The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  Annibale pushed her onto her knees and took her from behind, forcing a moan from her. He felt her orgasm build and when she cried, arching her back, her hair stuck to her back with sweat, he came inside her.

  If he’d been hoping to keep his thoughts at bay and forget all those bloody deaths, in that moment, he definitely succeeded.

  When he woke up – he hadn’t slept for long – the sun was already high in the sky, and Caterina was no longer in bed with him. He looked around the house for her, but she’d gone out and left him a note and some breakfast.

  I hope to find you here when I get back. I’m hoping to shock my neighbour again tonight like we did last night.

  The neighbour! Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier?

  25

  Carla walked over to the desk of Pippo Locatelli, deputy managing editor for the news section. For at least two weeks he’d been deputising for Strozzi who, despite all his stories of a ‘troubled marriage’ to women he wanted to sleep with, was on his regular family holiday. Every year, last two weeks of June. As soon as schools broke up, Strozzi would take off with his wife and kids, almost always to North America. That year it was a Canadian coast to coast. Then in July and August, he’d send his wife to Santa Margherita, where her parents had a big house, while he spent his time in Milan chasing after interns and seasonal subs.

  He left this morning, Carla calculated, so he should still be on the flight. He wouldn’t land until late, Italian time. If his bootlickers wanted to tell him something, they wouldn’t be able to until he landed.

  Carla had been keeping the scoop up her sleeve for three days. She hadn’t got over the pain of Annibale’s disappearance, but at least she had something of his, and the knowledge dulled her pain somewhat.

  She grabbed the anonymous yellow file from her desk and walked across the news room to Locatelli’s desk. Strozzi’s deputy was a balding fifty-year-old, still in great shape. He sat there reading a sports paper and looking blissful. He could never take a moment for himself like that with his boss breathing down his neck. The ball-buster’s holidays were the time when everyone got a breather: flexible office hours, fewer humiliations, longer breaks. The mood was good.

  So finding Carla Trovati on the warpath definitely soured his mood.

  ‘What?’ he asked, annoyed.

  ‘Can I have a moment?’

  Locatelli sighed and folded his paper. He crossed his hands in resignation.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Let’s go into Strozzi’s office.’

  His eyes widened. What?! The boss never locked the door in case someone needed a file, a report, a phone number during his absence – and he never kept anything compromising around – he was too smart for that. But he always warned against entering the office without a valid reason.

  Locatelli was about to object but Carla had already stepped in. After a quick check to make sure all Strozzi’s snitches were out, he followed her begrudgingly.

  ‘Do you remember Canessa’s aunt’s story about the man who hid some drugs in the restaurant bathroom to frame Canessa? The drugs were never recovered.’

  ‘I do. But it doesn’t add up.’

  ‘She gave the police a description of the man, but they didn’t believe her either.’

  Carla pulled two photos out of the file and placed them next to each other on the desk. Locatelli studied them.

  ‘I remember this too. We reported the aunt’s version – it was news, after all – but we never published the portrait because Strozzi argued that it was a red herring. So why are you showing me two copies of the same image?’

  Carla smiled triumphantly. ‘Because they’re the same man, it’s true, but they weren’t taken by the same person, nor did they come from the same witness account.’

  Locatelli was paying attention now. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The one on the left is from Canessa’s aunt’s witness report, while the other is from Napoleone Canessa’s neighbour in Reggio Emilia.’

  ‘Shit!’

  The handful of journalists in the office looked over at Locatelli.

  He piped down, only just realising he’d yelled.

  ‘How did you get the one from Reggio Emilia?’

  ‘Canessa’s lawyer, along with this.’ She took out three sheets of paper stapled together. ‘This is the official witness report of Cosima Maggese, the Canessas’ neighbour from across the street. She saw this man entering their house one night when no one was home.’

  ‘So…’

  Carla interrupted him. ‘I’ve been to Reggio. The woman is old, but she’s very lucid and has excellent eyesight. She gave me the exact same story as her report, verbatim.’

