Astroni was furious. ‘Get your hands off me!’ He turned to Salemme senior. ‘I want nothing to do with this arsehole.’ He knew all about young Claudio’s résumé, though not his recent exploits, or he actually would have fled the scene in horror.
Giannino was more accommodating. ‘I’m sorry, Federico, we got off on the wrong foot here. Let’s keep it civil and quiet. Listen. Whether you like it or not, we’re linked, and it’s a heavy chain. One of us falls, the other is dragged down with him.’
‘What do you want?’ Astroni felt the first drops of sweat rolling down his forehead, despite the cool breeze.
‘We’ve tried containing the problem…’
‘I saw that…’
‘Shut your mouth!’ the man behind him threatened, inching closer.
Salemme senior was still playing good cop to his bad cop son.
‘True, it didn’t go too well. But no, we’re a little… how can I say this… low on resources. You need to take your share of responsibility. We heard what your minions told the press. Organised crime, drugs, turf wars.’
‘So?’
‘So we have an idea. Risk free, more or less. A clean, surgical hit. But we need your charm, your clout. We’ll play our part, you’ll play yours. No one will get hurt, no one will fire a single shot – at least, not illegally. If it comes to that, the weapons firing will be the blessed ones of the law and its enforcers. Enough risky business.’
Astroni looked at Salemme. Despite his appearance, he didn’t look much older. All those years, ever since they’d taken their own paths, he’d always been able to get himself out of bad situations. He’d always survived, and he’d got rich. He’d have to trust him, one more time.
‘I’m listening.’
16
Pasquale Cammello raised a hand to his forehead to shelter his eyes from the sun. He was searching the courtyard for his man, and he spotted him on the other side. In the shade. Of course.
He crossed the one place where the prisoners could finally stretch their legs: outside. The looks that came his way were respectful. Some pulled aside to let him through. When he got closer to the man he wanted to speak to, he slowed down. The Professor didn’t appreciate people approaching him aggressively.
The Professor had actually taught maths at university, and was revered by colleagues and students alike. He’d been on a great career path, and then he’d become a revenge killer. He’d slaughtered the people responsible for destroying his family. People who’d avenged a wrong done to them were treated with respect in prison. Respect, by God, was still worth something.
‘That,’ Cammello always said, ‘is a real man of honour. Prison! He should’ve got a medal.’ He knew what De Marinis had done, of course, and he approved.
The Professor was on the other side of the yard, at peace with himself and his life sentences. He was playing chess on his own. He wasn’t a misanthrope at all; people liked him and he liked them back. He helped inmates with their letter writing, translations (who knew how many languages he spoke) and he even taught maths to a few of them. Cammello had listened in a couple of times, understanding absolutely nothing but fascinated all the same. With chess, however, no one was up to his level, so the Professor played alone one day, and taught someone else the next. When he taught, he didn’t want to be bothered, but when he played alone, he was open to seeing people. He had many ‘students’, especially among the Slavic inmates.
‘Oh oh Cammello, was that the song? No, it was oh oh cavallo.’
De Marinis had a ponytail, a long salt and pepper beard and a curious sense of humour.
Cammello chuckled.
‘Professor, sorry to bother you, but I need help with something.’
‘Just a second.’ He looked at the board, considered a move, made another and exclaimed, ‘Checkmate! Okay, what can I help you with?’
‘I shared a cell with Pino Petri.’
‘A good boy, despite his past.’
‘Indeed, may he rest in peace.’
‘Amen. So?’
‘Petri dies, the cops come in, dig around, ask questions, find nothing and leave. I’m left with a Moroccan who shanked his sister’s Italian boyfriend, a Latino gang member who pummelled a taxi driver into a coma and Pelusi, a creep who dealt E outside schools.’
‘Not a great selection.’
‘It sucks. But one’s gone missing. The creep disappeared.’
‘Greener pastures?’
‘No, that’s the point. He still had three years to go. One day, he gets called to the talking room and never comes back. He had some personal effects. The guards come over, box them up and leave.’ Cammello blew on his fingers. ‘Vanished. I don’t like it, but I can’t figure out what’s going on.’
The Professor was slowly resetting the chess board. He nodded. ‘Grasser.’
‘Grasser?’
‘Yes. The prosecutors want something from him. They’re looking for a witness.’
‘That creep? A grass? Come on! He knows nothing about me.’
The Professor wagged his index finger at him, as if he were a naughty student. ‘As you said, there was someone else in that cell with a past.’
Cammello’s eyes widened. ‘Petri! Fuck…’
‘Petri had been in there for years. They knew they’d get nothing from you or the other two. They aimed for the weak link, according to your description.’
‘Maybe, but I was actually close to Pino, and still knew nothing about him. So we’re back to square one: what the fuck did that creep know?’
‘Cammello, Cammello! What matters isn’t what he knows, but what he’ll say.’
‘Fuck, that creep would say his mother landed on the moon just to get out.’
‘Precisely.’
The Professor stood up.
‘Yes, but Petri is dead, so what can he be accused of?’
