Lone Wolf

by Michael Gregorio

  They were the names of the three most notorious Mafia bosses of the decade.

  ‘Can’t say I have,’ she said with a pout. Then, with a show of lifting a great weight, she stood up straight, and flashed another smile at him. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you.’

  Five minutes later, she came back with a copy of the visura catastale. In the name of transparency, the Ministry of Finances had made it easy for any interested party to verify the ownership of a building. All buildings were registered for tax purposes, which meant that just about anyone could obtain a copy of the most recent layout of any building in the whole of Italy. Breaking-and-entering was on the increase. More important from his point of view, the visura catastale contained the name of the registered owner.

  ‘International Enterprises S.p.A.,’ he read. ‘A limited company. Can you tell me anything about them?’

  ‘I wish I could,’ the woman said, ‘but I’ve never heard of them. You’ll need to check their name with the local Chamber of Commerce. There’s one in every town.’

  ‘Which Chamber of Commerce?’ he asked, turning the paper towards her.

  She glanced at the details, frowned at him, then looked down at the paper again.

  ‘It should be written here,’ she said, ‘but it isn’t.’

  ‘So, who can I ask?’

  ‘You could start with the people at Villa San Francesco,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, you’ll need to ask the police.’

  Was he the police, he asked himself?

  He’d been seconded to the carabinieri, according to Lucia Grossi, but he wasn’t sure that being seconded gave him any effective police power.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said as he folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

  ‘Any time, my sweet,’ she said. ‘I’m always here.’

  Padova, Veneto

  His daughter rang that morning.

  ‘Papà! Papà!’

  Marisa was so excited, she began to sob. She couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t tell him what he already knew.

  ‘You got the job, then?’

  ‘How did you guess, Papà?’

  He had been paid in cash before they sent him home. A large padded envelope waiting on the rear seat of the Mercedes. He had counted out the notes more than once on the return journey. How often did you get to touch a hundred thousand euro? Having kept their word on that score, he had known that they would keep their word on this score, too.

  ‘Oh, a hundred thousand reasons, my dear,’ the Professor laughed. ‘Though one reason stands out above all the others.’

  Marisa sniffed. ‘Which reason, Papà?’

  ‘What other reason could there be?’ he said, dallying with her now. ‘Why, because you’re the best, of course! I knew you’d beat the others into the dust, no matter how well qualified or well connected they might have seemed.’

  Marisa laughed. ‘You did have a word with someone, didn’t you, Papà?’

  ‘Me? A word? What use are words?’

  Powerful friends were far more useful.

  ‘Go out and celebrate, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you on Friday.’

  ‘As usual,’ she said.

  ‘As always, Marisa,’ he said, putting special emphasis on the word, just in case he ever needed to use her as an alibi. ‘As always …’

  He hoped – no, prayed – that that was the end of that.

  He had been very lucky, and he knew it.

  The slightest hitch, and Marisa might have been attending his funeral.

  Only one thing was niggling him now.

  A minor nuisance, but a nuisance all the same.

  He couldn’t find his platinum Mont Blanc …

  Valnerina

  Seb Cangio had been waiting for ten minutes in the Sant’Anatolia car park.

  Then a gleaming, new Alpha Romeo V6 pulled in beside his battered Land Rover.

  Midnight-blue with go-faster streaks and CARABINIERI written on the flank, the Alpha announced the fact that Captain Lucia Grossi, head of the Special Crimes Squad, had finally arrived in Valnerina.

  What surprised him most was that she had come alone. She had no driver, no junior officer to bully. Except for him, of course. Was this his new job? Was this his foreseeable future? Running around after Lucia Grossi?

  He held the door open as she climbed out of the driver’s seat.

  ‘That’s quite a car,’ he said, uncertain of his role, deciding on chummy informality.

  ‘Zero to a one-twenty in four-point-three seconds,’ she said, running her hand along the bonnet the way she might have petted a prized greyhound. ‘To be honest, Seb, the best thing about it is the way that other drivers skedaddle to make space for you.’

