The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  ‘Look out!’ he shouted to Repetto.

  The shooting started a fraction of a second before Canessa could grab his friend and drag him down to the space between the seats and the dashboard. The splashes of blood told him that Repetto had been hit. He couldn’t waste time. He had to get out of there immediately.

  What the attackers didn’t know was that Canessa never lost his cool under fire. He was trained to think and act with lightning speed. A general once said: He is the only person I know who sees things from above.

  He leapt into action, Canessa style: no hesitation, no guesswork.

  He grabbed the MP5 and threw himself out of the car on his side, while the Alfa was being riddled by bullets. Lying down, he had a good view of the feet of one of the shooters behind the cover of their car, and he opened fire in that direction.

  The killer swore and fell to the ground, nursing his foot. Canessa gained a small advantage, since the man from the scooter – he still had his eye on him – was a poor shot: he emptied an entire Beretta in front of the Alfa, into the Naviglio canal and beyond. Too high, too low. Canessa ranked him as the least dangerous of all three. He’d take care of him later.

  Meanwhile, the third killer, angered by the shot at his associate, had let loose with his rage, destroying what was left of the car boot and windows with his volley. Canessa decided to bring the whole thing to an end, as half the world would be there soon and he had no intention of explaining things to anyone. Especially not where his weapons came from.

  He stood up from behind the right side of the car, and with his back to the Naviglio, he riddled the killers with bullets, the SIG in his right hand and the MP5 in his left. He heard a moan and watched as the driver of the scooter clasped his side.

  Panattoni had fired a few shots when he felt a sharp pain in his side. Running his hand down to check, he found his shirt drenched in blood.

  His blood.

  This was the first time he’d been shot. He was shocked. He pulled the trigger two more times without aiming, then shoved the gun in his jacket and started running down a side alley that came off the main road. He could hear the bullets flying behind him, and Rocco shrieking insults: ‘Panattoni, you motherfucker!’

  He didn’t stop. He was just being practical. They’d failed, but he could still save himself.

  Rocco, killer for hire, working for the Camorra and whoever else could afford him, fired one more round before reaching the end of his deplorable existence. It was aimed not at the man he’d been contracted to kill, but at Panattoni, the coward who’d run away and left him.

  Canessa cursed himself for having been surprised by amateurs. People who only felt good when they snuck up from behind.

  When he saw one of the killers turn his back to aim at the one on the scooter (definitely the worst of the pack), he reloaded the MP5 and left cover, opening fire on the pair of killers with both the SIG and the machine gun. The one he’d already hit had got up again, and was now using the car door as a shield. Pointlessly, since Canessa unloaded the entire MP5 on him, hitting him eight times, twice in the head. His rapper cap fell to the ground as he slid against the Astra.

  Rocco – yelling and swearing – was now firing at random. Canessa trained his remaining bullets on him, hitting him three times in the head, and four in the chest. He died on the spot.

  Silence fell over the road, but sirens could be heard moving closer. Canessa tossed his two guns on the front seat of the Alfa before moving Repetto onto the back seat, as gently as possible. In the rear-view mirror he watched as the other car burst into flames.

  With a sudden screech of tyres, he sped down a side alley.

  9

  The first to be alerted was Chief Magistrate Calandra. The man from the Secret Service had a home in Testaccio, a nice flat he’d shared with his wife for twenty-seven years until she passed away. Despite the regular affairs with beautiful young things while she was still alive, Calandra had always been in love with her, a contradiction he could deal with only through self-justification and indulgence. Since his wife had passed away, he’d rarely slept in the place. The house was a sort of mausoleum he returned to whenever his daughter came back to visit from the States.

  That night, Calandra was sleeping perfectly well, his memories for company, and no dreams. When his man called him, he realised it must be something big.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Shooting in Milan, extremely violent, shower of bullets, two dead.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Not our hero, don’t worry. Two young killers. But he’s involved. I checked the tapes on several cameras, and his car turned onto via—’ a brief pause as he found the note ‘—Lodovico il Moro, a few minutes earlier. The car that was tailing him was the one from the shooting.’

  ‘Has anyone asked for the tapes yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but they will soon.’

  ‘Soon, maybe, but they’ll be too late. Wipe everything. System failure, hydrogen bomb, plague. Whatever the fuck you have to do, but I want no trace of Canessa in this. In fact, where is he?’

  ‘Disappeared.’

  ‘Good. Keep me posted. Constantly.’

  Giannino Salemme indulged in the company of young women he preferred not to call ‘escorts’. As with his American ‘girlfriend’, he liked to think they’d chosen him for his miraculous powers of seduction. Of course, there were gifts – jewellery, gadgets, trips, money and in particular, his contacts, possible favours – but nothing was ever agreed in advance. Salemme senior was strict about two things: those were gifts, and he would not meet them in his home.

  It had been his lucky night. The brunette he’d snagged at the bar in via Savona came from a good family and had agreed to take him home with her and do it on Mummy and Daddy’s bed. The foreplay had lasted a lifetime and had got Giannino Salemme particularly aroused. But right when the pill he’d popped to keep him going had started to take effect, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen: Claudio.

