The doorbell’s shrill sound again… He was hoping he’d just imagined it the first time. Maybe it was part of a dream he hadn’t quite shaken off…
But no. It rang a third time.
‘Yes?’ Astroni answered.
‘Federico, please let me in.’
‘Antonio?’
Astroni’s surprise lasted less than a second. He went to unlock his door. A few minutes, and the cranky old lift rattled its way up and stopped at his floor. Savelli stepped out, followed by Virgili, the head of the criminal investigation department. Virgili stopped at the door, holding it open for Savelli, and Astroni noticed the look the two exchanged.
‘It won’t be necessary,’ Savelli said when Virgili made to follow them inside.
Savelli and Astroni sat across from each other in the living room. How many times had they done so on the eve of a crucial trial or an arrest that would raise a storm? After one of their many victories or rare defeats, to celebrate or simply to enjoy one another’s company? Savelli liked coming here at all times of day or night – though, admittedly, he had never shown up at this hour before. He’d sit surrounded by the Milanese furniture – the wood, glass, mirrors, and rugs… That solid sense of bourgeois progress. He was from a small village in southern Italy, but he’d started coming to the house when Federico’s mother was still alive. He always sat in the same armchair so he could admire the Boccioni painting, bought directly from the artist by Astroni’s grandfather. Both Astroni and Savelli loved it.
Savelli looked straight at Astroni. He’d been tense and distracted in recent weeks, Savelli now remembered. But above all, he’d been obsessed with the hunt for Canessa, pushing the idea of drug-trafficking as the motive behind the entire string of deaths, from Petri to Alfridi and the Camorra killers. Astroni had also contributed to the framing.
His own resistance to Canessa suddenly crumbled. It wasn’t just what he’d heard Astroni say; there was a solid logic to the route Canessa had taken and which he too could now see as a straight line. Everything Canessa had maintained, everything he’d discovered had gained a concrete reality that could not be demolished.
‘Antonio, are you there?’
Savelli snapped out of his reverie.
‘Why?’
The question hung between them, but the answer never came. The moment Astroni started explaining, Savelli cut in.
‘You lost your mind over a woman to the point that you conspired to kill your friend, a judge like you. And to defend that secret, you kept killing.’
‘I never killed anyone.’
Savelli exploded. ‘Stop fucking lying! Jesus Christ, all these deaths. All because of lust.’
Federico Astroni slammed his fist down on the table. There was a flurry of quick footsteps and Virgili came into the room, Beretta in hand.
Savelli stood up between him and Astroni.
‘It’s fine. Please return to your post.’
‘But, your honour…’
‘Please, I am in no danger.’
Astroni was still seated, his head drooping. The officer gone, he looked up, eyes burning.
‘She wasn’t the object of my lust. She wasn’t my desire. She was the love of my life. There has never been anyone like her. Not a single woman amongst all those I’ve been with – and there have been many – is worth the perfect toenails of her feet. She’d paint them blue in the summer, when she wore lemon-yellow sandals and a yellow sun dress.’ Astroni was drifting off into a grotesque sentimental trance which Savelli found deeply disconcerting. But Astroni gathered himself together. ‘Everything I’ve done since the corruption inquiries – all the shows I put on, even when they went against my personality – it was all in the hope of winning her back. But no. She called me once to compliment me, and to tell me that Rodolfo would have been proud. She was too! But not enough to come and see me in person.’
Savelli stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You killed Rodolfo. You conspired with terrorist scum, you hired a pack of bloodthirsty killers to track down and murder a judge, a colleague, a friend. You struck deals with the Camorra, tampered with evidence, arrested innocent people, and conspired with Giannino Salemme, a corrupt magistrate and dirty lawyer guilty of countless crimes. Your hands are as filthy as his…’
Savelli ran a hand through his hair and looked outside. The sun was rising just behind the curtains. He should have been setting sail right about now, alone on the lake… Instead, here he was, drowning in the horror of betrayal, overcome by the stench of rot.
‘There is no proof of my involvement in what you’ve just alleged. If there is, my guilt is only moral. There’s nothing tangible.’ Of course, there was that foreign SIM card Salemme had given him… but he had already removed it and tossed it down a drain.
Savelli looked at that man who had been his pride and joy, the son he’d always wanted. His protégé was a backstabber, a character from an Ancient Greek tragedy. But this one had none of the pathos of Aeschylus. This was a banal scene, driven by bestial instincts.
There were no further extenuating circumstances, and after the final protests, Savelli stood up. ‘Virgili,’ he called.
The officer ran in, this time without his gun.
Savelli moved in towards Astroni, his eyes only inches from his former protégé’s. ‘Moral guilt? I almost feel sorry for you, Federico. There is plenty of evidence, trust me.’ He turned back to Virgili.
‘Handcuffs, please.’
4
‘Shoot!’
Carla Trovati rubbed her sleepy eyes. She still couldn’t entirely believe the scene unfolding before her. Even the photographer had hesitated, holding his camera in his hands. He only started using it with Carla’s piercing yell.
