The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  ‘I still have some good friends here and there, Calandra. And news travels fast these days. Napoleone and I hadn’t seen each other for some time. We weren’t close.’ He paused. ‘But his fate… this got to me.’

  Annibale tried to speak about his brother with some detachment, as if that bloodied body in front of him hadn’t stirred a bundle of feelings.

  ‘Him and Petri together,’ said Calandra. ‘That’s quite the coincidence.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I can’t figure out what might have brought them together. Maybe they ran into each other somewhere ages ago. But now…’ he shook his head. ‘Are we sure this isn’t pure coincidence? My brother may simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. And neither do you.’

  Annibale smiled and offered his hand to the chief magistrate.

  ‘Will you be around?’

  ‘I’ll be looking into it,’ Calandra replied, non-committal. ‘After recent events, you understand, even the least indication that an armed group might be forming needs to be thoroughly investigated. We might cross paths again. Soon.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m glad to see you’re keeping well. I should probably go speak to my sister-in-law.’

  ‘Likewise, Colonel, despite the circumstances.’

  As Canessa walked away, one of the police officers joined Calandra, who was taking a half Toscano from a small leather cigar holder.

  ‘Pardon my question sir, but who is that?’

  ‘Someone playing dumb. It’s not working on me,’ Calandra replied. And he lit up his cigar right under the no smoking sign.

  3

  Annibale Canessa took a deep breath before pushing against the doors and stepping into the small, filthy waiting room.

  The girl was huddled up against her mother, looking for protection. She couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve, and she was holding a book. She really was his brother’s daughter: looking at her he could see a striking resemblance to his own mother, her grandmother. It sent shivers down his spine.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, could I speak to you outside please? Your daughter, too.’ He spoke coldly, stepping into the police role, because he had no desire to discuss the matter there, to deal with his sister-in-law and niece in front of the uniformed officer.

  The woman stood up, took her daughter’s hand and followed Annibale down a series of labyrinthine corridors and stairs. When they got to a long, dark and foul-smelling passageway underground, Napoleone’s widow moved the girl behind her as if to protect her, and stopped walking.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I apologise for the route, but I’m taking you to an exit in the building next door to avoid the press.’

  She nodded, but took her daughter’s hand again. They kept walking until they emerged into the courtyard of the neighbouring wing. Annibale led them to a small park where there was a swing and a slide, even a drinking fountain. The adults sat down on a bench under a chestnut tree, and let the girl head for the swings.

  The man inhaled the fresh, clean air and thought about this trip to Milan, his first in almost thirty years. A high-ranking officer, once part of his team and now part of the Canessa network, had told him what had happened. He’d called just after 9 a.m., and Canessa had got a lift to Rapallo on the skiff, then picked up his Porsche for the drive. It was now 2 p.m., and the weather had worsened, threatening rain.

  ‘She’s a beautiful child.’

  The woman studied him carefully.

  ‘Child? She’s almost twelve. You don’t look like the police, though you behave like one, almost as if—’

  ‘—I used to be one? I was a Carabiniere actually, but a long time ago. Maybe it’s true what they say: born a cop, die a cop. I’m not sure how to tell you this’ – his tone was suddenly more intimate – ‘but I’m Annibale, Napoleone’s brother. I’m sorry we had to meet this way.’

  The woman ran a hand through her long, dark, shiny hair. Rather than seeming angry or surprised, she almost seemed to have expected the revelation.

  ‘He told me about you, though not much. He wondered if you’d ever see each other.’ Her eyes welled up.

  The girl called her from the slide, waving. ‘Mummy! Look at me, like when I was little!’ Her mother waved back, forcing a smile.

  ‘We went our own ways a lifetime ago. It was a form of self-defence for both of us.’

  She sniffed and nodded, talking to him as if they were discussing an everyday matter, as if the situation weren’t steeped in death and tragedy. ‘Yes, I knew, but maybe it was also a form of cowardice, don’t you think? Refusing to address the cause of your disagreement, the suffering that smothered the love. Because I’m ready to bet on that for Napoleone.’

  At least my brother was lucky, thought Annibale. He had a life, a family, and lived with a woman who understood him, made him feel good, got him to stand on his own two feet. As he put these thoughts together, he ran through his own life experience: fragmentary, a series of occasional relationships, alienated from himself as much as from others. Now it was his turn to give in to emotion, to the weirdness of that meeting, the uncertainty into which they’d both stumbled, which bound them and would continue to do so even if they went their separate ways.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sara, and that’s Giovanna.’

  Their mother’s name.

  ‘She looks like her grandmother.’

  ‘I know: we have photos at home.’

  She suddenly burst into tears and Annibale found it came naturally to him to hug her.

  Giovanna ran over to her mother. ‘Mummy! Why are you crying?’

  They spent a few minutes with their arms around each other, before Annibale realised they weren’t alone.

  4

  Carla Trovati was watching the scene from a distance out of respect for what was clearly a delicate moment. She’d been wise to look there, on the corner between two apartment blocks. Her journalism teacher had pointed it out to her.