  ‘So why didn’t she tell the police?’

  Carla smiled again. ‘I quote: If they aren’t smart enough to come and ask me, I’m certainly not going to go to them. But if anyone asks, I’ll tell them what I know and what I saw. Her words.’

  Locatelli stared at her, transfixed. She was sly: she’d been sitting on this scoop for days now, waiting for Strozzi to piss off. The boss would’ve buried the story, or at least hedged it with maybes and likes and who knows. He had too many ties to the judges, the ones who’d given him all the juicy previews during the corruption investigations. Fuck, fuck. This was the perfect chance to kick Strozzi up the arse, along with his friends in high places, both inside and outside the paper. Happily, the chief editor hated Strozzi, given his close ties to the publisher and the financial and political VIPs in Milan. Strozzi was clearly out to get him, the fucker.

  An opportunity like this might never come again. He wouldn’t waste it. And if things went balls-up, he could blame it on this pushy babe. He stood up, handed her the papers and opened the door.

  ‘Let’s go and see the chief editor.’

  26

  At 6 p.m., the sun was still high in the sky. Cooler air had yet to fall on one of the darkest days for Milan’s courts of law. The lobby was swarming with journalists, wolves out for blood. Anyone’s. If the Corriere scoop had been based on unfounded rumours, they could’ve been sent packing, back to the office. But the story had held, and now this shapeless mass of beasts was ready to maul the magistrates. The internet was already buzzing with terrifying comments. The Association for Families of the Victims of Terrorism issued a scathing press release requesting that the inquest be fast-tracked, an inquest that had ‘carelessly accused a public icon in the struggle against terrorism, a man who had helped like few others to turn the tide in a battle the State was losing’.

  ‘Look, I’ve already told you about this! Never mind: I’ll say it again. Whenever we’re investigating someone famous, I get phone calls from politicians, lobbyists, middlemen of all sorts, people I have very little in common with. However, when we went after Canessa, it was my friends who started calling, the famous and the not so famous, and all claiming I was mad to let something like this happen…’

  ‘Antonio…’ Federico Astroni tried to interrupt, but Judge Savelli stopped him with a raised hand.

  Canessa had damaged his heroic reputation by playing the fugitive. With the Corriere story, however, the media had splashed his image around to remind everyone of his previous success: Canessa with the general; Canessa in uniform talking to his team on the site of an attack; Canessa dragging handcuffed terrorists behind him; Canessa scolding officers for not having covered Lazzarini’s body; Canessa leaving the hospital after being shot in via Gaeta; Canessa as remembered by ninety-year-old General Verde: ‘He saved my life.’

  Savelli went on. ‘Now I’m getting calls from politicians. My enemies are gloating and my friends are distressed, because a new law reform is about to go to the vote. This story could change the laws on wiretapping and the statute of limitations in ways that would hamper our work. And what can I say to any of them? Nothing.’

&n
bsp; The Bossini-Guidoni duo sat in front of Savelli’s desk looking exhausted. Guidoni was haggard and perspiring while Marta, usually impeccable, looked ten years older. They’d just come back from Reggio Emilia, where they’d questioned Maggese’s widow.

  ‘How did it go with the widow?’ Savelli asked.

  Guidoni shook his head. ‘She confirmed everything.’

  With his usual cunning, Astroni attempted to poke holes in the story.

  ‘She’s of a certain age, it was nighttime, she might’ve—’

  Guidoni interrupted. ‘Look, just drop it. She’s a force of nature. We tried to trap her, hoping to find out just how trust-worthy she might be. We questioned her for hours. She made us coffee and offered us parmigiano and fried snacks, and then just as we attempted to poke holes in her story one last time, she gets up, goes to the wall behind her and pulls down a framed photo of this guy. There was a medal on the frame. She shows us. She goes: “My maiden name is Falaschi and this is my father Zeno, deputy commander of the Garibaldi brigade, active in the Reggio Emilia area, gold medal for his action during the Resistance. The Gestapo captured him, tortured him for five days, then shot him on the main square. He said nothing. I’m his daughter in everything I do. If he resisted the Gestapo, I’m certainly not going to fall for your silly games. I said what I had to say. Now get out of my house.” There’s no demolishing her testimony.’