The town clock showed just past 6 a.m. The heat was already simmering, and the sun, high in the sky, would soon bring things to the boil. Last night’s storm had done nothing to clear things up.
Carla had gone home at 1.45 after her long night shift, completely soaked. When she’d got in to the office, the weather seemed perfectly stable. When she’d left the Corriere, the worst had passed, but it was still pouring.
She’d showered and settled down on the sofa, with a book and a mug of herbal tea.
She dozed off for a few minutes until the phone woke her. It was her landline, and only two or three people had that number. One of them was Annibale. Carla picked up halfway through the second ring.
It wasn’t Annibale.
‘Miss Trovati, could you please open your front door?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Please open the door! We don’t have much time.’
She couldn’t place the voice, but it sounded kind, so she went to her door, still holding the phone. She wasn’t really afraid, but she picked up a knife from the kitchen on her way.
She opened the door to find a yellow envelope taped to it. She took it down, careful not tear it. Inside were some papers and a stiff object – maybe a DVD case.
‘I have it,’ she said to the unknown voice.
‘Good. Now listen: after we hang up, take a quick look at the contents and the summary. You don’t have much time. We suggest you station yourself in front of Federico Astroni’s house as soon as you can get there. You might also consider Giannino Salemme, but we recommend Astroni. Take a photographer with you. This may be story of the century.’
‘Who is…’
‘Good luck.’
Click.
The voice had been kindly, with a hint of an accent from the Swiss Alps.
Carla opened the envelope and started reading quickly, as instructed. As she did so, a shiver ran down her spine. Next, she watched the DVD. She was shocked rigid.
Think, Carla. And before anything else, get dressed!
She threw off her pyjamas,
splashed her face with cold water and sprayed a cloud of deodorant. She slipped into a pair of jeans and a green polo shirt, then dumped all her work equipment into a bag. She’d almost left the flat when she turned around and looked at the envelope and its contents on the table. She went back and collected it all and put that in the bag too.
‘I’m not fucking leaving you behind.’
On the landing, she dialled a number on her mobile.
‘Tirelli? It’s Carla. I know it’s late – well, early. Yes, I’m a piece of shit. But listen. I have an explosive story. Get dressed and meet me in piazza del Carmine. Im-me-di-ate-ly.’
She watched as one of Italy’s most famous magistrates, Federico Astroni – symbol of law and justice – walked out of his house in handcuffs. He’d been arrested by his friend and mentor Antonio Savelli, who now walked a few metres behind him.
But Carla wasn’t thinking of the fact that she’d soon be one of Italy’s most famous journalists, with TV interviews and a column with her photo and byline.
No, just as Tirelli, as excited as a monkey in mating season, was hopping back and forth across the street in order to catch the unsuspecting Astroni from every angle, Carla was thinking: now that this story is over, there is nothing left to figure out or to be afraid of. And maybe, just maybe I’ll be able to find Annibale again.
All she could think about was how his hands felt on her skin.
5
By now, Chief Magistrate Calandra didn’t even have to ask. The girl (she may have been twenty-four, but to him she was a girl) would just slip into her thong and dance by the light of the moon.
That night, however, the moon was covered by rain and heavy clouds, and she’d holed up in bed. They were in a resort in the Lazio countryside, famous for its low carbon footprint (which mattered very little to Calandra) and the quality of its food, from breakfast to dinner to midnight snacks (he cared about that a lot more). The young woman lay next to him shivering, her nipples pressed against his skin.
A good feeling. He’d fallen asleep like that, without any further action. He wasn’t an old creep, just a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, and holding a frightened woman in his arms during a storm was one of them.
He was sleeping quite soundly – even his prostate was behaving that night – when he heard a voice.
‘Darling…’
The girl was straddling him and looking at him kindly. She had his phone.
‘Sorry, it kept ringing and I saw it said Office so I answered for you… I thought it might be urgent. Did I do anything wrong?’
Calandra stroked her toned butt cheek and took the BlackBerry from her. She removed her thong and looked at him with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Hello,’ he said. She started kissing his chest and gradually moved lower, towards his groin.
The grey man spoke from the bunker.
‘They’ve arrested Astroni and Giannino Salemme, the lawyer, former magistrate…’
‘I know him. Quite the résumé. Really? So he was the other man. That’s not entirely surpris— ah!’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, yes… go on…’ His voice went down a pitch, and his breathing was becoming heavier.
‘Canessa has discovered Petri’s confession and handed it over to Savelli, who arrested Astroni in person. The Corriere website has an exclusive gallery of the arrest, with Astroni in handcuffs. The first comments are all about Savelli’s great clean-up job. Not exactly what we were going for…’
Calandra took a long breath. ‘No, but it is a result. It’ll shake the tree a bit, and force some people to quieten down. With this kind of operation, complete success is hard to achieve. We can settle for that, and so will our contacts. You did well, we did well. We bet on the right horse. He may not have broken the record for speed, but he won. Now we can relax. See you on Monday.’
His speech was slurred, but he felt great. And he was about to feel even better.
