by Aidan Conway
“Was there anything else? Any distinguishing features?”
“He wore a ring on his right hand bearing an ornate letter. Almost certainly a letter G, or possibly a C. I took the trouble to write down everything I know. I will leave it here.”
Rossi pondered for a moment.
“So why the need for the meeting, if I may ask? Do you enjoy this kind of thing? And why only now?”
“As a courtesy to you, Inspector.” There was a slight pause. “I know that you, too, are now personally involved.”
“I am always personally involved,” Rossi shot back, “when a citizen is murdered, whoever that may be. We take an oath, remember.”
He waited for some acknowledgement but from beyond the screen there was now only silence. Rossi kicked open the door and span round to open the priest’s side of the confessional. Empty. He grabbed the promised envelope from the kneeler and looking round saw Carrara running towards him, with some difficulty, through the swarms of faithful. He was raising his hands in the air in a sign of southern Italian exasperation and then started mouthing some desperate kind of instruction. Rossi heaved his way through to meet his colleague halfway.
“See where she went?” asked Rossi.
“Yeah, for about five seconds, then I lost her.”
“What kind of cop are you?”
“She was dressed as a nun, for God’s sake!”
The two of them looked around. Rossi was rubbing his chin.
“Was she a big nun or a small nun?” he enquired.
“Above-average?”
“Ah.”
“We could try and close all the doors.”
Rossi raised his eyebrows at Carrara as if he, of all people, should have known better.
“You mean after the sister has bolted? Can’t. It’s extra-territorial. San Giovanni in Laterano. Don’t you remember Spinelli and the Lateran Treaties? This is one of the remnants of the Pope’s temporal power.”
Carrara let out an expletive much to the dismay of a passing group of tourists.
“When you’re here,” Rossi continued, “you’ve as good as left the country. The Pope’s the boss, not us.”
“So that’s why she chose here.”
Rossi raised his arms in a sign of frustration and annoyance, clasping his hands then behind his neck where the strain was bringing on a headache of grand proportions. The leader of a passing tourist group had frozen in front of him. He was staring at Rossi but more specifically at his now very clearly visible shoulder holster and its black Beretta automatic.
“He’s got a gun!” he said to a tiny, dark-skinned priest who had been ambling along and inspecting the mosaic work. He, too, stopped. Rossi brought his arms down slowly, realizing his error.
“It’s OK, Father,” said Rossi. “I’m a policeman,” at which he produced his badge. The priest glanced at his particulars.
“Not here you aren’t,” the priest replied. “I think you should both leave.”
Carrara was still kicking himself for having let her get away.
“Come on, Gigi. It’s not the end of the world,” said Rossi. “And I think we’ve got something very interesting to go on anyway, without the girl.”
“Can I have a look?” Carrara enquired, flicking back to his usual optimist self and indicating the slim brown envelope flapping in Rossi’s left hand.
“Oh, yes,” Rossi replied, “by all means. But I was actually referring to something else.”
“Something else?”
“Yes. Theology. Catholic doctrine. Do you believe, Gigi, in the resurrection of the body?”
Carrara looked at Rossi with now undisguised incredulity and very visible concern.
“Do I believe in what?”
Thirty-Six
Rossi’s trip to the hospital had followed the by now predictable routine. A chat with the consultant, a one-way chat with Yana, another chapter of the current book, and then some moments of silence in quiet reflection holding her hand until he bid her farewell. He went to take up his coat draped over a chair. He thought it looked as limp and useless as he himself felt.
Apart from the obvious worries, it had also struck him that he had no real legal right to be there. As a non-married partner, he had fewer legally enshrined rights than her biological family, even if they had already as good as given her up for dead before the accident. It was only down to the goodwill and common sense of medical staff that people such as he could come and go as they pleased to see a loved one. He probably had more legal justification to see her as a police officer coming to question her as a witness.
Carrara was waiting and leaning with his back to the Alfa. As Rossi crossed the final lane between the zig-zagging traffic he noticed, on the far side of the piazza now and half-obscured by a clump of overhanging pine trees, the silver Audi and the same figure leaning on the roof, this time, perhaps, with a telephoto lens, though he couldn’t be sure. Company? he wondered to himself. Then feeling a buzz of tension kicking in, he got into the passenger seat.
“Looks like somebody’s onto us, Gigi. Any thoughts?”
“Shall I?”
“Why not.”
Carrara gave a glance in the rear-view, eased out of the parking area and, after checking the coast was clear, rammed his foot to the floor. They were speeding in the direction of Piazza Vittorio when Rossi had another idea.
“Do a U-turn and take the tramlines,” he said, “quick, against the traffic.”
“You sure?” Carrara replied.
