by Peter Corris
There wasn’t much to say to that. As a place for doing penance, it looked about right. It was the sort of room in which a smile would be out of place and a laugh unthinkable. We trooped out and up a flight of stairs and along to a room with armchairs, a writing table and a couple of filing cabinets in it. There were several photographs on the walls and I was careful not to look at them, not yet. Curtains drawn across the window kept the light down and if you wanted to call it a den you could. But there was none of that cosiness you associate with the word. It came to me then—everything and everybody I’d seen so far in this house carried an air of sadness.
Mrs Fanfani arrived with coffee and an ice bucket that held two cans of Reschs pilsener. She handed me a can and a frosted glass. We got the pouring and stirring and can opening over and settled back in our chairs. All except Mrs F., so far the least gloomy member of the party. She went out after squeezing her husband’s hand.
‘I had a daughter, Mr Hardy,’ Fanfani said. ‘Angela. Her picture is on the wall there.’
I looked at the family portrait. It showed a younger Antonio with more and darker hair, a slimmer Mrs Fanfani and a pretty, dark-eyed girl in her early teens. The affection between them was palpable, even in the posed, tinted studio portrait. It was obvious in the way they sat and the inclination of their heads.
‘She disappeared sixteen years ago. She would be twenty-nine if she were alive today.’
He was talking about big stretches of time but his grief was mint fresh. I’d seen it plenty of times before—the anguish of parents who’d lost, or feared they’d lost, children. Exposure to it may be one of the reasons why I’ve never risked having children myself. There’s no other grief quite like it, and nothing like the relief of finding that it isn’t so. Some people can bounce back from it surprisingly quickly, others never do. Antonio Fanfani was in the latter category. There was plenty of force left in him, possibly even ruthlessness, but something vital had been cut away. I sat quietly drinking the icy cold beer, and wondered why Coleman had brought me here. Was he proposing Fanfani as Schmidt/Bach’s killer? Somehow, I didn’t think so.
‘I believe that the man who abducted and raped Rory’s daughter was also responsible for the murder of Angela,’ Fanfani said slowly. ‘I tried to persuade the police of this. Tried to get them to talk to … Schmidt about it. But …’ he opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘The lawyers prevented this line of enquiry,’ Coleman said. ‘Completely cut it off. The prosecution agreed; it had a watertight case. It didn’t want any complications.’
I didn’t really want to know. I didn’t want to get in touch with the kind of pain that would cause a man like Fanfani to suffer for sixteen years, to have a mortification room in his house. I suspected that the fountain shrine was part of the same syndrome. My rational, atheistic spirit rebelled against it all. But I had Horrie and May Jacobs to consider. Professionalism. Connections. ‘Why do you suspect Schmidt was responsible, Mr Fanfani?’ I said. ‘Do you have any evidence?’
‘What did the lawyer call it, Rory? The one I talked to a hundred times?’
‘Circumstantial,’ Coleman said. ‘Angela was last seen on the Audley Road a few weeks before Greta was attacked. She had had an argument with Antonio …’
‘About sex,’ Fanfani exploded. ‘About boys and sex. My god, I wish she had taken a dozen lovers, a hundred. I …’ He buried his face in his hands and wept.
Coleman patted Fanfani’s bowed shoulders and went on talking, the man who had come through, who had understood. I felt some respect for him, but still no liking. He told me that Angela Fanfani had admitted to having sex with a boy at her school. Her father had found the contraceptive pills and he had shouted and struck her. ‘They are good Catholics,’ Coleman said. ‘You can imagine the scene.’
I could. I sympathised with everyone involved, but I was still searching for the connection. Fanfani seemed to sense my puzzlement. He pulled himself together and drank some coffee. His pale claw of a hand brushed tears from his face. I took the opportunity to pop the second can of beer.
‘I joined Rory’s organisation and was one of its most passionate members,’ Fanfani said. ‘I was arrested several times. I was obsessed. I demonstrated at other rapists’ trials. I, what is the word? Lobbied, yes, lobbied, the ministers for stricter penalties for the rapists and murderers of women and girls. I was mad for many years, wasn’t I, Rory?’
