‘It does. Thank you, Brigadier. You’ve been extremely useful.’
The man didn’t respond, though he must have been curious. A cop to the bone, even while holding a broom. Back in the day, someone like him would have ended up on Canessa’s team, despite his limp. Loyal, reserved, alert: he’d have done his job well, limp and all.
13
All he needed now was the final confirmation. On the way back to Milan, he made a phone call to Marchetti’s widow. Petri had killed Marchetti in Genoa, 1978, in front of the Svizzera patisserie in via Albaro. Canessa had stayed in touch with his wife, a spritely eighty-year-old woman who lived in Portofino from March to October, in the house she’d inherited from her second husband. She’d got married again about ten years after the murder, and twelve years after that she’d been widowed again. At that point, she’d decided to live in Genoa only four months a year, in winter, when Portofino was too sad. As soon as spring was on its way, she’d move back to the Riviera. She’d refused a slew of offers to buy the house, including the ridiculous ones, as she called them. She was too fond of opening her blinds onto the Piazzetta and watching the celebrities and the wannabes parading just below. Despite multiple attempts from children and grandchildren, the house was firmly in her hands, and she had a tight grip.
‘They’ll be able to enjoy it or sell it on later.’ She’d wink at Annibale whenever he dropped in on his skiff from San Fruttuoso. The trip was one of his rituals: he’d bring her a fish on the hook, and she’d offer to cook it. Theirs was a special relationship, the only one he’d ever nurtured with the family of a terrorist victim, and that was because the Marchettis had been friends of his father. Annibale had known them forever.
When he’d arrested Petri in 1984, she’d called him to say, ‘Thank you, Annibale.’
She picked up almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting by the phone.
‘Oh, my dear, I wanted to call when I heard about your brother. I’m so sorry, though I know you were…’ she searched for the right word, ‘distant. How are you doing? Are you coming to see me?’
‘Thank you, Madame,’ he always called her that, ‘but I’m not in Liguria. Can I ask you something? I hope it doesn’t bring up bad memories.’
‘Annibale, what’s going on? Talk to me. You’re worrying me.’
‘This conversation needs to be confidential. I’m sorry to even mention that.’
‘Of course, silly.’
‘The question may seem strange, but have you noticed anything different about your husband’s tomb in the past few months?’
Marchetti’s widow was quick to respond. ‘Annibale, Annibale. I don’t know how, but you already know my answer. One morning, towards the end of winter, I found a bunch of irises and two candles. Someone had visited his grave, but no one knows who it was. You know though, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘And you’re not going to tell me.’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Look after yourself, Annibale.’
‘You too, Madame.’
Carla Trovati almost crashed into Caprile as he ran out of the entrance on via Solferino. She lost her balance dodging him, and she would have ended up on the floor if he hadn’t grabbed her arm.
‘Salvo, what’s up?’ she asked, gathering herself.
‘Sorry, Carla, I’m in a rush. Strozzi has finally given me something interesting since you were at the courts for the press conference. Any news?’
She shrugged. ‘Nothing really. They’re following a couple of leads, but they’re denying any links to terrorism, despite Petri. I think they’re hiding something. They’re not willing to talk. It feels like someone higher-up forced them to hold the conference.’
Caprile was listening distractedly, looking around, as if waiting for someone.
‘What’s up with you? Did you hear what I said?’ Carla snapped.
‘Yeah, no, sorry… I’m waiting for the news car. I need to get there fast.’
A blue sedan turned onto via Solferino from largo Treves.
‘What’s the story?’
‘A big-time murder, up in the west. Serious stuff, looks like someone was settling a score. Might be linked to male prostitution – or worse.’ Caprile lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘A serial killer, or a hate crime. They killed a gay guy, and it looks like he was tortured.’
The car stopped in front of them. Salvo opened the door and got in.
On a hunch, Carla asked, ‘Do you know the victim’s name?’
‘Davide Alfridi. See ya.’ The car pulled away.
Canessa received the call on the Swiss sat phone as they were nearing Milan, and he was about to remind Rossi to slow down yet again.
‘Are you sure? Are you okay? Look: not on the phone. I’ll call you later and we’ll arrange something. Let me know if you have any more details.’
‘Something wrong?’ Rossi asked as they passed the San Raffaele, on the eastern ring road.
Canessa answered him with a question. ‘Am I right in thinking that you have somewhere in your portfolio: shares, and therefore influence in a huge pharmaceutical company?’
Rossi was surprised, though by this point he was getting used to Canessa’s knowing every detail of his life (and maybe even death, but he’d never ask about that).
‘I do.’
‘Good.’
Canessa started jotting something down on his notepad. He tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to Rossi. ‘Can you get hold of these things? Just buy whatever your company doesn’t supply, but not all at once, and not around here.’
