Cry Wolf

by Michael Gregorio

Cesira didn’t need a light to find Maurizio’s trousers.

  When the mayor came home late, he slipped his clothes off in the living room, carried them into the bedroom and left them on the chair in the corner, where he expected to find his pyjamas waiting for him. Usually he woke her up when he switched on the bedside light to hang his watch on the silver stand the jeweller had made for him. His Rolex was the last thing he took off each night and the first thing he put on each morning after taking his shower. He needed a shot of Rolex more than he needed a shot of coffee, he often said.

  Tonight he hadn’t bothered with the light.

  Cesira had often thought of hiding the Rolex Oyster where he’d never find it, but she knew she’d never get away with it. Maurizio would know straight off where the watch had gone, and he wouldn’t have hesitated to give her a slap until he got it back.

  She concentrated on small things now, things he would never miss.

  There was a lot of pleasure to be gained from it. She’d watch him rooting through his pockets looking for a pen, small change or some other trifle, and only she knew where the thing was hidden.

  She kept her souvenirs in her Fendi bag, the big blue bag she used whenever she visited the local supermarket. She had half-a-dozen plastic lighters and a silver ballpoint pen that one of his fancy women must have given him. He hadn’t given a toss when that went missing; she supposed he must have ditched the girl by then. There were a couple of keyrings – the sort they gave you for free in petrol stations, but no keys, of course. Keys were asking for trouble. She’d been tempted by a small key once, but Maurì had kicked up such a fuss when that went missing, she’d ‘found’ it for him straight away. A couple of times she’d lifted notebooks from his jacket. The nice red leather address book had been empty, but there were names and telephone numbers written in the black one.

  Maurizio had searched for the black one for a day or two, then he’d given up, so she reckoned he must have had the names and addresses duplicated on his phone or computer.

  Her bare feet edged across the floor towards the pile of clothes. She was careful not to make a sound, not wanting to wake him up.

  Maurì was breathing regularly, the rhythm broken now and then by a murmur or a sigh. The radio alarm clock on his bedside table had a digital dial with bright red numbers. 02.54. He’d come in half an hour before and had had a shower before getting into bed, a sure sign he’d been giving it to one of his town-hall floozies. He’d fallen asleep in two seconds flat, which meant he’d been out wining and dining, and that it had all gone off the way he’d wanted it to go.

  She stretched her hands out like a sleepwalker, touched the padded shoulder of his linen jacket hanging on the back of the chair. Versace, he’d said, though he’d bought it from a discount warehouse. If he lost a few pounds, he’d said, he’d look like Richard Gere. She reached her hand down into the nearest pocket, had a feel around, then reached for the pocket on other side.

  If you thought of it as fishing, it was a disappointing catch.

  Two paper clips, a rolled-up paper hankie and a three-pack of johnnies. There was only one condom left in the pack but she took it anyway, then put the empty packet back in his pocket.

  As she turned away, her bare shin brushed against cold leather. His briefcase. The Bridge. Eight hundred and thirty euros. She’d checked it out on the Internet. He had gone all the way to Rome to buy it in Via Frattina. ‘A celebration gift,’ was the way he’d explained it, though the elections had still been more than a month away.

  What was his briefcase doing in the bedroom?

  He must be drunk, she thought. As a rule, he left it out in the hallway. She was ready to bet there was something in there she could filch, something that he wouldn’t notice. And if he did start moaning, she could slip it back into his jacket or trousers without him catching on.

  She bent down, turned the clasp, raised the flap and slipped her hand inside.

  It was papers for the most part, and cardboard folders. A bunch of keys, but she couldn’t take those. There wasn’t a single pen or pencil – not even an elastic band. She pushed right down to the bottom and touched the plastic cover of his iPad. She was tempted, but she fought the temptation off. Then her fingernail snagged on something underneath it – an envelope, as it turned out. It couldn’t be important if it was buried down there. Just to be sure, she opened it, took out a piece of paper that was folded in four, then put the envelope back where it came from. He’d be in for a surprise if he ever got round to opening the envelope.

