Hunted

by Monty Marsden

  Sensi spotted it after a few seconds. “This one,” Sensi said and he pointed to it with his fingertip.

  Both the victims had one wound in common – about four fingers below the navel, very close to the pubis; a long, horizontal cut, slightly curved on the outside towards the hips.

  “Does it give you any ideas?” Claps asked.

  Sensi shook his head.

  “It’s like a C-cut.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Claps. What are you suggesting? That the murderer wanted to represent his mother and that she gave birth to the killer’s brother with a Caesarean birth? That’s ridiculous!”

  Claps lowered his eyelids and squinted at Sensi.

  “Okay, let’s leave this for now… there’s something more important that I would expect you to focus on.”

  “What?” Sensi said, annoyed.

  “It’s a problem that I can’t find an answer to, yet. Why would such a prepared, well organised murderer leave traces of his DNA on the bodies of the victims?”

  *

  Today.

  About fifteen minutes later, Gottardi arrived back at the hospital. Uggeri hardly gave him time to get out of the patrol car. “Somebody has made a report that could be interesting!”

  “A stolen car?”

  “Somebody missing. Mr Dante Caciagli. He was at work and he phoned his wife at 6.30 p.m. to tell her that he was on his way back. He shouldn’t have taken longer than half an hour to get home, but he never returned. His wife tried to get in touch with him at about 7.30 p.m. but his phone was turned off.”

  Uggeri opened a map of the area in front of Gottardi on the car. He illuminated the map with a torch.

  “There’s something even more interesting – when Mr Caciagli phoned home, he said to his wife that he was close to this area, not far away from the psychiatric hospital.” Uggeri pointed to an area on the map.

  Gottardi was struck by the area that Uggeri was pointing at. “That’s the road where the dogs lost the trail! Let’s circulate the car’s number and model. Let’s issue a notice to all the toll booths and let’s send patrols along the road in both directions. Fuck, why is it not morning yet…”

  “Are you thinking of using choppers?”

  “It’s useless to think about that now that it’s dark, and it will be too late by tomorrow morning. We need to have as many staff on duty as possible. They have to inspect all of the road connections, in case he drove to Florence.”

  “Do you believe that Riondino is in that car?”

  Gottardi tried to camouflage his excitement.

  “The car moved along the road where the trail disappeared and we don’t know anything about the owner. I’ll assume that Riondino was in that car unless we find it crashed in a pit or in a brothel’s car park.” Gottardi looked around. “We have nothing to do here at the moment, let’s go back to the office. Oh, hang on a minute… what’s the name of the car owner again?”

  “Caciagli. Dante Caciagli.”

  “Did you say that he called his wife from his mobile phone?”

  “Yes, but the phone has been off since 7:30 last night.”

  Maybe the phone would be off by then, Gottardi thought cynically. A third murder wouldn’t matter to Riondino.

  “Maybe it’s a smartphone. Let’s find out if we can locate it anyway,” Gottardi said, getting into the patrol car.

  *

  Matteo opened the front door and welcomed Riondino in with a friendly, open gesture. It was 8 p.m.. Riondino glanced at his watch – a few more minutes and the hunt would begin. The plan had worked perfectly but there was still a lot to do…

  Matteo’s physique was similar to Riondino’s but Matteo looked slightly taller because of his hairstyle – he had a long quiff which was kept upright by a lot of hair gel.

  “I can’t believe you’re here… it feels like a daydream.” Matteo stroked his face gently. “You’re freezing cold!”

  “I’m a little emotional,” Riondino answered as he looked into Matteo’s eyes. Yeah, they both looked very similar – with the same quiff, and the beard shaved, they would have looked almost exactly the same.

  “You probably need a shower? Follow me…”

  “My hands are still frozen, you’re going to have to help me take my clothes off.”

  “I’ll be with you in the shower.” Matteo’s voice was full of excitement.

  4

  Today.

  Greta Alfieri had not been herself for a while now.

  She used to be a career orientated woman, prepared to do almost anything to go places; she had been a charismatic TV journalist, the news queen, in the public eye due to regular TV appearances. She was used to being recognised in the street.

  Morphy had almost killed Claps and had changed her too.

  Greta had also changed physically. Her long, smooth, ginger hair was now quite short and brown – a lot more ordinary than before. She dealt with film reviews and fashion blogs for one of the leading news websites. She never appeared on TV nowadays and she signed her articles under a pseudonym, Greta Lafenice.

  She wasn’t happy but she felt… quite stable?

  It was difficult to tell, and the psycholytic pills that she was taking were proof of her difficult times. She was not the Greta Alfieri of the past; she hated that version of herself now.

  When she looked at her reflection in the mirror, however, memories resurfaced – her restless eyes were those of a hunting animal that needs to be aware of the area around itself in order not to fall prey to an even bigger predator.

  Prey. That’s what she was seeing in the mirror. That’s what she was.

  Prey.

  She had been prey for a long time – when she was still a famous TV journalist, she had survived a murder attempt thanks to Claps; but she would always be prey, no matter how often she changed the style and colour of her hair.

