The Haunted Inspector
Claudio Ruggeri
Translated by Judy Kerry
“The Haunted Inspector”
Written By Claudio Ruggeri
Copyright © 2016 Claudio Ruggeri, Cover Image: ©Scott Liddell (www.scottliddell.com)
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Judy Kerry
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Author’s notes
This book is a work of fiction.
Any reference to actual events and/or persons who really exist, should be considered strictly coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Acknowledgements
Prologue
“Shall we play cops and robbers, Dad?” This was what Luca would usually ask his father when he needed cheering up. He loved running around the house; it was the perfect remedy for bad marks.
His father would then remain silent for a few seconds before answering; he would look at his son intensely, enquiringly, trying to figure out the reason behind his suggestion. But once it was clear that his son was just itching for some fun, he could never bring himself to say no.
“Ok, ok, but watch it, you won’t catch me out this time!”
“Ha ha, you watch it, Dad! Your hair’s already gone grey...”
At this, the father instinctively looked in the dining-room mirror; his eight-year-old son was right.
The chase was on, all of a sudden, just as they liked to play it; they would usually run around the house for a minute or so, the time it would take Luca to end up bursting into his parents’ room, where in the evening he would often find his mother, desperately trying to get his one-year-old twin sisters to sleep.
Shouting “This is a robbery” and “Hands up” at the top of his voice, the scene would always unfold in the same way: the twins would start crying, his mother, Arianna, would threaten him with a couple of slaps and finally his father would appear, to “arrest” him and take him to his room.
His father was Police Inspector Vincent Germano, who could not help feeling somewhat uneasy when forced to “arrest” someone in his own home.
Vincent had been born in San Francisco forty-five years earlier, to Italian parents. At the age of twenty-three, as a graduation present, his family had decided to treat him to a trip to Italy, the country that his mother, father, aunts and uncles had left many years before.
And he had been there ever since. He met Arianna, they fell in love and, not long after, applied to join the police force; some people are born to do a certain kind of job, and he had been born to be a police officer, just like his FBI father.
Other than this vocation, he had not inherited much from his father, but they shared the same intense look and the habit of giving every police operation an English name.
They spoke on the phone now and again, Germano senior giving his son some precious advice, which in some investigations had turned out to be invaluable.
Intuition and motive, intuition and motive, words that the younger Germano still found himself repeating today. On occasion, when his lines of enquiry reached a dead end, by simply reflecting upon his father’s words he would manage to succeed in something that was both simple and extremely difficult.
Sometimes, in order to see something more clearly, you need to take a step back and look at the whole picture; only then can you get down to the detail, not before.
The inspector had to push himself a little each time to enter into this mindset; all too often he would get wrapped up in the cases that he was trying to solve. This was a mistake, of course, but he liked to reassure himself that when you’re on the trail of murderers, rapists and extortionists, you can’t afford to act as if you were giving someone a parking ticket.
That evening in early spring, Inspector Germano was feeling too shattered to take his dog, Black, for his usual evening walk. After taking his son to his room, he decided to see what was on TV, and after a bit of channel surfing, he stayed with the Milan-Roma league match. It was an exciting game, so he lit a cigarette and chose to end his evening watching twenty-two men run after a ball.
With only a few minutes to go before the final whistle, the phone rang. Guessing that it would be for him, that it could not be for anyone else at that time, he let his wife answer.
“Vinnie! Vinnie, it’s for you...”
Germano turned the TV down and picked up the phone in the lounge.
“Hello.”
“Good evening, Inspector, this is Di Girolamo speaking...”
Detective Giulio Di Girolamo was an extremely organised, diligent and meticulous man, his only fault being a lack of intuition and investigative flair, skills that cannot be acquired in the classroom.
“Go ahead...”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday...”
“Right, we’ll meet at the station at six thirty, let Pennino, Fiorini and Venditti know. I’ll contact Detective Parisi.”
“Perfect, see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yes, see you tomorrow.”
A special lunch had been arranged for the following day, at his mother-in-law’s restaurant, but he would be arriving a bit behind schedule.
1
Operation EXTRA TIME had been launched a month earlier, after a young football referee had come to the station to report that he had been subjected to brutish and threatening behaviour during his match the day before.
The referee, De Simoni, described in great detail everything he had endured at the hands of the home crowd, both during and after the match between Virtus and Real, both Castelli Romani teams.
The officer taking his statement that Monday was Valentina Fiorini, a woman of around thirty, with four years’ service in the force. Having gained invaluable experience in the Calabrian town of Crotone, she had decided to request a transfer to a station in Castelli Romani, just outside of Rome, and this had been approved fairly quickly.
