‘He came from Puglia,’ suggested Zara. ‘Then he went back.’
‘Oh, him.’ He looked perplexed that such a man could possibly be of interest. ‘But he left here, what, twenty years ago now?’
Zara nodded. ‘That sounds right. Do you know where he lived?’
‘Of course. Of course. His wife Nunzia and her brother Anton co-owned the farm across the river. Your friend lived with them there. After she died, there was nothing left for him here. He packed up his truck and went.’
‘This brother-in-law? Is he still around?’
‘Anton? No. He died years ago. His widow too. And their daughter Maria lives in Milan now.’ He looked downcast at this, as though he’d once been sweet on her. ‘Why the interest?’
‘He found some interesting pieces with his metal detector,’ said Zara. ‘He left them to a museum in Puglia. It’s a nice story.’
‘He was always out with that damned contraption. We used to laugh at him. Now people are writing stories about him!’
‘What happened to the farm?’
‘Maria sold it to the Russos. They added the land to their own then turned the house into an agriturismo. Agriturismo Russo. You want to see?’
‘Please.’
He led them up an outside staircase onto a roof terrace with heavy wrought iron tables and umbrellas furled against the wind. He stood at a low parapet wall and pointed across the valley to where great swathes of woodland had been cleared for orchards. ‘That land there,’ he said. ‘All those figs and olives. And that white building at the foot of that drive. That was their house.’
‘The agriturismo,’ suggested Zara.
‘Exactly. Isabella Russo was your friend’s neighbour growing up. She knew him as well as anyone, which isn’t saying much. I’ll call her for you, if you like, though the signal down there is wretched. But if they have guests in at the moment, that’s for sure where you’re going to find her.’
II
Cesco slept like the dead and woke late. His shoulder was stiff and throbbing, which so hampered his movements that by the time he’d washed and changed the dressing, they’d stopped serving breakfast. He took a stroll along the front. A motorcycle delivery man drove by with crates of bottled water clamped between his legs. An elderly woman lowered a wicker basket on a rope to the bakery beneath to collect the morning’s takings. He stopped at a cafe where two men squabbled over dominoes with the forgiving anger of lifelong friends. He bought himself an apricot croissant and a bottle of sparkling water, then found a bench by the sea wall on which to eat.
A pair of young teenage girls sauntered past, thin white bathing robes flapping loose over the macaw swimsuits beneath. They walked ten paces by then swivelled on their heels like catwalk models to come back past him again, this time unable to stop themselves glancing at him as they passed. He winked at them and they ran off, hiding giggles behind their hands. It put him into an unexpectedly cheerful mood. Then his phone buzzed. A text from Baldassare. He assumed he wanted to cancel or postpone tomorrow’s meeting. But he was wrong.
Forgive me, but a question about your poor sister, if I may. Did you always call her Claudia, or did you have a nickname for her? Specifically, a nickname beginning with the letter D? Baldassare
Cesco froze a moment or two. Even after all these years, he found it difficult to think of Claudia.
We used to call her Didi. Why?
We found some graffiti in that place. Including one that read DCGC.
A heavy lump formed in the pit of Cesco’s stomach. He wrote:
I wanted people to know what had happened to us.
The men who took you – did you ever see their faces?
For several years after being kidnapped, Cesco had suffered from sporadic panic attacks. They’d usually been triggered by the smell of brine and engine oil, or by the voices of tourists talking in a very distinctive European accent. The attacks had always started with the exact same shortness of breath and clamminess of skin that he was experiencing right now. Fear that the attacks might return unnerved him as much as the symptoms themselves. He allowed himself time for them to settle, therefore, before replying.
Not exactly. They always wore balaclavas. We only ever saw their eyes and teeth.
Teeth? Why teeth?
Cesco squinted at his phone.
They were wearing balaclavas. On balaclavas, that’s where the holes are.
Forgive me, but no. On balaclavas, the holes are for the eyes and mouth, not for the teeth.
Are you on drugs?
Several minutes passed without reply. Only when he began to relax again did he realise quite how tense he’d become. When enough time had elapsed, he gave himself permission to power down his phone. He had a peculiar sense of being watched. He looked up sharply to see those two young teenage girls from before standing a little way along the front. They’d bought themselves ice creams, which had started to melt in the sunshine, dribbling over their hands and dripping onto the paved promenade, similar looks of empathy and alarm on their faces; and suddenly Claudia was right there with him, more vividly than she’d been in years, and the old grief welled up inside him, and he jumped to his feet and ran off along the road, looking for somewhere private before anyone could see him cry.
III
The Bussento valley was so steeply sided that it looked almost as though they could loose an arrow from the cafe’s terrace and hit the agriturismo’s roof. But walking there, as Zara and Carmen soon discovered, was another matter altogether. For one thing, the road was steep and growing tacky in the sunshine, so that their trainers gripped it a little too well, their feet chafing against the inners and soles with every jolting step, letting them feel tomorrow’s blisters. For another, the nearest bridge was a full three kilometres away. Then it was the same again along a rural lane to the mouth of the agriturismo’s drive.
