The building they stood in had belonged to the Mancuso clan, one of the principal Ndrangheta ’ ndrine in Milan. The seizure of the property by the police was supposed to have a symbolic effect, which it did — but not the intended one. Private investors turned out to be too afraid to use the building and the City failed to do anything with it. The final message was that the Ndrangheta was stronger than the state.
‘Give the walls a kick, see if they sound hollow.’
The young policeman was more conscientious than that, and methodically worked his way across the narrow space tapping the wall every inch from bottom to top and back again. His older colleague, shamed, did the same. After ten minutes, they were pretty sure nothing was hidden behind the walls.
‘There’s some staining here,’ said the young policeman.
‘That’s just damp.’
‘Maybe, but then it has to be recent because there is no mould and I can’t smell much damp in here. Some, but not a lot. Also, there’s a patch on the floor. It’s like they hosed down the place not too long ago, which would be strange. Who’d want to clean up in here?’
The inspector hunkered down and touched the floor with the back of his hand. ‘It seems fairly dry.’ A dull sheen near the corner of the room caught his eye, then disappeared. He went over to investigate and found himself marvelling at the fact they had not seen it immediately.
‘Look here,’ he said.
‘What? I can’t see anything.’
‘It’s a gold ring. It looks like a wedding ring.’
Magistrate Francesco Fossati held the clear plastic bag up to the light and examined the ring.
He handed it to a white-suited technician. ‘Can you use luminol spray in here, and examine those stains?’
‘This place is overrun with rats and stray animals who have been shitting all over the place,’ said the technician. ‘The whole place will light up blue. The important thing is to get a fleck of blood from the wall or floor, if that’s what you’re looking for.’
‘You’re the experts,’ said the magistrate. ‘Get scraping, or whatever you need to do.’
The technician handed the magistrate back the evidence bag. ‘There’s something written on the inside of the ring. A name… date. See?’
Fossati pulled out his reading glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. ‘Letizia,’ he read. ‘And then there is a date. “23 July 1985.” ’
‘Some wife is going to be pissed off with her husband for losing that,’ said the inspector.
But Fossati knew what they had found. ‘Was it covered in dirt?’ he asked the young policeman, who immediately reddened.
‘I don’t think so, but I didn’t touch it.’ Then he brightened up. ‘But they took photos. You can ask the technical team…’
‘Asking you was supposed to be a shortcut. Did it look like it had been there for long?’
The policeman decided to risk an opinion. ‘No. It looked newly lost.’
‘Yes,’ said Fossati, mainly to himself. ‘From a few days ago.’
Fossati had listened to his old friend Bazza and had not been concentrating on the Ndrangheta as likely perpetrators of the kidnapping. But Mafia-owned or not, this was an abandoned building that lay close to the place where the girl was last seen. And now he had a piece of vital evidence for Bazza, who would be grateful but would forever remain convinced that Fossati had ignored his advice and focused on a Mafia connection.
Fossati realized he had probably found the place where Arconti had been murdered. Letizia was the name of the wife of the murder victim. It was a good find, but he felt no triumph. Teresa was still missing, Arconti was still dead.
The technician appeared at the doorway. ‘Someone or something was shot in there.’
Fossati nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’
The technician looked at him in surprise. ‘There is even a small pockmark on the wall. We can look at the RNA ratios to see how old the bloodstains are. We need arc lights and more manpower in there.’
Fossati called in the inspector and the policeman.
‘Well done on finding the ring, but you two seem not to have noticed a wall covered in blood.’
The young policeman looked mortified, but the inspector stood his ground and returned the magistrate’s gaze. ‘That’s because you told us to look for something else: the body of a girl, a hiding place.’
‘So it’s my fault?’ said Fossati. ‘Maybe you’re right. You found something I wasn’t looking for, but I know someone who was.’
26
On the Road to Naples-Amalfi
‘I am investigating a possible new connection between the Camorra and the Ndrangheta for the dumping of toxic waste,’ said Konrad, glancing nervously out the window as if the rats might still be following them.