  She’d make him pay for his nights on the town. Even if he didn’t know it, he’d been robbed. She stuffed the meagre loot inside her Fendi bag, then got back into bed.

  Tomorrow she’d make up for it at the supermarket.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Three hours later

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  Brigadier Sustrico rubbed his eyes. His twelve-hour shift was coming to an end and tiredness showed on his lined face. The carabiniere glanced at the paper he was holding in his hand. ‘What did you expect him to say?’

  ‘Why he killed the wolf, for instance.’

  Sustrico yawned. ‘Oh, right. The wolf,’ he said, not sounding very convinced.

  The prisoner hadn’t said a word as Cangio was driving him into town. Nor had he mentioned the fact they had spoken that day in the bar, or that they had met again out on the mountainside.

  The carabiniere had locked him in the interview room, then typed his name into the computer system.

  ‘Christ Almighty, you’ve hooked a big one,’ he said, then shook his finger at Cangio as if he had committed a crime by arresting the man. ‘Born in a place called San Sostene, province of Catanzaro, Calabria, on the second of July, 1959. A suspected hitman. They had him up on a multiple murder charge but he got away with manslaughter. You’re lucky he didn’t blow your head off, son. They had him locked up in the 41-bis block. That’s Mafia, that is. He’s out on parole after twelve years in the can, it says here.’

  Cangio must have turned pale.

  ‘You’re as white as a ghost,’ the policeman said. ‘You sure he didn’t shoot you? Arrest a man like him, you’re taking a risk.’

  ‘I thought he was a farmer.’

  The carabiniere clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then took off his cap and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘He doesn’t know a thing about this wolf you’re so worked up about.’

  Cangio rolled his eyes at the ceiling. ‘I’ve got the head in the Land Rover! There was wolf hair in the cage, and the carcass was in an acid bath.’

  The carabiniere lit a cigarette. ‘A sick dog, he said. He didn’t mention a wolf …’

  ‘He had it locked up in a cage.’

  ‘Come off it,’ the carabiniere snapped. ‘Anyone could have killed that wolf. It’s happened so many times around here in the past. A wolf takes a bite out of a sheep’s arse, the farmer grabs his shotgun and goes out hunting. He knows the park rangers – you lot – won’t kill a wolf. Protected species, right? So he does the job himself. Amen.’

  Amen?

  As if anyone had the right to kill a wolf.

  ‘Did you get anything out of him?’ Cangio asked.

  Brigadier Sustrico fanned himself with the two-page statement Corrado Formisano had made. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what he’s doing here in Umbria.’

  Sustrico stared at the papers in his hand as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

  ‘This is his declaration,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have to force it out of him. He kept a sheepdog in a cage in the barn, the dog fell ill and then it died. He had to dispose of the body. That’s his story.’

  ‘Why use acid? Why didn’t he bury it?’

  Cangio must have raised his voice because the carabiniere made a gesture, inviting him to calm down. ‘I asked him that,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He couldn’t bury it. Wild boar would have dug up the body.’ Sustrico squeeze
d the tip of his thumb against the tips of his fingers to form a tulip, then shook the tulip slowly at Cangio. A common gesture of impatience. What more do you want? He slapped the statement down on the table.

  ‘Did he say what he’s doing in that farmhouse?’

  Sustrico looked at him as if he was mad. ‘What’s it to you? They let him out of jail – the poor sod has to live somewhere. He can live wherever he likes, I suppose, if his parole officer okays it. Maybe he’s always fancied being a farmer.’

  The brigadier was a local man, you could tell by his accent. An old-time country copper who’d probably never worked outside the area. He’d certainly never been posted to the south of Italy, had never seen the things that went on there. But could he believe that a man like Corrado Formisano was telling the truth?

  ‘Then you turned up and stuck a pistol in his face,’ the carabiniere went on. ‘He says you didn’t give him a chance to explain.’

  ‘The wolf is a protected species. Under articles 544 and 727 of the penal code he’s looking at a prison sentence,’ Cangio said. ‘And if he’s out on parole, sentence suspended, they’ll sentence him for this and make him serve the rest of his time as well.’