Isabella Russo was indeed there, making packed lunches for a party of tourist hikers. She was an angular woman with grizzled hair, kindly eyes and a lopsided face that made her look perpetually perplexed. She spent the entire conversation wiping her hands on her apron, as though she’d been cooking with paste. She remembered Scopece, of course she did. He’d been Sicilì’s bogeyman growing up. All the local children had followed him when he’d gone out with his machine, making up whispered stories about the people he’d murdered and buried on his land.
‘You spied on him?’ asked Zara. ‘Where?’
‘By the river, mostly,’ she said. ‘And up by the grotto.’
‘The grotto?’
She waved vaguely back towards the bridge they’d crossed. ‘The grotto.’
‘And he found stuff?’
‘I imagine, the amount he looked. Though he never shared it with anyone. His wife Nunzia, I suppose. They were very close. But no one else. He kept it all in an old outbuilding here that he locked with chains and padlocks. We dared each other to break in, but no one ever did. Honestly, we really believed there might be bodies.’ She gave a little shiver. ‘He was such a forbidding man. Sometimes you’d feel sorry for him, you’d smile or nod or even say good day. He’d glare at you and give you nightmares.’ She glanced over her shoulder, anxious about the two saucepans on her stove. ‘Oh. And you know why he left?’
‘Because his wife died?’
‘Yes. But there were rumours too. About what he’d done to his niece Maria. Anton and Elena were powerless while Nunzia was still alive. She owned half the farm and wouldn’t hear a word against him. But the moment she was dead and buried, Anton confronted Genaro with a cheque in one hand and a shotgun in the other. He took the cheque.’ The rattle of a saucepan lid made her look around. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really must go.’
‘Of course,’ said Zara. ‘And thanks.’
Chapter Thirty-One
I
It took Cesco half an hour after his exchange with Baldassare to compose himself enough to turn his phone back on. His anxiety came flooding back when he saw he had a new
text waiting.
Forgive me for pursuing this, my friend. I know how traumatic it must be. But I can’t stop thinking about the parallels between what happened to our two families. Yes, it’s the ’Ndrangheta, kidnapping is in their blood. Yes, of course it made sense to use the same facilities that had served them well before. But what if there’s more to it even than that?
Cesco sat at the first bench he came to then took a long deep breath to steel himself.
More how?
Your family was much loved. Your grandfather in particular was both respected and feared. Had the Critelli brothers used their own people to kidnap you and your sister, one of them might well have said something to tip him off. It would therefore have been prudent for the Critellis to bring in outsiders for the job. Most likely, members of one of their overseas operations. And, when it came to kidnapping my family, again they couldn’t use locals. All their best people were in custody or under surveillance. Who would you turn to, if you were them? Someone new, or someone who’d handled a successful kidnapping for you before?
Cesco’s heart seemed to falter inside his chest.
Are you saying these are the same men?
I’m saying we should at least consider the possibility. Hence my question about teeth. I need to know if they were memorable in some way. Take a look at the attached two sketches.
The signal was weak. The files downloaded with frustrating slowness. But finally two sketches appeared, the left-hand one of which showed a thug with discoloured and misshapen teeth. He stared at it, unnerved.
Who did these? Did Carmen do these?
I can’t tell you that.
She’s the only one who saw their faces.
His phone rang in his hand. ‘Forget who did the damn sketches,’ said Baldassare. ‘What matters is the men. Is it them?’
Cesco hesitated. ‘I told you. They wore balaclavas.’
‘You must have some idea.’
‘It wasn’t like that. You weren’t there. It was dark. They made us face the wall whenever they brought food or changed the bucket. And the only one who ever spoke to us was older than these two. Even back then, I mean, and that was years ago.’
‘But…?’
‘Who said anything about a but?’
‘It was in your voice.’
Cesco took a deep breath. ‘There were three of them. The older guy and a couple of younger ones who did what the older guy told them. We caught odd glimpses of them, and yes, one had bad teeth. Not as bad as these, but bad. Anyway, Carmen didn’t draw these herself, right? She described them to an artist.’
‘Exactly. Exactly.’
So it was you, thought Cesco in dismay. You reckless fucking idiot. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘I thought it might be my imagination, but if you’re right…’
‘Yes?’
‘The older man’s voice. It haunted me for years. He was ’Ndrangheta, no doubt about it. He used the exact same vernacular they all did. But it had a quality to it. Not an accent exactly. An intonation. A cadence. As if he’d been living abroad. The guy I spoke with the other day, he was also Calabrian. And he had something similar, only even more pronounced.’
‘Similar? Or the same?’
‘I don’t know. My ear’s not good enough. But it gave me a jolt when I heard it, I’ll tell you that much. And something else. On the boat that night…’
‘The boat?’ asked Baldassare.