  Greta turned off her laptop and settled back comfortably on the sofa. She turned on the TV and flicked to the Sky Art channel. She always worked at home – apart from a couple of editorial meetings a month – she lived in an eighty square metre flat in a good area near the city centre. It was nothing compared to the luxury studio flat in the heart of the city that she had been given when she was a famous TV personality. A laptop was all that she needed now to write and send her articles to the web-page editors. She was surprised when the chief editor called her on the phone that night.

  “Greta! They just gave me some breaking news! I’ll tell you one name – Riondino!”

  “Riondino…” Greta was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of anguish. “So what?” She tried to conceal her emotions.

  “He escaped from the psychiatric hospital a few hours ago after killing two nurses, apparently. They’re looking for him everywhere but he’s still missing. You were the one who followed his case on TV back in the old days, right?”

  “Yeah…” Greta’s voice was trembling a little.

  “From his arrest all the way to his trial.” She breathed deeply and then carried on talking. “I heard that he had been treated medically and he had been deemed harmless eventually. That’s why he had been moved to a psychiatric hospital for rehabilitation.”

  “Well they were obviously wrong – apparently the crime scene was incredibly gory and he left without leaving any trail behind him whatsoever. The news is due to become public in a little while and we’re going to have thousands of people wanting to get in touch on the Internet. We need an article on this and I can’t think of anyone better than you.”

  Greta stiffened up a little and her voice revealed her anxiety. “Our agreement was that I wouldn’t have to deal with anything like that again…”

  “Greta, I’m not asking you to get involved in the nitty-gritty, I just need an article that tells a bit about the story and why Riondino didn’t end up with a lifetime prison sentence but was sent to a psychiatric hospital instead. We’re the most popular news website for a reason – we’re the quickest and the clearest when it comes to givi
ng news. I need this article.”

  Greta hesitated.

  “Just that, right? I wouldn’t have to follow the story or…”

  “Just that – I promise.”

  “Give me half an hour,” she sighed. “You’ll have your article then.”

  *

  The two men were in the shower. Matteo felt the water run down his back on his naked skin. Riondino ran his hands over Matteo’s body – from his pubis up to his chest and then downwards again. Matteo’s erection had become spasmodic.

  *

  When the adrenalin rush from the first few hours of hunting was over, Gottardi dropped into the armchair in his office – he was exhausted. This wasn’t the time to give in to tiredness. He had to be able to think lucidly and act smartly.

  There was no trace of Riondino and the man who could have given him a lift. If he had used a car, he could be miles away now. It was difficult to think that he would use that car for long – if he did use it, he probably knew that the police would have been alerted as to the missing man and that the car plate would have been made public. It would have been important for him to avoid the first few police roadblocks, then he had to get rid of the car somehow for it would have been way too risky to use it after the second hour. Maybe he had abandoned it as soon as he reached Florence. He had probably gone to Florence; in fact, he was sure of it – it’s easier to hide in a big city.

  With little money, no documents, wearing a uniform stained with mud and probably blood from the nurses… where had Riondino found a safe place to hide?

  Reflecting on these matters, Gottardi ordered that all dormitories for the homeless should be inspected. He also ordered that all the homeless who slept under the bridges by the Arno River should be identified. So far, however, these moves had produced no results.

  Gottardi stretched out noisily, then Uggeri knocked on his office door. Gottardi answered. “Come on in.”

  “We can’t trace Mr Caciagli’s mobile phone – they either destroyed it or they took the battery out.”

  Gottardi cursed, as usual.

  “However Mr Caciagli made a call at 7.28 p.m., that’s an hour after he called his wife and before his phone became unreachable.”

  Gottardi suddenly forgot about his weariness. “Where from? Who did he call?”

  “The call was two minutes and twelve seconds long,” Uggergi continued with a hint of excitement in his voice. “The call was directed through the cell here in Florence, in the Cascine area. The phone number that he called belongs to somebody called Matteo Contri. He lives in Florence, not very far away from here.”

  *

  Greta clicked the SEND button – a few more minutes, and the piece would be online.

  Writing that article had been more draining that she had imagined – she felt exhausted, overwhelmed by the memories that she had tried so hard to keep at bay.

  The TV was off. The silence in her apartment was disturbed by a faint buzzing sound, which felt dense and oppressive.

  Mechanically, she shoved an anti-depressant into her mouth.

  Suddenly, she had an urge to see and talk to somebody – she couldn’t stand being alone any more. She called Claps and asked him to meet her outside.

  *

  Gottardi and Uggeri got out of the patrol car and crossed the road quickly – they headed to the apartment where Matteo Contri lived. A man was walking out of the main building gate. He was tall and stocky, he had to be about forty years old.

  Gottardi strode forward and halted the man at the gate. “Police,” he said and he showed the tall man his badge. “Are you Mr Matteo Contri?”

  “No,” the man said – he looked surprised and confused.

  “He lives here but I’m not him.”

  “Do you have any ID with you?”

  The man pulled his wallet out of his back pocket with a clumsy movement, and handed Gottardi his driving licence. Gottardi kept his eyes locked on the man while he passed the document to Uggeri. After a quick glance at the driving licence, Uggeri nodded. “Mario Martucci.”

