The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

It was late. She threw on a pair of jeans, a light blue shirt, tossed a jumper over her shoulders and ran to the Corriere. She was feeling good, contented. She stepped into the office, her eyes still hidden by her Ray-Bans, tired but happy.

  Giulio Strozzi’s voice called out to her from the fish tank and she stumbled, as Canessa would’ve said, into another life.

  ‘Carla, can you come in here a second?’

  She walked in with her head held high, convinced that the discomfort of their meetings was finally behind her. Not even his inscrutable face could dampen her mood.

  ‘I wanted to touch base with you on the uh, Canessa affair, and talk to you about something else that’s come up, if you have a moment.’

  ‘Of course.’ She took a seat.

  Federico Astroni was glaring at the two phones sitting on the leather desk pad he’d taken with him to every new office. One was his BlackBerry, the other an old calls-only model. He’d lined them up perfectly next to each other in a touch of OCD that he found calming. He’d been putting off a task that was now unavoidable.

  The thought of having to use the one to the left, the ‘ancient’ phone, exasperated him; worse, it consumed him. He’d come into his office at 7.30 a.m. as always, walking the few metres that separated the Taveggia café from the courts. The season was changing, the heat was on its way, and Astroni was already thinking of his sailboat, a passion he’d picked up from the chief judge. The Falco was waiting for him, docked in the Rapallo marina, with its two masts, clean lines, and prow he now imagined sprayed with surf.

  This year, after July and the first hearing in the trial of the last politician to hold out on him, he’d take a long holiday like he hadn’t done in years, nothing short of forty days. To those who complained about excessive holiday allowance for magistrates, he always replied that a job like his was twice the burden of anyone else’s. His forty days were effectively a regular person’s three-month break.

  Six weeks across the Mediterranean. Just him and a companion to be confirmed. It wouldn’t be an easy choice: there were many suitors for the position of cabin hand, cook, sailor, dishwasher, escort, sex partner, but – alas – no one could cover all those roles. He expected a complete woman, ready to trade her mani/pedi for calluses on her hands and feet, and to accompany him on the adventure he’d been dreaming of for so long. He wouldn’t put up with an escort, and he’d already let everyone know, raising quite the hubbub in the ministry, law enforcement, and the courts. He wouldn’t back down. Everything was down in black and white, the only security compromises he would accept: 1. they could install GPS, radio or whatever damn tech they needed to track his location, 2. he would contact them once a day to confirm he was alive. The end. No escort, unless they had a submarine, a quiet, unobtrusive submarine. Did they? No. So leave me the fuck alone.

  He pored over the route he’d mapped, ran through an imaginary casting for his fellow adventurer, with his usual Americano and toast. During the big corruption inquiries, one of the TV stations owned by people who disliked the judge’s office had aired some clips of him eating toast. Someone had mocked him. Breakfast of champions of justice. Big whoop.

  He was thinking about that episode from his past, but right now, in the present, those two phones sat there waiting for him.

  That story.

  That cursed story was following him, as insidious as an obscene mantra, as unexpected as winter in May. The story had resurfaced like an iceberg just when it finally seemed to have been left in the past. What had he done to deserve this? Nothing, or very little, maybe a conversation, a couple of careless words. The worst part of it all was that phone call. The contact who needed contacting, the voice he had to hear again.

  Federico Astroni stared at the two phones a little longer and then yielded. He grabbed the one on the left with his left hand. The devil’s hand for the devil’s work.

  4

  Annibale Canessa stepped off the 94 bus in front of the Sormani Library and realised as if seeing it for the first time how close it was to the courts of law. He’d never been inside, always brushed past it. He hoped he wouldn’t bump into anyone he knew – a prosecutor, a police officer or worse, someone who knew him, a reporter or blogger, one of those new journalists who hadn’t existed in his day.

  An old criminal contact from the 1970s had explained how using buses and trams was the best way to escape being noticed or followed. Despite what you learned in films and on TV, there never actually was anyone ready and waiting to recognise you and call the cops: everyone minds their own business, and if you accidentally lock eyes with someone, they turn away; if someone is following you, they’ll lose you in the crowd.

  Canessa had memorised the dates of the papers Pino Petri had looked up. It had been risky but necessary to visit the Corriere last night, and he called Alfridi to thank him profusely.

  ‘Don’t worry about it! If only we could drop in again, we might even be able to find out what Petri was actually looking for,’ the IT technician replied, keeping his voice low so Spano wouldn’t overhear the conversation.

  ‘No, seriously, you’ve risked too much already. I just have one thing to ask: keep an eye out, and if you notice anything strange, call me.’

  ‘Wow, a spy story! I like it,’ Alfridi chirped.

  ‘I’m serious: there’s nothing good about any of this. Please, Davide, be careful.’

  Here we go. He stepped into the library, where several piles of paper awaited him. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for.

  5

  Giannino Salemme sat caressing the leather chair, lost in thought while he waited for his son, who was taking his time. Again.

  Over the last thirty years, Salemme had always blocked the cops, especially that one, but this time he’d had to go even further. This time the situation was serious, maybe the worst it ever had been. In the past, Canessa hadn’t known who he was up against, and he probably still didn’t, but something was up: he had an idea, a lead. His Corriere della Sera visit had confirmed it. So what would he do next?