‘Maybe not him. But someone else may be involved, someone who’s being investigated. That’s how it works. If they have the smoking gun, the physical evidence, the eyewitness, that’s all they need. If they don’t, if they only have clues and unconnected facts, they’ll come up with a theory and try to make it stick. And there’s nothing better than a supergrass to lend weight to that theory. They look for one, without being obvious about it. There are several dishonest prosecutors, sure, but they usually walk this side of the law. They start talking, and if the guy gets it, and realises what they want him to say, that’s all there is to it.’
Cammello slapped his forehead.
‘Fuck! You’re right, and I think I know who they’re trying to ream. Thanks, Professor.’
He stood up and joined a group of inmates in the opposite corner of the yard. As he approached, one of them slipped him a mobile phone. They huddled round protectively while Cammello dialled.
‘Look, I need you to find someone for me right away. It’s urgent.’
17
Night fell early in San Fruttuoso. But in the summer, when the last ferry boat left later and private boats docked in the marina, the restaurant was always full for dinner.
Annibale helped his aunt with kitchen prep, then bussed between tables and kitchen all night. They were fully booked that night. They had help in the kitchen, a dishwasher and an extra waitress for the entire season.
When the final guest left, Annibale stayed on the terrace, going over the case and wondering what to do next. Yet in that corner of paradise, the gentle sound of the waves encouraged his more romantic thoughts, and all he could think of was Carla. Screw the age difference and everything else. He missed her the way you miss someone you love. It was pointless to try to hide it from himself. He would call her and tell her. Now.
I love you like I’ve never loved any other woman. I want to be with you. You can dump me when I get too old, but until then…<
br />
His train of thought was rudely interrupted by the Swiss satellite phone.
It was his lawyer friend, Cordano.
‘Flavio! What’s up?’
Cordano sounded rushed, as if he wanted to hang up as soon as he said what he had to.
‘Annibale, I don’t know if this will make sense to you, and to be frank, I don’t want to know – I have to admit I find it worrying. Pasquale Cammello’s lawyer called me with a message. I asked him to repeat it twice while I wrote it down.
Cop, you’d better keep an eye on your stuff. Be careful who you hang out with. To put it bluntly: watch your back. Your former friends want to fuck you over. P.S. I’m doing this for Petri – not you.
‘Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Maybe,’ Canessa replied, his senses suddenly on the alert.
‘Well, keep me posted.’
He waited for the last boat to disappear and then hurried back to the restaurant. He walked across the dark room and went upstairs to his flat. His aunt’s room was at the end of the corridor. He went into his first, and quickly checked it. The weapons he’d used in via Lodovico il Moro were in the warehouse safe in Rapallo. He had only his Beretta and the Ruger, both held legally in his capacity as a former Carabiniere. He hadn’t used the Beretta since the ’80s, apart from training at the gun range. Luckily, he’d never fired the Ruger. He sat on the bed.
Think, Canessa, think.
What had Cammello said? His former friends… so the law, the police, Carabinieri, the magistrates. What was the angle? Was it the shooting? No: they’d already be here.
Suddenly, it hit him: the Camorra, organised crime.
He ran to his aunt’s bedroom and knocked.
‘Come in.’
She was reading a magazine in bed. Small, but full of energy, she had his mother’s face, and also Giovanna’s. When he’d told her, his aunt had welled up.
‘What’s wrong, Annibale?’
‘This may seem like a strange question, but has anything unusual happened while I’ve been away? Any customers behaving oddly?’
She put the magazine down.
‘Let’s see… you got here last night.’ She paused. ‘Actually, something did happen yesterday, at lunchtime. A woman came to ask me about the bathroom because she couldn’t open the door. She’d been trying for some time, she said. We went to check together, and a man in his forties came out. He’d been alone at the table and he didn’t eat much but he ordered an expensive wine. I asked if he needed any help. He said he was okay, and apologised for taking so long. He had already paid, so he left right after that. Before I let the woman in, I checked the bathroom. You know, in case he’d done something… off. But everything was clean and tidy.’
Annibale thanked her with an ease he didn’t actually feel.
He ran downstairs to the restaurant bathroom. There weren’t many places to hide something. He went for the classic one: the toilet cistern. Feeling around, his hand touched something: a sealed plastic bag. He pulled it out: inside was another bag with white powder inside it. He went to the kitchen, took out a knife and slit the bag, spilling some of the powder.
Canessa rubbed a few grains of it on his gums.
Cocaine.
He weighed it in his hand. A good half kilo. Street value? €100,000. Prison term? Twenty years, including consorting with organised crime. If they added a murder charge, it would mean a life sentence. Well played.
So if they couldn’t get him with an AK-47, they’d resort to the might of the law.
At least he’d banished his doubts, and he could call the whole mess exactly what it was: a conspiracy.
The cast was huge, and took in influential members of society, people with means and resources and people who might be hiring the Camorra at the same time they were running law enforcement.
He checked his watch and ran back upstairs. He stuffed his waterproof bag with everything he needed, including the cocaine. Then he went back to see his aunt.
‘Annibale, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?’