‘Possessed, perhaps,’ Coleman murmured.
I drank some beer. Am I in weirdo territory here? I thought. Are we going on to seances and ouija boards? But Fanfani’s behaviour was acting against this doubt. He sipped some more coffee, blinked his eyes clear and seemed to be pulling himself up to some plane of rationality and strength.
‘Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘I gave up the idea of revenge for the loss of Angela. I still grieve for her and I still blame myself, most definitely. You have seen the room where I do penance.’
I nodded.
‘Rory was a great strength to me, us, through all this. He helped me, more than the priests, to understand that god has a purpose although we don’t always know what it is. He helped me to go on.’
Worth thousands of yards of burgundy Axminster, that, I thought. I didn’t say anything.
‘Eventually, I gave up my wish for revenge. I admit I had spent hundreds of hours thinking about how to kidnap Werner Schmidt and, god forgive me, torture him into admitting what he had done. I would then have killed him most cruelly, slowly …’
‘Antonio,’ Coleman said.
‘I am sorry, my friend. My wife and I had no other children, Mr Hardy. Just Angela.’
I looked at Coleman, hoping to get some clue as to why he’d brought me here. I could tell Fanfani of the possibility that Schmidt/Bach had committed or planned to commit other attacks on women. But what good would it do to confirm his belief, after all this time? Coleman put down his coffee cup and nodded to Fanfani.
‘Talk to him, Antonio. He’s a reasonable man.’
I was glad of the endorsement but still puzzled. Fanfani cleared his throat. ‘Rory has told me about the death of the man in Newcastle. The man you believe to have been Werner Schmidt. I understand that you are enquiring into this matter.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I have some information for you. I am willing to give you this information in exchange for something from you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I was very prominent in Rory’s organisation. Like him, I demonstrated and talked on the radio. I went to the court, waved banners …’
The recollection was taking its toll of him. He faltered, then drew a deep breath and went on. ‘My picture was in the newspapers. But, the years have gone by and we have learned to live with our grief, as you see.’
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering what would come next. The only thing I could think of was that Fanfani and Coleman had someone else to dob in.
‘Late last year,’ Fanfani said, ‘I received a telephone call. It related to Werner Schmidt. There are things about this call that would interest you, Mr Hardy.’
‘Such as?’
‘Ah, no. Here is where we must strike a deal. If what I tell you leads you to the man who killed Werner Schmidt, you must undertake first, not to harm him and second, to let me talk to him before anyone else—before the lawyers and the police.’
‘That could be difficult to arrange, Mr Fanfani.’
‘Nevertheless, those are my terms.’
‘Would you mind telling me why?’
Fanfani looked stricken. He shook his head and made a gesture to Coleman to take over. Coleman patted Fanfani’s shoulder and, although he scarcely moved in his chair, he seemed suddenly to occupy centre stage. ‘Antonio does not have very long to live, Mr Hardy. Perhaps a year, perhaps less. The thought of dying without knowing what happened to his daughter, without some certainty in the matter, is deeply troubling to him and to his wife.’
Anger flared in Fanfani, giving him a spurt of
energy and spirit. ‘The priests tell me to forget my daughter. To compose my soul. I cannot. They are wrong. I must know. I believe that the man who telephoned me knows something about Schmidt and … my Angela. I feel it! I must speak with him.’
Coleman’s voice was a soothing balm. ‘Antonio told me about this telephone call at the time. It was our first contact for many years. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. But when you reached me with your information, it seemed like an intervention … You wouldn’t understand, Mr Hardy.’
‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘But I can follow up to a point. Mr Fanfani, all I can do is promise you that I’ll try to arrange things the way you want them. I’ll make it a priority.’ It was a professional sounding statement but in fact it was totally wild. I meant it, though, more or less. I drained the second can and wished there was another on offer, or something stronger.
‘That is fair enough,’ Fanfani said. ‘I believe that you are a man of honour.’