Rossi glanced at the list. He couldn’t help his reaction. ‘You could set up a field hospital with this stuff. Are you expecting a war to break out?’
Canessa stared ahead blankly. Then, as if speaking from somewhere else entirely, ‘It already has.’
14
On the plasma screen in his private office, Judge Federico Astroni watched in horror as the body was wheeled from the abandoned farmhouse to the coroner’s van. This mess wouldn’t rebound on him. He had nothing to do with it, apart from making the call with the phone supplied to him. He’d been absolving himself for decades, with the rhetorical skill that distinguished him not only in Milan, but in courts all over Italy. If he could convince everyone else, surely he could convince himself as well. Every time the situation resurfaced, he told himself he was blameless: he’d been dragged into it by someone else, some despicable person who’d got to him the one time he was down. He’d seen him a number of times since then – after all, they both belonged to the elite of Milan’s judiciary system – but he never thought their paths would cross again. He needed to get out of all this, but his only option was going part of the way with that man.
Brief phone contact was tolerable, but he had no intention of meeting up with him. ‘We need to talk, in person,’ he’d barked last time they spoke. Astroni had given him a resounding ‘No’. He still didn’t know the details of Alfridi’s terrible fate.
Astroni stood up and walked over to the sofa. He tried to slow his breathing, but he was too nervous.
Chief Magistrate Calandra stroked the naked back of the brunette on his right. The cool evening breeze caressed her skin, and she shivered excitedly. Another perk of a Mercedes convertible.
His regular lover, she was in her forties but looked younger. Not a striking beauty, but a brilliant and exciting one. The man from the Secret Service relied on having someone he could actually have a conversation with, covering a variety of topics with insight and intelligence. She filled the role perfectly.
They were currently on their way to his house in the Maremma area for a long-awaited weekend getaway. She was married with two kids, and it wasn’t easy for her to find the spare time. Otherwise it was a win-win situation: no money was involved. They simply shar
ed the pleasure of each other’s company and the sort of gifts lovers exchange.
He was about to turn off his phone and disappear for two days when he saw a call from the ‘overseer’. He plugged in his head set. His lover realised she was being excluded, but she didn’t object.
‘Yes?’
‘They killed someone.’
‘And?’
‘He worked at the same place as Petri.’
‘Ah…’
‘They’re currently treating it as male prostitution.’
‘A front. They’ll find out eventually, just as you did. Did you check the victim’s phone?’
‘There were three calls from an encrypted Swiss number.’
‘That’s our Horseman of the Apocalypse.’
‘That’s what I thought. What do we do now?’
‘Nothing. He can look after himself, and we keep watch. Keep me updated, especially if you think there are actual, direct threats.’
He hung up a moment before turning onto the tree-lined drive that led to his corner of paradise. The sunset was lighting up the surrounding hills and the villa, with its crown of olive trees and vineyards.
‘How beautiful!’
‘I’m glad you’re here with me.’ Calandra took her left hand and kissed it.
‘Will you be able to leave your work at home?’
He smiled at her as he parked the car under the arbour. ‘No one’s invited, my dear, except you and me.’
He switched off his phone.
15
Canessa was planning to meet Carla in piazza Napoli. From there, they would go to a restaurant in Gaggiano famous for its rotisserie chicken. Something to share.
He called Repetto before leaving the loft. His friend had heard about Alfridi on the news.
‘How did they get to him?’ Straight to the point, as always.
‘I don’t know. They may have followed us without our noticing.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘So do I. They tortured him to get him to talk.’
‘Are we ruling out a random killing?’ Repetto asked, sarcastically. ‘If they were following us, they would have gone after the journalist,’ he never used her name, ‘to deflect suspicion. Killing two people from the same workplace doesn’t look like a coincidence. The case is even more confusing now. Why didn’t they go after her? No one besides us would’ve made the connection, not this quickly.’
Repetto was right. Annibale tried to mask his worry with silence. His friend had struck a nerve once more. He’d always been good at spotting Canessa’s weak points, and they were often linked to women – like his relationship with Giuseppina, his lover in Turin right before he was shot. Annibale had always thought it might become something serious and, when Repetto had voiced doubts about her actual commitment, Canessa had brushed them off, annoyed, and sulked for a week. Later, in the hospital, his first thoughts were about her, and he’d asked Repetto if she’d come to visit, or maybe called. But she’d disappeared. His friend hadn’t stooped to petty comments like I told you so. Once Annibale had felt better, he’d tried calling her more than once, but the reply was always the same: She’s not home. Eventually, Repetto had discovered that she’d left to complete her studies in the United States.
This time, Repetto sensed danger for Carla.
Canessa didn’t doubt for a second that Alfridi had been killed because of his ties with Petri. But also with him. What Repetto said was dramatically clear, and provable. But he tried to get around it with a logical explanation.