“You’ll be fine,” Rossi assured him, “get in front of that one and you’ll have a clear run to Santa Croce,” he said, indicating a number eight just turning the corner at Manzoni and heading back to San Giovanni. Carrara handbrake turned as more astounded tourists began immortalizing the excitement with whatever technology they had to hand. The driver of the Audi had been fast and onto them, but with the traffic against him, had been forced into effecting a clunky three-point turn. It gave Carrara the vital seconds he needed to put some real distance between them. As they approached the piazza again, Carrara swerved off the road and penetrated the tree-lined central lane reserved for taxis and electric trams. Rossi was checking the mirror.
“Faster!” he urged.
They’d made time and behind them the number eight was also advancing, while in front the coast was clear for what seemed like two or three hundred metres, as far as the blind corner at the Basilica of The Holy Cross in Jerusalem.
“There’s one up ahead too!” Carrara blurted.
“Keep going!”
“It’s going full whack! We’re going to hit it if we don’t move.”
The tram driver was now clanging his bell with near hysterical insistence.
“Wait,” said Rossi checking again in the mirror. “Wait. Now!” he said and as the driver in the approaching tram braked, sending it to a screeching halt, Carrara threw the steering wheel right, slipping in front of the following tram with what could only have been feet to spare.
“Go, go, go!” screamed Rossi, at which they leapt forward as the two trams ground to a halt obstructing both carriages like a cork in a bottle.
“That’s what I call a road block,” said Rossi.
“And that’s what you call a clear run?” said Carrara, wiping beads of sweat from his brow despite the cold.
“Clear for Rome,” Rossi replied. “And anyway, who said public transport never comes when you need it?”
Thirty-Seven
Just about a mile across the city as the crow flies, in the Campidoglio Palace, Achille Basso, Mayor of Rome, was back at work. He was not a happy man, despite the unseasonable tan gained from two weeks lounging in the Caribbean sun, free of charge, thanks to a “gift” from a company the name of which he now couldn’t recall. Things were not looking great. The serial killer drama, even if not the least of his worries, had been thrown into perspective by the mounting realization that his incompetence and unsuitability for the job were being exposed on every front. He had
been elected on a populist ticket promising to sort out the gypsy camps and the Eastern European “immigrant problem” left behind by his wishy-washy liberal predecessor. However, now the real bread-and-butter issues affecting the citizens were coming to the fore.
With mayoral elections looming again, he was short on both money and bargaining chips. He had packed the council with his own supporters, dishing out five-figure consultancies left, right and centre for lawyers, communications “experts” and journalists. For the less demanding but equally deserving plebeian followers, he had conjured a slew of jobs in the refuse collection department, among others. They all counted. Every salary kept a family and could guarantee two, three, four or more votes. But there were many mouths to feed and the miracle-working couldn’t go on ad infinitum.
In return for favours, friendship, and financial assistance in the shape of weighty brown envelopes, he had also been steering public tenders for all manner of social services and infrastructure in the direction of rather insalubrious figures and their charitable organizations. To name but a few of the potential gold mines there were the pressing issues of social housing, the rising flood of sub-Saharan and North African immigrants into the city, and the old favourite of clans and gangsters: waste disposal.
It had been difficult for him to say no. These suave-suited individuals who came looking for him in the corridors of power or who sent their emissaries with mouth-watering incentives were, almost to a man, either ex-companions in the very same neo-fascist gangs he had been an active part of, or other former criminals active in rival right-wing paramilitary groups. With the passing of the years, many of the once fiercely contested ideological differences had also been laid to one side as the so-called ‘red cooperatives’ manned with former exponents of their own armed struggles, and not wishing to be left out, also came currying favour. They, too, bore generous gifts quite often sealed in envelopes or rolled up in rubber bands.
The problem was that certain irregularities regarding the transparency of tenders and recruitment procedures had been seized on by zealous elements within the financial police. Then the investigating magistrates had begun giving the order to tap phones. You could bribe and bribe and bribe but only up to a point. Sooner or later a hard-headed idealist would come along to call time on the party. Or it could be orders from on high, very high. Had a deity on Mount Olympus decided it was time to sweep all the mortals away? Had it been decreed that enough was enough and the moment was ripe for a clear-out?
Looking at the assortment of papers and documents, e-mails and balance sheets, letters and reports, Basso felt like a sixth-former a few days before the exams who’s realized it’s all rather too late. And the prospect of having to deal with it was sending him into a state of nervous apoplexy. He snatched up his desk phone.
“Micchè? Achille. Listen, I need a massage, stressed off my tits here. Yeah, total fucking nightmare. You can? OK. When? Usual place? Is she free? Please! C’mon! Do me a favour! OK. OK. You’re a fucking lifesaver. Ciao, ciao, ciao.”
At least that was in the bag, he thought to himself, replacing the phone with an addict’s modicum of renewed tranquillity. Now, where was I? Oh yes. He picked up the phone again.
“Roberto, get your arse down here now. Yeah. ’Course it’s important.”
Roberto had been on his team from the early days, when both were bootboys in the “ex” fascist collective he had subsequently “reformed”. The problem was that Roberto had his head fixed firmly in the bootboy days. A loose cannon if ever there was. They all wore suits and ties now, giving them a minimal veneer of un-photogenic credibility. But while you could take a man out of his neo-Nazi birthing ground, it was somewhat harder to take the neo-Nazi out of the man.
