by Aidan Conway
The days spent in Ljubljana absorbed in official business had been a false oasis of banality and innocence. He had tried to shut out that other, illicit, world he had made for himself and had thought that he could put it all behind him. But now as he stared at the familiar four walls, as he thought about returning later to the empty house, as he thought about what he had done that night, his cowardice, his folly, he knew he had no escape. How many times had he played out the scene – their prearranged meeting, his pretending to stumble on her with another man, then making himself the third in a sordid triangle. To put life back into their marriage. Life on a razor’s edge and, yes, the fire of their dangerous fantasies had energized them like nothing else had. Until that night. He held his head in his hands. The image would never leave him. Her stockinged leg on the dashboard, his approach, his anticipation, and then the discovery. At the sight of the blood frenzy he had frozen, a million voices racing through his head before he began to run. Then he had stopped. She was dead. Murdered. He could not tell the truth. He had to live on, but he couldn’t live with the shame of his double life and the shame of having left her at the mercy of a beast, all to satisfy his fantasies.
So, he had gone back, the calculating coward that he had so swiftly become, to remove any sign of his own involvement, moving first the body into a less provocative position and removing from her handbag any incriminating erotic paraphernalia before finally subtracting her phone from the scene. He had never been there. They never met there. They did not lead a sordid double life. It was all a mystery he could not explain.
He took a sheet of the headed paper before him and began to write. Why? For who? Who cared! There was no one now. He stood up and raised the sash window. A chill early-evening gust greeted him and for some reason he first removed his jacket and then his tie. He placed them on the back of his chair, as if he were going to take a restorative, executive power nap. The courtyard below was empty except for cigarette butts, the odd plastic cup rolling around. He pressed the buzzer on his intercom.
“Silvia, could you come to my office please, as soon as you have finished what you are doing. I think something here is not quite right.”
Sixty-Five
Rossi glanced across the room to his joyously disordered dining table-cum-desk. Rarely used for dining, it was strewn with fragments of Roman amphorae he’d unearthed here and there, growing towers of books as well as the fruits of his cyber adventure with Gab. His phone wires and modem and splitter were in seeming spaghetti-like disorder, but he would see to putting them right shortly, now that he knew how it all worked.
That had been quite an education. There was nothing like taking a refresher course, or a beginner’s course. He took another sip on the cognac now warmed almost to perfection. Perhaps they would be all right, after all, the old team. Carrara was just impatient sometimes, that was all. Still, he would keep to himself what he had found until the moment was right. Until the moment was ripe. He had left himself no other choice. But at least he had something approaching an ace up his sleeve. It was as if he’d sneaked in extra training for some big race. Wait and work on the remainder of the plan. He took another sip and then spun the golden liquid around again watching it and the light playing until a vortex formed then as quickly vanished. Yes. Almost to perfection. Almost.
*
He woke with a start. His phone was buzzing on the table next to his keys and making an infernal racket. He staggered over.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Me, Mick. Gigi. Bad news, I’m afraid.”
“How bad?”
“It’s Luzi. He’s dead.”
“How?”
“Suicide.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Any note?”
“Yep. ‘Sorry. I didn’t do it. Sorry’.”
Sixty-Six
“ID, please,” the officer asked once the car window had been fully wound down. They couldn’t stop them all, so they worked on the principle of gut-feeling or probability. Some sort of numbers game. And this vehicle fitted the bill, primarily because of its ordinariness. Because of its anonymity, the kind of anonymity, according to the logic, that could so often slip through the net. At least that’s what he thought.
It was an unremarkable but sturdy Fiat. A bit rough around the edges. A bit like the occupant. He was probably in his 40s but fit, slightly unshaven, even if a little agitated, perhaps, for the inconvenience. With the window down, on a night as cold as this, the secure little cell he’d been cocooned in was now flooded with icy air and had become decidedly inhospitable. Or perhaps it was because of where he had been stopped and why. For this was Tor Sapienza, on Rome’s pretty much forgotten north-eastern outskirts, with its crumbling tree-root distorted footpaths and litter-strewn waste ground and hinterlands. He could only be doing one thing here, at that speed, in a red-light area: cruising, kerb-crawling, on the lookout for prostitutes.
“ID, please,” said the officer despite the driving licence’s appearing to be in order. Instinct here, too, was telling him to cross-check. All seemed to be fine, as he shone his torch on the particulars which matched with those on the licence. Almost all. He rubbed his thumb across the passport-sized photo’s borders. Was there an edge there? A razor cut possibly? Or was it just a crease, wear and tear? He looked more closely. One of the entries seemed to be in an unfamiliar font. The light wasn’t great. He remembered his training. Easiest European document to forge. This though would be his first. Better to check.
“One moment, please,” he said. The driver seemed resigned but unperturbed. Perhaps relieved that his motives for being there were not as yet on the officer’s agenda. Just more waiting in a day of waiting his fixed stare seemed to say; the driver’s bane, in Rome.