‘If it hadn’t been for the jogger, who knows when we’d have found Alfridi’s body. No one would have noticed he’d gone missing. But the disappearance and murder of a journalist on the Corriere della Sera would be big news. Whoever they are, they don’t want that.’ His reasoning made some sort of sense, but Canessa knew perfectly well that it was also an attempt to silence any suggestion of a threat to Carla.
Repetto kept quiet. From where he was calling they could hear one of the grandchildren whining for his grandpa.
‘Look, Ivan…’
‘Don’t even try it,’ Repetto cut him off. ‘I’m not backing down. Keep Rossi out of it. Let’s avoid collateral damage. I’m moving in tomorrow, and we’ll be a team, 24/7.’
Carla was there on the dot.
He’d waited for her in front of the Ducale cinema, constantly alert. He was still on the lookout, his eyes moving rapidly from one mirror to the other. For the first time since they’d started seeing each other, Canessa had brought along his SIG as well as the ankle Ruger. She couldn’t keep her hands off him when he got in the car, but he moved her away from the holster.
‘Should I be scared?’ she teased, trying to lighten the mood.
The humidity from the canal rolled in through the open car windows. Canessa revelled in the temporary respite. Such moments were a way to escape reality, the string of deaths. He’d already felt something like this before, but here was something new, a joy he’d rarely known before. Reality wasn’t slipping away. On the contrary: reality was this woman almost half his age.
Carla had on a grey tube dress, elegant and unpretentious. Some famous designer, he thought. She looked amazing. He stroked her thigh, meeting her smooth, firm flesh. No tights.
‘No, not scared, but if anyone approaches you in a van or a large car asking for information, stay at least two metres away from it. Lock your doors; don’t use the underground; walk in crowds and try not to park too far from home or in dark places. No underground car parks. Better to risk a fine if you don’t have a choice.’
Canessa realised he’d slipped into his cop voice. She laughed in response.
‘Wow, okay! Remind later so I can write it all down.’
After dinner, they parked beside the canal. There was no time for notes in between kissing and fondling. He felt like a teenager, and she was more convinced than ever that she was falling for this man floating in a sea of secrets.
Later, as he lay in her bed, far removed from his worries, Carla asked how the investigation was going.
‘Petri was apologising for the lives he’d taken. In his own way, he was making amends.’ He told her about the irises and candles, the trips to the cemeteries.
Ever the journalist, she asked, ‘If he was on parole, how did he get so far out of the city?’
‘He risked it. He probably had someone covering for him. If you ask me, it was his boss. He might have forfeited all his privileges, but he was always a determined man – it’s what made him one of the most dangerous killers in Italian history.’
‘Okay, but why the rush, why now?’ She hopped out of bed and pulled on his shirt. Something fell out of his pocket. She bent over again to pick it up, offering Annibale a view of her perfect behind.
‘That’s a good question. I have no idea. But I do know that it’s the clue to his murder.’
Canessa got up and started to dress. He needed to leave, and he had to find some way of telling her that he’d be disappearing until the entire matter had been wrapped up. It was too dangerous for her. He already had one death on his conscience.
He was searching for the right words as he walked across the other room in the flat. Carla was on her way back to him, holding the object that had fallen out of his shirt.
A piece of paper.
‘Sorry, but there’s a mistake on this list. I know I shouldn’t have, but I took a look.’
16
Behind the kitchen bar, Carla was busy with the kettle, which had begun to whistle.
‘Would you like a lemon balm and tarragon tea?’
Canessa took a look at the paper. It was the list of Corriere editions Petri had collected in his search for his victims’ resting places. He stared at it.
11 November 1977
7 Februa
ry 1978
10 September 1978
9 January 1979
18 June 1979
13 December 1979
21 April 1980
He didn’t even remember putting the list in his pocket. Once he’d figured out the pattern and tested his theory, he’d forgotten all about it. He was angry with himself: scant attention to detail, lacking in rigour. He didn’t like it. He’d thrown himself into the investigation with his usual zeal, but without the careful attention that went with his uniform. Canessa the Tank wouldn’t have made that sort of error.
‘What’s the mistake?’
He spoke with noticeable irritation, though he obviously wasn’t angry at her, and Carla preferred to overlook it.
‘How many people did Petri kill?’ She answered with a question of her own.
‘Eight.’
‘In what groupings?’
‘It sounds like you already know the answer.’ Canessa was trying to keep his cool, but he was about to lose it.
Carla turned to face him. ‘I do, but I also wanted to show you my reasoning, so you could reach the same conclusion.’
‘Fine.’ Canessa thought for a second. ‘Four single murders, two double. Six attacks in total.’
‘On there,’ Carla pointed to the piece of paper Canessa was still holding, ‘you have seven dates.’
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 22