  She was calling him Seb, not Ranger Cangio.

  Maybe it wasn’t going to be too bad.

  ‘By the way, did I thank you for looking after Inspector Harris?’ she said.

  He could have told her that she hadn’t, but he skipped it, and she didn’t thank him anyway, as if mere mention of the fact that she might have thanked was more than sufficient.

  ‘On that note, is there any news from London?’ he asked her.

  She pursed her lips and looked unhappy. Clearly, Scotland Yard was not living up to her expectations. Was that why she was taking such a personal interest in the case of the missing Englishman, hoping to come up with something which she could slap triumphantly in Harris’s face when he did decide to give her a call?

  If he ever bothered, Cangio thought.

  Having got its pound of flesh, Scotland Yard might never be heard from again.

  ‘We had no luck with the hotels this morning,’ she said. ‘I would have phoned you if we had found something. Which leaves us with alternative forms of accommodation … This list of yours?’

  He patted the note in his breast pocket. ‘There aren’t as many as I thought.’

  ‘That is good news,’ she said. ‘But there’s something we need to do first.’

  A captain’s rank sat well on her shoulders. She handed out orders and compliments in the same breath. He recalled how irritating she had been when she was still trying to make her mark. She seemed less aggressive now, more confident, almost likeable. And she had taken a bullet that was meant for him. He could never forget that.

  ‘What have you got in mind?’

  ‘We need to take a formal statement from the witness that you found,’ she said.

  ‘Which witness?’ he said, though he knew who she was on about.

  ‘The waitress, Nora. You didn’t ask her anything, didn’t take any notes. No surname, address, or phone number. You seem to have missed a lot of things. Desmond Harris told me all about it. He had a wonderful time, he said. You walked into a restaurant, played at being customers, ordered a meal, and struck gold. Now that’s not what I would call grilling a witness.’

  ‘We asked the right questions, and Nora gave us that picture. We didn’t need to “grill” her.’

  He had been about to say: What more do you want?

  ‘She might remember more if she saw someone in a decent uniform. Shall we get moving? My car, of course.’

  Ten minutes later, they drew up outside Il Covo del Pescatore.

  There was no one on the premises apart from Nora, who was working in the kitchen, ironing tablecloths. ‘Our day of rest,’ the girl explained, grimacing ruefully at the ironing-board.

  As they sat down at a table in the dining room, Cangio smiled to himself, recalling what Gross had said about ‘decent’ uniforms. All three of them were wearing uniforms. Lucia Grossi’s was dark blue with red stripes running down the sides of her trousers, while he was sporting the slate-grey cotton combat-suit of a park policeman. Nora, in a blue-and-white striped apron, stared morosely at Lucia Grossi across the table.

  ‘I gave him the photo, told him everything I remember,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ Lucia Grossi nodded, ‘but memory’s a funny thing, Nora. It’s often much sharper as time
passes. I was wondering about one thing. Are you absolutely certain you had never seen them around before?’ She twirled a finger in the air. ‘Not just here in the restaurant, but somewhere else in Valnerina.’

  Nora drank some water from a bottle.

  ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I only saw them in here.’

  ‘One of them had been here twice, you told my colleague. What about the other one?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You must see lots of people every day,’ she said. ‘You probably notice things without even realising you’ve seen them. So, let’s try a little experiment. I’ll ask you a question, and I’d like you to answer me with the first word, or words, that come into your head. Do you understand me?’

  Nora looked at her as if she was mad.

  ‘OK,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Those two men, the Englishmen. Which one was the boss?’

  ‘The boss?’

  ‘Who was in control of the situation, in your opinion?’

  Nora gave herself a moment to think.

  ‘The thin one,’ she said.

  ‘Why do you say that, Nora?’

  ‘Well, he did all the speaking. The other one just listened.’

  ‘Did he speak Italian, then?’

