by David Hewson
The other had stopped in front of a video camera lens set high on the wall above the table.
He turned, still ignoring the Turk, and asked the old cop, ‘Am I imagining this or is it chewing gum?’
Cakici’s head came up from the table. This had been a bad day. He deserved a little respect. He didn’t like being referred to as ‘it’.
The huge one stared at him, as if examining some foreign object, and said, ‘It is. Unbelievable.’
‘It? It?’ Cakici kept on chewing, all through his outrage. ‘What am I? An animal or something? How about some courtesy around here? I got a name.’
The young cop came and sat down. So the Turk had the big guy on his left and the shorter one on the other side, which didn’t feel good.
‘What name? Mickey Mouse?’
‘Minnie more like,’ the big one grumbled, staring at his pale linen designer suit.
‘Real Armani, muttonhead,’ Cakici told him, trying to stab a finger across the table, not that the cuffs let him do it properly. ‘Guess you can’t buy that on your wages.’
They went very quiet and then the young one said, ‘You’d be surprised what we could buy if we wanted.’
The big cop shook his head, as if this saddened him deeply.
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered in a quiet, mournful voice. ‘You get some dope dealer with a fake passport. It’s chewing gum. And it wants courtesy?’ He opened his hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Sir. This is so . . . unreasonable.’
The Turk sighed, struggled in the cuffs but finally managed to take out the gum, placed the damp lump on top of the shiny plastic table and began to say, ‘OK. Do not call me “it”. I got rights, I got . . .’
He fell quiet. The young cop, the boss cop, had picked up the gum in his fingers, stared at it with an expression of disgust. Then, as Cakici watched, bemused, he walked over to the video camera and placed the grey blob on the lens, patting it until the gum extended across the whole of the round glass eye, blocking the camera’s view completely.
No mike. No video. This was an unusual interview.
The big guy yawned, pulled his chair up very close to Cakici, placed a gigantic arm around his shoulders and squeezed.
It was a bone-breaking hug and the cop smiled at him, quite affectionately it appeared, throughout. His breath smelled of mints.
The Turk was starting to sweat.
‘First impressions count, you know. The gum was a bad start,’ the cop told him. ‘My sovrintendente has never liked gum. It offends him.’
He squeezed harder. Cakici let out a little cry of pain and said, ‘I didn’t kill nobody. Honest, I didn’t. I was just going on holiday. There’s this girl. I didn’t want her to know . . . Women . . .’
The cop sighed, shook his head, removed his arm, shuffled the chair a short distance away and said, ‘It thinks we’re stupid now.’
The other one was patting his jacket absent-mindedly as if he’d lost something. The Turk watched, worried, unsure what to say.
‘I know I’ve got it somewhere,’ the young one said, still looking. ‘Oh, wait a minute.’
He reached into his side pocket and took out a black handgun, a Beretta 92. Cakici knew his firearms. He had one of these himself, in the little armoury he kept in a safe in the garage.
‘What is this?’ he asked, laughing nervously. ‘Some kind of a joke.’
The young one held the Beretta loosely, lazily in his right hand and leaned forward.
‘Are we laughing?’ he asked the other one. ‘Did I laugh once since I came into this room?’
‘No, sir, you didn’t—’ the big one began.
‘Shut up!’ Cakici screeched. ‘Cut this out. All this “sir”, and weird stuff. Gimme a little dignity, huh?’
They looked at each other then the boss cop asked, ‘Dignity? How much dignity did Gino Riggi get? Dead in the dirt in a back alley in Trastevere, outside some lowlife bar where you sold junk to kids?’
The big one let go with another deep and sorry sigh then shook his huge bald head again repeatedly.
‘Very little, it seems to me, sir,’ he said. He smiled again and came very close to Cakici. ‘And you know something? Gino was a nice guy. We liked him. We had beers with him. And pizza too. Pizza was Gino’s favourite. He never mentioned us?’
‘What? What?’
The gun waved at him lazily from across the table and the other cop asked, very slowly, ‘Did he ever mention us?’
