Think Wolf

by Michael Gregorio

  That raised another titter.

  Cangio pointed to the front row. ‘We are privileged to have two of the most experienced Umbrian truffle hunters here with us today, the Pastore brothers, Manlio and Teo, from Valnerina.’

  The two men tried to sink red-faced into their seats, as Cangio went on, ‘In their opinion, the Chinese truffle is a lethal danger to the prized and precious Umbrian truffle. These things,’ he said, twirling the jar for the audience, ‘are tasteless and have no aroma. In a word, they are of no commercial value. They are used to feed the pigs in China, though some are also used in local food preparation. Manlio Pastore calls them “poisonous spiders” and “aliens” that would wipe out our own autochthonous truffle species in next to no time.’

  ‘That’s why it’s against the law to grow them,’ Manlio Pastore growled.

  ‘But if a man without scruples, and in financial difficulty, wanted to increase his own meagre production of truffles, the Tuber himalayensis is the answer to all his problems. All he has to do is pass them off as genuine Umbrian truffles. It’s easily done, apparently, especially if the truffles are ground into a paste with anchovies and goat’s milk—’

  ‘Is that what Marra was doing?’ Manlio asked in an angry voice.

  ‘It’s what he would have done, except for that scream in the night. Two years ago, Antonio Marra had come up with the scam, but he abandoned it almost immediately when something went wrong one night in the woods near his truffle reserve.’

  ‘Screams in the night?’ a journalist grumbled. Cangio remembered the same man creeping into his room in the hospital in Spoleto six months earlier, and removing his oxygen mask so that he could talk about the ’Ndrangheta and the carabiniere general who had wanted him dead. ‘I thought we were here to talk about organised crime?’

  Cangio ignored him. ‘That scream was made by a Chinese farmer who’d been planting truffles in the Marra truffle reserve. Marra had made contact with a Chinese businessman in London, and this go-between had found three expert truffle planters from Szechuan to work for Marra in secret. The Chinese spoke no Italian, and they worked only at night, but they didn’t go unnoticed. Hunters and poachers saw them or heard them. They were small, agile, seen one instant, gone the next, disappearing into the woods. And so the legends of the elves and the gnomes began to spread.’

  Cangio held up the jar of truffles again.

  ‘This is the first crime of which Antonio Marra is accused: planting illegal tubers.’

  ‘What about the scream?’

  The query didn’t come from the journalists, but from Cristina di Marco the pathologist, who was sitting in the front row.

  Cangio stifled a smile. He knew what she was after. She wanted confirmation of the theory she had found on the Internet which said that Chinese jaws didn’t ‘rock’.

  OK, Cristina di Marco would have her moment of triumph, too.

  ‘The other week a human jawbone was found among the remains of a flock of sheep which had been massacred by wolves. Thanks to Dottoressa Cristina di Marco we now know that the jawbone, and a number of other bone fragments, belonged to one of the Chinese farm labourers who had been working for Antonio Marra.’

  The pathologist sat back in her seat and let out a little whoop of triumph.

  ‘Dottoressa di Marco,’ Cangio said, directing his attention at her, ‘your analysis of those bones revealed not only that they had been chopped into segments but also that there was a deep indentation in a fragment of thigh bone. I thought the indentations had been caused by wolves, while you held that the wolves had plenty of fresh meat to keep them busy.’ He smiled, and bowed his head. ‘You were correct. The Chinese worker had not been attacked by wolves. He had been attacked by a boar, whose tusks had left those marks in the thigh bone as they ripped through his femoral artery. The night the scream was heard, the three Chinese truffle planters had been charged by a herd of wild boar.’

  ‘You mentioned chopping cuts,’ the pathologist observed. ‘They were not the work of a wild boar.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Cangio said, picking up the story again. ‘There is no direct testimony of what happened that night, though it must have been a nightmarish scene. The three Chinese labourers had come to Italy with precise instructions. They’d been told what Antonio Marra wanted them to do, and they had also been told to keep out of sight. But now they had a body to deal with, and they had to make it disappear.

  ‘We don’t know whether the man was dead when his companions hacked him to pieces. He was certainly dead when they buried his remains in the forest. And Marra knew that one of the men had disappeared. His dream of cultivating Chinese truffles ended at that point. He told the go-between in London that he had sent the planters home to Szechuan. This is the second crime committed by Antonio Marra. He knew that a man was dead, yet he did not inform the police.’

  ‘Planting forbidden fruit, collusion in hiding a corpse,’ said one of the journalists. ‘Isn’t there anything else?’

