his friends. They had all got off to a great start and before he knew it they had become close, then intimate, and finally, lovers.

  But step by step, inch by inch, Giuseppe had reappeared and wheedled his way back into her life, partly by means of his proximity to the drugs scene. At first Rossi had tolerated his presence, thinking in the naive way of the young and open-minded that they simply wished to remain friends. He soon realized, however, that this was not the real reason and even if she had still been attracted to Giuseppe her continued attachment was more closely tied up with her psychological dependence on him and his ready supply of stimulants and downers, which she needed to get through the day. But her need became insatiable and the remedies more drastic.

  She had hidden it from Rossi, and had hidden it well, but her mood changes and moments of unpredictability had already raised some suspicions. Then one day when paying her a surprise visit after afternoon classes had been cancelled he had learned the bleak truth of her enslavement. He had pushed open her door to find her sprawled naked on the floor amidst the paraphernalia of silver foil and heroin bags with a grinning Giuseppe, equally, if not more, stoned, slumped in the corner. From then on it became a brutal tug of war. He confronted her, and she flipped as her denial became total. She started using openly then, and Giuseppe was soon staying nights, finally moving in under the pretence of temporary economic hardship, as “a friend”. She began to distance herself more and more from the rest of the house, arguments ensued over rent and communal space and the odd couple finally departed under a cloud leaving only their debts behind. Rosa had continued to declare her love for him, justifying her connection to Giuseppe as an irrelevance, something she had no control over, but that he had to overlook, for her sake, if he loved her.

  Then there was the never-resolved issue of the two-bit dealer, known only to Rossi from his furtive activity around the lecture rooms and his subsequent disappearance culminating in the discovery of his mutilated corpse. Rumours abounded and not a few centred on Giuseppe, his supposed role in the affair, and the part played by much bigger fish; rumours which, though never substantiated, persisted. So, as the end of his stay approached, Rossi had broken it to Rosa that their story could have no future and then, unknown to her, had contacted her family, telling them everything he knew. Within a day, her father and brother had arrived to take her, kicking and screaming and swearing vengeance, back to their hometown to get clean. Giuseppe had been outmanoeuvred, while Rossi himself had arranged his own exit from the scene and that was the last he had seen of them all.

  It had been hard. He had liked Spain and had considered settling there, but circumstances meant that it wasn’t to be. He had gone back to Rome, completed his degree and tried to rebuild his life. He had lost his mother and father in quick succession – his father in an industrial accident and his mother not long after of grief. Being an only child, though well-adjusted and gregarious, he had slid into an existential crisis. It was then when he had been at a very low ebb and had even contemplated trying to find Rosa again that a chance encounter with a priest had perhaps saved him. He enrolled in the seminary and commenced studying to be a priest, his idea being to become a missionary and see the world. The memories of Rosa soon faded and the positive elements of a new life began to coalesce around him but he had soon realized that the contemplative life was not for him, as his discoveries of the inner workings of the Church clashed with his idea of what it should represent.

  That had been some twenty years before. He had left the seminary, travelled briefly, and then as the Tangentopoli scandal rocked the whole political establishment, he had seen that his true vocation lay in upholding the law in a country where the law was in danger of being swept aside. He had risen through the ranks and, despite quickly earning a reputation for idiosyncrasy and difficulty, they had needed his skills and he had got results. When the special divisions of the police and carabinieri and the financial police were brought together to form the Rome Serious Crime Squad, his had been among the first names on the list. He himself had brought in Carrara, seeing his courage, determination and honesty as qualities rarely found in one man. Now, as a man approaching the foothills of early middle-age, he was going back to close the story. Per farci una croce sopra. To plant a cross on it all. To bury the past for good.

  Rossi shoved the pages back into his shoulder bag. They were coming in to land.

  From the airport he took a taxi, then a local bus which brought him to the town. How quickly and easily he had sailed through security. The Schengen agreement meant he didn’t even have to show his passport. Have to do this more often, he thought. Get away from it all. From the bus in the watery light he was able to see beyond the modern outlying suburbs and motorway the unmistakeable Spanish Gothic steeple of Santiago de Compostela. Not this time, but next time he would stop for a proper holiday with Yana.

  He had phoned ahead and was met at his destination by a police officer who gave a cursory check of his credentials before wishing him well on his mission. Rossi made it clear that it was a personal matter but emphasized that should anything useful emerge he would be more than happy to help.