  “Very well, Mr Martucci. Where is Matteo Contri’s flat?”

  The man pointed somewhere behind his shoulders. “Right staircase, first floor.”

  Gottardi walked up the stairs two at a time, while Uggeri struggled to stay behind him. A man was locking the front door of the flat on the first floor, he had a suitcase at his feet.

  “Matteo Contri?” Gottardi showed the man his badge while their eyes were locked onto one anothers. The man didn’t look surprised or nervous at all – he squinted a little, then he spoke after barely a moment of silence.

  “Yes.”

  “We have to ask you a few questions.” Gottardi observed him – the man was in his forties, well dressed, maybe wearing a splash of aftershave.

  Why had Riondino called him and what did he want from him? Gottardi lowered his eyes to the suitcase – did they contain fresh clothes to wear?

  “It won’t take long, but I’d rather not stay here on the landing – can we go inside?”

  Without saying a word, the man unlocked the front door and let the policemen in.

  “Were you going somewhere?” Gottardi asked Matteo, pointing to the suitcase.

  “I’m going to Bologna for work – I’m going to stay there for a few days.” Matteo answered with a typical Florentine accent.

  “And you were leaving right now?” Uggeri broke in.

  “It’s always too busy in the mornings in Bologna, the motorway is grid locked and I have an important appointment. I want to be there early to be safe.”

  “Sure,” Gottardi said, as he looked around the room Matteo had led them into. Everything looked tidy – no sign of other people living there or anybody rushing out. “Do you live here by yourself?”

  “I like my life as a single man.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to be more straightforward – do you know Mr Dante Caciagli?”

  “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Are you sure? You seem to have talked to somebody on the phone today who has the same name?”

  The man shook his head. “As I said, I don’t know anybody called that.”

  Gottardi closed his eyes for a moment, he was sure of it – Riondino had taken Dante Caciagli’s car, his phone and most likely even his life.

  “Did you receive a phone call on your mobile this evening around 7:30?”

  “7:30? Yeah… I think so.”

  “You did, I’m pretty sure about that. We wouldn’t be here, otherwise. The phone conversation lasted two minutes and twelve seconds. Who did you talk to?”

  “It was an unexpected phone call… a bit unusual, somehow.”

  “Who called you, Mr Contri?”

  “Somebody that I don’t really know… at least physically. Someone called Liberty – one of my friends on Facebook.”

  Facebook. The only computer that would connect to the Internet in the psychiatric hospital was in the director’s office and it was protected by a password.

  “Do you chat with him often?”

  “Rarely. Very rarely. We talked about gardening – an interest that we have in common.”

  “What time of the day would this happen?”

  “I only use the Internet late at night.”

  The hospital was probably poorly guarded overnight and the password may not have been so difficult to find – it might have been written somewhere in a diary. How many people had Riondino been in touch with?

  Gottardi didn’t need to give Uggeri any instructions – he was already standing behind him making notes in a book.

  “So you don’t know Liberty in person?”

  “Never seen him before, it was the first time that I talked to him on the phone.”

  “Why did he call you?”

  “He said that he was in Florence and that his car had broken down – he asked me if I could put him up at mine for the night.”

  “What did you answer?”

  “That I was going to Bol
ogna and that I couldn’t help.”

  “Just that? In more than two minutes on the phone?”

  “Some empty talk.”

  “Did he tell you where he was?”

  “In the Cascine area.”

  Gottardi remained silent for a few seconds. Everything sounded reasonable and Matteo could be telling the truth. The place where he said that Riondino had called him from was where the call had originated from.

  Yet, there was something that didn’t feel quite right… was it his sixth sense? Or maybe the suitcase with clothes that Riondino could have used? Or was it that there was something suspicious about the man he was talking to – Matteo sounded unconcerned and detached, as anyone would expect; and yet his body language was tense, as though he were poised for action.

  “How did Liberty have your phone number?”

  “Is he involved in something?”

  “I’m the one asking questions – please answer.”

  “My number is on my Facebook profile – all my friends online can see it.”

  “Was this the first time he has called you?”

  “As I said, I had never talked to him on the phone before. Can you answer my question now? Is he involved in something?”

  Gottardi waited a few seconds before replying.

  “Mr Contri… we suspect that the man you spoke to this evening is a multiple murderer who has escaped from detention.” No trace of surprise in the eyes of Matteo. Not a single blink. “If there’s anything that you still haven’t told us, this is the right moment to do so. I’m saying it for your own good.”

  “I have told you everything that I know. He asked if he could stay over at mine for the night, that’s all.” Matteo noticed that Gottardi’s eyes had lowered to the suitcase. “Do you think that I’m an accomplice?” His tone had become sarcastic. “Do you think that he called to ask me to give him some fresh clothes and to help him to hide away?”

  “It’s one of the hypotheses that I’m considering,” Gottardi answered calmly. Behind his back, Uggeri was getting a little tense. “This doesn’t mean that I don’t believe you, I just want to be certain. Tell me, how much money do you have with you?”