‘Tell us what it is.’
‘Helena was incredibly beautiful—she had the perfect body. You wouldn’t find many slaves to compare with her. I reckon they kidnapped her to make a whole series of videos, each one more violent than the last.’
‘You’re assuming they tortured her to death.’
‘Yes, I am. The most sought-after videos are those in which women are tortured by over-dilating their anuses and vaginas. With me, Antonina and Cristiana, the gang used small objects to avoid tissue lacerations that we couldn’t have explained to our husbands. But I think they probably fist-fucked Helena to death.’
Max and I glanced at one another. Fist-fucking, with the insertion of a hand into the vagina or anus, had to be a highly dangerous practice, and a hideous way to die.
‘So, in other words,’ Max asked, ‘you think this gang has graduated to killing people, right?’
‘I do. The fact is that, despite their exorbitant expense, there’s a vast demand for snuff videos.’
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘If this was Helena and Giraldi’s first appointment with them, why did the gang organize the kidnapping? Up until this point, they’d done things differently, using a hidden camera to set up the blackmail.’
‘That’s true. I’m convinced it was Antonina who told them about Helena’s work as an S and M model. Maybe she even got some photos for them or gave the gang Helena’s address. She detested Giraldi’s wife, and wanted Master Mariano all to herself. When she phoned me to say that Helena had been kidnapped, she was euphoric.’
‘What about Giraldi’s and Antonina’s disappearance? Have you got a hunch about that, too?’
‘They must have made a bad move.’
‘There’s another thing I don’t get,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t they make Giraldi disappear along with his wife?’
This time it was Max who replied. ‘The only plausible explanation is that they weren’t intending to kill Helena. They kidnapped her in order to have her available for use in more violent videos, and she must have died by accident, at which point they would have been forced to eliminate Mariano and his girlfriend as potentially dangerous witnesses.’
‘You’re going to have to be careful,’ I warned the woman. ‘If they contact you again, tell us at once. We’ll see you’re protected.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be hearing from them again,’ she replied. ‘As far as they’re concerned, I’m no threat. You’re the only people I’ve told this story—except for my analyst of course—because I know you won’t run around blabbing about it. Antonina told me you were gangsters or something.’
‘So your reputation matters more to you than the life of three people, does it?’ Max asked. He resented being called a gangster.
I stared at Max to shut him up but Docile Woman had taken no offence. ‘You bet it does,’ she replied. ‘I now have the chance to start living again, whereas if I go to the police, my only choice will be between suicide or the convent . . .’
Max was about to hit back, but I beat him to it. ‘Is there anything you can tell us that might help identify the gang members?’
She took a sheet of paper from her bag. ‘This is a list of the nicknames they used to contact me.’
‘Didn’t they ever call each other by name?’
‘Never. But I am sure of one thing: they’re all Italians, and Northern Italians at that.’
‘Including the Master of Knots?’
‘Yes. He had a deep voice and a distinct Milanese accent.’
‘Do you happen to remember the license plate of the car that used to pick you up?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid I never noticed. If it’s any use, the car was a dark green Lancia Y10.’
Max took a small notebook and a pen out of his pocket. ‘Would you mind describing the various members of the Bang Gang whom you personally saw—even the tiniest detail may prove useful.’
About half an hour later, looking pale and tired, the woman left. She had clearly found it hard to go back over everything she had had to live through since first meeting Cristiana. Max ordered his third iced tea, while I had a rum and Coke.
‘Vile business. Let’s hope she’s got a good analyst.’
‘We’ve got to find a way of stopping the Master of Knots and his gang,’ Max said angrily.
‘The only person who can do that is Rossini. With lead.’
‘Right.’
‘Assuming he feels like it; you know what he’s like. He has concerns about his reputation.’
‘I’m sure that once we’ve explained to him the nature of the Master of Knots’ activities he’ll be only too pleased to help.’
‘Maybe. But we still have very little to go on, and by now the Bang Gang has probably moved to another part of the country.’
‘But it won’t have changed the nature of its activities. You heard what Docile Woman said: to these people, sadomasochism isn’t just a business.’
‘It still won’t be easy to find them.’
‘We have to keep monitoring the website ads. The moment the gang surfaces, using any of the nicknames the woman gave us, we’ll be all over them.’
‘I’ve got another idea: we investigate the illegal porn market.’
‘Do we know anyone?’
‘An old prison acquaintance. If Rossini has a word with him, I think he’ll be able to help us.’
Old Rossini walked back into the club three days later, rather more tanned than usual and with a new, expensive-looking watch on his wrist. His business trip to Croatia had clearly gone well. He ordered a Kir Royale–champagne and crème de cassis.
‘I’ve never seen you drink that concoction before,’ I said.
‘Every now and then I like a change.’
‘We’ve got some news,’ Max announced, biting into a chocolate.
Rossini looked us straight in the eye. ‘I’m in a good mood. I hope it’s not to do with that S and M business.’
‘That’s it.’
‘At least let me finish my drink in peace.’
We let him have his way, then Max fetched his notebook and reported what Docile Woman had told us.
