by Aidan Conway
He was sitting on the quay. The fishermen below were busy fixing nets and scrubbing decks and equipment. He took out his notebook and phone. On the first page he’d written the number of the contact from Iovine and the words “Lampedusa possible”; he hadn’t yet entered alphabetically in his contacts. He punched in the digits and waited for it to ring. No answer, again. Iovine had given him the low-down. The story went that it was an ex-police officer with a dossier of information about an array of figures caught up in all manner of illicit activities. His identity remained unknown. It could just as well have been a blind alley, Iannelli thought to himself, slipping the phone into his pocket and sitting back again to enjoy the sun.
No sooner had he done so than it was buzzing. There was no call ID. He answered it anyway.
“Iannelli?”
“Yes, who is it?”
Then just silence as the caller hung up. He got to his feet. Time for lunch. Just behind the quay there was a bar and restaurant recommended by the guesthouse owner. He had his eye on the pasta with sea-urchin’s eggs, a local speciality. It had to be fresh but he’d been reassured by seeing the local kids braving the cold water that very morning to pluck the molluscs from the rocks where they anchored. He settled into a corner outside where there was no wind to enjoy the warmth of a suntrap.
At a nearby table sat a sole occupant, a striking redhead. She had been leafing through a book but had also been shooting him not infrequent glances. He called the waiter. It was time for an aperitivo and as he ordered he instructed him to ask the lone reader what he might offer her. In her mid-twenties, perhaps, she was dressed in a white roll-neck sweater and a well-worn, brown leather jacket, matching boots, and tight grey jeans. The waiter duly deposited a tall glass of what appeared to be something non-alcoholic and when Iannelli raised his glass she acknowledged, her eyes shielded with large, very dark glasses.
“May I join you?” Iannelli enquired. In Sicilian terms, he had now earned himself the right, but it was imperative that he not overstep the mark or be seen to be in any way presumptuous.
“Prego,” she replied, indicating the vacant chair waiting at her table.
“Dario Iannelli,” said the journalist, reaching out and taking her hand and bowing.
“Rita,” she replied.
“Studying?” he enquired, indicating the book now face down on the table.
“Pleasure,” she replied. “And you, I believe are working, as a journalist.”
“How did you know?”
“Word travels fast here, Dottore. And I also believe you would like to speak to my father.”
*
They had nearly finished their drinks but the next move hung in the balance as Rita weighed Iannelli by his words and the impression he was beginning to give her.
“I can’t guarantee that he will speak with you, but I will try. I don’t think I need tell you he is very disillusioned, with everyone, with everything. But if he does see you, you will get the full story, don’t worry about that. It is I who answer his phone now when he is out or on the boat. He doesn’t need all those interruptions, all the hassle. It’s the number you rang, by the way. I heard you were here, and I wanted to have a look at you first. We like to know who we are dealing with here in Sicily, especially when they come from il continente.”
“And you knew I would come here, to this restaurant?”
“Sooner or later,” she answered, “our paths would have to cross.”
Il continente. The mainland. Sicily was a world apart, physically, geographically, culturally, politically. At least that was how the story went. Of course, it was Italy, but better to say that Italy in many ways was Sicily, for Sicily and its emigrants had given to the world so many of Italy’s identifying characteristics. The passion, the heat, the culture, and hunger for knowledge, the love of food and wine and family, family, family. And vendetta. Cruelty. Conspiracy. Loyalty. It was a land of rich contrasts and exotic meetings, largely due to its having been conquered and re-conquered so many times. The Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs, the Normans, right up to the English and the Americans.
Rita was a lawyer, working mainly for the unions and labour rights groups but also held an active interest in journalism and had written for various local publications. It was clear to Iannelli what side she was on and as he gave her a rundown of his background, it seemed that he was beginning to gain something of her trust. But he wanted to ascertain what her father knew and why everything was so wrapped in secrecy. Could he meet her father now? She shook her head. Not yet, not here. Did he not know that at this very moment they were being watched? She opened her book as if to bring to his attention some amusing passage and, as she did so, she provided an illustrative voiceover.
“Everything is coming to a head and what my father knows, what he discovered, well it’s only a question of time before the facts emerge. The question is who will be first to expose who? Who can engineer things in such a way as to get out while the going is still good and let the others take the rap. It’s a system, pure and simple and my father uncovered it. With careful and stubborn determination and against all the odds. It’s a system within a system, the one that we know exists, but with a new twist, shall we say, and with Rome at its centre. But it will come out because a system built on theft and corruption and dishonesty and immorality can only remain hidden for so long.”
She removed her glasses. Her eyes were a dazzling Sicilian blue. Must be the Norman blood, thought Iannelli.
“My father went through all the legitimate channels but met only with deception and obstruction. As a police officer he had no other choice. They made his life hell anyway once they knew. He didn’t break any law but they managed to find something. They can always find something. So he couldn’t go to the press or take the law into his own hands as it would all have led straight back to him, his job and us, his family. So he gave up. For us. But it broke his spirit. He was transferred God knows how many times and harassed and intimidated. When his health really began to suffer, he managed to get out with some integrity intact and at least a part of his pension. That’s when he returned here and went back to his father’s job. He became a fisherman again.”