  When his son finally stepped into the room without knocking, as per usual, Giannino sighed.

  Claudio had on a very fine blue suit. At least he’d learned something from his father. He learned some style, given up on the tackiness of his youth. Of course, if his mother had still been around… He looked at the photo on his desk. Maria had passed away when their son was only three years old. He’d never been faithful, but he had respected her in his own way. For him, respect meant keeping the family safe, expanding it with her: they would have had more children, and he would never have left her. Maybe Claudio, with both a mother and some siblings, wouldn’t have followed his father’s path, or ended up even more ruthless than he was. Maybe he would really have paid attention to his studies, and now he’d be somewhere in the States, with an American family, and Dad would be invited over for stuffed turkey every Thanksgiving. Hopefully his children would take after their mother, and be honest, clean. Maybe all the dirty work would have fallen on Giannino’s shoulders…

  But instead, his only son was the spitting image of his father, only more impulsive. Giannino hadn’t been able to keep him out of the business or this endless saga.

  ‘Canessa is a threat,’ he said once his son had taken a seat.

  Claudio looked at him, surprised. ‘But he knows nothing,’ he objected, ‘and anyone who knew anything is dead. You said so yourself a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Before he died, Petri hacked into the Corriere archives, looking for something. Canessa went to the archives himself with that journalist, Carla Trovati, and an actual hacker who used to work with Petri. He’s found something.’

  Claudio smiled. ‘Well done, Dad. You’re still the best. How do you know all this?’

  Salemme senior took out a Toscano, special President’s reserve, and lit up.

  ‘We have a mol
e. We have to use our advantage.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘According to the mole, Canessa still knows nothing. But I don’t trust anyone: he could’ve withheld information from those close to him. We need to find out more.’

  ‘Do we need to “ask” someone?’ Claudio’s smile was like a knife. ‘The journal—’

  ‘The journalist will not be touched.’

  ‘The computer guy, then.’

  ‘Yes. He’s gay. Call Panattoni.’

  ‘What should I tell him?’

  Salemme senior opened his arms, affecting resignation. ‘To do whatever he needs to do with the queer, as long as he finds out what Canessa knows.’

  I know fuck all. I could really do with a team and resources right about now, Annibale thought, stretching his legs under the table. Yet another microfilm was running before his eyes, and the piece of paper with Alfridi’s Corriere results lay on the table beside him:

  11 November 1977

  7 February 1978

  10 September 1978

  9 January 1979

  18 June 1979

  13 December 1979

  21 April 1980

  He’d already run through each of those editions, twice, top to bottom, but nothing had jumped out at him – no clues, hints or ideas. None of the articles or names were ringing any bells. Two thoughts were torturing him: one, that he was missing something, and he didn’t like that; and the other, that this was no way to work, without digital archives and no cross-references. This wasn’t a job for one person. He considered sending the information along to the prosecutors following the case. He wasn’t pursuing a personal vendetta, after all, and he didn’t care that much about justice, either. What he needed to do this time was find an answer. Annibale wanted to know. Not for his own sake, but for his brother’s, and his family’s: they deserved to know why he’d been killed. All he had to do was walk the few steps over to the courts of law, and hand over the list. But something in his gut, his instinct, wouldn’t let him. Even the wound on his side, that mark of betrayal on his flesh, kept warning him against it.

  So he handed all the material back to the librarians and left the building. He’d lost track of time in there, shut up with the smell of old wood and paper. The sunset was already washing the city in crimson waves. Uncertain what to do next, he headed towards piazza San Babila, walking along via Durini, and did what he always did in situations like this: used a public phone to call Repetto. He needed his advice, his perspective. The marshal picked up after two rings.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  Repetto sounded worried.

  Canessa reassured him. ‘I need to talk things through with you.’

  ‘Same place?’

  ‘No, the bowls club.’

  The bowls club was an old bar in Greco where they used to hang out during their life on the front line. It got crowded in the evenings, because the restaurant was good value and the bowls lanes were covered and lit up. It was easy to blend in. You just needed the right clothes – and to avoid showing your inner cop.

  6

  ‘How do you feel about mazurkas, Colonel?’

  Ivan might have been stocky, but he showed off his agility with a graceful twirl. The club was definitely still there, and it was thriving, only it wasn’t actually a bowls club any more. The first long evenings had brought dozens of people out under the arbour for dinner and the new dance floor that had replaced the bowls lanes. There were several couples over fifty, as well as young people, even teenagers, men leading wives and partners and also their own children, showing them how to dance.

  ‘What is this, a revival? Did I miss something?’

  ‘Annibale, you miss out on a lot of things – remember, ballroom dancing never goes out of fashion.’

  Repetto had on a light linen jacket and flared trousers – very 1970s, as if he’d somehow expected the situation. Canessa didn’t dare ask if he’d worn them specially for the occasion or if they were relics from his own cupboard…

  They found a table. The osteria’s prices had stayed more or less the same, though the quality of the food had dropped a bit. The rice was overcooked, the wine barely passable. Canessa’s palate had developed since he’d started running the restaurant with his aunt, and his taste buds were now more critical. His standards had been so much lower back then, when he’d survive on stale sandwiches for weeks.