  Nora smiled. ‘He thought he did, but I didn’t get a word of it. I made him point out what he wanted on the menu.’

  ‘The one who … tried to speak Italian. How many times did he come here?’

  ‘He was the one who came back the second time,’ she said. ‘He gave me the big tip.’

  Lucia Grossi nodded, cutting in on her. ‘OK, Nora, that’s good. But now, we need to talk about the other man. The one you only saw once. The first time that they came in here, did you noticed anything special about him?’

  ‘Special?’

  ‘Something which seemed odd to you.’

  Had Grossi been attending a special course on interrogation, Cangio asked himself. The interview was getting stranger by the minute.

  Nora looked at her and smiled again. ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ she said. ‘There was something. I noticed it while I was serving him. He had this … well, this … funny smell. You know, the way some men always use the same deodorant or aftershave?’

  ‘A brand that you can name, is that it?’

  Nora shook her head. ‘Nah, it wasn’t a perfume, nothing like that.’

  ‘What was it, then?’

  The waitress pursed her lips. ‘You know … like cleaning fluid. A clean smell, not soap exactly, but sort of a … chemical smell. It was that kind of smell. As I was going through the menu with him, I could smell it on his hands and clothes.’

  They got no more from Nora after that, nothing that Cangio hadn’t heard already

  ‘A chemical smell?’ he said in the car park.

  Grossi shrugged. ‘It’s more than we had before.’ Then she laughed. ‘You don’t think he’s an undertaker, do you?’

  ‘There are plenty of those in every town in Umbria,’ Cangio said.

  ‘Or someone who does a job where they have to wash their hands a lot?’

  ‘Maybe he’d used the soap dispenser in the toilet, and hadn’t rinsed his hands properly?’

  ‘Thank you, Cangio,’ Grossi said, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. If questions had to be asked, then she was going to ask them. ‘Now, let’s make a start on your list of B&Bs.’

  Cangio waited while she phoned Perugia and issued orders.

  He didn’t like being seconded to the carabinieri. The idea of being ordered about by the likes of Lucia Grossi for the rest of his life was a definite turn-off. Parliament had voted to reduce the number of Italian police forces from five to four, so park rangers would soon be members of the carabinieri. Would they – would she – leave him in peace to watch over the wolves, or would his job turn into nothing more than chasing illegal immigrants and guarding regional borders?

  ‘OK, I’m ready,’ she said, putting away her phone.

  Cangio hesitated, as an idea flashed through his mind.

  ‘Can I make a proposal?’ he asked her.

  That raised a smile. ‘But we’ve only just met, Seb,’ she said.

  ‘Usually, I only ask on a second date,’ he shot back.

  She stared at him for a moment. ‘OK, so what’s this proposal?’

  ‘Can we look at a place that isn’t on my list? It’s not far from here.’

  ‘What sort of place are you thinking of?’ she asked him with a frown.

  ‘A place where your uniform may work some wonders.’

  Monte Coscerno

  The younger wolves were starving now, mulling over the bones.

  They had picked them raw, and now they were cracking the rib cage, snapping the vertebrae, crunching gristle, sucking at the meagre marrow.

  They knew they should go hunting – the female, their mother, was growing dangerously weak – but they were too afraid to leave the open ground near the den, the gaping hole in the mound that would hide them.

  Cangio would have puzzled over what was troubling them, but he wasn’t there to see it.

  The lead male snapped at the younger males, growling and lurching at them, feinting bites and baring his teeth.

  They needed fresh meat, or all of them would die.

  And yet the hungrier they were, the less they seemed to heed him.

  He had tried by example a number of times, turning away, showing them his tail, pointing his nose in the direction of the valley, trotting a few steps, then stopping, looking back, but none of them would follow him.

  Not one.

  They carried on crunching bones, as if the bones would fill their empty stomachs.

  He tried again, head down, ears back, showing them his teeth again, growling fiercely.