She turned to another page in the book as if finding some other passage with which she wanted to illustrate her point. By now the acting was natural and fluid on both their parts. She leaned closer to Iannelli and he picked up an even stronger scent of her femininity. It had been a while for him – he’d been so absorbed in his work that he rarely found time to pursue a single man’s pleasures. Even just being in the company of and passing time with beautiful women, intelligent women, forgetting about work and the world for a few hours.
“This is my number and my address. Memorize them now,” she said, making a note in the margin. “Come tonight at eight and my father will be there. He won’t stay long and he may not answer all your questions but he will tell you what you need to know. I’ll be doing the cooking, by the way, so I hope you’ll be hungry.”
She closed the book and leant back. A Sicilian redhead. An Aphrodite. She called for the bill.
“I’ll get this,” she said despite Iannelli’s vain protestations. “You bring the wine tonight.”
“Won’t you stop for lunch?”
“Can’t. Things to do.”
As she left, he followed her with his eyes. Did he have a date? Or what? Still, as he tucked into his spaghetti con ricci di mare, he felt five or maybe even ten years younger. Then as he walked out into the afternoon, the better for a couple of glasses of Glicine, and an exquisite ricotta-filled cannoli, he felt a foot taller and ready for anything they could throw at him. It didn’t occur to him how little he knew of this wondrous place or how costly it could be to try getting anywhere near anything resembling the truth.
Forty
“Perhaps I will take up that offer of a drink,” said Rossi, getting up from the table. He shot a concerned glance to a perplexed-looking Carrara.
“Could I offer you so
me Scotch?” the judge replied, moving towards a well-stocked but probably rarely opened drinks cabinet.
“That would be fine,” Rossi lied. Try as he might, he could see no Jameson or Bushmills lurking, but it would do for now.
“Inspector Carrara?” the judge enquired.
“No, thank you,” said Carrara, shaking his head. “Driving. Fast, usually.”
“So,” said Rossi, turning back to Maria, seated and smoking as before, “where exactly did you see this face?” He took another sip of the single malt. It was good enough but not quite what he needed. “I’m guessing it wasn’t at the bridge club.”
“Not my thing, bridge, I’m afraid.”
“Mine neither,” said Rossi. “But if you could perhaps enlighten us.”
“In my line of work, Inspector, there are what might be called courses, training, retreats, any number of organized encounters in which I and other colleagues meet without knowing whom we are meeting. We work on the basis of pseudonyms, code names, that sort of thing.”
“Double 0 something?”
“Not exactly, but you get the idea. Anyway, we were working on interrogation techniques and surveillance and during one session we were watching some guys through a two-way mirror. We had no idea who they were but we had to study their movements and body language and reactions to questioning and, what I can say, with fair certainty, is that the man I saw leaving the car park had been in one of these groups. I really don’t forget a face, Inspector. And there was what looked like a small prison-style tattoo on his neck.”
“So wouldn’t he have recognized you? Especially if he’d been going there to kill you.”
“As I said, I saw him. He would have had my description and, yes, seeing me, he may have hesitated but I expect he believed he had already done the job required of him. He was hardly likely to kill twice and, besides, he had lost the benefit of surprise. He was making his escape. Even if he had realized his error he would have aborted the mission. It was too late. What’s more, it was raining, I’d put on a rain hat and I had on thick-rimmed glasses for night driving. I’d only just started to wear them that very week and the lights were behind me illuminating him.”
“But you can give us a pretty good description, an artist’s impression?”
“Yes, of course and it’s possible but risky that I might even be able to get access to some classified files, despite the situation I am in now. I may still be able to use some contacts, some limited access to data and channels of communication.”
“You get on to that, Gigi, the identikit stuff,” Rossi said, turning to Carrara who made a note on his phone. But Maria had not finished.
“So, I think we agree, Inspector, that the killer who was sent to murder me must be the same killer you are hunting for all the murders, this ‘Carpenter’ the press are going so wild about. And are we also of the same opinion that the idea is to strike fear into the populace while any busy bodies that happen to get in the way get taken out?”
“Don’t see why not,” said Rossi, “there’ve been more outlandish theories that proved to have just as much substance.”
“And you would discount any idea that it could be someone else simply copying The Carpenter’s methods, as cover to get at you and muddy up the trail?”
“Bit coincidental, don’t you think?” said Rossi. “There just happens to be a killer on the loose on the eve of major elections and a political murder-scandal erupts. It’s all looking rather like Jeremy Thorpe and the liberals.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Oh, Britain, the 1970s,” continued Rossi, “there really are some parallels. The old Liberal Party, considered a spent force, are resurgent again on a wave of public disillusionment with the two big parties. Then it just so happens that their leader is implicated in a plot to kill his gay lover who’s been blackmailing him. He got off, or was innocent, depending how you look at it, but the party took a pounding. Never recovered. Less liberal times, you might say, and mud sticks. And a sure-fire method for scuppering a third force in politics, wouldn’t you say? How little times change.”