‘Nic,’ the big one said, then pointed a finger at his own barrel chest. ‘Gianni. His best friends. Did he ever mention us?’
‘No,’ Cakici shrugged. ‘Why the hell should he?’
Nic waved the gun around as if it was a toy. Cakici couldn’t take his eyes off the thing.
‘Gino was a good man,’ the man said. ‘Loyal. Trustworthy. Discreet. He had respect. He knew his place.’
He looked at the one called Gianni.
‘I don’t know why we’re telling it this, do you? Something that chews gum when you walk into the room. Chews gum on public property.’
‘That’s terrible, sir. Shocking. It does not know how to behave.’
‘Stop calling me that!’ Cakici cried.
Gianni stroked his chin then, with his big right fist, he reached out and grabbed Cakici by the collar of his Armani jacket, dragging him close to that ugly, scarred face.
‘Let me say this slowly so that your stupid little brain can understand,’ the big cop intoned, one syllable at a time. ‘Gino was more than a friend. He was our colleague. Our employee, if you like. You know those big guys who stand over you? Who tell you what to do? When to speak? When to go for a piss and when to wait? The people you listen to ’cos things go bad if you don’t?’
Cakici was staring at the video camera lens covered in grey gum, as if that might help him.
‘I want those immigration guys in here,’ he muttered.
‘Lunch break,’ Gianni told him. ‘No planes coming in for another ninety minutes. Long lunch break. Quite some way from here. Ciampino’s a shitty little airport. Either empty or full, and right now it’s as empty as a church on Thursdays. This is a place for poor people and the poor just get poorer, don’t they? We never fly from here, do we, sir?’
‘Beneath us,’ the Nic character said.
‘I want the immigr—’
‘See,’ the big man continued, ignoring him, ‘we were to Gino what those guys were to you. Superior. Kings of our own little world, with Gino there like a little prince, doing as he’s told. And now he’s dead. And now . . .’ He let go with a push. Cakici rocked back in his chair. ‘Here you are.’
‘It knows,’ Nic said.
‘I didn’t! Not about you! Not a damned thing.’
‘It knows now,’ the young one added.
Gianni picked up Cakici’s left hand and slapped his own face with it.
‘Sir,’ he said, in a hurt, young voice. ‘It hit me. The prisoner hit me. I think it may be violent and dangerous. It may be trying to escape. I’m scared.’
Across the table the young cop yawned and murmured, ‘That’s terrible.’
Cakici shielded his eyes, whimpering, ‘You can’t do this. You can’t . . .’
‘Watch me,’ Nic said, then pointed the gun in his face and pulled the trigger.
SEVEN
Cecilia Gabriel flicked through a few of the photographs from Falcone’s collection, her face stony, expressionless. Then she closed the folder, threw it onto a nearby desk and walked towards the door.
Falcone stretched out an arm to prevent her leaving the morgue. Teresa Lupo’s heart sank. This was not a good sign.
‘These questions need answers,’ the inspector said.
The Englishwoman stared at him.
‘What questions?’
He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked.
‘Very.’
‘I believe Robert murdered your husband,’ he said straight out. ‘An
d Joanne Van Doren. I believe—’
‘No!’ Mina cried, staring at the body on the sheet.
‘Then who did? Robert was there. He had the opportunity—’
‘Why!’ the girl cried. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’
‘To protect you! And your mother! To stop us finding out what really happened the night your father died . . . And before.’
The girl’s eyes misted with tears. She turned to Cecilia Gabriel.
‘Mummy? What’s going on? What photographs?’
‘I can show her,’ Falcone said, staring at the mother. ‘If you like.’
‘They’re fakes,’ Cecilia Gabriel insisted. ‘Grubby, dirty little pictures. Perhaps you ran them up, Inspector. I don’t know.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Falcone cried. ‘Why would we do such a thing? All I require of you, madam, is the truth. I know it’s painful. I will ask a specialist officer to deal with you and your daughter. But we must put this case to rest.’
‘You have no case,’ the woman snapped.
‘I do not understand!’ Falcone shouted.
Teresa Lupo took a step towards him, touched his arm, and said quietly, ‘Leo . . .’
