“What do you mean by ‘nothing suspicious’?”
“There are a few stains here and there on the upholstery – they’re probably very old stains. Maybe coffee or coke… the car has been driven by many clients.”
Police Commissioner Fuggiano reflected for a few moments. “Let’s do what we can,” had been the magistrate’s order.
“Okay,” he said almost unwillingly. “I’ll send out somebody from the forensic department, I want to understand what the fuck those stains are made of.”
*
“It must have been eleven, half eleven at night, no later than that. We spent the night at the bar with friends and, before going home, we wanted to… erm… have some private time to ourselves.”
The girl lowered her eyes when her boyfriend said this.
“Along the river, about two hundred metres down a dirt road, there’s a large open space – there’s nothing there.”
“What happened?”
“About half way down the road we crossed paths with another car, a black Golf.”
“Wait a minute,” the agent interrupted him, irritably. “It was dark – how can you be so sure of the type and colour of the car?”
“That part of the dirt road is very narrow, two cars struggle to pass at the same time. You have to drive on the grass and fold back your wing mirrors so you don’t hit the other car. The car drove slowly by me. I could recognise a Golf anywhere – one day I want to buy one myself.”
“Right,” the agent said. He was trying to sound calmer than he really was. “So you crossed paths with this black Golf as you were going to park somewhere more private. Do you know how many cars like that there are around? If all those who saw a black Golf on the road came here, we’d have a never-ending queue.”
“Yeah, but…” the girl said.
“But?”
“When we saw the car…” the boyfriend resumed speaking. “… and we slowed down to let it pass… we began to joke about who could be driving the car – that’s a place where one would go if they wanted a little privacy. At the bar, we’d joked about the owner’s wife who is somewhat notorious in town. When we crossed paths, we glanced into the car to see who was in it.”
“It wasn’t the owner’s wife?”
“No, there was just a man behind the wheel – that’s something odd that got us wondering. As I said, only couples go there at that time of the night.”
“Also,” the girl added. “He kept his head down and turned towards the other side, almost as if he wanted to hide his face from us.”
“I mean, maybe it doesn’t have anything to do at all with the kidnapping… but we thought it would be wise to let you know about this.”
“Are you sure that the man was alone in his car?”
“Definitely, he was all alone in his car.”
“Maybe the bar owner’s lady was hunkered down to hide away from you.”
“We drove very slowly and we almost bumped into each other – no, there was only a man in the car.”
“… and you didn’t see his face.”
“We didn’t see him well. It was dark, but we saw something.”
“He wasn’t young,” the girl said. “It must have been a man in his forties or fifties – he had dark hair and wore glasses.”
“He had a moustache too,” the young man added.
“And you didn’t recognize him?”
“No.”
“Could you read the number plate?”
They shook their heads.
The agent stretched out on his chair. ‘More useless forms to fill in,’ he thought.
“Alright, let’s get your statement typed up – you can go after signing it,” he said and he repressed a yawn.
*
“Blood?!”
Maiezza, who had rushed to Sensi’s office, nodded. “Not on the seats, Mr Sensi. Two small stains were found on the boot’s upholstery. And there’s more – three thick, curly black hairs.”
“Black and curly… like those of a black girl?” Sensi tried to keep his cool. “This doesn’t really prove anything. How long will it take for the DNA results?”
“We’ll need a few hours to make a profile and compare it and then a few more hours to verify the results. We’ll have to be certain before making any claims.”
“Did you say dark, curly hairs?”
“Yes, just like Ami’s hair.”
“Blood in the boot,” Sensi said gloomily after a short silence. “If the analysis results are positive… you know what that means, right?”
Maiezza clamped his jaws closed and nodded – Ami’s blood in the boot could only mean one thing.
“I’m hoping that this is not the Golf that we’re looking for.”
“We’ll know in a few hours. For now, let’s focus on who may have rented the car.”
“His name’s Philip Beattie, he’s a British citizen. That’s all we know for now.”
*
An hour later, all the members of the crisis unit were re-united at Sensi’s office. Maiezza had found out a lot more about Philip Beattie.
“He’s forty-six years old and he lives in London. This,” he said, as he distributed some photocopies, “is the scanned copy of his driving licence, which they took when he showed it to the Hertz staff. The document is authentic – we have checked the licence number against the national database, the document has not been stolen or lost.”
The driving licence photo portrayed a middle-aged man with heavy glasses and dark brown – almost ginger – hair. His moustache was quite thick. His eyes were barely visible but they seemed to be of a light colour, it was difficult to tell what, exactly.
“He didn’t book the car in advance, he popped up at Hertz six days ago at the airport and filled in the papers to rent the car. He didn’t leave any contact number with the rental office.”
“What flight did he take? And where did he go straight after returning the Golf?”
“That’s the strange thing about it – no Philip Beattie has been recorded in the list of passengers arriving at Malpensa on the day that the man rented the car. No Philip Beattie had booked a flight for or left yesterday either. There aren’t any flights booked in his name for the next few days.”