  Begrudgingly he told the girl he had to take it. She shook her behind in front of him to show him what he was missing out on, and headed to the bathroom.

  ‘This better be important.’ Salemme senior made no effort to hold back his frustration.

  ‘It is. A shooting in via Lodovico il Moro, along the Naviglio. Like a scene from a film. Two dead.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t have IDs yet.’

  Salemme senior huffed, ‘Son, I appreciate this caution of yours, but please don’t give in to paranoia.’

  Claudio didn’t flinch. ‘Panattoni has disappeared without a trace. He always calls me after a job. But not this time. I’m going after him.’

  The girl reappeared at the door. She paused, gave him a naughty look and started teasing her nipples. Salemme senior swallowed hard.

  ‘Look, Claudio, be careful okay? I need to go now.’

  He hung up.

  Federico Astroni didn’t want company. The law student who’d come over to talk about her thesis – yet another on the Kickback Affair – would have been an easy catch – her adoring eyes told him as much – but the judge needed to sleep. To rest. He’d only got snatches of rest ever since this thing had started.

  There wouldn’t be any comfort tonight. He’d been looking out on his beloved square and counting cobblestones instead of sheep, but sleep hadn’t come. A stroke of luck, in hindsight, since the phone – his own, not the other one – rang. It was his mentor, Judge Antonio Savelli.

  ‘Federico, forgive me calling at this hour, but there’s been a terrible shooting in the Navigli area. Two dead, and we don’t know how many others were involved. The anti-mafia agents are already on site, but I want you to coordinate the investigation. I know you’re busy, but…’

  ‘Antonio, please, it’s my duty.’


  ‘Thank you, Federico. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Savelli corrected himself. ‘It’s already morning, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, Antonio.’

  Astroni’s reaction was in line with Giannino Salemme’s. Two dead: it added up. He immediately dismissed the thought.

  He had nothing to do with this.

  Carla wasn’t asleep yet. Canessa had left an hour ago, but she lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering what to do. Her lover was basically her father’s age.

  But the point wasn’t that Canessa was too old, actually. She imagined introducing him to her parents in their sanctuary on corso Magenta. Her mother would polish the good cutlery and china like a madwoman. The two men would study one another, each counting the hairs on the other’s head (Canessa would win), especially the grey ones (a draw?). Just imagining it made her feel extremely uncomfortable.

  She sensed they were headed for the inevitable showdown, a scene that would sort out feelings and emotions, and it scared her. One of her friends at university, someone who fell in love at least twice a year (or so she claimed), had explained her theory. ‘When people start a relationship, they’re not thinking about making it permanent. You meet a guy, he’s good-looking, you start hanging out. You just have fun together. You don’t think about getting engaged, moving in together, weddings: you’re just two people. You don’t talk about love, even if the word is hovering in the background. But then there’s this random moment when you suddenly ask yourselves: so now what? do we say that word, and all the ones that follow?’

  For Carla, everything was very real, especially that June night.

  Suddenly the darkness lit up.

  Is this a sign? she wondered.

  Actually, it was a picture of Caprile illuminating her phone. What was he doing calling at this hour?

  ‘Carla, hi, sorry,’ – she heard wind in the background – ‘I’m on my scooter. Listen, forensics have just been called out for an emergency: sounds like a big mess, a shooting. I’m headed there, but you’re on my way so I can pick you up if you want? Five minutes?’

  Carla jumped out of bed. ‘Three!’

  ‘Carla, you’re a maniac. On my way.’

  10

  Repetto needed surgery. Canessa had cleaned his wounds immediately and given him a massive blood transfusion with medical packs procured by Rossi, but it wasn’t enough. The bullet to his side had gone through, but the one to his left shoulder was still in there.

  Annibale had good first-aid experience, but Repetto needed medical help. The wounds didn’t look bad, but there was a risk of infection. He needed a specialist, a surgeon, but no hospitals. It was time to resort to the Canessa network. He dialled a number on his Swiss phone.

  It rang three times before someone on the other side emerged from sleep.

  ‘Professor De Micheli, it’s Annibale Canessa, do you remember me?’

  There was a pause. Then a voice, remarkably alert given the hour. ‘I thought you’d never call.’

  During the Years of Lead and the dark period of kidnappings, Auro De Micheli was a skilled young surgeon, not yet rich and famous. When his first born, only six years old, was kidnapped, De Micheli didn’t have any money. His wife, however, was heiress to a vast property empire, so they had been able to pay the ransom.

  The boy had not been returned. The following day, a young Carabinieri lieutenant had shown up at their door, barked orders – including some to his superiors – and sent everyone home.

  ‘Let’s start over.’

  Within thirty-six hours, he’d flushed out the kidnappers. He’d started with the notion that there had to be a mole for a job like this, someone deep inside. De Micheli’s wife’s family didn’t have a factory or any sort of public image, only an office that dealt with their business. Though their wealth was considerable, it was invisible: so someone must have tipped off the kidnappers. Someone who knew exactly how much they were worth. Canessa had interrogated all the insiders, fingered the right one (an accountant with an expensive lifestyle and a brother with addiction problems). Two days after the ransom had been paid, they conducted a dawn raid of the boy’s location. He never told the family about the small hole prepared for the child’s corpse, had it come to that.