“So, to sum up...signor De Simoni, are you certain that the fans who were threatening you were all Virtus supporters?”
“Yes, I’m sure. They even tried to come into my changing room at half time; they were holding a dead cat and told me that I’d end up the same way.”
“But what did they want, exactly?”
“According to them I should’ve sent off a couple of Real players and awarded at least one penalty.”
“The world is going mad...” uttered Fiorini, who could tell from the referee’s expression the amount of stress he had been under the day before. She sighed and then continued.
“Well, please write everything down in your statement and we’ll do whatever we can...could you remind me of the name of the team?”
“Virtus.”
“And the league?”
“Regional Under-14s.”
They shook hands and De Simoni left the station as Fiorini stood there for a moment, unsure whether to discuss the incident with Germano as soon as he came back.
The inspector returned in the late afternoon, when it was already dark; it was the end of March and, with the clocks yet to go forward, dusk was falling too early.
Officer Fiorini hesitated for a few moments before stepping into her superior’s office to tell him about the unfortunate events surrounding the referee.
“So what do you make of it, Valentina?”
Germano always addressed everyone by their first names, whenever he could.
“These Virtus fans must be real brutes...”
“Ok, why don’t you give the Football Federation a call to see if there have been any other incidents reported in connection with this Virtus, then come back to me.”
“Ok, will do, Inspector.”
A couple of days later, Fiorini reported back to Germano.
“I’ve got some news on Virtus.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“There were two similar incidents last year, with the referees’ cars being damaged. The club was fined and they seemed to have calmed down this year.”
“Or maybe they’ve become even more threatening and the referees are too afraid to report them...”
“Exactly...”
“What day is it today?”
“Thursday.”
“OK, then check where Virtus are playing on Sunday, they’re probably away. Oh, and take a camera from the cabinet.”
“Are you sending me to watch the game?”
“Yes, I’ll also have a chat with Detective Parisi in a minute and you can both go. He likes football...take photos of everyone, so we can see who we’re dealing with.”
“Virtus are playing at Rocca Priora on Saturday afternoon...I’ve already checked. At three o’ clock, to be precise.”
The inspector wondered whether to be pleased at the initiative shown by Fiorini or sad at the realisation that he had now become too predictable. It was no longer unusual for his team to anticipate what he was about to do or ask.
He chose to see the funny side and wish her good luck.
Detective Parisi was Germano’s closest colleague. They were on the same wavelength, they often reached the same conclusions and there were no secrets between them.
There was an age difference of ten years, and they had spent nine years working side by side in the Flying Squad in Rome. Germano had then won promotion to Inspector and requested a transfer out of the city, and young Parisi had followed.
Forty-eight hours later, a young man with a carefree air and a copy of the sports paper La Gazzetta under his arm, was getting ready to enjoy the spectacle from the stands in the municipal stadium, the Comunale, of Rocca Priora. At the same time, a young woman dressed for the game, complete with a home-team scarf, and a camera in her pocket, was positioning herself on the opposite side from the stand, on a strip of grass between the fence and the road.
All she had to do was take a few photos, make sure that she was not rumbled and within half an hour everything would be done and dusted.
The first half slipped by without much drama. As soon as the referee had blown the whistle, Detective Parisi started fishing around in his coat pocket for his mobile, so that he could check with his colleague that everything had gone to plan and that they could leave the ground.
Shortly after the half-time whistle, he spotted four young men, aged between twenty and twenty-five, who had just entered the stadium and were walking quickly and purposefully towards the changing rooms, through an old gate that had been left ajar.
The detective was sure he recognised one of the four as a small-time drug dealer from Castelli Romani, who had been arrested and convicted a few years ago. He decided to wait a bit longer before calling Fiorini.
He climbed up to the last row of the stands to get a better view of where the four were heading; from the top he had a good view along the changing room walkway. There were just a couple of rubbish bins and a few doors, from one of which he saw the group come out, once again walking purposefully, and come back through the gate. They seemed to be heading towards the stadium exit; they would have to pass right in front of him.
“Valentina...”
“Yes, Detective.”
“Can you see where I’m standing?”
“Just a second...yes, I can see you.”
“Four guys are about to walk past me, three of them are wearing black jackets and one has long fair hair, take photos of these four as well.”
“Ok.”
“Thanks.”
Valentina Fiorini took out the camera again and continued shooting, without thinking too much about why. Her mobile rang again a couple of minutes later.
“Did you manage to get photos of them?”
“Yes, no problem, I’d left the camera on. I’ll meet you out in the car park.”
“Ok, see you in a couple of minutes, I just need to do something.”
“Ok.”