“So we agree then?”
“Well,” said Rossi, tossing back the rest of his whisky, and wishing he hadn’t bothered, “it’s a very strong possibility.” He reflected again on what Iannelli had said about infiltrating the parties. Well that much had some basis in fact, if Marini was to be believed.
“But if that is the case,” he went on, “then we aren’t going to be looking for a normal kind of serial killer. If it is political, who’s to say he wouldn’t be substituted with the next paid assassin? Still, if we got our hands on him all hell would break loose.”
“In your experience, Inspector Rossi, does catching criminals stop crime? Crime is an opportunity and there’s always someone ready to step in. As for killers, it’s we who produce them. Society. The rat race. We, the so-called normal, law-abiding, tax-paying, socially responsible citizens. We are all to blame. They are our bastard-children, Inspector. We have to change society, not just put people behind bars. But for now, this is damage limitation. If we can track him down, in time, perhaps we’ll save an innocent life. They’ll have to rethink their strategy, of course, but it could win us enough time to ensure that the MPD gets a fair crack of the whip. Sure, this is killing of the worst kind, for pure gain, for political capital, but if we can move in the shadows too, like them, maybe we can see them off at the pass and do a bit of good even. At least for Kristina and the others.”
There was a pause before Rossi ruptured the silence with a slow, deliberate clapping.
“Brava! The big speech! You should go into politics in your next incarnation. Ten out of ten for the theory. But the practice?”
Despite or because of the provocation, Maria’s gaze was now fixed on him. He in turn was scrutinizing her to see whether there was some fury now behind the well-disciplined, icy exterior. It was not an easy call.
He looked round first to Carrara and then to the judge.
“Do you mind if we pop outside for a moment?” he asked, indicating the balcony overlooking the street. “I think we need some air.”
Marini senior insisted on showing them out. Judging by the state of its few plants, the miniature terrace had seen far better days.
“As you know, this is not my habitual residence,” the judge proffered by way of explanation, “and I have never been green-fingered.”
“Me neither,” said Rossi, though Carrara was already moving about and prodding soil and lifting leaves. Rossi took the judge lightly by the arm.
“If you will excuse us, for a moment.”
He closed the door and turned to Carrara.
“So? Any ideas?”
“Well, first off, after all that, I would say some lunch was in order. And then you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
They were in a self-service on the Via Tiburtina and the shuffling queue of tray-bearers was at least short. Rossi had agreed to meet again with the Marinis after he and Carrara had had time to reflect on the courses of action left open to them.
“So,” began Carrara, “would you finally mind explaining how you reached your startling conclusion, Mr Holmes? While you two were exchanging conspiracy theories I was feeling distinctly out of the picture.”
Rossi smiled. It was nearly closing time and the choice was limited. He surveyed the offerings without enthusiasm before plumping for a parmigiana di melanzane with salad and chips.
“Hungry?” said Carrara indicating the bible-sized wedge of fried layered aubergines, mozzarella, and tomato sauce.
“Comfort food,” replied Rossi.
The bread basket by the till was empty. He signalled to the smiling, almost elderly man clanking pots and trays, who duly refilled it with an assortment of rolls and pre-packaged slices. Rossi picked up a rosetta roll.
“Today’s or yesterday’s leftovers?”
“Fresh as a little rose, sir,” came the quick-spirited reply. “Rose. Rosetta. Get it?”
>
Rossi gave a generous smile.
“Besides, go hard as a rock these in a day. Could use ’em as cannonballs.”
Rossi turned to Carrara.
“See Gigi? Exhibit number one. The bread.”
“The bread?”
“Cast your mind back. You may remember in Marini’s flat there were bread rolls. Like these. Remember? And they were fresh.”
“The bread was fresh?”
Rossi’s face had become more animated now with renewed vigour and wide-eyed enthusiasm. He placed a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.
“Somebody bought the bread with the rest of the shopping on the day of the murder and brought it back to the flat. Somebody was in that flat during the day, probably the evening. Ms Marini didn’t have a maid. Her father says he had no key. Perhaps it was somebody nobody has mentioned, or even thought to mention or lie about, but call me mad if you like but that’s when I thought we might have to turn this case on its head. That’s when I began thinking that Marini might not be dead. There was no shopping left in the car and she was hardly likely to have dropped it off and then gone back to the car before being “killed”. There was an all-night parking ticket too, so she was home for the night. So, she must have gone back to the flat herself. And that’s why we took our little drive over to the judge’s place.”
They took a table near the door and away from obvious eavesdroppers.
“And then there was the book,” said Rossi. “The judge bought a book for his daughter who had been murdered the previous evening.”
“Maybe he forgot. Force of habit, shock.”
“Well, yes, it could have been but I made a little visit to his local book vendor to see when he bought it. I wanted to push the possibilities as far as they could go, to see if they would stand up to the test. And, as you can see, my instinct was proved right.”
“But I thought he was grieving for real. That’s the impression you gave.”