  ‘Did the other two men go back to China?’ Cangio asked him. ‘There is every reason to believe that they did not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The businessman in London that I mentioned before,’ Cangio said, not naming Li Liü Gong to avoid confusion. ‘Marra told him that the three Chinese peasants had gone home. Three of them, not two of them. The fact is that those three men have never been seen alive again.’

  ‘What does Marra say about that?’

  Cangio put down the microphone to shift a bottle of mineral water that was blocking his view of the journalist who had asked the question.

  Lucia Grossi grabbed the microphone like a baton in a relay race.

  ‘This vital aspect of the case is still being explored,’ she said, emphasizing the word vital, as if everything that had gone before had been less important. ‘Our investigation is ongoing, but further charges may well be made against Antonio Marra.’

  ‘Is he under arrest?’ another journalist asked.

  Lucia Grossi held the microphone as if it were a sceptre. ‘Antonio Marra is currently in intensive care. He was the victim of a vicious physical attack last night, and has suffered a cardiac arrest as a result of it. I spoke with him in the early hours of this morning, and he confirms what Ranger Cangio has just told you. My colleague, Captain Geremia Esposito, is in the same hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound which he received in the course of the action last night. I want to take this opportunity to praise his bravery, and wish him a swift recovery.’

  ‘You were injured, too,’ another journalist said.

  Lucia Grossi lifted the medical sling she was wearing on her left arm.

  ‘A scratch,’ she said.

  ‘What can you tell us about the shooting last night in Valnerina, Captain?’

  Cangio saw the change of expression on Lucia Grossi’s face as she opened the file in front of her. Now they were going to talk about the most ‘vital’ question, the ’Ndrangheta, and she would be doing all the talking.

  Cangio settled down with the rest of the audience for the next ten minutes as Lucia Grossi rolled out the facts as they were known: the company Simone Candelora had formed with Antonio Marra; the balance in Marra’s bank account before and after the agreement; the other investments made by Candelora, including an adventure park and bungee jumping in Ferentillo; part-ownership of two hotels in the nearby ski resort of Terminillo; a share in a planned shopping mall outside Foligno and in a multi-screen cinema complex near Assisi.

  ‘Naturally, Marra Truffles was the hub of the business. Cocaine was coming in from Calabria at night under the guise of building materials for expansion of the truffle factory, while cocaine was being exported through the regional airport in the form of Marra’s truffle sauce. Within a short time, the clan to which Candelora belonged would have had control of the drugs market throughout Italy and northern Europe.

  ‘It should be stressed that Simone Candelora knew nothing of the dead Chinese man, or men, when he went into
business with Antonio Marra and started pumping cash into the failing company.’

  As Lucia Grossi paused for breath, the journalists were scribbling furiously.

  ‘This was Candelora’s big mistake. He bet on the wrong horse.’

  ‘How did you latch on to them, Captain Grossi?’

  She glanced at Cangio before she spoke.

  He’d had his chance, and he hadn’t taken it.

  Now, it was her turn.

  ‘There was a rattling skeleton in Antonio Marra’s cupboard, and Candelora didn’t see it. No member of an ’Ndrangheta clan can make a mistake like that and hope to get away with it. Those bones discovered in the woods brought Marra’s world crashing down around his ears. He was living a nightmare. We were moving in on him, on the one hand; his criminal partners had him bound hand and foot, on the other. It was only a matter of time before we pinned him down.’

  We?

  Cangio shifted in his seat.

  ‘If I may be allowed to float a hypothesis,’ Lucia Grossi continued, ‘Candelora would have been eliminated by his clan if he hadn’t died during the shoot-out last night. It might have been a very slow and painful death.’

  A journalist stood up to ask a question.

  ‘Regarding the events last night, Captain Grossi,’ she began. ‘We also know that a security guard was unfortunately killed while doing his rounds. But what about the other victims? A man connected with Simone Candelora died in London yesterday, and you still haven’t said a word about Marzio Diamante or Maria Gatti …’

  Loredana didn’t go back to Todi that night.

  They ate at home they way they had always done, but something was niggling her.

  ‘What’s on you mind?’ he asked.

  Loredana sipped from her glass of Montefalco red.

  ‘You told me a lie,’ she said.

  ‘Which one?’ he joked, but she wasn’t smiling.

  ‘You told me your phone was broken.’

  ‘I switched it off,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to be traced.’

  ‘You were in London,’ she said. ‘Did you have fun?’

  That made him frown. ‘I was on the run from the police, trying to prove that I wasn’t transporting illegal Chinese immigrants across the park. Somebody was trying to kill me. Does that sound like fun?’