The ID wasn’t stolen but his colleagues had confirmed the anomaly with the font. There was the outside risk that it could be a cloned ID. They would have to bring him in. As the officer returned, a little rush of adrenaline was coursing through his veins; with minimal movements he undid the flap on his holster. That too would be a first if he had to draw his weapon. A state policeman. Not a carabinieri. Those guys got plenty of action. Too much action. Sent them to Iraq. Nasiriya. Car bombs. And when they returned. He’d seen them. Jumpy. Paranoid. Unpredictable. Better off here. But in the police you could also have your moments. That’s what they had said, and it was partly why he had joined.
His colleague followed just five or six steps behind grumbling to himself. Stefano would insist on doing his job properly, wouldn’t he? Bringing him back to the station would mean an even longer night. But it had to be done. Duty calls. Still, at least they’d be out of this place for a while. This maledetto, God-forbidden, blasted heath of a no-place and its seedy car parks and filth-strewn lay-bys. Something nice and hot. That’s what he wanted. Something nice and hot inside him. But in that instant, as the flash flared and the rapid crack crack crack sent the silhouette of his friend’s body crumpling into the ground, the few yards separating them and which he now tried to bridge were like every second he had ever lived and each second like just so many miles.
Sixty-Seven
“… the journalist who arrived at a police station three days ago to the great surprise of the duty officers is now under twenty-four hour police protection and will then move to a secure location with a round-the-clock team of bodyguards to guarantee his safety following the attempt on his life.
“Security has been stepped up across Rome following the fatal shooting last night of a police officer in the Tor Sapienza area of the city. The officer was gunned down while making routine vehicle checks. Another officer also received minor gunshot wounds but is not in a critical condition. The gunman was able to evade police after a brief pursuit through the east of the city. The Home Secretary made the following statement:
“‘The government has approved plans, with immediate effect, to station armed military personnel in key points across the city in response to the kill
ing and the ongoing security crisis. Soldiers and armoured vehicles will be posted across the city in tourist areas and other key locations. They will also have increased stop and search powers. We aim to protect business and tourism but above all our citizens from the wave of criminality that has seen parts of the city become no-go areas, especially for our women. We don’t know who is behind these vile murders and the upsurge in crime-related killing but the safety of our citizens is paramount in the face of threats from whatever quarter, be they politically motivated or not.’
“In response to accusations from sections of the opposition and particularly from the MPD that the move was symptomatic of a continuing drift towards authoritarianism, the minister replied that the people ‘wanted firm government at a difficult moment. This is a time for experienced hands rather than idealists and dilettantes and not for a leap into the unknown’.
“And opinion polls released this morning by IGM and Telital show a significant falling off in support for the MPD, while the New Alliance has seen an increase in its support. A spokesperson for the MPD declined to comment, in line with the movement’s declared policy of non-cooperation with the media. A post on the movement’s blog, however, questioned the impartiality of the polling organizations.
“Controversy surrounding the Imam Mu’ammar Al Mughrabi and his planned visit to Rome has heightened … The Imam who has previously declared his support for an Islamic State within a state and the freedom to apply Sharia law in Muslim communities is expected to arrive in Italy from France later this week. Groups from across the political spectrum, including a broad coalition of women’s organizations, have voiced their opposition to the visit.
“Torchlit processions will take place tonight in the capital and in cities across the country to commemorate the women murdered recently in the city. In Rome, traffic will be diverted between the hours of 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. and the procession will conclude with prayers at the Basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano led by Cardinal Arsenio Caramaschi.”
“There,” said a bedraggled Rossi flicking off the radio, tossing aside his newspaper and beginning to pace the office. “They said it. And can anything else happen to make things a bit more complicated?”
“What?” asked Carrara taking a quick sip from his takeaway cappuccino before going back to his laptop.
“Well, they’re saying there might be a political motive behind the murders.”
“By which they mean Islamic, right?”
“Well, they sandwiched it pretty well with the story about the Imam. The Roman Post’s been hinting at it in their ‘have your say’ column. All made up, of course. Gets a nice little fear ball rolling though. Get everyone in the bars talking about it. And now the Church is sticking its oar in.”
“Sowing the seed?”
“Just a bit. Little by little. And a hell of a dangerous game, upping the ante like that just because they can.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, if they can see that it’s generating headlines then some crank might want to get on the bandwagon for real, while they’re making capital out of it for their own ends, as usual.”
“You really think it’s that planned out?”
“I’m afraid I’m beginning to think so,” said Rossi. “And it’s not like our lot are going out on a limb in the media to shoot the whole thing down, is it? They should be calming the waters, not stirring them up. They should be admitting how bloody hard it is to catch a killer, especially when he’s this good at what he does.”
“When he’s got secret service training you mean?”
Rossi slumped back into his chair. So, they were being led back to Marini’s theory, even if the latest lead heralded as the big breakthrough had got them nowhere. Now Luzi’s suicide had given them a new headache, robbing them of a suspect and a possible witness. It had also bolstered Marini’s and Carrara’s more outlandish theories about where to take the investigation.