  The carabiniere laid his hand flat on top of the papers. ‘The judge will decide. He’ll hear two different accounts of the facts and make up his own mind,’ he said, as if he wasn’t inclined to favour either version.

  Cangio couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Can I have a word with him?’ he said.

  ‘You had your chance when you arrested him,’ Sustrico said with a sigh. Then he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to six, the sun was already up. ‘How long will it take you?’

  ‘Ten or fifteen minutes.’

  Brigadier Sustrico nodded. ‘You’ve got ten. The van should be here by then. We’ll be taking him into town. The magistrates are sitting this morning.’ He pointed towards the interview room and let out a loud sigh.

  The first thing Cangio noticed was how calm the prisoner looked.

  Corrado Formisano was sitting at a metal table that was painted green, the neon light bright above his head, his large hands loosely clasped on the scarred tabletop. He looked wide awake, though he hadn’t slept all night. Formisano glanced up at him and smiled. Thinking back, Cangio realized, Formisano had been smiling since the moment he had let himself be handcuffed to the roll bar in the back of the Land Rover.

  Cangio wanted to know what a convicted killer from Calabria was doing in Umbria, while the carabiniere officer just wanted to ship him off to court and pass the responsibility on to someone else. Marzio had shit bricks when Cangio had phoned and told him what had happened. He should have been on duty, and knew that he would probably end up copping an official reprimand.

  Everyone seemed to be worried, except for Corrado Formisano. The prospect of ending up in prison again didn’t seem to bother him at all. It wasn’t normal.

  Cangio sat down on the chair which the brigadier had vacated.

  ‘Another interrogation?’ Formisano asked him.

  ‘That’s the carabiniere’s job,’ Cangio said. ‘Mine was to catch you.’

  ‘You working together now?’ Formisano grinned. ‘I thought the different branches of the filth couldn’t stand each others’ guts?’

  The prisoner had a small tattoo in the triangle of skin between his thumb and his forefinger – a snake with numbers written on its back. When he flexed his thumb, and he often did so, the snake’s tail twitched.

  ‘You wanted me to catch you,’ Cangio said.

  ‘Me, help a copper? Forget it.’

  ‘You beheaded a wolf and left a trail of blood behind you. You knew that I’d be driving up that track. No one else goes past at that time of night. You knew that a ranger couldn’t ignore a thing like that. You didn’t try to get away, didn’t try to resist when I put the handcuffs on you. And you’ve been telling that carabiniere fairytales. We both come from Calabria, cumparu miu. ’U capisc’ u grecu?’

  Cangio paused for a moment, giving him the chance to reply.

  If the room had been wired they could have talked in the Calabrian dialect – u grecu – and no one would have understood a word that they were saying.

  Corrado Formisano sat there, staring at his hand, moving his thumb, making the snake’s tail twitch. He gave no sign of having heard a word, just stared at the smudgy blue figures which had impregnated his skin.

  ‘What’s the date for?’ Cangio asked him.

  Formisano clenched his fist. ‘The day I went to jail the first time.’

  ‘I bet you’ve got another one somewhere for the day they let you out.’

  Formisano sat there like a statue.

  ‘The way I heard it,’ Cangio said, ‘the second one means you hope you won’t go back.’

  Formisano looked up at him. ‘No one wants to go back.’

  ‘You do,’ Cangio snapped. ‘So, what’s this all about?’

  They sat there in silence, staring at each other.

  Once he had been handsome, Cangio thought. The Calabrian’s face had the hard lines, sharp nose and high cheekbones of the farmers and shepherds you sometimes met in the Sila and Aspromonte mountains, their skin baked brown by the sun, their muscles taut with labour, hands gnarled by hard work in the woods and the fields. But this man was no peasant farmer. He might live like one and smell like one, but he had spent his life cutting throats, not corn. This shepherd thinned the flock rather than increasing it.

  Cangio broke the silence in the end. ‘That was your wolf,’ he said, leaning across the table. ‘You kept it in a cage. Why won’t you admit it?’