Beniamino swore under his breath. A good sign: the old gangster was indignant. Max and I glanced at each other in satisfaction.
‘There wasn’t all this filth in my day,’ he said bitterly. ‘Pimps were regarded as scum, and in prison they had to be kept in isolation, otherwise they’d get knifed in the showers. There are no rules anymore, and pieces of shit like this Master of Knots can get away with anything. They haven’t got the balls to put their lives on the line or risk imprisonment to earn a decent crust; they’d rather rely on blackmail and violence.’
‘All they deserve is a good hiding,’ Max said, stringing him along.
‘Someone’s got to stop them,’ I added. ‘These people are dangerous as well as crazy.’
Rossini lit a cigarette. ‘The Croatian yacht job was lucrative and I’ve got nothing urgent on at present, so I can focus on chasing these bastards full-time.’
That was that settled, so I told him my idea of looking for leads in the illegal porn business, starting with the guy we had known in prison. Fat Max said he’d continue sifting through email inboxes. We’d start work the following day.
‘Okay, I’m going to Sylvie’s place,’ Beniamino announced.
‘Max wants to go to the anti-G8 demonstration in Genoa.’
Rossini remained silent. He picked up his cigarettes and lighter and slipped them into the pocket of his linen jacket. ‘It’s just bullshit.’
‘I’ve calculated the risks,’ Max said.
‘There’s sure to be trouble,’ I hit back. ‘You can’t go.’
Old Rossini glanced at me. ‘Max knows what we think, but it’s his decision.’
I sho
ok my head. ‘He’s going to end up in deep shit.’
Beniamino spread his arms. ‘Max is old enough to figure out the risks.’ He got a couple of bottles of champagne and an ice bucket from Rudy and went off to see his woman.
Max picked up his cell phone and called Arakno. ‘Get to work,’ he said. He then turned on me. ‘Why can’t you ever mind your own fucking business?’
‘Because you’re behaving like a total idiot.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
Max got up and left, and I stayed behind to chat with some of the customers. As always, at the end of his gig Maurizio Camardi strolled over and sat down at my table. He told me about a group called La Moranera, which was doing some benefit gigs for a well-digging project in Africa.
‘Talk to Rudy,’ I said. ‘He’s the landlord.’
The saxophonist smiled. ‘He said you were his musical advisor.’
‘Fine, then. Whenever they like.’
Every time the door opened, I glanced up with feigned indifference in the hope of seeing Virna walk in. Rationally, I knew it was all over and I’d lost her for good, but deep down I still couldn’t accept it. When the last client had left, Rudy and I took a look at the books. Profits were well up, and Rudy gave himself a rise on the strength of it. I gestured over to the Kurdish lad, an illegal immigrant, who was mopping the floor. ‘Give him a bit more money. We can afford it.’
‘All right.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Almost nothing.’
‘See what you can find out. Maybe there’s some way we can help him.’
Beniamino stopped by to pick me up towards evening. He had made inquiries into the whereabouts of the porn trafficker we were looking for, but first he wanted a word with Max.
‘Look, I’ve heard some rumors,’ he said. ‘It appears someone’s recruiting hotheads from among Veneto’s local football-hooligan community to take to Genoa.’
‘There are so many stories making the rounds right now,’ Max said, brushing it aside.
‘This is a reliable source. They say the person doing the recruiting is working for the cops.’
‘I’ll pass it on,’ Max snapped.
We had first met Nicola Mirra in Padova jail. At that time, he was serving a sentence for receiving stolen goods but was widely known to be involved in the illegal porn trade. On Rossini’s instigation, he was subjected to a trial before a jury of powerful fellow prisoners. In his defense, he swore on the heads of his entire family that he had never had anything whatsoever to do with child pornography and that all he did was export hardcore photos and videos to North Africa. He was acquitted on grounds of insufficient evidence and nobody touched a hair on his head. He was now living in Brescia, but the information Rossini had gathered suggested it might be worth taking a look at a wine merchant’s in Bergamo, where he apparently met his clients. We spotted him through the store window, chattering away to a distinguished-looking man of about sixty. Mirra’s appearance had changed since the last time we had seen him. He now had in a crew cut and he had lost weight.
Rossini headed straight over to his table and Mirra went white in the face. He knew at once it was him we were looking for.
‘We have to talk to you,’ Rossini began dryly.
‘I’m busy,’ Mirra snarled.
‘This gentleman’s just leaving,’ Rossini said, placing a hand on the client’s shoulder. ‘He can buy your filth some other time.’
Mirra’s client, his face scarlet, got up and shuffled out the door.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ Mirra rasped.
‘Information,’ I replied.
‘Go fuck yourselves. We’re not in prison here.’
‘I’m just dying to hurt you,’ Rossini growled, pitching his cigarette butt into Mirra’s glass of white wine.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Do you know of anyone producing S and M videos? And I mean hardcore.’
‘What, snuff?’
‘You got it.’
He gave us a worried look. ‘I don’t trade in that stuff.’
‘Maybe you know someone who does.’
‘There’s not much of it in circulation, and what there is comes in from abroad.’
