'Only the woman?' Ferrara asked, unable to restrain himself. 'Wasn't there a man as well?' His voice came out sounding hoarse and thick.
Zancarotti looked at him blankly. A man as well? No, they didn't tell me anything about that. . .'
'Do you know why Salvatore Laprua was so interested in this woman?' Rizzo asked, knowing what Ferrara was going through and thinking it best to take his place at this point.
'No, they didn't tell me, and neither did he. I was supposed to do what I was told and that was it.'
'So you have no idea where she was being kept prisoner?'
'No. They were supposed to take me there . . . but then you police butted in.'
'Does Viktor still have the woman?'
'I hope so, if they haven't done another exchange in the meantime. I'm sure Viktor wouldn't have handed her over without getting the drugs.'
'We're going to check all this out now, Zancarotti,' Ferrara cut in, before the other two men could say anything, 'and if what you say turns out to be true, you're guaranteed a place on the witness protection programme. I'm sending you back to prison now but I'll tell the warden to put you in a different cell. From now on, it'll be better if you don't have any more contact with the two Albanians.'
'Thanks,' Zancarotti replied, relieved.
It struck Ciuffi that he ought to phone Mazzorelli. It was time to get Inspector Guzzi out of there. There was no point any more in having him share a cell with Alex and Nard, and it could actually be dangerous.
Petra knew as soon as he came in.
It wasn't so much the tired look on his face or the sad expression in his eyes, as his stance, the position of his body, which seemed all at once to droop. He looked like someone who had fought too many battles and lost the latest one.
She said nothing.
Later, as Ferrara was forcing down his third forkful of spaghetti - which also turned out to be the last - she looked affectionately at him and said softly, 'Talk to me, Michele.'
Perhaps it was all the time that had passed, perhaps it was the anxiety which had been with him for too long and was now consuming him, or perhaps it was the tension reaching breaking point - or perhaps all three things together - which resulted in two large, agonised tears streaking his cheeks.
'It's over now,' Petra sighed in such a heartfelt way that Ferrara felt obliged to tell her everything.
When he had finished, he realised that Petra was struggling to find words that were not platitudes, and she did so in her own way, drawing from that well of practicality which had always been her husband's anchor.
'Michele, you mustn't give up now. Das darfst du nicht. The man didn't tell you anything about Massimo. Nichts. Until you know for certain you have to keep thinking he's alive and waiting for you. Do you remember your nightmare? You don't know where he is, but he's still calling you. I can hear him, Michele. I can hear his voice, you can't not hear it yourself.'
The nightmare did not recur that night, but he did not need it to release the tension.
His wife had seen to that, and the following morning he woke up very early, more determined than ever.
37
Before ringing the entryphone, Ferrara checked his watch. It was exactly ten in the morning.
It had taken him more than an hour to get here. He had had a bit of difficulty in finding the Via Sant'Andrea, which went from the canal to the heart of Viareggio without any street signs on the corners. In the end he had had to ask directions from one of the two plain-clothes men who were keeping an eye on the area around the building.
It was a four-storey building, with a balcony in front of the central window on the first floor. The facade was of grey-green concrete, made to look as if it were stone.
'Who is it?'
The voice was rather hoarse, the voice of an old man who had just woken up.
'Police! Open up, please.'
He heard a click, and the wooden door half-opened. He climbed to the second floor.
Salvatore Laprua was waiting for him in the doorway.
He was tall, thin and dark-skinned, with white hair combed back. He was still wearing silk pyjamas beneath a burgundy dressing gown, also of silk. On his feet he wore a pair of very elegant slippers. His small, inquisitive eyes studied Ferrara as he completed the climb.
'I'm Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Florence Squadra Mobile,' he said as soon as he stood facing him.
'Are you alone?' the man asked in surprise.
If he had come to arrest him, as he was perhaps expecting him to, he wouldn't have come without his men.
'This time, yes,' Ferrara replied, sustaining his gaze. 'For what we have to say to each other, we don't need anyone else.'
Both men's eyes had started saying more than their words, conveying messages no tongue could express.
'Please come in, Chief Superintendent.'
He led Ferrara along a short, pleasantly appointed corridor to the living room, where he invited him to sit down on a green velvet sofa and took a seat in the armchair next to it.
It was an ordinary middle-class living room, with a few nice pieces of furniture and a large, ugly TV set.
The apartment smelt pleasantly clean.
'Tell me,' the old man said, 'why has an officer of your rank come all the way from Florence to see me?'
'Because I need you.'
The man nodded. He was used to giving and receiving favours.
A short, plump, elderly woman with completely white hair entered the room at that moment and stared at Ferrara wide-eyed.
'Rinuzza . . . don't worry . . . You know, this man is in charge of the police in Florence, he's an important person. Make us some coffee.' His Sicilian accent was stronger when he spoke to her.
The woman went out.