Roberto hammered on the door, entered and launched into a full Roman salute.
“Presente!”
“Stop it, Roberto. Stop it.”
“At ease?”
“At ease and be normal, for fuck’s sake. I need normal fucking people today, OK? Now, sit down.”
“OK, boss. Whatever you say.”
“Right. How’s the accounts? What have we got to play with?”
“We’ve got a couple o’ mill. Depending on expenditure in the coming few months.”
“OK. We’re gonna be needing that, so ringfence it, right?”
“Ringfence it?”
“It means make sure it’s there when we come looking for it. So, don’t go splashing out on 4x4s for any of those whore consultants working in your office, or the wife, or anybody else’s wife, for that matter. That’s public money, see, but we’re gonna use it to grease the campaign wheels in the spring when we have to make a good impression. We can put up some slides and swings in the shittier parts of town and tell ’em we’re on the ground and listening to their concerns and all that bollocks and fill in some holes in the fucking road while we’re at it.”
“OK, boss. And the severe weather provision?”
“What severe weather provision?”
“There’s talk of this cold snap getting worse, ice on the roads and all that. Part of the budget is, er, ringfensht, for emergencies, flooding and the like.”
“Ringfenced!”
“Yeah, what I said. Put aside like.”
“So.”
“Well we might need salt, boss. Shitloads of salt. And the machines to spread it. They been onto me this morning, the local police and traffic monkeys. They want ‘assurances’.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And anyway, this is Rome, in case you’d forgotten, so I don’t think we’re heading for the second fucking ice-age just yet, do you? Now, get your head around this. Look.”
He shoved an open folder under Roberto’s nose.
“Crime figures. Perception of crime. Safety index, blah fucking blah, blah, blah, blah. And this one. Voting intentions, faith in your mayor, trustworthiness ratings. You can see where it’s going and it ain’t going nowhere good, Robbie. The big dailies and the media are playing up the crime thing, massively, and it’s putting me in a distinctly bad light.”
“Blame it on the immigrants and the liberal lefties inviting ’em all in.”
The mayor gave out a sigh and sank back in his chair.
“On a national level we can do that. It pushes people to the right, towards us, we know that, but I was elected here on a crime reduction ticket and it looks like I haven’t done a fat fucking fuck about it.”
There was a pause before Roberto replied.
“Well, we haven’t, have we? We knew it was bullshit ’bout crime going through the roof when you were elected, but this is real crime now, innit?”
“It wasn’t bullshit Robbie, it was marketing. It was electioneering PR. But the point is we’re in the real shit here, and what are we gonna do about it? I take it you do want a job in six months’ time? What are people scared of?”
“Muslims. We could catch an Islamist terrorist suspect or two. Or get the papers to say this killer’s a Muslim.”
“Do we have any suspects?”
“We can find some, can’t we? There’s enough of ’em.”
“Could start a race war. Remember what happened after the election?”
“Oh yeah. The whole ‘bash the immigrant’ thing got a bit out of control, didn’t it? Them Bangladeshis getting their shops trashed. Kind of backfired, didn’t it?”
The mayor was chewing on his pen.
“The Anarchists?” said Basso. “We could get a letter bomb sent to me, or you.”
“Not sure we’d get too much sympathy at the moment, boss.”
“You’re not helping me, Robbie.”
Their two brains played the equivalent of tennis knock-ups without a net for a few moments until the lesser talent piped up.
“The Olympics. We could make a bid for the next Olympics!”
The mayor interrupted his chewing.
“Let’s just use a bit more realism, shall we? Stick to playgrounds and holes in the road.”
> “‘Playgrounds and holes in the road’.”
“Can you think of anything better?”
“Erm. No. Not really.”
“Get on it then and get the press office onto it too. God knows there’s enough of them.”
“More than Obama’s got.”
“Spare me the details, Robbie. And one of them’s your fuckwit niece. No offence. But emphasize the positive.”
“As good as done, boss.”
“Thank you, Robbie,” the mayor said lowering his gaze to study yet another page of even more depressing statistics. Roberto’s considerable mass remained glued to the chair. The mayor looked up, “Robbie, I said you can go now.”
Thirty-Eight
“So, you do like surprises, Gigi, or don’t you?” said Rossi smiling now as he pressed the button on the intercom.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” a newly worried Carrara enquired. “And don’t you think it would have been better to ring first?”
“And give him the chance to say he’s out? He’ll understand. Besides, I think we’re expected.”
The intercom crackled into life.
“Yes?”
“Judge Marini? It’s Rossi, Inspector Rossi. I’d like to speak to if you don’t mind.”
Rossi and Carrara sat opposite the judge. The air was heavy, the same clock ticked somewhere and Rossi noted that the table had been dusted and polished. In the low sunlight that penetrated the windows there were the visible trails of a cloth. The judge was about to perform the usual pleasantries until Rossi cut him short.