  The air was warm, and the breeze carried voices, colours, music. He was always fascinated watching people having fun, and he relished a feeling of the absence of threat, something that seemed to belong only to others, not people like him.

  ‘So?’ Repetto asked.

  Canessa had already told him about the Corriere visit, but he had to admit that after his initial enthusiasm, he’d run out of ideas. ‘I don’t know where else to look. Maybe there’s nothing left.’

  ‘If Petri was looking for something, it must be there. You – we – have to keep looking.’

  A reality check. Just what he needed.

  ‘What if we followed the people following you?’ Repetto added, lighting himself a cigarette.

  ‘You’re obsessed. It’s too complicated now. I’d have to make a point of going somewhere they know and letting them spot me. I don’t think we should, yet.’ Canessa waved the smoke away from his face along with the idea. ‘I told you, they’re just pawns. But you’re right, the key to this whole story lies in those papers. If Petri was killed now, after so many years, it’s because he was hiding something and, for some reason, the people behind that secret suddenly felt threatened. I knew something like this would happen. Remember the day they took him away from us in Milan? If only I’d got him to talk… There was already something rotten about the whole thing.’

  ‘This is the Canessa I know and love,’ Repetto commented, sarcastically. ‘Paranoid, just like in the good old days.’

  Canessa smiled. ‘My being paranoid has lengthened both our lives considerably. But back to Petri. This is what I think.’ He leaned forward to whisper. ‘All I need is one clue from those papers that links up to him. One detail, a tiny hook. I don’t need it to show up in all of them. Just one, and then I’ll have the key to the rest.’

  Repetto found himself looking into the spirited eyes he’d seen in his colleague for so many years, before they suddenly disappeared. Canessa was about to lower his head and charge.

  ‘Colonel, look,’ he pre-empted him. ‘Put your research on pause for a day, sleep on it. They’re not going to burn down the library, right? Take a break, trust me. Go to the cinema, relax.’ He picked up a crumpled copy of the Giorno and started leafing through it. ‘I’ll find you a good film. Remember? We used to do this. You’d hunker down in a cinema in the dark. I’d sit a few rows behind you, watching your back. Sure, the films weren’t always great, and you did doze off several times… Where on earth is the local news section?’

  Canessa suddenly jumped to his feet, tipping a chair over and almost trampling a waitress. She glared at him, certain he was drunk.

  ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed. ‘Local news! That’s what I was missing, that’s what I skipped. Repetto, you are a gift from Heaven! I have to go.’

  ‘You realise the library’s closed now, right? They’re not going to open it for you personally.’

  Deep down, Canessa knew Repetto was right. Times were not as interesting now that he was a free agent, a self-styled detective inspector. So he looked at Repetto with resignation.

  ‘You’re right. I’ll head in tomorrow. Thanks, Ivan. But I still need to go. I’ll be in touch soon.’

  Repetto was curious about the sudden rush.

  ‘How’s it going with the journalist?’

  ‘You should never kiss and tell, but I will say that she’s something special.’

  Repett
o hoped she was the right one. He saw a new Canessa: he was glowing. If they hadn’t been embroiled in this blast from the past, he would have been happy for his friend.

  ‘Okay, you head off. I’ll stay a little longer and enjoy my evening. But be careful, and call me as soon as you find anything.’

  7

  Every time he headed to the station or the airport to pick up Rocco, Panattoni ended up sweating buckets, no matter if it was actually hot, as it was that Friday. His ability to put up with the younger Neapolitan killer just got worse with time, not better. He never got used to him.

  The truth was that this was no longer the life for him. Sure, he was still a retired fascist enforcer, former Lazio hooligan, someone who’d never done anything legal in his life, never had an honest job, never kept his hands clean. But there was one crucial difference between Rocco and him: Rocco was a killer and criminal to the bone. It wasn’t a job to him – he had fun with it. Panattoni saw himself as a victim of circumstance and necessity. Rocco would never change his ways. Crime was all he knew. He was an animal. Panattoni believed himself made of different stuff, and he longed to get out of all this. He truly felt it was possible to leave all of this filth behind him. There was nothing in it, except for the money, and everything was fake. He wanted to change before he died. Even that fucking Petri had changed, hadn’t he? He’d tried to, anyway, until Rocco killed him like a dog. With my help.

  I never technically killed anyone, he insisted, absolving himself, as if smashing bones, driving cars, gathering intel, and setting up ambushes didn’t put him on the same level as the ones pulling the trigger or plunging the knife.

  His mood was made even worse by the fact that he’d have to put Rocco up somewhere for the evening, and somewhere meant at his place. Hotel was out of the question. Before leaving in the morning, he’d told his girlfriend – he loved being able to call her that – to spend the night with her mother (best option) or with one of her friends (second choice, but he wasn’t too keen on it due to jealousy). He had to put someone up for work, he’d told her. And it was the truth. He’d even admitted, ‘This guy is a maniac, a madman, and I don’t want you under the same roof.’