'Chief Superintendent, it's an honour for me that you've come to my house . . . We're just two old people, two poor old people with not many years left, as you can see. What little we have I've worked for. All my life I've worked. Now I'm retired, I have little money and not many friends. I don't know if I . . .' He trailed off.
'I'm not asking for anything difficult. You just have to help me find someone.'
'Who?' the man asked, apparently surprised. A friend of mine ... or someone I know?'
'Not a friend of yours. A friend of mine. His name is Massimo Verga and he went missing at the same time as a woman named Simonetta Palladiani.'
Laprua did not bat an eyelid. 'Verga . . . That's a Sicilian surname . . . and I think you're Sicilian, too, there's a hint of it in your accent.'
'Yes.'
'I think that'll make it easier for us to understand each other. But I've never heard of the man you mentioned. I've never heard his name.'
'You have heard of the woman, though,' Ferrara said, with such conviction in his voice that Laprua made no attempt to deny it. They were entering a territory where caution was essential, because it was easy to make the wrong move.
'If you say so. May I smoke a cigar? It helps to refresh my mind. At my age . . .'
'Of course, this is your home. In fact, let me offer you one of mine . . . here.' He took two cigars from a leather case.
Laprua lit his cigar with a gold Gartier lighter which he picked up from a low table. It was one of the few discreet signs of opulence in the room. Everything else had been cleverly chosen to give the impression of a man of modest means. Ferrara stuck with his usual disposable plastic lighter.
The woman returned with the coffee.
'Rinuzza, if you could leave us alone, we have important things to talk about,' he ordered as soon as his wife had finished serving him.
'So maybe you could refresh my memory,' he said to Ferrara. 'Who is this woman and why should I know her?'
'She's the owner, or rather the leaseholder, of the marble quarries contracted out to a company called Mining Extractions Ltd, which is based in Bellomonte di Mezzo. I think that's your home town, isn't it? And you know where the woman is because she was abducted by an Alb
anian who either still has her or has already given her back.'
Laprua did not move a muscle. He had his hands together and continued to look fixedly at Ferrara.
'It sounds like something from a TV movie,' he said at last. 'You must excuse me . . .'
He was only trying to gain time - it was clear that this policeman knew too much.
'But you know perfectly well that's not the case.'
Another long silence followed.
'Let's say it's the way you say it is . . . why should I help you?'
'Because I know everything . . .' - he looked him straight in the eyes - '. . . Zi Turi.'
The use of that nickname had abruptly moved the game onto another level.
'Or rather, not everything. I don't know where Simonetta is, or if the man who was with her is still alive or not.'
He said this, knowing he was giving his adversary an advantage. In negotiations, you always had to have something to bargain with. The man ought to have had the impression that they were playing on equal terms.
And what if I told you that I don't know anything about any of this?' Laprua said, though he must have been aware that this was just another pointless delaying tactic.
'Then I'd tell you about some kilos of heroin hidden in blocks of marble currently in storage at the port of Carrara, ready to be sent to the United States. I'd tell you that I'm sorry for you, but those blocks will never get to their destination. And I'd also tell you about three trawlers named after your sons which sometimes fish way out at sea, a long way out, and come back with a large quantity of fish - fish which have already been filled . . . Do you want me to go on?'
But the man had already made a gesture with his hand for Ferrara to stop. 'Chief Superintendent, we're both Sicilians -both men of honour ... If you think you know all these things, why don't you arrest me?'
'Because I can't.'
'So what do you want from me? Money?'
'You'd make me a millionaire if I wanted, right? No, Zi Turi, that's not why I need your help. I told you: I need you to find someone, that's all.'
'Why are you so interested?'
Ferrara thought before answering. 'Have you ever had a friend?'
Salvatore Laprua looked at him, and it seemed to Ferrara that his eyes clouded over for a moment. 'If I help you, what do I get in return?'
'I can keep you out of this drugs investigation.'
Am I supposed to believe the police, at my age?' he sneered.
'I'm not asking you to believe the police, Zi Turi. I'm asking you to believe Michele Ferrara.'
Laprua weighed this up for a few moments. 'Ferrara the man may be able to do it, I see it in your eyes. You're a man of respect. But not Ferrara the policeman! You can't betray the State that you serve ... I could do what I can to find your friend, but after you find him, you won't need me any more.'
'In life there always comes a moment when we have to compromise. I am and will always be a policeman, I'm not pretending I want to go over to your side to buy your help, and you wouldn't believe me anyway. What I will do is break up your racket, and you can't do anything about that. And then what will Zi Turi be? Just an old man living with his wife, as far as I can see. Why should I put an old man in prison?'
Could he believe him? Laprua must have been thinking. But above all, did he have any choice?
'If what you're telling me is true, putting the handcuffs on me would make you a hero,' he said after a while. 'Is this friendship worth sacrificing that for?'
'It's worth a lot more.'
In a roundabout way, the old man started putting his cards on the table. 'Chief Superintendent, I was born in Bellomonte di Mezzo. Do you know it? A poor place, a really poor place. No work, not even unpaid work. I grew up poor ... I had two choices: stay poor or take an oath that bound me for the rest of my life . . . Am I making myself clear?'