  “Muy bien,” said the Civil Guard, nodding, as if with some surprise. “Muy bien.” Rossi couldn’t help but notice a certain ambivalence in this type of “very well”. It was as if he had perhaps said too much and as such had given away his motives, thus weakening himself in the other’s eyes. Or maybe not. Maybe it was nothing at all. He produced the map he had printed for himself and followed the route traced in red pen and as he did so went over some of the information he had so far obtained. Trusted contacts at Interpol had furnished him with a good deal of the information he needed and in record time. Giuseppe had been convicted of various drug offences and exploiting prostitution, and although the implication was that there was much more and much worse, no police authority had ever been able to pin anything else on him. The suggestion was that he could boast of protection in high places with his old world Roman connections. He may well already have been capable, too, of exploiting his knowledge of other criminal secrets to effect necessary and timely blackmail. When he had been caught it was thanks to a tip-off but without testimony they’d had very little to go on. It was to be assumed that the tip-off had been from Rosa who had disappeared from circulation at around the same time although her whereabouts were known to the police.

  Rosa had initially got herself clean of drugs thanks to the efforts of her family only to be sucked back another time into Giuseppe’s world when he had again tracked her down. What then ensued had been a long and protracted purgatory for Rosa until she had managed to find the will and the courage to leave and disappear for good. Interpol had put Rossi in touch with Rosa’s sister, Laura, who was able to confirm beyond any doubt that it really was Rosa who had been murdered. Laura now lived in the same town on the Galician coast where she had moved when Rosa had finally broken her cover and managed to get a covert message to Laura telling her of her new life and asking her to come and live with her.

  According to Rossi’s contacts, they had lost all trace of her until she then reappeared as a murder victim all these years later. What had happened in the intervening period was still unclear. Rosa’s husband, having gone missing, remained the prime suspect. Among the working hypotheses was that she may have once again become entangled with Giuseppe although there was no evidence to suggest she had been taking drugs. There may have been a jealousy motive, her husband could even have disco
vered something, perhaps an affair, but as yet there was no proof either way. All they knew was that the revenge – if revenge it had been – had been vicious beyond belief.

  Rossi stopped and looked up to check the name of the street. He walked on until he found the number then rang the bell of the smallish house, one of a row of single-storey, villa-like dwellings set back from the road and facing the pines and yellowy, scrub-covered hill overlooking the sea. The door was opened by a slim, dark-haired woman, around forty, he thought, wearing close-fitting jeans and only a loose, long V-neck jumper.

  “Si?”

  “Soy Rossi.”

  “Soy Laura. Venga,” she replied and, standing aside, gestured to the inspector to enter.

  While she prepared coffee in silence, Rossi sat in the lounge. There was a small wooden table, a sofa, and easy chairs and in a far corner the dining area. She placed the tray between them and sank into the sofa opposite him but didn’t drink herself.

  “So, what is it that you want from me?”

  She had curled her legs under her and flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes. The likeness was there, that was for sure, but she was harder, tougher by far than her sister had ever been.

  “I wanted,” began Rossi, “to know what happened to Rosa during these past years, from someone who was close to her.”

  “You could have tried to reach her before.”

  Rossi hesitated.

  “I didn’t know where to look. Besides, you must remember, it was over between us and …”

  “And it is still ‘over’. Very over, now. Isn’t it?” she replied fixing him with an intense, rock-steady gaze.

  “I didn’t expect it to end this way,” Rossi countered. “I don’t think anyone ever imagines it will, do they? And I suppose I felt guilty, too. As if it was, in some sense, maybe partly my fault.”

  Laura was scrutinizing him. She reached behind a cushion for a handbag and rummaged for cigarettes contained therein. She took one, automatically offering one to Rossi. He didn’t think twice, despite not having smoked for years.

  “Do you know, Mr Rossi,” she said, “I think the best thing you could do would be to get on the first plane back to your little Italy and forget you ever met Rosa. What good can it do anyone, you being here? I’m sorry if you don’t like what I say but there is no point. We know who killed her. They may find him, they may not, but Rosa is gone and a family is in pieces. God knows if Emilio will return but I fear for the worst. Rosa was his life.”

  She almost spat the last word at him. The inspector in Rossi began to sense something, his instinct again was picking up signals but what? He would have to gain time.

  “So she was happy, at least. That’s good to know.”

  She almost sneered then as she couldn’t help but reply.

  “I said she was his life.”

  “So there were problems.”

  “Can’t stop being the cop, now can you, Mr Rossi?”

  She leant over and tapped ash into a half-full ashtray.

  “And I suppose you think it will help to ask questions about Rosa’s private life. Ask in the town,” she said with a fluid hand gesture to the window, “they’ll give you the answers you want. We women here don’t have good reputations – fishermen’s wives get lonely, don’t they? And Emilio was a fisherman too, after all.”

  She drew hard on her cigarette.

  “Look, she had an ordinary life; a bit shit, a bit of fun now and then, like the rest of us, and a family, and now she’s dead. What else is there to say?”

  “And nobody saw anything, heard nothing? No one? You have no information that could help catch her killer?”

  “I’ve said what there is to say – to them, to you, to anyone.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette.

  “Well, I think I had better go,” said Rossi rising from his chair. He reached inside his jacket and brought out an envelope. “It’s for the family and the children. Can I leave it with you?” he said and placed it on the table. “It’s just some words and a small gift. I’ll show myself out.”