‘Auntie, you need to trust me. Listen: you know I’m investigating Napoleone’s death. They tried to stop me by planting cocaine in the bathroom. They’re trying to frame me. I need to get out of here fast.’
‘But you found it…’ She was stumbling over her words. ‘If that man put it there, I can tell the police!’
‘Even if I could prove my innocence, it would take time, and I don’t have any. Go to sleep. Even if you’re not tired, pretend you’re asleep. They’ll get here just before dawn. They’ll break in, but they shouldn’t cause too much damage. Stay in bed, stay calm. Act surprised, indignant. You know nothing. If they ask you about the drugs, tell them about the man in the bathroom, just like you told me. Do you remember his face? Can you help them with a portrait?’
‘Of course! I may be old but I’m not blind!’
Canessa smiled. ‘Good. But don’t tell them anything about our conversation or the cocaine. You can let slip that I sometimes go for a night dive. Act worried. You can do it.’
She hugged him. Her eyes were blazing.
‘I can, but be careful. Please, Annibale.’
Canessa reached Cala dell’Oro easily. He slipped through the town using the smaller streets and alleys, checking to ensure that no officers had been sent ahead to get him. But there weren’t any. The ones on foot were probably much higher up the hill, and the ones who’d come by sea hidden behind the promontory. San Fruttuoso could only be reached by sea or by descent from Monte di Portofino. And that’s how they would come, cutting off all possible exits. They were counting on the surprise element.
The town was practically empty. Voices drifted up from the beach… maybe a group of kids spending the night on the sand in sleeping bags.
Canessa was still a little shocked by the possible ramifications of the situation. He was convinced that whoever had planted the drugs would have done so in his brother’s home in Reggio Emilia, too. Full circle. He thought about Sara and Giovanna: the raid, the fear, a possible arrest. But there was no way to warn them. A phone call would be intercepted and seen as a clear sign of collaboration. They’ll arrest her anyway. This new conviction rose to the top of his list of worries. They would use his sister-in-law as leverage.
How far did this conspiracy go? And who was involved? He was nearly paralysed by his thirst for revenge. He would settle all scores, but not here, not now. For now, his sole aim was to avoid getting caught.
He reached the water. The sea was calm. He retrieved a bag from among the rocks: inside it were an oxygen tank, a suit and a small personal sub device. He’d hidden it there when the whole affair had begun in case he had to make a quick getaway. He’d covered everything with a camo tarp, and the prep had seemed excessive even to him. But old habits die hard.
He freed the device and pushed it into the water. With a silent blessing to Saint Paranoia, he secured the bag to his back and slid into the water. Quickly, soundlessly, the small sub pulled him away from shore and down into the still waters of the Ligurian Sea.
18
‘Someone tipped him off.’
Guidoni was leaning against the chair in which the inscrutable Marta Bossini was sitting. Federico Astroni sat next to her. The atmosphere in Savelli’s office was nasty, and not just because the windows were shut and the air conditioner switched off (Savelli hated it).
Savelli wasn’t angry about Canessa’s escape. He was irritated because Guidoni had come without a jacket in order to show off his Dirty Harry gun. Unlike these two young prosecutors, Savelli knew the escape was a positive factor in this mess. Instead of the actual allegations against him, the media would now be focusing on the fact that a former national hero was on the run, stalked by the forces of justice he’d served irreproachably before turning to crime. Sa
velli and Astroni could not deny, with their experience, that the actual allegations were inconsistent to say the least. There were no drugs, no weapons. Sure, they’d found a pack of cocaine during the search of his sister-in-law’s house, but that only implicated his late brother, and there had been no contact between them in years. No ties, no connections.
‘That means nothing. They’ll have found some other way to communicate,’ the two prosecutors objected. Weak. Forensics had found grains of cocaine in the San Fruttuoso restaurant, but a defence lawyer, however incompetent, would have pointed out that any public bathroom in the country would yield the same result. Even in this very building, Savelli thought. And then there was the aunt’s statement.
Savelli was also incredibly irritated at the phone calls he’d been getting. He was used to the threats, warnings, prayers. This time, however, it wasn’t the usual politicians, it was his friends. And they hadn’t threatened him, they’d treated him like a misbehaving child.
The first to call had been the commander general of the Carabinieri. They’d grown up together, their desks side by side in primary school.
‘I’m calling you with a character reference. I’ve worked with Canessa, and I was a young lieutenant just like him. Canessa was a legend, a warrior monk. If you think he’s started dealing in middle age, you’re cracked. I hope you have substantial proof, my friend.’
Then it had been Cosima Marchetti’s turn; her husband, the judge, had been one of his mentors.
‘Shame on you, Antonio! How can you be going after that boy? He’s a good man and a hero. I won’t believe a word said against him. Not even if I see him walk by with a bag of heroin.’
Boy? Really?
After the fifth phone call from an incredulous comrade, a terrorist victim’s outraged relative or just sad old friends, he disconnected the phone.
‘Are we sure about this theory?’ he asked, interrupting the discussion taking place in his office.
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 29