‘I believe that, too,’ Coleman said.
So much belief was hard to stomach, especially with nothing but an empty beer can for a prop. I said nothing and sat still.
Fanfani spoke slowly; the hesitation of the non-native speaker getting stronger and making his words almost halting. ‘Two things. One, the telephone call. It was made from outside Sydney. I heard the STD beeps. Two … do you remember my placards, Rory.’
‘Yes,’ Coleman said.
Fanfani almost smiled. ‘They were written in Italian. I have a better command of strong language in Italian than English. This telephone call, Mr Hardy, was from a man who spoke Italian.’
17
I guess you don’t get to be the carpet king without being observant and a shrewd judge of character, and I’ve never been known for my poker-face. The words were hardly out of Antonio Fanfani’s mouth before Coleman jumped in. ‘That means something to you, doesn’t it, Mr Hardy?’
‘It might,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me exactly what the caller said?’
Fanfani took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. It was cool in the darkened room but he was sweating. ‘I cannot remember, exactly. He said something like, “Abbiamo to stesso nemico, Antonio.’’’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t speak Italian.’
Coleman again. ‘“We have the same enemy, Antonio.’’ Something like that.’
Fanfani nodded. ‘Yes. He was drunk or upset. He said a few more words, but I could hardly hear them and I don’t know what they were.’
‘Still Italian?’
‘I think so.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘The caller was from the south of Italy or, at least, he spoke in the southern dialect. He might not have been born there. You don’t understand these things?’
I shook my head.
‘Italian is not like English, Mr Hardy. The one language is not spoken from Palermo to Rimini. The different areas have different languages. They are called dialects but they are more than that. I am from the north.’
He’d fallen into lecturing mode and it was suddenly very irritating. I couldn’t help wondering whether this had been part of the problem between him and Angela. ‘I find the Glasgow accent pretty hard to understand,’ I said, ‘also Belfast and Lancashire. What’s your point, Mr Fanfani?’
‘I have thought very hard about it, but I cannot tell whether this man was old or young. Some of the things he said sounded like childish speech, but some of the Italians born here who do not learn the language properly sound like that. Or it could just be that I am unfamiliar with the southern dialect and do not know what is childish and what is just …’ He looked to Coleman for help.
‘Slang,’ Coleman said.
‘Yes. Slang. But this man knows something! He knew who I was. Who else could he have meant but Werner Schmidt? I ask you. Who?’
He was getting flushed and excited, showing signs of whatever illness he was suffering from. Of the two men, I had more sympathy for Fanfani. He didn’t have Coleman’s unctuous style and his pain and guilt were consuming him as much as the disease. I wanted to help him. I got out my pen and pad and made some notes—the private detective’s version of the bedside manner. ‘I’ll be frank with you. What you’ve told me does tie in with my other enquiries.’
‘That’s good,’ Fanfani said.
‘Yes. But I’m already working with the police and I may have to …’
Fanfani and Coleman exchanged looks. Coleman nodded.
‘I understand that you can’t do anything criminal, Mr Hardy,’ Fanfani said. ‘But I beg you to consider my position. I only want to talk! I am prepared to engage you …’
‘I already have a client.’
‘Would there be a conflict of interest?’ Coleman asked smoothly.
‘I don’t know.’
Fanfani used the handkerchief again and then put it aside as if denying his weaknesses. ‘Let me put it another way. I have many friends in the Newcastle area, especially among the Italian community there. This could be of great help to you, wouldn’t you say?’
You didn’t have to be a member of Mensa to pick up the implied threat. Great, I thought, the way I’m going I’ll have crowbars coming at me from all directions.
Fanfani saw the way I’d taken it and hastened to put the other side. ‘I know men who can protect you, watch places, follow people. Very useful men.’
I had to admit that did sound useful. The whole business had got very complicated and I needed time and more congenial surroundings to think it through. I stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mr Fanfani. I’ll think over what you’ve told me.’
‘Think of me, Mr Hardy, and of my wife. We have suffered enough.’