  Rossi closed the door behind him and turned left then began to descend the steps that led towards the seafront. It would soon be getting dark. A bracing walk was what he needed first off and then some proper food. Real seafood and a good drink. He was flogging a dead horse there for sure but he had tried. At least he had tried, so may as well make the best of it, Michael, he said to himself, then back to Rome and their little rendezvous in the cathedral. Along the street there wasn’t a soul to be seen, so when he heard footsteps behind him he turned. It was Laura. She stopped.

  “There is more,” she said, and then in English, “are you hungry?”

  They sat on a bench on the seafront watching the majestic breakers rolling in to make their thunderous conclusions. The empanadas had been delicious, and she’d made them herself, she informed him, forcing yet another one on him. She lit up a cigarette, Rossi declining this time, and then she began to speak.

  “Emiliano was caught up in something, like many people here. The other business here.”

  “The smuggling?”

  “If you like, yes. He had let things get out of hand and I think he was in some trouble, with the Colombians, taking too many liberties, I don’t know, but they are ruthless. Rosa didn’t know anything. She thought it all came from the fishing and a bit of contraband with the boats, but the fishing here has been in crisis for a long time. He was gambling too. You know, the life you lead here, hand to mouth, uncertainty, the weather, it’s not an easy one and, like I said, the nights are long, the winter’s grim and everyone – everyone – has their vice, don’t they? And like everyone who’s fished here, he knew – he knows,” she corrected herself, “the ways in, the ways out, the hiding places in the coves, the caves. It’s just like it was in the old days. Except what comes in now is the fucking white powder and if you’re lucky, or unscrupulous, or both, you can get rich. Overnight. If. And don’t forget the police. Don’t think they’re not in on it too. So, when Rosa was killed, it suited everyone to have a big mystery, what with her false identity and her past, and then putting the blame on her stalker was a masterstroke. Keep the heavies from Madrid from sticking their noses in. Emiliano must have panicked and thought he was next. Maybe they came for him and decided Rosa would do. A warning to everyone not to mess with the big boys from Medellin.”

  Rossi’s thoughts turned to the landscapes he’d seen as the coach had brought him down the stunning Galician coast – the knife-like promontories, the fjord-like rios shaped and gouged by millennia of Atlantic barrage and relentless surge, the jagged fingers of coast reaching out westward into the cold grey sea. Yet, despite its glowering hostility it was fearfully beautiful. He turned to Laura.

  “So what brought you here?” he asked.

  “My sister. She had got in touch with us after all those years and I was on my own again. So she asked me to come and help her out with the family, start afresh somewhere different. I said yes. Why not? She promised me she was clean and told me how she’d left that good-for-nothing and found a new identity, by herself, no police involved. She never trusted them. She’d met an Argentinian girl who’d decided to leave everything and go back home and get married to some high-flyer politician and she let Rosa have her old national insurance number and driving licence. They even looked the same, and so she was able to begin a new life and wound up here. At the world’s edge. That was, what? Ten years ago now.”

  “And were you happy? To see her again?”

  “Happy? Of course! She was still my big sis. She had changed, though. She was quieter, and she was a mother with a mother’s worries, and all that, you know? That gravitas. Not that I’d know, but you see what I mean. And you, do you have any kids, Mr Rossi?”

  Rossi shook his head.

  “Not as yet,” he said, “as far as I know,” and for the first time since he’d seen her, something like a real smile crept across Laura’s lips raising the corners of her mouth.
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  “But you are not alone,” she said, stating yet questioning at the same time.

  “No,” said Rossi, “alone, no,” aware now that the easy conversation looked like it was heading for what would be its first awkward impasse.

  A pulse of something like guilt went through him as he reminded himself to contact Carrara for any developments from the hospital, bringing with it other thoughts of his imminent return to Rome and then the even heavier concerns tied to the case and its Gordian immensity. They were getting nowhere, and women were being murdered, randomly, it seemed, and yet, and yet. There was the other issue of the judge, his doubts about the book story, and the strange inconsistencies that had surfaced. And Marta and her story about the weirdo no one had deemed worthy to get down in a statement.

  The waves were crashing in now with even greater intensity.

  “Looks like there’s a real storm coming,” said Laura pulling her jacket around her as if to ward off something that might at any time emerge from the riotous foam. “So we’d better be going our own ways, I suppose,” she went on.

  Rossi didn’t reply but was all too aware of his own responsibilities and of the choices beginning to make themselves known to him. He had no intention of telling Laura the exact nature of the situation he found himself in; it would be something like a cheap shot, ungallant in the extreme. So, he began concocting the well-worn standard reply to soften the impact of the implicit rebuff to what had been the implicit invitation.

  “Yes, and my boss wants a full report in the morning, on anything that might be of interest, to Interpol.”

  “And what would interest Interpol, in your opinion, Inspector?”