‘In your own time?’
‘I am dedicated, and I work best alone.’
The Camorra, the ‘system’ as they called it locally, was seeking to expand its drug operations into Lazio and was organizing a deal with the Ndrangheta for better wholesale prices and services in kind, namely the illegal dumping of toxic waste into the aquifers of Naples. Crime bosses drank only mineral water these days, observed Konrad.
His story was perfectly plausible. In fact, it was probably true that the Camorra and Ndrangheta were colluding, but Blume didn’t believe for a moment that it had anything to do with Konrad’s trip. No, the man, who now sat hunched and defensive in the passenger seat, was still not telling the truth. Blume could understand the anxiety of Konrad’s superiors. For all his academic precision and pretention, there was something reckless and irrational driving him, as if once untethered from a lifetime of desk-based investigation, he no longer cared for consequences.
Blume figured the best tactic was to nod and look as if he accepted the explanation. He knew from experience that suspects who had unconvincing alibis that they thought no intelligent person could accept were often more annoyed than relieved if their unlikely stories seemed to be taken at face value. Disappointed by the stupidity of their questioners, and unable to overcome the human need to be understood, they often started hinting at the truth. That was not how it always worked of course, but Blume figured Konrad would not be able to bear it for long, and he was right.
‘I am glad you told me that,’ he told Konrad. ‘Now I have something to put in my report. I guess you were worried about your investigation being leaked?’
‘No. I mean, yes. That’s it.’
‘Great. I don’t see why you couldn’t have told us that earlier. And told your bosses. I’m guessing you’re working on a hunch, and you don’t want to make a big deal of it until you’re ready.’
Konrad was growing increasingly uncomfortable with every rationalization Blume gave to his story, and merely nodded unhappily.
Blume drove on for another ten minutes, whistling as if a great load had been taken off his mind.
Suddenly, Konrad could bear it no more. ‘I know who you are,’ he said.
‘Well, we were introduced.’
‘Not like that. Your name appears as a lead investigator appointed by the prosecuting magistrate Matteo Arconti into a case that involved a relation of a person called Agazio Curmaci, who is Megale’s right-hand man. I know about the murder of a man to intimidate Arconti. I don’t believe you were appointed by chance to stay by me. I think you are also conducting an investigation into Megale or his son or Curmaci.’
‘What an inventive mind you have,’ said Blume. ‘When you say “you also”, do you mean you are doing the same thing?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Or do you mean “I, among other things, am also conducting an investigation”?’
‘Are you attacking my grammar?’ asked Konrad.
‘Never mind,’ said Blume. He took the Tangenziale, and they were soon cruising along in a long loop around Naples on their way to the Amalfi coast.
‘Are you intending to go down to Calabria?’
Konrad s
hrugged his thin shoulders.
‘Are you working for Megale?’
‘I am offended by your suggestion.’
‘You visited him.’
Konrad shrugged again.
‘Follow my reasoning, here, Konrad. Megale is not a BKA asset, not your asset, not your paymaster, and yet this visit. There are only two explanations left.’
Konrad perked up, as if he, too, was interested in hearing his own reasons.
‘You went to him for help or information,’ said Blume, ‘or both.’
‘I needed to find out some things, and I need to find out one or two things here, then I will go home. It is a personal matter that has nothing to do with anyone else.’
‘How did you get Megale to talk to you? Bosses are not naturally helpful to federal agents.’
‘I am very good at database mining,’ said Konrad. ‘If I get the numbers, I can see patterns. I have built up a good picture of the shell companies and money-laundering methods that Megale and his men use. I explained to him some of what I knew about how his German locale was operating, and he was interested in me and listened.’
‘So he thinks you’re suppressing information that could be used against him? Are you?’
‘I will be reporting everything I know when I get back,’ said Konrad. ‘I am proud to say criminal bosses have no reason to trust me.’