Rossini got up. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you.’
When we got outside I grabbed Rossini’s arm. ‘Why did you leave? We’d only just started working on him.’
‘He was feeding us a whole load of crap. He felt safe in there; he wasn’t about to tell us anything useful.’
‘I get it. You want to have a little chat with him somewhere more private.’
‘Precisely. As soon as he leaves, we’ll follow him.’
We entered a bar about thirty meters farther up the street, from where we could keep an eye on the door to the wine merchant’s. We ordered drinks and settled down for a long wait. Where we were, in the higher and more ancient part of Bergamo, the bars and eateries were all crammed with people trying to escape the heat.
‘There’s a woman over there who looks like she fancies you,’ Rossini informed me.
I looked round discreetly. A brunette of about forty, in a long, low-cut dress, lifted her glass by way of greeting. I smiled back. The side slit in her dress revealed a nicely bronzed thigh. Not bad at all. ‘Is it that obvious I want a fuck?’ I asked Rossini.
‘Maybe she’s just drunk.’
I got up from the stool. ‘Tell me when that jerk Mirra leaves, okay?’
I went and sat down beside her. ‘My name’s Marco.’
She held out a hand laden with rings. ‘Viviana.’
‘You’re nice-looking, Viviana.’
‘So are you.’
‘My friend says maybe you’re just drunk.’
She smiled. ‘I’m only drinking gin fizz. Solid vitamins.’
Rossini snapped his fingers to regain my attention. Mirra had left the wine merchant’s.
‘I have to go now,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ll drop by later.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll be here for another couple of hours.’
‘I hope I’ll be back in time.’
‘I’m counting on it,’ she said. Then she added, ‘Just a quickie. Nothing heavy, okay?’
Nicola Mirra walked fast, turning around every now and then just to make quite sure we weren’t following him. But the streets were far too crowded for him to spot us. He led us to an empty car park just outside the city walls, and as he opened his car door Beniamino jabbed him in the ribs, then banged his head down on the car roof.
‘Get in,’ he ordered, opening the rear door.
I climbed in the other side and Mirra sat between us. He had a cut on his forehead. ‘I’ve already told you I know nothing!’ he shouted.
Rossini punched him in the testicles. Mirra let out a groan, trying to protect his crotch with his hands, but Rossini elbowed him in the face. Once, twice, then a third time. Blood began to pour from a split lip. Rossini took Mirra’s left hand and bent the fingers back till they almost snapped.
‘I’m listening!’ Rossini yelled.
‘All right, all right,’ Mirra gasped. ‘I’ve heard there is someone, a new guy, who’s producing the videos you’re after. But he’s not selling them here in Italy. His name’s Jay Jacovone, an Italian-American. They say he’s connected to the Miami Mafia.’
‘Where can we find him?’ I asked.
‘He lives in Rome. That’s all I know.’
Rossini let go of the man’s hand. ‘If you’ve fed us a line, I’ll be back to finish the job.’
We got out of the car and retraced our steps. ‘Why did you have to beat him up? All he needed was a little slap to get him to talk.’
Rossini shrugged. ‘He deserved a lot worse than he got.’
&
nbsp; ‘Did you really have to beat him up inside the car? I’ve got his blood on my sleeve.’
‘Get a new shirt and throw that one out. It’s ugly, anyway.’
‘No way.’
‘I guess you’re itching to get back to that bar so you can see your new girlfriend?’
‘Why not?’
Viviana’s seat was empty, so I asked the barman if he knew where she’d gone. He told me she had picked up a guy and left about ten minutes earlier.
When we got back the club was still open, and Max was sitting at my table with a bottle of grappa, some chocolates, and a packet of cigarettes laid out before him. A bitter grimace cut across his face like a scar.
‘What’s up with you?’ I enquired.
‘Nothing. I was thinking,’ he replied, slurring his words ever so slightly.
‘Mental jerk offs, the speciality of your generation,’ Old Rossini said flatly.
Max ignored him. Sometimes Beniamino couldn’t bear our weaknesses. We were used to that.
‘So what were you thinking about?’ I asked Max.
‘Just what lousy lives people lead.’
‘Nothing new in that.’
‘No, but I mean this whole S and M thing.’ He poured himself a large shot of grappa. ‘I’ve spent the evening reading the emails of the slaves who posted those ads on the websites. Arakno and Ivaz came up with a mass of passwords. For a lot of these women, the desire to be dominated hides either an inability to accept themselves the way they are, or desperate loneliness, or a longing to escape from the imprisonment of their family, their marriage or their job. They confide in their masters like other people confide in their priests and, little by little, their dominators come to play an absolutely pivotal role in their lives . . .’
‘In their double lives, you mean,’ Rossini said.
‘Sure. One of their lives is so-called normal, a day-to-day existence that fails to satisfy them. And then there’s this other clandestine life they can never own up to, but which enables them to keep going, to find an equilibrium and a bit of peace.’
‘You’re right. It’s not only about sex,’ I said. ‘I realized that when I was talking to Antonina Gattuso.’
The Master of Knots Page 8