  As he was leaving the surgeon’s house that afternoon, Canessa felt a tug on his jacket. It was the doctor, his scruffy face still marked by tension and fear.

  ‘I know you won’t accept a reward or payment, but if you ever need anything in the future, I’ll do anything I can.’

  Canessa looked straight at him, his gaze penetrating.

  ‘I’m going to say to you what I say to everyone who offers me help.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Words have weight. I’m going to hold you to it.’

  ‘You were expecting this.’

  It wasn’t a question. The doctor tossed his blood-stained gloves in the bin. He’d lost his hair but not what lay beneath, nor the legendary hands that had earned him the nickname of ‘the Michelangelo of the scalpel’. The only difference between him and the genius of the Sistine Chapel was that De Micheli expressed his creativity by saving lives.

  He’d found a full surgical set-up in the loft, improvised behind a screen but stocked with all the necessary. He’d brought his own tools, carried in an IKEA bag as requested, and come over on a scooter.

  ‘He’s good. Strong fibre,’ De Micheli said, dropping onto the sofa. The day was filtering in through the large skylights. ‘He’ll be able on his feet in a week.’

  Annibale, who’d been the perfect nurse, offered him a coffee.

  ‘Do you have any whisky?’

  Canessa opened a cabinet. ‘Peated, eighteen years.’

  ‘Perfect. Make it a double, thanks.’

  Annibale poured a glass, and sat next to him.

  De Micheli took a large swig. ‘You know, I was waiting for you to call me one day. I really wanted to repay you, even though you’ve left the force. To be honest, I’d almost lost hope. But I certainly wasn’t expecting something like this.’

  He threw back the last of his drink and stood up.

  ‘I was never here, right?’

  11

  Via Lodovico il Moro remained closed for several hours. The last of the forensics team left at around sunset, and only then was the road reopened to the public.

  At roughly the same time, Panattoni left his safe house, a two-room flat in Quarto Oggiaro officially registered to his girlfriend’s brother. He’d effectively brought her entire family into a web of various fronts. If Marita ever left him, he’d be ruined. But Marita was his girl, his young, beautiful girlfriend. He was going to build an entire new life with her, away from all that scum.

  His wound was little more than a scratch, and the sawbones he’d called in had cleaned it up, put a couple of stitches in and handed him a bottle of antibiotics and some painkillers.

  The place was minimally furnished with a bed, a table, one or two chairs, a TV and a small kitchenette. Panattoni kept some cash there. He also had a gun hidden away and a stock of nonperishable food.

  Once the doctor had left, it was late afternoon. He was a good person overall, small coke habit aside – he’d been struck off and survived by taking jobs like this. The doctor had watched over him for a few hours while he slept. Maybe he shouldn’t have slept so much, but he’d been tired and unable to think straight.

  When he woke up, he realised it was late, and he turned on the TV to listen to the news reports. The two Neapolitans had been dubbed Camorra killers. They had nothing on Rocco – he’d always avoided jail.

  His worries and adrenaline kicked in. He called Marita one more time. No reply. He decided to try her brother.

  ‘She no está aquí. She go to your place.’

  ‘What do you mean, my place
?’

  He heard a muttered ‘arsehole’ from the other side.

  ‘Your place, your place. Where are you? You no estaying with her?’

  All at once Panattoni twigged. She’d gone to via Bergamo, his official home. He swore loudly and hung up on his future brother-in-law. He paced the flat. He’d told her to never go back there: it wasn’t safe. But she hadn’t listened. He’d have to go back too, since all his belongings were still there.

  Fuck.

  ‘Ah, here’s good old Panattoni.’

  He should’ve expected the little shithead to be involved. Panattoni had come in, Beretta in hand, but he hadn’t been ready for the scene before him. He vomited onto the glass table by the sofa.

  Marita, his girlfriend, was lying on the table, half undressed, with bruises and cuts all over. She’d clearly been tortured: he saw cigarette burns and a bullet hole in her forehead.

  Nando stood there for three interminable minutes, catatonic. His future, the world he’d built for himself – his escape, the pizzeria on a Caribbean beach, love, sex, children – all erased in a second. He was gutted, useless. He didn’t notice the gun at his head.

  Claudio Salemme’s voice droned on.

  Despite the scene before him, all he could think of was Santo Domingo, a bungalow on the beach, Marita walking out of the water, an orange bikini on her tanned skin… His very own Bond girl.

  None of that would happen now. Die another day? The film was fucking wrong.

  The voice spoke again, as if from a great distance.

  ‘Nando, Nando! You know, I actually wasn’t expecting you here. I was surprised to find her, too. Your girl was tough, she didn’t rat on you. If you hadn’t come in just now, we would’ve missed each other. I was about to leave just when you opened the door.’