‘But first, you got him to tell you something in exchange for your silence? Or temporary silence as you say it will be.’
‘I am not answering that,’ said Konrad. ‘I just showed him I know about his shell companies, though I don’t know as much as I pretended, and I proved I knew some details about his money laundering.’
‘What details?’
‘Money laundering comes in three stages.’
‘Placement, layering and investment,’ said Blume.
‘Exactly. When it comes to investments, Megale seems to work more with Agazio Curmaci than with his own son, or with the contabile who’s supposed to be in charge of finances,’ said Konrad.
He paused to measure Blume’s reaction. Blume kept his eyes on the road ahead.
‘Curmaci comes between the layering and investment phases,’ continued Konrad. ‘He’s the last connection back to the Ndrangheta. Everything downstream of him is clean. He’s like a filter.’
‘I see,’ said Blume.
‘And that is why his violent and rash reactions to his wife’s cousins being arrested are completely out of character. I am wondering if your Investigating Magistrate Arconti managed to provoke him in some way.’
‘Not enough to justify what happened,’ said Blume. ‘I find it odd to be talking about Curmaci all of a sudden with you.’
‘The criminal world gets small at the top of the pyramid,’ said Konrad. ‘Curmaci rather than Megale junior seems to be second to Megale senior. Would you say that’s right?’
Despite himself, Blume was impressed. Without any change in his characteristic mixture of self-aggrandizement and moodiness, Konrad had reversed the direction of the questioning.
‘Am I right in thinking,’ said Blume, ‘that one of the reasons you agreed to travel with me was you were hoping I might give you more information on Curmaci?’
Konrad shook his head. ‘No, I don’t need any more information. I had no choice about accepting you. I would prefer to be left alone for this.’
Blume guided the camper van halfway into the emergency lane to avoid being sideswiped by the vehicles passing them. Eventually he said, ‘The main reason I am here is I am interested in joining the DCSA or maybe getting a recommendation that would allow me to apply to the DIA. I wanted to get away from my colleagues and my desk. But I have nothing special to give you on Curmaci.’
‘I thought you said you had a girlfriend who worked with you?’
‘Yes… what of it?’
‘Why would you want to leave her behind and spend your time travelling on missions?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with anything,’ said Blume.
‘It seems to me you are running away.’ Konrad might have said more, but an unmistakable thump followed by a scuttling noise from behind caused him to freeze and whiten.
‘Yeah,’ said Blume casually. ‘There is a rat in there. Maybe two. They must have got in with me.’
Konrad made a choking sound and he grabbed at the door handle, as if intending to hurl himself out of the vehicle and into the path of the cars speeding past them.
‘Please, stop. We must get out.’
‘I can’t stop in the middle of this highway, Konrad. And the emergency lane has just disappeared. I saw a sign back there for a service station. We’ll pull in there.’
Konrad unbuckled his seatbelt and twisted around in his seat to watch the back. ‘How far?’
‘A few kilometres. We’ll be there in a minute or two. You really don’t like rats, do you?’
Konrad had a wild look in his eyes and his teeth were clenched. He was attempting to stand, back to the windscreen, and his whole body was twisted into a hideous shape, his limbs jutting out like bent straws.
‘I think it’s fair to call this rat thing a phobia,’ said Blume, ‘but no problem, we’re there already.’ He headed towards the ramp leading into the service station. ‘I don’t like them either, but I keep my fear in check. But I suppose you’re terrified a rat will bite you and you’ll get that virus that turns you into an Italian. Go on, hop out, go into the Autogrill, and get yourself coffee and a sandwich or something. I’ll deal with the rat in the kitchen. Tell you what, get me one of those frozen coffee things. You know them? You pull out a tab, shake the container and the coffee goes really cold? Don’t make the mistake of getting the red container, which turns the coffee hot. And get me some sweets. A pack of fruit Mentos would be nice. Are you listening?’
Konrad had the door open before Blume had even stopped the camper van.