  He didn’t tell her that he had played with the idea of never coming back.

  She glared at him over the rim of her wine glass. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going there?’

  So that was it. He hadn’t trusted her, so now she didn’t trust him entirely.

  He lowered his head to catch her eye. ‘Hell’s bells, Lori, I was desperate. I had a lead and I had to follow it. I didn’t call you for your own sake. I didn’t want the carabinieri pestering you, as well.’

  ‘You might have gone for good,’ she said, her eyes glittering.

  ‘I’d have told you where to find me,’ he said.

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Lucia Grossi wanted to arrest me …’

  ‘And now she wants to protect you.’

  Like a cat with a mouse, he thought, though he didn’t say it.

  He recalled the look on the carabiniere’s face as she’d shown him the letter from the Ministry of Internal Affairs informing her that she would be the head of the newly formed anti-mafia crime squad in Perugia.

  She would use him, of course, but using wasn’t protecting.

  ‘She’s very striking,’ Lori said.

  Lucia Grossi had been mobbed by journalists and photographers at the end of the press conference. A young woman in a smart uniform, a heroine, too, with a bright career ahead of her – all because of the groundwork that he had done.

  ‘You know where to turn,’ Lucia Grossi had said to him as they posed together for a picture, ‘if the danger ever presents itself again.’

  That had shaken him. The ’Ndrangheta wouldn’t disappear. They’d be back, and they would want revenge. She knew it, and so did he. She would be watching him, OK, but mainly she’d be looking out for herself and her career.

  ‘My guardian angel?’ he had joked.

  ‘That’s me,’ she had said.

  ‘By the way,’ Loredana said, drawing him back to the present, ‘I spoke to Linda.’

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  He hadn’t seen Marzio’s wife since the funeral.

  ‘Grateful for what you said about Marzio doing his duty, and paying with his life.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ he said, though he knew it wasn’t the whole truth.

  If Marzio had told him what was going on at Marra Truffles, things might have turned out differently. Marzio might still be alive.

  On the other hand, they might both be dead.

  ‘… it’s all pretty clear now,’ Lori was saying. ‘They murdered Maria Gatti because she knew too much from Marra, right? You know, Seb, there’s one thing I still can’t figure out. What was Marzio doing there alone at night?’

  Would they ever know what Marzio had been doing there? Had he realised what Antonio Marra was up to, staking out the truffle reserve when he ran into the ’Ndranghetisti?

  He sipped from his glass.

  The wine was good, but not great.

  ‘He must have heard more gossip, like the first time: elves and goblins, witches and wizards. He would have gone to have a look.’

  ‘So why didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘He knew I wouldn’t fall for that rubbish,’ Cangio said. ‘Maybe he wanted to be certain of the facts before he told me.’

  ‘Linda really thought that he had something going on the side. You know? A woman. That’s why she was so grateful to you, Seb. You put it down to a sense of duty, courage, bad luck.’

  Marzio the hero, Marzio the unfaithful?

  He would have stood by Marzio, right or wrong.

  ‘Linda told me something funny,’ Lori said. ‘Marzio couldn’t stand you when you first came here. Did you know that? He used to call you the London laddie, thought you were really stuck up. Still, she said he learnt to love you in the end.’

  She reached across the table, took hold of his hand. ‘Talking of which,’ she said, ‘it’s been three weeks. Oh, Seb, I’ve missed you so much.’

  That was when his phone rang the first time.

  ‘Let it ring,’ she said. ‘What I’ve got in mind won’t wait.’

  He did let it ring. He couldn’t wait, either.

  It was after ten o’clock when the phone rang again.

  It was on the bedside table, purring and vibrating.

  Lori was beneath him. She was purring and vibrating, too.

  ‘Leave it!’ Lori said.

  The telephone rang again at midnight.

  Lori was asleep by then. She turned on her side, growled incoherently.

  ‘I have to answer it,’ he said. ‘It might be important.’

  ‘Sebastiano Cangio?’

  Cangio didn’t recognise the voice, but there was no mistaking the harsh, lazy vowels or the nasal accent. It was from Calabria in the south.

  ‘My friends call me Seb,’ he said quietly into the phone.

  ‘Dead men don’t have friends,’ the voice hissed.

  There was long silence, and then the line clicked.

  Lori groaned and half opened her eyes. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘No one,’ Cangio said. ‘Just an old friend.’

  She didn’t hear him. She was snoring lightly.

  They’d be back.

  The ’Ndrangheta wouldn’t forget.

  Ever …

 

 

 
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