by Will Adams
‘Burglary gone wrong,’ pronounced Barbieri. ‘Santoro comes home early, catches them at it. There’s a fight. They stab him in the chest. What the hell now? They remember the death threats so they find a pillowcase, toss in some animals, set him up by the fountain.’ He looked around for nods. Everyone complied except Messana. Barbieri put his hands on his hips. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘This happened early evening. Early evening is when people come home.’
‘Maybe they knew he’d be working late.’
‘Except he wasn’t, was he?’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
Messana gestured at the safe. ‘That’s pretty well concealed, right? So whoever did this likely already knew about it. What if it was the whole point? And what if Santoro coming home was part of the plan, to make him give up the combination?’
‘Those stun gun burns,’ said Barbieri with a nod, stealing her idea for himself. ‘Torture him for the combination, kill him and dress it up like some ancient ritual. Except why leave the safe exposed? Close the panel and the doors, we’d never have known.’
‘They got disturbed,’ suggested Messana. ‘They lost their nerve and fled.’
‘Your mate Rossi? Then where the hell is he?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but turned instead to the fingerprint technician. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Plenty. Mostly Santoro’s.’
‘Mostly?’
‘I’d guess the wife, though we don’t have hers on file. I’ve sent them through, just in case. Put a rush on it too, so we should know soon.’
A knock at the door. The young uniformed policewoman from road duty poked in her head. ‘TV’s just arrived,’ she announced, flushing slightly to find herself the subject of so many hard gazes. ‘They want a statement.’
‘Shit,’ said Barbieri. ‘Someone better call the senator. If she finds out from the news…’ He looked around for volunteers. Everyone dropped their eyes except Messana. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe it would come better from a woman.’
It took all her self-control for her not to show contempt. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Get me her number and I’ll call her now.’
II
‘Perdone, signora. Five minutes.’
Carmen looked up. So absorbed had she been in her reading that only now did she realise how late it was. ‘Thank you,’ she told the librarian. She saved her work and packed away her laptop, then took out her phone on the way downstairs to check for messages. Cesco had replied to her last text some time back. He’d love to meet up but was in the middle of something and would text again shortly.
That had been two hours ago.
She stepped out of the stream of foot traffic to call him. He didn’t answer. She began to feel uneasy. She left a voicemail and emailed him too, asking if everything was okay. There was no reply. Foreboding was hard to shake once it was on you. Carmen couldn’t think of anything else now. She wandered out onto the piazza. After everything she’d been reading all afternoon, it was hard not to sense the presence of powerful and possibly malign forces. But what to do about it?
One of her buses was approaching. It seemed an omen. She took a seat at the back, checking her mobile compulsively every few moments. Still nothing. She got off by the Archaeological Museum and set off for her hotel. Her route took her right by their apartment. Maybe Cesco had gone there to catch forty winks, only to crash out instead. She had to know. She let herself in the communal door. Old Mr Tocci appeared a moment later with a bag of recycling to take out. He kept one at the ready, she was sure of it, to give himself an excuse to buttonhole his neighbours as they passed. Normally she was glad of a chat, but she wasn’t in the mood tonight, so she nodded and hurried on upstairs to let herself in. It was so silent and dark that she knew instantly Cesco wasn’t in. She went from room to room all the same, turning on lights, calling out his name. Then she sat on the sofa and hugged her arms miserably around herself, oppressed by memories. For while this place had witnessed some of the happiest moments of her life, it had seen one of the very saddest too.
III
Cesco made a meal of his recovery, taking the opportunity to assess his situation and look for anything that might help. They were in a double-wide basement garage with strip lighting and a steel scroll gate with a fat red button on the wall beside it. A huge heap of what appeared to be old furniture and storage boxes sat beneath a pair of large white dust sheets. A line of hooks was embedded in the ceiling, and much of the floor was covered by a blue tarpaulin. There was also a DIY workshop against the far wall.