  ‘Release Napoleone Canessa’s widow tonight. Take her home to her daughter. I want her out before the main evening news – we need it shown on TV. If you get a move on, we can still make it. Let’s start with damage control, then move on to the next point,’ Savelli said.

  Marta and Guidoni said nothing. But Astroni wouldn’t let go. He’d called Strozzi at the paper only to find, to his dismay, that his journalist friend was on holiday. He felt betrayed but couldn’t give up now.

  ‘Savelli, let’s think about this. Maybe it’s too early to release her. Canessa did go on the run. Let’s say this witness is telling the truth: why didn’t he leave the drugs behind to confirm his aunt’s story?’

  Savelli stood up, folded up his copy of the Corriere and placed it inside his leather bag, a gift from his wife. He went to the coat hook and took down his jacket. He didn’t understand Astroni’s insistence. From the very beginning, he’d shown an almost morbid curiosity about the case. He’d always been someone who saw everyone as guilty, but his persistence in this case felt like something personal against Canessa.

  ‘Enough, Federico. Release the woman, tell the press. Let me think about Canessa, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

  Astroni made one last attempt: ‘It’s already late, protocol—’

  ‘Track down the relevant judge, drag him away from whatever he’s doing and threaten him—’ he turned to Guidoni, ‘with a gun to his head. I mean it literally. Call me if he refuses. I want her fucking out of there within two hours.’

  Savelli’s swearing, a total aberration, was heard all the way down the corridor – and it surprised him more than it did anyone else. With his hand on the door, he turned round to face the others, who hadn’t moved an inch.

  ‘Well? Are you planning on spending the night in my office? Don’t you have work to do? Get on with it!’

  ‘Thank you, Mister President, yes … No, of course… Yes, our hero… You’re too kind, of course, we need to bet on the right horse… A good game, but it’s not over yet. We have a couple more surprises. Too kind, Mister President, I definitely will. My regards to the wife.’

  Calandra hung up and exchanged a look of triumph with the grey man.

  ‘That was the president of the justice committee, the one who signed the reform,’ he explained.

  Since waking up to the news of the Corriere scoop, Calandra had spent most of his day answering the phone to compliments from his political contacts. He hadn’t done anything, apart from realising that Canessa wouldn’t be stopped by them. Fuck, the terrorists couldn’t stop him, so how could these newcomers even try?

  He was so happy that he took off his jacket again, and placed it on the sofa.

  ‘Any news of Canessa?’

  ‘No. He’s in Milan somewhere. Last sighting was two days ago. What do you think he’s planning?’

  Calandra picked up his slate-blue Corneliani jacket, and tidied his braces before slipping it back on.

  ‘My friend, he’s planning his final attack. If I know him, he’s already onto something. In any case, tonight we celebrate. I’m taking you out to dinner.’

  The invisible man almost fainted. ‘Your excellency… I… But the surveillance…’

  Calandra slapped his shoulder.

  ‘Screw the surveillance. Enough work for today. We did a good job, we deserve a break. Have you ever been to the Pergola del Cavalieri? My friend Heinz Beck runs it.’

  27

  Annibale sat at the large wooden table in the kitchen of Caterina’s flat. She’d left that morning. He’d originally planned to be there for three days, but he’d stayed for almost two weeks. Caterina’s place set his brain on fire – though who knows – it could have been the satisfaction of falling asleep beside her every night after a whirlwind of passionate sex.

  The previous night, however, had been the last with that angelic creature. She’d taken him to extreme depths. No fears, no inhibitions. Her entire life was like that. After almost two hours of roller-coaster sex, they’d finally collapsed, exhausted.