“Are you sure, Maiezza?”
“I double checked many times. We’re still analysing the passenger lists to find out when he arrived.”
“Maybe he landed at a different airport or travelled by a different mode of transport,” Fuggiano said.
“Then why bother going to the Malpensa airport to rent a car?”
“Perhaps he lives or works nearby or…”
“It’s useless to speculate now,” Sensi concluded. “We don’t even know if that is the black Golf that we’re after. For now, let’s try to find out whether Mr Beattie is still here in Italy – let’s ask hotels, residences, bed and breakfasts… everyone. Let’s hunt him down, at least until the DNA results turn out to be negative.”
*
Sensi was trying to convince himself that he should eat something after all. While he was thinking this, his mobile phone began to vibrate.
“This is Corbi, I hope I’m not bothering you at this time.”
Sensi glanced at his watch – it was 9:30 p.m.
“I’m still at the office, don’t worry.”
“Right, I’m also at the office… I didn’t talk about it during our meeting today because I wanted to double check and be completely certain. There’s one sighting of a black Golf that stood out for me among the many sightings that were reported. The description of the man who was driving the car seems to match Philip Beattie’s photo.”
The lieutenant briefly summarised the young couple’s report.
“I asked the young couple to come to our office again. They recognised the man who was driving the Golf in the driving licence photo.” He paused.
“Are they certain?”
“Yes… as much as one can be certain by looking at a faded photo and glancing at a m
an who turns his face to the other side. Anyway,” he carried on, “whether or not the man was Mr Beattie, it is a bit strange for a man to be all by himself somewhere where couples usually go. It’s a dirt road that stretches for kilometres along the Adda river and then branches out into multiple tracks towards the reservoir. There’s nothing there, no bars, no houses, no farms. There’s just a river, bushes and some fields.
“How far is this area from the place where Ami was last seen?”
“About twenty kilometres. Here’s my plan – I’d like to send out a squad to inspect at least the area where the car was seen. The area is large, but we could start from there.”
“A car with only a man in it in an area where couples go to have some privacy. It’s hard to draw much of a clue from such flimsy evidence.” Sensi sighed heavily. “Okay, send somebody to have a look, it won’t hurt.”
Sensi let his mobile phone slide onto his desk and leaned back in his armchair with his eyes closed. There was no way he could eat anything – his tense stomach wouldn’t let a single mouthful in.
It was now well over forty-eight hours since Ami had disappeared. Statistically, there was only a three per cent chance that they would find her again, safe and well. There was still some hope that they would find her… maybe traumatised and tortured, but alive.
Sensi flicked through some documents to find the statements of the Hertz staff on the day that Mr Beattie’s black Golf was returned. He flicked through the pages quickly until he found what he was interested in – the statement from the member of staff who had cleaned the car.
The car was tidy inside – it’s very rare for clients to take care of it, but everything inside the car seemed to have been cleaned recently. The outside, instead, really needed a wash – there was a lot of soil on the rims and underneath the body.
“Soil.” He began to feel nauseous. “It sounds like he drove through a dirt road.”
Sensi glanced at his watch again, then retreived his mobile phone quickly. “This is Police Commissioner Sensi, can I talk to the manager?”
He waited for a few minutes; a man with an unfriendly voice answered. “Good evening, did you call for the DNA results? If so, we’re doing our final checks.”
“Can I have any information yet?”
“Do you want some information now? Do you want the right information?” His tone was almost sarcastic.
“Fuck,” Sensi roared. “Stop being so patronising. We’re not in a lab here.” He almost shouted. “We’ve been looking for a girl who disappeared almost three days ago with very little result and every moment that we lose could be fatal for her! Can you tell me anything? Yes or no?”
“Please don’t take my comments as the final results.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“It’ll take a couple of hours for the final results…”
“Okay, now tell me please.”
‘Tell me it’s not Ami’s blood,’ Sensi thought, before the man answered.
“The blood seems to belong to Aminata Demba.”
*
Lieutenant Corbi’s phone vibrated thirty seconds later. “Fence that area off completely, we need to inspect it inch by inch in the morning. This is a priority. Please don’t let the journalists know about it.”
“Is there any news?”
“Ami was in the boot. The blood is hers.”
Sensi could feel his temples pulsing – blood had been found in the Golf, the car seen in a place that looks ideal to get rid of a body, the car returned punctually the following day…
“I also want the K-9 Unit to inspect the area in order to check for any human remains.” Sensi struggled to keep his voice calm. “I’m afraid we’ll have to search for a body now.”
*
Bench was nearly two metres tall and he was standing still on the stage – his arms were hanging down, his hands were crossed on his stomach to hold the trumpet. The rest of the quintet played along, intertwining notes from a piece of music by Tom Harrell.