‘The night they, you know… It was…’ He tried to bring it to his mind but, even after all these years, he couldn’t do it, he flinched from it like a blade from a spinning whetstone. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t ask me to—’
‘It’s okay,’ said Baldassare soothingly. ‘It’s okay.’ He waited a few moments before speaking again. ‘We’ll leave it there for now, shall we?’
‘Yes. Yes. You’ll let me know of any developments?’
‘Of course. Of course.’
‘Was this… was this what tomorrow was about?’
‘No. That’s something else altogether. Something I’m very much looking forward to. So don’t you dare think of cancelling. And thank you for this. You’ve been a great help.’
‘Good. Good.’ He killed the call then set off again, trying to walk the agitation from his arms and legs, taking turns at random until he no longer had any idea of where he was or where he was headed. But it was no good. He came to an abrupt halt and took out his phone to study Carmen’s sketches once more.
Was this them? Was this really them? And if so…
For all his years away, Cesco was Calabrian still. The notion of destiny was bred into his bones. For years now, he’d been telling himself that his return to Italy and his movements since had been forced on him by circumstance. But he’d always known the truth of it deep down. He’d been drawing ever closer to Cosenza because he had unfinished business there. He just hadn’t been quite ready for it. Ready or not, however, the time had now come. For that was the thing about being Calabrian. That was the main thing. When it came to family, there was only one law, and it was the old one.
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth; blood for blood, life for life.
If this was them… If this was truly them…
People were going to die.
II
The Bussento footpath was narrow, forcing Carmen and Zara into single file. The river itself ran wide and deep, its bottom scattered with stones as smooth and large as flat brown loaves. Trees stooped branches to the water, tickling ripples with their leaves and catching plastic bags that swelled like windsocks in the breeze. The embankments on either side grew taller and steeper, until finally making the transition from valley into gorge, from whose sheer grey walls a few hardy shrubs clung like unnerved mountaineers.
The footpath split away from the river, taking them up through an overgrown orchard to a small parking area and a stone staircase that zigzagged back down to the valley floor, its trees covered by brilliant green moss that straggled from their branches like fur from the limbs of an orangutan. A designated nature reserve, so a sign informed them, where the Bussento emerged from the mountain it entered near the town of Caselle in Pittari, some six kilometres away. A young woman on a deckchair relieved them of five euros each and pointed them along another footpath. A rumbling noise grew louder as they walked, like a train approaching a station. They reached a wooden deck. A cliff face rose sheer in front of them, riven by a great cleft, as though some ancient god of war had struck it with his axe. They made their way inside, trading the bright sunshine for such cool darkness that, for a moment, it left them blind.
In Carmen’s mind, grottos were little more than shallow scrapings in the rock. The Bussento grotto was not like that at all. It was vast. Overwhelming. A staircase had been hewn down through the limestone, emerging onto a wooden walkway fixed to its left-hand wall. This led to a slatted bridge that straddled the chasm above the river to reach a second passage hewn in the right-hand wall that led yet deeper into the grotto, but which had been roped off to tourists, turning the bridge into a viewing platform. Carmen gripped its rail and stared deeper into the cavern. It bent slowly around to her right before vanishing into the darkness. Huge stalactites hung from its high ceiling, while, far beneath her feet, the Bussento ran with seeming placidity until it reached the grotto mouth, where its waters were churned into a violent white froth as it squeezed out between a mess of tumbled boulders.
Many millions of years before, there’d have been a great lake on the far side of this mountain. Over the geological ages since, its waters had literally dissolved this karst limestone, eating its way through six full kilometres of it before finally making breach high above their heads, releasing the Bussento to flow down to the sea. And it had continued eroding the rock ever since, so that the same river now ran far beneath their feet instead, creating this vast cavern in the process. A natural phenomenon, then, yet with the same feel to it as a sacred site in an exotic land, a place of reverence and hush.
Perhaps that was why neither she nor Zara said a word. Or perhaps because no word was truly needed. For such was the Gothic grandeur of the place that it was quite obvious to them both: if you had a king to bury, a man you loved and worshipped, and if you had no cathedral of your own, nor time to build one, this was the place you’d choose.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I
As Gioia Tauro was to cocaine, so Naples was to arms. A vast proportion of Europe’s illicit weaponry flooded in daily through the city’s ports. It was here that Islamist jihadis sourced guns and explosives for their city slaughters, here that separatist groups armed themselves for their struggles, here that organised crime tooled up for its gang wars. The Camorra didn’t care who you were, just that you had cash and the right contacts – and Cesco was lucky enough to have both.
The only downside was that his contacts were the exact same people he’d fled Naples to get away from.
He had no number for Rosaria, so he headed for her apartment – a three-bed Vomero penthouse overlooking the Bay of Naples. The hill was so steep here that the block’s back entrance was actually on its third floor, reached across a short stub of footbridge from the road as it doubled back behind. He parked the Harley, rang the bell. An asthmatic woman answered. Rosaria had moved on the year before, she told him between her gasps. But she’d left a forwarding address in Secondigliano. Did he want it? He did not. He knew it all too well already.
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