Knöchel began setting up a video camera on a tripod. That they were going to film this gave Cesco a flicker of hope. Surely they weren’t reckless enough to record themselves committing murder. Then he realised. This wasn’t merely payback. It was propaganda too. By besting Dieter and his crew earlier this year, Cesco had cost them serious face. Now they intended to regain it at his expense, by demonstrating in the most graphic terms what crossing them would mean. The tarpaulin suddenly took on a grisly new significance. He looked at Dieter in the hope that he’d misread the situation. Dieter only grinned. ‘Put on your mask,’ he told Knöchel. ‘You too, Ox.’
They each pulled on a black helmet liner emblazoned with macabre, death’s-head designs that left only their mouths and eyes showing. Dieter walked over to the workshop. Knöchel’s face crinkled as he watched his back. Disgust or disdain, it was hard to tell. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ said Cesco, mumbling through his gag.
‘Shut it,’ said Knöchel.
‘He doesn’t trust you any more. It’s you or him.’
‘I said shut it.’
Cesco looked around. Ox had his hand clamped on his shoulder. Even among bodybuilders, the man was a freak. Clump him with a timber for a month, he’d barely leave a bruise. ‘He thinks you’re dumb, you know,’ he told him.
‘Not so dumb as I’d listen to you.’
‘He uses you.’
‘He’s my friend,’ he said. ‘But not yours, I don’t think.’
Cesco looked back around. Dieter was returning from the workshop with a power saw on an orange extension lead in one hand, and a coil of green nylon rope in the other. Dread left Cesco boneless. Then came panic, writhing and struggling in his chair until Ox grabbed him round his chest, pinning him to his chair.
‘Is that thing on yet?’ asked Dieter, nodding at the camera.
‘Just give me the nod,’ said Knöchel.
‘Okay. Kick her up.’ He set the power saw on the floor, then uncoiled the rope and slung it over a ceiling hook. Holding it by either end, he lifted himself up off the ground to make sure it would bear his weight. It did. He knotted a loop in one end and fitted it around Cesco’s neck. He handed the other end of the rope to Ox, who used the ceiling hook as a pulley to haul Cesco to his feet and then up onto tiptoes, straining for balance and for breath as the rope bit into his chin and throat. His ankles were still bound, as were his hands behind his back. He strained to free them, rubbing them frantically back and forth to create some give, but only succeeding in bunching the tape up into a string that cut into his wrists.
Dieter nodded at Ox. He heaved again at the rope, lifting Cesco off the floor. The rope bit into his windpipe so that he could hardly breathe. He thrashed and struggled in an effort to free himself, but it was useless. The Hammerskins cracked jokes among themselves and laughed uproariously. A minute passed. His efforts slackened until he had nothing left. Only then did Dieter nod. Ox lowered him again until his feet touched concrete once more. His knees buckled and he would have fallen had not the rope still held him up as he strained and gasped for air. Dieter picked up the power saw and tested its trigger playfully a couple of times, like a kid with a toy gun. In the confined space, it made a terrifyingly loud roar. He glanced at Knöchel to make sure he was capturing it all on camera, then nodded at Ox, who hoisted Cesco back into the air. He watched, amused, as Cesco choked and flailed uselessly away. But the entertainment part
of the evening was now over. It was time for the grim business of dismemberment. He fired up the power saw once more, making its steel blade blur. He held it up in front of himself, almost like a soldier presenting arms. Then he stepped towards Cesco and swept it at his leg, chewing through the cotton of his cargo pants and against his skin.
IV
An address book by the kitchen phone had numbers for Costanza Santoro’s offices in Rome, Brussels and Strasbourg, as well as for her two mobiles. The first of these rang just twice before she answered. ‘What the hell now, Taddeo?’ she hissed. Clinking noises and background chatter suggested a drinks party or perhaps a restaurant. ‘We agreed no more contact until the weekend.’
‘This is not your husband, Senator Santoro,’ said Messana, speaking loudly and slowly to make sure she could be heard over the hubbub. ‘My name is Detective Valentina Messana of the Herculaneum Polizia di Stato. I’m afraid I have terrible news.’ She paused a moment to let the words sink in. Hard heels clacked on a stone floor. A door closed and the background noise went quiet.