“You don’t believe he did it, do you?” Rossi asked.
“I don’t know,” said Carrara. “But I do think he may have been there, seen something.”
“In what capacity?”
“For kicks. Maybe watching the wife with other guys.”
“Any proof of that?”
“Middle-aged couple, no kids. Looking to spice things up? It takes all sorts. Did you see that documentary the other night? You’d think they’re all at it.”
“So, what happens?” said Rossi. “He goes too far with the welcome and sees his wife get killed, by a psychopath? Our psychopath? Or some game spirals out of control?”
“He panics, runs.”
“And the phone?”
“May have had second thoughts, returned to the scene, survival instinct kicks in and he removes the incriminating evidence. He could have been there and back fast.”
“And now, racked by shame and guilt, rather than spill the beans he takes his own life?”
“And the shame for someone in his position, at the head of an important Catholic charity. He was a major player. A friend to the purple princes of the Church.”
“So he takes his secrets with him. And we’re still in the dark,” said Rossi.
“Either that or he couldn’t go on without her. But he says ‘sorry. I didn’t do it’.”
“He says sorry twice. To her and to us?”
“And that’s as far as he’s willing to go. Doesn’t leave us much.”
“But d’you think it all strengthens the case for the hook-up theory? It’s not as if Luzi could have been behind the other killings, is it? You did check his alibis?”
Carrara nodded then gave a characteristic shrug.
“No, not a chance. They’re cast-iron. So, what other theory is there? Whoever our killer is, he’s not leaving any game-changing clues. He could go on like this for as long as he wants. It’s all we’ve got. The city’s in a virtual lockdown. What else do we do? Bring in a curfew?”
Sixty-Eight
At least he hadn’t had to bring the bad news to the widow. Would much rather do this, or visit a crime scene. Rossi was waiting, sitting beside another hospital bed except here the signs were more encouraging. The injured officer was being given the once-over by the consultant who seemed happy enough with the repair work executed by his colleagues.
Rossi’s thoughts had moved on yet again to confront the architect of the violence. So, had this been his work too? Another front in the war? A change of tack? From what Rossi could gather it had been a planned hit. This was no petty criminal or drug renegade. The car and the licence were registered to the ID card, albeit false, which took considerable knowhow. If he’d been some dealer, he’d have hightailed it out of there the moment he got cold feet – the cops weren’t heavily armed, after all – or he wouldn’t even have stopped in the first place. No. He’d been primed and ready for them and the phoney ID had been the trap and maybe a message. Another message. Here I am, keep guessing, keep looking. Oh, and by the way, I’m upping the stakes and slaughtering cops now. Inching closer. To you?
But it still also hinged on whether Marini’s assailant, who’d been meant to take her out of the game, was the same guy racking up the general body count. Or had it just been a one-off political assassination attempt? And even if by some absurd stroke of luck they did manage to lure him into their honey trap – as a seasoned detective, the idea made him laugh – then they’d have the chance to discover the truth. But if, and only if. Maybe this survivor could give him something, reveal a chink in the armour.
“How long have I got?” Rossi enquired.
“Keep it brief. He’s had a lot of sedation and he needs rest.”
“He’s the only witness we’ve got.”
“Ten minutes, max, and don’t push him too hard.”
Rossi nodded his assent and waited till the white coat was out of earshot.
“Did he get a look at him?”
“Seems not,” Rossi replied. “All happened too fast.”
“But we can put the name ou
t now, can’t we? I mean our face from the descriptions, from the artist’s impression, matches the one on the ID closely enough.”
“I suppose we could try,” said Rossi. “But it could be any of a hundred thousand dark-skinned southern males.”
Carrara looked crestfallen and resigned.
“And it could drive him further underground? Is that what you’re thinking? Or if he’s got handlers and he’s doing their bidding, they just call him off?”
But Rossi’s eyes had brightened. He had something. Carrara could sense it.
“If,” said Rossi, “and it’s a big if, he really is still doing their bidding.”
“And you don’t think he is?”
“Well,” said Rossi, letting Carrara glimpse the same small opening he now wanted to see, “I’ve been thinking that this doesn’t fit with the profile. I’m thinking he might have gone AWOL, a loose cannon. I don’t see this in the script, if script there is. Look, let’s say it’s all as Marini makes out and Iannelli wants to believe. And they may be right. But where does the cop killing fit in? It’s high risk. Too high risk. Sooner or later he’s either going to get caught or plugged. He’s a lone wolf. That’s what happens. And that’s why it doesn’t look right. I say he could have gone freelance. And what about the Porta Pia murder? Isn’t it just a bit too symbolic? I mean, it’s where and when the Church’s temporal political power finally collapsed, the final iconic assault on Rome and the Pope’s sovereignty. Isn’t it saying: ‘look out! The enemy is at the gates again’?”