  Formisano glared back at him: a cold, hypnotic stare.

  The eyes of a killer, according to the carabiniere. What would have happened, Cangio wondered, if Corrado Formisano had decided that he didn’t want to be arrested?

  ‘That cage was where I kept my dog,’ he said slowly.

  He didn’t seem to care if you knew he was lying through his teeth.

  ‘There was a ball of wolf hair near the water bowl and blood on the ground. You cut its head off. I saw the carcass in the acid bath. You were getting rid of the evidence, the way they do at home in Calabria.’

  Silence.

  ‘What was the message?’

  The silence went on and on.

  ‘Who was it meant for?’

  Cangio sat there watching him. Had leaving London been a mistake? he asked himself. Had he walked back into the trap that he had tried so hard to put behind him?

  ‘They are here, aren’t they?’

  Formisano lips curled down at the corners. ‘They?’ he said. ‘Who’s they?’

  Was Formisano taunting him?

  If he’d had the pistol in his hand, Cangio would have shot him. To avenge the wolf, if nothing else. Instead, he leant over the table again.

  ‘The ’Ndrangheta is here in Umbria. OK, I’ve got the message, Formisano. Now, listen to me. I’ve got a message for you. This is not Calabria. Things are different here in Umbria. And I’ll do all I can to make sure that it stays that way. ’U capisc’, cumparu? You get it? Tell that to your clan!’

  By the time he finished, he was shouting.

  The door opened and Brigadier Sustrico walked in.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. When neither of the men spoke he stood there, looking at them. ‘The van’s arrived to take him to court,’ he said.

  Formisano let out a sigh of relief. ‘Peace at last,’ he said.

  ‘Shouldn’t he have a lawyer?’ Cangio asked, his nerves on edge.

  Two minutes before he would have shot the bastard; now he was worrying that the man might not have a lawyer to defend him.

  ‘They’ll give him one before he goes in the dock,’ Sustrico said. He winked at Cangio. ‘He’ll soon be sleeping with all the other big bad wolves.’

  Cangio turned the place upside down looking for the phone number.

  He went through all his notebooks, the wolf-den d
iaries, all the prep and lesson notes he had accumulated at the university. He remembered having jotted down the name and the number, but he couldn’t remember where. That was the problem back in the old days when mobile phones were just coming in, back in the days when he couldn’t afford one. You made a note of a name or a number on whatever bit of paper came to hand.

  Then, logic clicked in.

  They’d been in the same organic chemistry class. The guy had failed the chemistry module, he recalled, but someone had mentioned that he was making a name for himself in the Special Operations squad of the carabinieri in Rome. The name and telephone number were scribbled inside the back cover of his old OC exercise book.

  Giulio Brazzini.

  He tried the number, but nobody answered. He tried a lot of times that day, and finally got through that evening.

  Guilio remembered him, too. ‘You bored the pants off me with those wolves of yours!’ he said with a laugh.

  He nearly had a heart attack when Cangio told him what he wanted. An hour later, it was Cangio’s heart that almost stopped.

  Giulio Brazzini called him back. ‘You won’t believe this,’ he said. ‘He said that he’ll see you tomorrow morning. I told him you’re a ranger, and that you work in Umbria.’

  ‘Maybe he’s interested in Calabrian wolves,’ Cangio said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Later that morning

  Elena Brilli came at twenty past nine.

  The postwoman seemed to be in a bit of a huff, which was unusual for her.

  ‘Morning, Elena. What’s up with you, my love?’

  She looked at the early porter, Sandro Gioli, blew out her lips, shook her head then plonked two sacks of mail on the reception counter. She slapped a receipt down, waited for him to check the details and sign it.

  ‘Two sacks. That’s right, Elena. There you are, my love.’

  ‘One of the kids is in hospital, Sandro.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Appendix. They rushed him in last night. They’ll take it out this morning. Soon as I finish the round I’ll be up there like a shot.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ the porter reassured her. ‘It’ll be over in ten minutes. Chin up!’