‘What news?’ demanded Santoro, sounding curious rather than alarmed.
‘I’m so sorry, Senator. We’re at your house now. Signor Santoro… That is to say, we found your husband…’
‘What are you saying? Is Taddeo dead?’
‘I’m afraid so, Senator. I’m so sorry.’
‘But… I only just spoke to him. How?’
‘As I say, Senator, this is a police matter.’
‘He was murdered?’ A brief pause. ‘Is this… is this connected to that poor Raffaele Conte boy?’
‘It’s too early to say, Senator. But that will certainly be one line of enquiry.’ Across the kitchen, Barbieri was waving for her attention. He mimed twiddling a dial this way and that, opening a door and peering inside. Messana nodded. ‘We believe his death may also be connected to the safe in your spare bedroom,’ she said. ‘If you could let us have the combination, we can—’
‘Safe? What safe?’
‘The one in your spare bedroom, Senator. At the back of the walk-in closet.’
‘You must be imagining it. We have no safe.’
‘I assure you, Senator. Perhaps your husband had it installed?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ she sighed. ‘All those burglaries last year. You lot were completely useless.’
‘Well? May we open it? We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘And if I say no, and your investigation goes nowhere, no doubt you’ll say it was my fault. Don’t think I don’t know your tricks.’
‘I assure you, Senator, we—’
‘Give me your name again, Detective. I wish to make a note of it.’
‘Detective Valentina Messana, Senator. I work out of Herculaneum.’
‘Herculaneum? Why on earth would…’ Then she realised. ‘So it is connected to the Conte boy.’ She sucked in breath. ‘Very well. As you need. But I will hold you responsible. You personally, I mean. I no longer have faith in our Posillipo precinct. You are to film the opening of the safe yourself and log all its contents. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Senator. Perfectly clear.’ She ended the call, turned to Barbieri with an eyebrow raised. ‘She didn’t even know there was a safe.’
‘But we have her permission to open it?’
‘As long as I’m here.’
‘That bitch,’ he muttered. ‘Fine. Whatever. There’s a guy we use. A wizard at these things. Thank the lord he’s our side.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked mischievously. ‘What about all those burglaries last year?’
‘Don’t even joke about it.’ He found the man’s number and called him as they made their way back upstairs. He snapped and sent through photographs of the safe for assessment, then talked some more before turning back to Messana, pressing his phone against his leg to mute it. ‘Reckons he can open it okay, but he’s off to Rome tomorrow lunchtime. Any chance you can be here early?’
‘Early?’
‘Seven thirty?’
‘No problem.’
Their fingerprint technician had been waiting patiently for Barbieri to get off the phone. ‘Those other prints,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a hit. Man called Mateo Greco. Burgled some houses and jacked some cars up in Milan a few years back. Did a runner before his trial. No sign since. Not until this.’ He held up his phone to show them each the mugshot. ‘Anyone know him?’
Surprise rocked Messana back on her heels. Surprise and then dismay. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
I
It happened maybe once or twice a year that Cesco would be watching the news or a Mafia documentary when suddenly he’d see a photograph or short clip of a face familiar from his childhood, and he’d realise with a shock that the kind man who’d given him sweets or ruffled his hair or taken him for a ride in their sports car was actually an ’Ndrangheta boss or killer with multiple murders to their name. Such men had looked surprisingly normal, even benign. They’d loved their families and had frolicked on the floor with their dogs. Meet them in the street and you’d never guess what manner of men they truly were.
The Hammerskins were not like that. They wanted people to know exactly who they were – that they were men of greed and violence and cruelty. Everything about their appearance and manner was designed to intimidate. And Dieter was the worst. Even with his mask on, the exhilaration was apparent in his eyes as he held the power saw to Cesco’s trousers, chewing through the cloth and cutting into his thigh before he managed to jerk his legs out of reach. He made a feeble effort to swing his feet at Dieter’s face, like a gymnast on a pommel horse, but he could get no leverage, so that all he achieved was to make Dieter step back and snort loudly with disdainful laughter.