But there was no stopping him. The wrong buttons had been pressed, and it was almost as if Cecilia Gabriel knew she was doing this. All the advice that Peroni and Nic had been quietly trying to give him about how to handle this family amounted to nothing when his temper reached such a pitch.
‘When,’ he demanded, ‘is someone going to start telling me the truth?’
‘We are . . .’ Mina said, distraught, fighting back the tears. ‘Why won’t you believe us?’
‘Lies!’ Falcone snapped. ‘None of this is credible. What happened between you and your father that night? And before?’
He turned on Cecilia Gabriel and barked, ‘And you? Doesn’t a mother want to know? Don’t you even give a damn . . . ?’
Teresa cursed herself for waiting a moment too long and then stood in front of him, half-said, half-yelled, ‘Inspector! This is my department, not a police interview room. If you wish to interrogate these people I suggest you take them there. I will not have you disrupting our work in this way. This is unseemly in the extreme. I won’t tolerate it. Do you understand?’
She had never treated him in this fashion before, though there had been plenty of grounds in the past. But she did it for his benefit as much as anyone else’s. Falcone’s frustration with this difficult case was beginning to affect him, to depress him, she believed. It was written in the lines on his narrow, tanned face, and the weariness in his eyes.
The Englishwoman took a step towards him and said, ‘What exactly do you want of me?’
There was a bleak look of stony self-hatred on Falcone’s face. This outburst had shocked him as much as anyone.
‘An honest answer. We have evidence, incontrovertible evidence, that your husband abused your daughter. Photographs. Physical stains on the mattress from her room. The mattress, I might add, which Joanne Van Doren so hurriedly removed from your apartment before we had the chance.’
The mother’s face was suffused in fiery anger. Mina Gabriel’s hands went to her mouth. Her eyes were glassy with floods of tears.
‘Oh, Leo,’ Teresa murmured.
The wrong time, the wrong place.
‘It is my belief,’ he went on, ‘that your daughter, your son and you conspired to murder your husband for this very reason, and make it appear an accident. That Joanne Van Doren died because of what she knew. That Robert—’
‘Well, arrest me, then?’ the Gabriel woman yelled at him. ‘If that’s what you believe. Do it or leave us alone. One or the other. Which is it?’
Falcone looked lost for words, for action, and there was an expression in Cecilia Gabriel’s face that seemed quietly triumphant. She knows we’re powerless, Teresa Lupo thought. She expected this all along.
The stranger at the door intervened.
‘This is quite enough!’ Bernard Santacroce declared, stepping between them, his arms outstretched, his face a picture of outrage. He looked into Falcone’s face. ‘Have you no sense of decency, man? How can you make such accusations? At a time like this?’
‘I am making them, sir, on the basis of the facts. Because it’s my job.’
‘Not here, Leo,’ Teresa Lupo said firmly. ‘Not now.’
The room had gone quiet. The forensic staff were quietly staring at their computers and their instruments, embarrassed, unsure of where to look.
She strode forward and said, ‘This is a mortuary. A place for the dead. I will not tolerate shouting matches. Nor will I allow it to be used as some kind of interrogation room. If you have anything more to say to each other, go somewhere else, please. This instant.’
The girl, Mina, looked as if she’d woken up inside some dreadful nightmare. Her hands were still at her mouth. Her eyes darted around the morgue, as if looking for something that was out of reach.
Nic, Teresa thought immediately. She needs a friend. From the way her gaze never strayed towards her mother it was surely clear there was little love, no amity there. Such secrets seemed to live inside these two, and Teresa Lupo realized she had no idea how they might be prised into the open. Or whether that was where they belonged.
‘You’re her mother,’ Falcone yelled, wagging a finger at Cecilia Gabriel. ‘Don’t you want to know what happened? What he did?’
He got a slap from her for that. A good one. Teresa had already heard about the first. She wondered if that had been as hard and as painful as this powerful, vicious blow.
‘Will you all kindly get out of here?’ she insisted.
‘Gladly,’ Santacroce replied and placed an arm around the Englishwoman, beckoning her and her daughter to the door.