27
Rome
Caterina knew that this fair-haired magistrate with his chin-strap beard was bullying her because he in his turn had been humiliated. Appointed to conduct an investigation into a potentially important case, he, like her, had spent his weekend gathering evidence and background information. In fact, he had been playing catch-up with her, since she was further ahead with her inquiries. Then the whole thing was taken from him and transferred to the Milan section of the anti-Mafia magistrates before he had had the chance to issue his first executive order.
‘The police in Milan have just confirmed that the burned-out van in Sesto San Giovanni was the same one you were attempting to trace from Rome to Milan. Presumably the two burned bodies they found are the people you were looking for.’
Caterina and her colleagues had spent almost three full days on the reconstruction of the movements of the van, tracking it at the north Rome Tollgate, picking it up again using the traffic speed cameras near Florence, getting decent-quality images of the occupants when they stopped at a service area after Bologna. Their best stroke of fortune had been when the driver paid for fuel by credit card. They were able to get an identification of the driver, a certain Teodor Popescu. The card and the van were registered to an office-cleaning company set up by a building renovations group associated with a real-estate management firm specializing in decommissioned and disused buildings whose holdings included warehouses in Sesto San Giovanni where, as it turned out, the driver and occupant of the van were both killed. Dutifully and promptly, Caterina and her team had handed all the information to this young magistrate, practically in a gift box with a bow on it. The magistrate had somehow botched his effort to steal all the credit for it as he passed it on to Milan, since the head of the investigation there had asked not for the opinion of the magistrate, but had asked for her by name.
Caterina merely nodded as he told her that she should have spent more time investigating the scene of the crime. He conceded it was hardly her fault. Her commander had vanished and left her, a woman with a child and insufficient experience, to run a full
investigation.
‘Thank you, Caterina,’ he said as she was leaving. ‘Are you sure you have held nothing back from me?’
‘Nothing. But call me Inspector Mattiola, Signor Giudice, not Caterina.’
She left the door open on her way out, hoping it annoyed the magistrate as much as it annoyed Blume, which, she admitted, was hardly possible.
Unlike Blume, Caterina was a glutton for the summer heat, even in the city. She loved the way it bounced off the pavement back at her face in the early afternoon, then radiated from the buildings in the evening. When the sun heated her hair, it felt like a soft electric current was running through every strand. In the heat everyone walked more slowly and deliberately. She loved the way Roman drivers eschewed air-conditioning, preferring to leave the window open and droop an arm against the side of their car, raising their hand sometimes to direct a refreshing airflow up their arm, sometimes to greet people, more often to insult other drivers with languid gestures. The gleam of the light off the windscreens and metal of the incessant traffic lifted her spirits. The blaring horns, which were full of violence and irritability in the winter, seemed now to be celebratory and bear no ill will. Happy motorbikes and scooters roared through gaps in the traffic and across dangerous intersections, the riders sounding their horns in delight at the way the rushing warm air kept them dry and alert. She passed an old man sitting on a broken bench milking the sun, oblivious to the traffic. She remembered her grandfather sitting on a park bench like that, his face pointed up, as blissful as a lizard.
And yet she wished Blume were here to spoil it all for her. He’d have a jacket on and be sweating underneath it. He’d clump around in his heavy shoes, which he wore off duty and on, contemptuous of men wearing ‘Jesus sandals’ as he called them, appalled at the ugliness of people’s feet. When it became too much even for him to wear heavy clothes, he’d appear wearing the T-shirt he had had on in bed, shiny running shoes and shorts, and pretend day after day that he was going to the park for a run until eventually he did go running, if only to save face (but not his knees, as he would make perfectly plain for the next few weeks). If he were here now, instead of avoiding her and sneaking off on a mission, he’d be complaining of the dust and the grime, and would be seething in rage at the people walking too slow, the drivers driving too fast, the stench of the unemptied skips, the starling droppings and the sticky residue of the lime trees on the bonnet of his car. But he was always funny, intentionally or not, when raging against the heat and his adopted city.
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