That something was to check which door the group had gone through. Parisi seemed to remember that it had been the one at the end of the walkway. As he stood outside it, he was amazed to see that the plate on the door read 'REFEREE'.
Back in the car, Fiorini noticed that her colleague was unusually distant and quiet.
“I’ve got all the photos you asked for.”
“The last four as well?”
“Yes, those too.”
“There’s something strange going on. They turned up at the end of the first half and then left shortly afterwards, as you were taking their photos.”
“What on earth could they have got up to in those few minutes?”
“They went into the referee’s changing room...”
“To threaten him, maybe? Wasn’t that what we were expecting?”
“No, Valentina, the score was already five-nil and through no fault of the referee. These guys were interested in anything but the ball.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, we only have a few hunches for now and..”
“What hunches?”
The detective gave her a bashful smile and started the car, telling her that they needed to wait until Monday, to hear what Germano had to say, although Parisi already knew what that would be.
2
On the Monday, the inspector came to work with a rather special guest in tow. It was the Patron Saint’s feast day, his wife Arianna had to take the twins for their vaccinations and so it was down to Germano to take Luca “into custody”. There was no school that day for his eight-year-old son.
He was careful to warn the youngster that there, where his father worked, he could not go round shouting things like 'This is a robbery' or 'Hands up', because someone would then arrest him for real.
Luca, who was quite a shy boy, tried to make himself useful by taking the post to the various offices, calling the bar with orders and even sweeping the floor. His father knew that he was sure to get up to something at some point; it was just a question of where and when.
His fears were confirmed at lunchtime, when the tobacconist across the road called in a panic. Officer Venditti picked up the phone.
“Inspector Germano’s office, how can I help...”
“This is the tobacconist opposite...”
“A robbery?”
“No, worse, please come over right away!”
As soon as the officer had hung up he told the others that he was going to run over to the tobacconists, when he was interrupted by Germano.
“No, I’ll go.”
“Don’t worry, Inspector, it’s probably nothing.”
“Ten minutes ago I sent Luca over to get some cigarettes, so I doubt that it’s nothing...”
The events had unfolded more or less as follows: the elderly tobacconist had refused to sell cigarettes to a young boy who could not even see over the counter, explaining that it was against the law. Luca had then replied that, as he was the Inspector’s son, he would send him to prison.
Fortunately, everything was sorted out swiftly, and they could all get back to work.
“How did the match go on Saturday?” asked the inspector suddenly. Detective Parisi sat down and started to recount the strange series of events of that afternoon.
“Maybe Fiorini’s right and they just went in to say something to the referee, or they stole something from the changing rooms, but you don’t sound convinced, Angelo...”
“No, I’d rule out theft. They would
n’t have been able to steal anything at half time, with the teams in the changing rooms. They went to the referee’s room, but I haven’t figured out why yet.” Parisi waited a few moments before continuing: “In any case, I’ll run some checks on the photos, the prints should be coming back this afternoon, and I’ll come back to you, Vincent.”
“Ok, keep me posted.”
Meanwhile, Luca had started to show signs of tiredness; he settled into an armchair in his father’s office and fell into a deep sleep. The inspector took the opportunity to read over some notes on a potential case relating to the receipt of stolen goods.
When, the following morning, the detective walked into Germano’s office with a delighted look on his face, the inspector knew immediately that his colleague had discovered something.
Parisi sat down and started reeling off the information that he had managed to gather on the four young men.
“The first one, the guy with the receding hairline and the goatee, is called Marco Proietti, with previous for drug dealing. He was caught three years ago trying to sell hashish to an undercover Carabinieri officer. Twenty-seven years old, unemployed, lives with his mother in Tuscolano.”
“Interesting...”, said Germano, listening attentively.
“The other three are: Andrea Vinciguerra, a twenty-two-year-old student, Emanuele Bianchi, a twenty-one-year-old barman, and Carlo Anselmi, twenty-five and unemployed. All three live in Cinecittà and have clean records.”
“Excellent, Angelo. In the meantime, I’ve been looking into the referee. His name is Luca Fazio. He’s twenty-eight, lives on his own in a rented property, pays his rent on time every month, runs around in a Toyota that he bought six months ago and his only income is what he earns from refereeing...”
The two exchanged a smile, before Germano continued: “Maybe your suspicions are correct; I have a feeling that this referee might be working overtime...”
“Or, in this case, we could call it extra time...”
“That’s true.”
“So shall I call the Federation to find out where he’s officiating on Sunday?”
“No, the match appointments are posted online on Fridays, so we’ll look there; that way we won’t ruffle any feathers. Let’s touch base again in a few days.”
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