Then he ushered Mina and Cecilia Gabriel outside.
Falcone watched them, helpless, full of an internal, seething rage, a hand to his reddening cheek. There was an expression on his face that shocked Teresa Lupo. It wasn’t the realization of failure. She’d seen that before, and knew he could deal with that, in time. It was some cruel moment of self-revelation, a realization of how desperately he’d tried to delve into the private moments of a family that, whatever the reason, was locked deep inside some painful, personal agony, one they never wished to share.
EIGHT
The Turk didn’t look too good. His hooded eyes were wide open, his brown, stubbly face taut with fear. There were sweat stains beneath the arms of his linen suit and he was shaking like a sick man.
Cakici opened his mouth and began to scream a loud and wordless plea for help. Peroni batted him once with a big fist, knocked him clean off the chair and spoke a few short, serious words. The Turk’s noise dwindled to a whimper.
Costa pulled out the Beretta’s magazine, shook it: empty. He looked at the gun, scratched his head and said, ‘What happened? Did I forget to load it after the last guy we shot?’
‘I think that may be the case, sir,’ Peroni said, and plonked Cakici back in his seat.
The big man was enjoying this little game, which was going exactly as they’d planned.
Peroni patted his own pockets.
‘I didn’t bring a gun. Sorry. You got some shells of your own?’
‘No.’
Cakici started to scream again. Just the threat of Peroni’s fist stopped that.
‘This is all your fault!’ Costa yelled at him. ‘I haven’t slept a wink since you wasted Riggi and that English kid on Tuesday night.’
‘For God’s sake will you listen? It wasn’t me!’
The two cops glanced at each other and shrugged. Then they looked at Bedir Cakici and Costa said, ‘Haven’t you grasped this yet? We’re not here to decide whether you go to jail. We’re here to decide if you live or not.’
‘I didn’t kill him!’
Costa shook his head and muttered something about going out to the car.
‘I didn’t . . .’
‘Sir,’ Peroni said. ‘He seems . .
. sincere, if I might say so.’
‘Really.’ Costa folded his arms. ‘Then who did kill him?’
‘I dunno.’
‘The car,’ he said, getting up.
‘No, no.’ The Turk looked ready to burst into tears. ‘Maybe I can help.’
‘Maybe?’ Peroni wondered.
‘Really. I can. It’s just . . .’
They waited.
‘I don’t know names.’
Costa checked his watch ostentatiously. And Cakici began to talk.
It was an interesting story, and it made sense in some crazy fashion. At the end, when Cakici appeared finished, Peroni reached out and placed his gigantic arm around the cowering prisoner.
‘Let me make sure I understand this properly,’ he said. ‘You’re saying you weren’t the only one shipping dope to all those foreign teenagers hanging round the Campo of an evening, thinking how wonderful it is to be free of their parents finally, and somewhere cool too?’
‘You mean he didn’t tell you?’ Cakici asked.
‘If he’d told us . . .’ Peroni began.
‘Sure, sure. Sorry. Hear me out. These last few months there’s been dope turning up in places where I never had anyone. Colleges. Cafes. Language schools. Lots of it. Big money. I’m not so stupid I’d go there. You work the bars. That way it’s all within the boundaries. You don’t start handing out pills in public, just to anyone. What’s the point? Asking for trouble. Gino knew that. He was the one who kept ringing me, asking what was going on. Like I knew.’
Costa asked, ‘There was another supplier?’
‘That’s what I’m saying. And I got to thinking that Gino was locking lips with him too. All the gear was turning up in the places his people went. It made sense. Pretty soon we were going to have to talk.’
‘Turkish?’
‘Italian!’ Cakici insisted. ‘Gino told me he didn’t know the name. But it wasn’t one of ours. The kid told him about it.’
‘The kid?’
‘The English kid. The one who got killed.’ The Turk was getting a little braver. Peroni removed his arm. ‘He was taking us all for a ride, if you ask me. Working both sides. Not a team player. Here’s something else too.’ Cakici leaned forward. ‘The kid came to us. To us.’