In his stationary pose, Bench didn’t give an impression of stillness – rather, of absence. His body was rigidly upright and seemed to adapt itself to an invisible weight in a series of sagging movements. His pelvis laid on his legs, his back on his hips, his neck on his spine, and his head was slightly inclined. His silver hair formed a quiff on his forehead and his eyes stared at a spot beyond the floor.
All of a sudden – almost by a miracle – it seemed that his body was invigorated by an electric shock. Bench slowly put the trumpet to his lips and his attitude shifted from that of an absent man to that of a man who was hermetically absorbed by his own music. The Jazz Club audience, in turn, was also invigorated by a wave of renewed energy – they were all there for him.
The first few notes of the solo music flew simultaneously softly and clearly. It was almost like Bench was trying to dominate his huge strength while playing – he conveyed all of his energy to the fullness of the musical expression. His eyes were not blank any more, they were expressing his own emotions. It was obvious that Bench wasn’t playing for himself or for the audience. Bench was playing for the music itself.
*
Forty minutes later, the members of the crisis unit were all assembled again at Sensi’s office. Those who had a day off had been called back into work again. Lieutenant Corbi was the only one missing – he had remained in the area to organize the inspection for the following day.
“Philip Beattie. We have to find him. We have to do it now. I know what we’re all thinking but we have to believe that, despite everything, Ami could still be alive; wounded, but alive. We have to find Philip Beattie. We need more men but that’s not a problem – we’ll have them. We have to find out when he entered our country and if he’s still here or if he went back to England. Make his photo public; get in contact with Scotland Yard and Interpol. Do anything that you can think of; let’s find that son of a bitch right now.”
*
Trevis sat at one of the tables sipping his cognac. Bench walked towards him. His movements were rigid and his head was low.
“Well done, amazing gig. That’s no surprise.”
“Thank you.”
Empty conversation – they both knew very well that Bench wasn’t interested in the audience’s opinion.
“Did you go to Milan to record?”
“Yes, they invited me as a special guest for a couple of album tracks. The band were skilled, a few days were all it took to do the job.”
Bench was keeping his eyes lowered towards the table, his quiff still covered most of his forehead. He looked exhausted.
“Are you still following the therapy?”
“I’m taking a smaller dose now, I always do when I have to do a gig. It’s all good, though, I’ll go back to the usual dose tomorrow.”
“Everything under control?”
Bench lifted his eyes for the first time. “Everything under control.”
He had begun to play the trumpet twenty-five years ago, before his hair was silver and when his name was Tommaso Bencivenga. He was a lively, intelligent young man and his talent was already well known to the director of the city orchestra. After a short period of indecision, his parents had finally decided to support his studies at the musical academy in Siena. His History of Music lecturer was also a skilled jazz drum player and had an important influence on the young man’s musical instruction. The young Tommaso had quickly made so much progress that, at the age of twenty, he gave his first concerts at a jazz club. He had amazed the audience with his perfect technique and his improvising skills – each time, the notes intertwined to make different musical phrases and explored new, surprising combinations. Bench – that was the name he had given himself as a musical artist – was clearly heading for a brilliant career. Then, when he was twenty-two, he had begun to have some problems… His friends had been the first to notice – the joyful, extroverted young man had slowly turned into a silent, introverted musician. His enthusiasm for meeting friends had worn off and he had be
come bashful. These problems rapidly became worse and worse – shortly after, Bench had become completely absent-minded, uninterested in anything that happened around him. He had become incapable of feeling emotions, joy or pain. He had become very quiet and often what he said didn’t make much sense. He believed that he was surrounded by copies of himself, clones that echoed whatever he said and overlapped one another.
Finally, voices and sounds had begun to crowd his mind.
He would sit on the floor for hours in the same position, crouched down in the corner of his room holding his trumpet in his hands; then he would become hyperactive a moment later, and he would become agitated and aggressive towards anyone who was around him.
He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and spent the following years in and out of hospitals and rehab centres.
He never stopped playing the trumpet – but occasionally the heavy drugs that he had to take would sedate him to the point where he was unable to function properly. He only played when he was by himself and he would compose surreal music – that was usually his best music.
Things had changed a little for the better in the last few years with the arrival of new drugs which didn’t give him any more hallucinations. Despite the struggles and the general dampening down of his emotions, Bench began to connect timidly with the outside world again.
His music, however, had not been the same.
Then somebody introduced him to Trevis.
At the end of three years of long and difficult therapy, Bench became independent and was able to convince his doctors that he didn’t need such a high dose of drugs. He rediscovered his long lost enchantment with music. Recently, he began to further reduce his dose before gigs on his own initiative – this worried Trevis.
“Who did you want to talk to me about, Bench?”
“Elisa. She’s from my town. She’s the daughter of a family friend.”
Bench lowered his eyes again. It seemed like he didn’t have anything else to say.
Trevis encouraged him to speak. “Tell me more about her.”
“She’s been ill for five years.”
Missing Page 4