  ‘I’m off tomorrow. I’m going to see my boyfriend in London, but you can stay as long as you want. I’ll leave you a set of keys.’ She kissed him lightly on his lips and smiled in the dim light.

  ‘You’re a fascinating woman. I’m going to treasure these days with you for a long time to come. But I had no idea you had a partner.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Patrick’s Australian. I really love him and I think I’m going to marry him. But when I meet someone like you I can’t help myself. It doesn’t happen that often these days.’

  She rested her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. He could still feel her all over his skin in the cool breeze of the fan rotating above them.

  ‘My mother told me the same thing happened to her. But it stopped once she met my dad. She may have been tempted, but she never gave in. I think that’s a good compromise. What do you think? Anyone waiting for you out there?’

  Annibale stroked her cheek. As if in silent agreement, they hadn’t mentioned each other’s personal relationships, despite talking about almost everything else. ‘Yes, there is someone. She’s about your age. But she did something extremely dangerous, and we’ve parted ways. That’s why I came here. I needed a beautiful woman to distract me. It helps me think. Of course, I’m a gentleman, so I never thought…’

  ‘Idiot.’ They both laughed.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ She sat up in bed. ‘I asked Mum about Astroni. She was surprised, kind of worried. She kept stalling but I insisted. When Dad died, she promised to tell me the truth, always. I’ve kept her to it. I got a lot out of her at the time.’ She looked at him. ‘Anyway, she told me she’d had a brief fling with him, just before she met my dad. But he wasn’t like you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He didn’t understand. When she told him it was over, he lost his mind.’

  *

  Astroni again.

  What Canessa had turned up so far clearly showed who the main characters were in this story. But he was still missing the plot, the thread that tied everything together: facts, events and names that, as they currently stood, told him nothing. He was missing a motive, and a couple of actors – though the latter would follow.

  Petri was the only one who could link things up. He would have to start from there, again. Thanks to Carla’s scoop, the pressure from law enforcement had loosened. His sist
er-in-law had been released and had pleaded on TV: ‘Annibale, turn yourself in. Together we can prove that this was all made up.’

  Sweet, sensible Sara. Seeing her return home and hug her daughter (my niece, Canessa thought with tenderness) had made him happier than he could remember. Sara had made her appeal in good faith, and maybe at someone’s suggestion. But he couldn’t do as she suggested. If he turned himself in, the whole investigation would be put on hold again. And his enemies would have enough time to set another trap or cut the thread. He couldn’t trust them.

  He would come out of hiding only when he had proof of the conspiracy, and when he’d tied up all those loose ends.

  In a double-knot.

  28

  ‘What do we know about Petri?’

  He started with a question to Repetto, and ended up grabbing one of the handles on the bus that went from the Opera prison to the city centre. At 6.30 in the morning, it was packed and boiling. Number 222 started in Pieve Emanuele and reached Vigentino, the terminal for tram number 24. The tram went up towards the Duomo, but Petri had got off at Crocetta, where he made his second transfer of the morning to the number 3 service on the underground, the yellow line. Petri had taken that route every morning when he left the prison. Annibale was repeating his movements in the hope that it might throw up an answer, help him out of the current impasse. They were reconstructing Petri’s life, starting with that fundamental question – which they’d ignored when they dived directly into the Corriere della Sera archives.

  Since Annibale was keeping a low profile, Repetto had gone to visit Petri’s sister on the outskirts of Turin. The marshal had ended up in the middle of a vast council estate, where his presence was immediately noted by the residents, even those with nothing to hide. Cop.

  Repetto knew those looks. He wasn’t expecting much from the visit, but he came well armed with patience. The lift was out of order, so he walked up the seven flights of stairs. He’d expected them to be filthy, but found the building as a whole surprisingly clean. Poverty and desperation were everywhere, to be sure, but he also sensed a desire to live with dignity.