‘You realise that none of this may connect up. It could all be coincidence and misunderstanding.’
Fanfani’s lean, eroded head nodded. ‘But I do not think so. And neither do you. Rory will give you my telephone numbers. Thank you for your time, Mr Hardy.’
Coleman stood, too. He shook hands with Fanfani and ushered me out of the room. We walked down the passages and stairs and I caught glimpses of the bush. The late afternoon sky had darkened as if a storm was moving in. Mrs Fanfani didn’t appear and we let outselves out.
‘What’re your thoughts?’ Coleman said as we walked on the circles towards front gate.
‘A very unhappy man,’ I said. ‘He just rang you, did he? Out of the blue?’
‘Yes,’ Coleman said. ‘I see what you’re getting at. No, he hasn’t had any wild theories over the years. No use of clairvoyants. None of that. He’s a very good man. He sounds bitter now, but he’s given thousands to the church.’
‘Uh huh. What was the trouble between him and the daughter? Anything specific, apart from the contraceptives?’
‘It was over a boy, of course. He was a student at a school near Angela’s. She went to the convent, of course. I don’t know how far it had gone but you heard him. We fathers of daughters … we transfer our own feelings … I’ve read a great deal about it. It’s very complicated.’
We stood on the side of the road. No sign of Richard or the Merc. ‘The cops checked out the boy?’
‘Of course. Exhaustively. He was born here but of Italian parents …’
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘From the south?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me strength.’
The Mercedes cruised up and Richard jumped out to open the back door for us. Coleman slid into the seat and I slammed the door.
‘Mind if I ride up front with you, Richard?’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘I get carsick in the back sometimes,’ I said.
‘Very unpleasant for you, sir.’
‘Right. No good for the leather either.’
Thanking Rory Coleman was like trying to eat custard with a fork. It was all ‘god’s will’ and god’s work’ and in the end ‘godspeed’. I drove away from Nuke Castle with a sense of relief and a desperate need for some good, honest
sin. The nearest and cheapest sin was a pub in Sutherland I remembered from when I’d had a case in the area. A teenage runaway had been tormenting her parents by making raids on the house, leaving booby-traps and breaking things. The super-respectable parents hadn’t wanted the cops involved and I’d had to hang around the neighbourhood for a few weeks until I caught her.
The beer garden of this pub had been a perfect watching post and I’d soaked up a fair bit of expense account beer in the sun. It hadn’t been a bad job, especially when it turned out the kid had wanted to be caught anyway. I drove to the pub, which hadn’t changed much. I bought a small carafe of white wine and a couple of sandwiches and took them out into the beer garden. It was late in the afternoon and there were only three other drinkers, a man and a woman in deep conversation and an elderly man drinking champagne. They seemed to want to mind their own business and so did I. I sat where I’d sat before but the clear view to the house I’d staked out had gone. Trees and bushes had grown bigger with the passing years. I wondered if the family was still there. Probably not.
I figured I could drink the wine slowly, eat the sandwiches, sit and think a while and not be over the .05 limit. A responsible citizen. It’s getting harder to be a sinner. It was cool in the beer garden but the storm I’d anticipated was blowing over the way it can in Sydney. The dark clouds were moving fast towards the eastern horizon and big patches of open, bright sky promised well for tomorrow. I chewed and swallowed, jotted some more notes, underlined things and crossed things out. It’s all a substitute for smoking. It doesn’t mean a thing.
By the time I’d finished the wine and food and visited the toilet and washed my face and rejected the idea of another drink, I had a few things more or less straight. Odds were, Fanfani’s caller was Renato Costi. He fitted the picture in some ways—Australian-born so maybe his Italian wasn’t so flash, a boozer, a bad boy. It was enough to go on, a star to steer by. I could ask Glen Withers to check him out. Against every good principle of investigation, I was building a case against him. I went on doing it as I drove back to Glebe. Maybe he had a record for intimidation and extortion. Maybe he’d been putting the squeeze on Bach and things had gone wrong—the ground shaking underfoot at just the wrong moment.