'You're making yourself very clear.'
'I chose the second option. I was only young. Over the years, I took other oaths and made other promises . . . Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'Yes.'
'I started to work at an honest job, but then after a while I had to keep the promises I'd made. Those are the kind of promises you keep!'
Or else you're a dead man, Ferrara thought.
Now you're the one making a promise to me,' Laprua said.
'And it'll be kept. But you have to be honest with me.'
They looked at each other for an unusually long time.
'So be it,' Laprua said, seeming satisfied at last.
'Where is Simonetta Palladiani?' 'The Albanian still has her.' 'Viktor Makregi?'
'You did your work well,' Laprua replied, with genuine admiration.
'Does he still have the man who was with her?' Ferrara asked, somewhat apprehensively. 'Yes, he took the two of them.' And are they both . . . still alive?' 'The woman for sure.' 'What about the man?' 'I don't know'
Ferrara preferred to dismiss that answer. 'Why do you care so much about the woman?'
'Because she has to renew the lease on the marble quarries. More than that, she has to go in person to the town hall to negotiate the renewal of the lease. You probably know that with the new laws the leaseholders don't have the leases forever, and if the woman loses that lease we're screwed! She's already two years late. Her husband managed to put it off, but now the time's up.'
'How did you know about her?'
'Through her husband. I met him when his business was in trouble and I gave him a hand in return for the lease on the quarries. I tell you, it was the best deal of my life. The woman doesn't know anything about it. She signed and that was it, she's not interested in the quarries.'
And what about Viktor, how did he know?'
About Simonetta, you mean?' Laprua smiled ruefully. 'By chance. He went to kill Ugo Palladiani over some woman, from what I gathered . . . The guy was always a good for nothing, a wastrel - Palladiani, I mean. To try to save himself, he told the Albanian he could make him rich, gave him the whole story about our agreement and what we're doing in the quarries. The Albanian realised the woman was a good bargaining counter and took her, along with the man who was with her . . . Then he started to make demands.'
'Why didn't he give her back to you, since you'd already agreed to give him ten kilos of heroin?'
'You already know why. Because he didn't get the heroin, and he says it's our fault because the man who was driving the car was one of ours.'
'So he wants more?'
'Lots more . . . he's increased his demands. He wants three times more. And if it goes wrong again this time he says he'll increase it ten times.'
'So now he wants thirty kilos?' Ferrara said, astonished. And are you prepared to give it to him?'
What can I do? If I don't pay he kills the woman and we're out of the quarries. The municipality doesn't want "foreigners". We'd never get the quarries back.'
'But someone like you surely doesn't have to give in to blackmail? Why didn't you take the initiative and go and track down the Albanian?'
We tried. But he's good at hiding himself.'
'He must have a mobile phone or something?'
Laprua shook his head. 'He's always the one who calls me. I can't call him.'
'How come?'
'He sends me a text message on my mobile. A number from one to five. The numbers correspond to five public telephones in this area, and when I see the number I have to go to that particular phone. He calls me from another public phone, after half an hour, and then every half-hour until he reaches me.'
It was a simple and ingenious system. They would never be able to intercept a conversation between the two men. Ferrara asked Laprua for the locations of the five phones and also his own mobile number. The number corresponded to the one they were already tapping along with his house phone.
'If you want to pay, why haven't you done it?' he asked. 'It's now nearly two weeks since the first attempt misfired.'
The old man looked surprised. 'Do you thi
nk I can get hold of thirty kilos of heroin just like that?'
'You have it now, though, don't you?' Ferrara said, thinking of the fish van.
'Yes, I have it now.'
'And does he know?'
'Yes. I told him the new consignment was arriving on Saturday'
'So he'll get in touch.' 'Oh, yes!'
'Good. How will the swap be done this time?'
'I don't know. He has to give me instructions.'
Ferrara reacted instinctively. 'No. Get him to bring the prisoners to the quarries. Tell him number 225.'
It was the most difficult of the quarries to reach, with only one access road, and so the easiest to keep under surveillance.
'It's not as simple as that.'
'Tell him this time you don't want to take any risks. He has to come and get the drugs himself. Once he has them it's up to him. Don't leave him any choice. Either that or the deal's off. You're good at convincing people, aren't you?'
'It's a big risk. He may think we're setting a trap for him and that we're going to take the drugs back off him as he's leaving. That's our territory after all. What happens if he won't come?'
'Let's deal with that later. But he'll be there, Zi Turi. He doesn't care about those two people, but he's not going to give up on thirty kilos of heroin that easily. He'll take precautions, but he'll come, I'd be prepared to bet on it.'
Later, he would often ask himself why he'd been prepared to gamble like a poker player with the life of the best friend he'd ever had. He was never able to answer his question. It taught him that poker was good training for the police force. And vice versa.
Death in Tuscany Page 31