  They huddled close together, pulling back from the scattered remains of their brother, but still they ignored him.

  In the end, he turned away in despair and went off hunting alone.

  A lone wolf on the mountainside.

  He would need all of his resources to survive.

  SIXTEEN

  Lucia Grossi skidded to a halt on the gravel.

  The car park was empty that afternoon, Cangio noted.

  Grossi donned her cap with its flaming gold torch badge and silver braid above the gleaming black peak as they approached the door.

  ‘They wouldn’t let you in, you say? Let’s see how they react to a carabiniere in full battle dress.’

  She pressed her finger on the call button, and held it there.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Carabinieri,’ Captain Grossi announced.

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I wish to see the director,’ she said, her mouth close to the speaker. She was wearing a bright red lipstick that wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the director isn’t here today.’

  Grossi darted a glance at Cangio, then looked up into the surveillance camera. ‘No matter,’ she said. ‘The person in charge will do.’

  There was another drawn-out silence.

  ‘I’ll call the administrative secretary, in that case.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Lucia Grossi said, and a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

  They hadn’t been standing there a minute when there was a sharp electronic click and the door swung back. A small, plump man in a white hospital coat was standing in a cone of neon light.

  Lucia Grossi took three steps forward.

  The man in white stepped back two paces.

  Cangio followed her in, content to leave the invasion to the heavy brigade.

  ‘Captain Lucia Grossi,’ she said, clicking her heels, and touching the peak of her cap. ‘The admin man, I presume?’

  The man looked uncomfortable, but nodded yes.

  ‘We’re making enquiries about a person who seems to have disappeared.’ Her eyes took in the man�
�s clean white cotton overall, looking for a name badge, perhaps. ‘And this is a … a hospital, something of the sort, or so we’ve been told. Isn’t that correct, Cangio?’ She turned to him, playing the part. ‘We were wondering whether he might have been admitted as a patient.’

  The man took in her uniform. He might have felt like pushing her out of the door, but it was too late now. ‘Villa San Francesco is a … a private clinic, let’s say. Not a hospital, as such. Our patients are referred to us by outside consultants. We don’t cater to the general public, and … and no one’s undergoing treatment at the moment. This is a very exclusive facility …’

  ‘Offering what?’ she asked him bluntly.

  The man was twenty centimetres shorter than she was, twenty centimetres wider, too.

  He peered back at her. ‘Well, we offer a wide variety of services,’ he said. ‘The sort of thing the national health service won’t handle. You know, regenerative and preventive therapy. A health spa with heated pools, a Turkish bath and sauna, hot stone therapy, a fully equipped rehabilitation centre. We also offer reconstruction …’

  ‘What’s reconstruction?’ Cangio asked.

  The man smiled, more sure of himself with the man in the less intimidating uniform. He lowered his voice, as if the female carabiniere might be offended by what he was about to say. ‘You know, facial enhancement, breast implants, liposuction, laser surgery for the removal of moles, unwanted hair. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Cosmetic surgery,’ Lucia Grossi said.

  Not a question, though the man said yes again.

  ‘May I see your register?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure you keep an up-to-date list of the poor unfortunates that you cut and snip.’

  The man looked down at the tiles. ‘I’d be happy to show you,’ he said, ‘but that … well, it’s beyond my power. You’ll have to speak with the director.’

  ‘I may be back with a search warrant,’ Grossi warned him.

  The man looked up. ‘I’d show you if I could, capitano. The registers, the patients’ files, the surgical permission slips, and so on, they’re all kept under lock and key. The privacy laws are very strict on that score.’ He looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, really, but I don’t have access to the personal or staff records.’

  Lucia Grossi waved her hand as if to say that it didn’t matter. She turned away, looking around the entrance hall. ‘It’s nothing like the austere monastic setting that I was expecting. No hint of prayers, or meditation, no Franciscan asceticism. It may look like a church from the outside, but in here it seems almost too modern.’