There was something so cruel about this that it drove Cesco berserk. He knew already what his own end was going to be; but now he accepted it. Instead of trying to save himself, therefore, he put his rage and strength and energy into inflicting some small measure of retribution. He worked his hands violently to and fro behind his back, ignoring the way that the tape cut like wire into his skin, stretching it enough for him finally to rip his right hand free. At once he put it to the rope around his throat, briefly taking the pressure off and allowing himself to breathe.
Dieter scowled in irritation rather than alarm. He aimed the power saw at Cesco’s right wrist. Cesco fended him off with his feet while unzipping his back pocket with his left hand to take out Emanuela’s canister of pepper-spray. He squirted Dieter full in the face with it, making him screech with pain and drop the saw to grab at his burning eyes. Cesco now turned it on Ox, who howled and let go his end of the rope, letting Cesco crash heavily to the floor. He threw off the rope, grabbed up the power saw and swung it at Knöchel’s knees as he came for him, making him jump back. He slashed through the tape around his ankles, then staggered to the scroll gates, slapping the fat red button to set them rising. Ox and Dieter now came after him, zombie nightmares of inflamed faces with weeping red slits for eyes. He held them at bay with sweeps of the power saw until the gate was at knee height. Then he threw down the saw and rolled out beneath it.
A concrete ramp led upwards. He ran up it. The white van and the Harley were both parked on the forecourt, but neither had their keys. The front door was unlocked. There was an intercom inside with a buzzer for opening the gate, and a set of keys on the table. He grabbed the keys and set the main gate opening, then ran back out, pressing the fob. The van’s corner lights flashed orange. He climbed in, locked it from within, started the engine.
The gate was already halfway open, but now it stopped and went into reverse. Ox appeared at his driver window. He punched the glass so hard that it turned opaque yet somehow still held. Cesco spurted away before he could hit it a second time. Headlights lit up the road outside. The other Hammerskins returning with the pizzas. There was nothing for it. He had no choice. He stamped on the accelerator, charging at the narrowing ga
p even as the green Audi arrived to fill it.
II
An occupational hazard of dating a photographer is that you became their muse and model too. Cesco had snapped Carmen all the time, mostly when she was unprepared: at study, out with friends, laughing at a joke, in contemplation and in love. He’d framed his favourites and hung them all around the living room. She’d found it so uncomfortable to be the subject of so many portraits that she’d never really looked at them before. Not properly. Not as a set. But now she did. And, doing so, it bore in on her how happy they made her look.
No. Happy didn’t quite catch it. She looked settled.
A bitter irony, how keenly she’d looked forward to their American trip. To review progress with her doctoral advisors, show Cesco off to her mother and her old friends. Then he’d been refused his tourist visa, despite the forceful backing of their celebrated friend, the anti-Mafia magistrate Baldassare Mancuso, so she’d flown home alone. She’d noticed within minutes how much clumsier her mother had become, even since her last visit. How forgetful and short of temper. Repeating the same stories; struggling with simple words.
The doorbell had gone early one morning. A kindly neighbour had found her wandering in her dressing gown a hundred yards down the street. And not for the first time either, he’d admitted. Carmen had taken her straight to the doctor. A long talk, an MRI, referral to a specialist. Their worst fears all but confirmed. Yet her mother had opted for denial. Bad days, that was all. Only a provisional diagnosis. And what did doctors know anyway? She thought this made her impressively independent. In truth, it simply made her dangerous. Cigarettes on the carpet. Stumbles on escalators. An angry refusal to give up her car.
What choice had Carmen been left with?
She’d stayed on a few extra days to interview carers before settling on a no-nonsense, burly young man. Then she’d returned to Naples, exhausted, confused and miserable, only for Cesco to ambush her with his proposal. Desperate for his support and understanding as she’d been, his poor timing had genuinely exasperated her. But it was also true to say that she’d seized the moment a little too greedily, because she’d known inside it had to happen, and plasters are less painful when they’re ripped.