6
A Saturday evening in June. It wasn’t technically a celebration or a farewell party, but Annibale Canessa, Ivan Repetto and Piercarlo Rossi allowed themselves a bottle of champagne, some Pata Negra ham, and some French cheese in the safe house in largo Rio de Janeiro.
Repetto had sunk into an armchair, where he was downing glass after glass. His eyes were black and blue, as so often when he’d been part of the anti-terrorism team and they’d brought in a fugitive and closed down an investigation.
Rossi looked at him and nodded.
‘You know, I’m going to miss this a little. I’ve had a great time with you. I can honestly say you’ve been the only people to shake up my life a bit, both then and now.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Repetto growled, draining another glass.
Canessa had woken up in the late afternoon. He ate some breakfast and turned on the TV. All the channels were broadcasting the same images of Federico Astroni’s arrest, on a loop from the Corriere della Sera website. He watched TV on mute for some time, then showered and waited.
Shortly after Repetto and Rossi’s arrival at the safe house, Antonio Savelli’s press conference had started. Canessa had listened until he heard what he needed to hear.
‘…Annibale Canessa, retired lieutenant colonel of the Carabinieri, is no longer a wanted man: his arrest warrant has been recalled and he is no longer a suspect. We do, however, request his presence in our offices to record his testimony as a material witness.’
Caterina had sent him a text: You’re a man who keeps his promises, but I already knew that. If you ever need somewhere to hide, there’s a bed waiting for you… From the way she put it, he knew he wouldn’t actually get much sleep in that bed – at least, not until her wedding.
He remembered Caterina with affection and erotic longing, but Canessa had already decided to call Carla when he got home. It was time to come out of hiding, to go back to his real life. He longed to resume his dawn swim, when the only sound in the San Fruttuoso bay was made by the waves. And he wanted Carla to dive in with him. He had a prickly feeling, however, that for people like him, real rest and tranquillity were not permanent. Sooner or later he would find himself caught up in an adventure like the one he’d just concluded. For the moment, though, he wouldn’t ask questions or make long-term plans.
He could hear Repetto and Rossi arguing behind him. He poured some more champagne and cut himself a piece of Cantal. ‘What are you two on about?’
Repetto pointed to Rossi. ‘He’s delirious, spouting nonsense. He just said that the fellowship of the ring is broken. What does that mean?’
Canessa smiled at Rossi and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘It may be a little pretentious, but I get it. Ivan, did you ever read Tolkien? The Lord of the Rings?’
‘Are you talking about those interminable fake medieval films?’
Canessa chuckled. ‘Ask your grandchildren and they’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Okay, so who’s my character?’ Repetto asked.
‘If I’ve got this right, I should be Aragorn, and you’re either Sam, Frodo’s devoted companion or the ugly dwarf, Gimli. What would you say, Rossi?’
‘You’ve nailed it!’
‘Fuck off!’ With a smile, Repetto went off to open another bottle of champagne.
EPILOGUE
Calandra loved summer, since it meant he could finally wear his colourful linen suits and silk shirts. Most of all, it meant he could reach into the precious box containing his tailored panama hat, made for him by someone as mad as the hatter in Alice in Wonderland (and just as magically talented) with a shop on a small street in Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras.
The hat fit him perfectly, but it served many other purposes. Sometimes, it was a personal fan. Calandra belonged to a group of people who believe that August is actually less hot than June or July, but that d
ay was testing his theory. Despite the sun umbrella, the terrace and the shade, the air was absolutely still, even on the beach. He should have come in the evening rather than midday, when he might even have needed a light cashmere jumper. Eventually he took off his jacket and draped it over the chair. He hated doing that, even in summer. But this was a special case.
Thankfully, the oppressive heat had not affected his menu choices: mussels sauté and Portofino-style scampi, spaghetti with seafood, and the fried fish of the day. He’d made his way through the sauté and the scampi and was waiting for the pasta. He saw the waitress bringing it over. Quite the show, both the dish and the waitress. The cook had been generous (he knew people here), and now the waitress was showing as much tanned skin as she could in her denim short shorts and a white tank top. Her legs were toned and muscular, and despite the apron bearing the name of the place, La Zia, he could glimpse two perfect breasts, unrestrained by a bra. It was hot today, after all, and she could definitely pull it off. Calandra arranged his large napkin over his monogrammed blue shirt. He had another in a bag on the boat, just in case.
The waitress brushed past the restaurant owner, who was coming out of the kitchen with a plate of trofie al pesto, complete with potatoes and green beans. When they came close, she teasingly patted his side.
Considering that Calandra was their last customer, the owner returned the favour with a light slap on her delightful behind. It would have been workplace harassment anywhere else – but in this case, you didn’t want to harass the owner, Calandra thought. Anyone who’d tried to do so before had come out of it badly.
The owner reached Calandra’s table.
‘May I?’
Calandra bowed, flourishing his panama hat. ‘Take a seat, Inspector Canessa.’
The two men ate in silence, with the occasional pleasantry on either side.
‘Would you like to taste some trofie, your excellency?’
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 36