  ‘Very few people know about that passageway,’ he told her. ‘It’s the best way of getting out of the Institute of Forensic Medicine without using the main doors. It’s usually taken by VIPs’ families to avoid journalists. I’m telling you because you deserve to know about it, but keep it on the down low.’

  Surreptitiously, she’d stepped away from the huddle of colleagues – print, web and TV – pretending to head into a café for an espresso. Instead, she’d snuck round the corner and taken the small alleyway. And what a scoop. She’d recognised Annibale Canessa immediately. He’d changed very little from the photos she’d handled while preparing her thesis on terrorism and the media.

  ‘And the others must be wife and child of the second victim, the one whose identity they’ve kept back. Why is he talking to them like they’re family?’

  Even before any formal announcements, it would be an excellent piece. She needed it – she’d been in a rut for a while now. And it was the best way to get past her feelings from the previous night.

  She’d been there since 9.30 a.m., first on the scene. When she answered the call and heard Giulio Strozzi’s voice, she’d been tempted to slam the phone down, but he’d predicted her reaction and opened with ‘It’s about work’. The managing editor had been in the office since 7 a.m., when she’d kicked him out of her place. ‘There’s been a shooting near the station. Two dead. Ready for it? One of them is Pino Petri. No ID on the other. See? Always a silver lining,’ he’d added smoothly. ‘I thought you’d be up and showered, and you’re the one who can get there the quickest. A good thing for you, but also for the paper.’

  So there she was, a detached observer, waiting for the hug to end so she could move closer and grab a comment from that family she couldn’t fully place.

  Annibale saw her from
the corner of his eye. Cute. Actually, a lot more than that. She was wearing low-rise jeans and a white t-shirt under her suede jacket. He didn’t have a good eye for this sort of thing, but he was sure they were all high-end brands despite their low-key appearance. She was pretending to have stepped out of the medical building for a phone call, but she’d been spying on them for a while now. A journalist for sure.

  He released his sister-in-law from the hug.

  ‘Sara, listen to me. What did the officers tell you?’

  ‘They said the magistrates want to ask me a few questions and that they’d pick me up from the morgue.’

  ‘Why was Napoleone in Milan?’

  ‘He got a call last night, over dinner. He was on the phone for a few minutes. When he hung up, he seemed weird, as if he’d been talking to a ghost. He told me an old friend needed him and he was going to come up to Milan to help him out. He slept really badly and spoke your name a couple times in his sleep.’ She dried her eyes with a tissue. ‘That’s it. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. You should go back in now – the police are no doubt looking for you. Look, don’t lose your patience, though the police and magistrates will seem cold and distant, and pretty unpleasant. If they still play it as we used to, they’ll start out treating you like criminals. It’s not out of meanness. Not always. They just think it’s the best way to get you to tell them all the details. Stay strong and tell them the truth, nothing but the truth.’ A flash of gratitude came over Sara’s face. ‘But maybe don’t mention his mentioning my name in his sleep, okay?’ She nodded. ‘Good. See that woman? She’s probably a journalist. I’ll handle her, you head back.’

  He squeezed her shoulder and handed her a card. ‘These are my contact details. Phone as soon as the questioning is over. Though I’m worried they might call me in too. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Only the truth.’

  ‘You’ll get it.’

  They stood up and Sara, holding back all of her other questions, took Giovanna’s hand and headed for the door they’d just come out of.

  Carla saw Annibale Canessa coming towards her. His wasn’t a face you’d forget easily: it looked sculpted by a neoclassical master, with an expression of placid strength. But she didn’t let it get to her. She wasn’t like that.

  ‘Hello. I’m Carla Trovati from the—’

  ‘What happened to that poor guy you outed?’

  Carla wavered. Partly because like all her colleagues, she suffered from a feeling of invisibility, and finding someone who’d actually read your work was exciting. The question, however, also implied a fierce disdain for her job. She caught herself in a moment of weakness and tried to make up for it. Direct stare, direct tone. ‘He’s great, actually, living a better life than before. He’s free. So, what are you doing here? Who’s the woman with the child, Colonel? If that is still your title…’

  Annibale managed a wry smile. The girl had guts.

  ‘Listen, here’s the deal: I spill some beans and in exchange you take a walk around the block, leave those two alone, and don’t reveal the existence of this passageway to anyone else.’

  ‘Deal. So, my first question…’

  ‘No, no questions,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ll only tell you what I can. Pino Petri was killed while he was with another man. That man was my brother, Napoleone. Last night Petri contacted him and asked him to meet him in Milan. He didn’t tell his wife the reason they were meeting, nor do I know if he knew it himself. They were shot with AK-47s. I hadn’t seen my brother in over twenty years and I don’t know if he had any enemies. When you write this down, remember: Napoleone may have served three months under suspicion of terrorism, but he was released when they couldn’t find any evidence against him. Acquitted. There was no crime.’ He spoke clearly. ‘He was clean. Don’t use the word “terrorist” when you speak of him, or anything like it. He wasn’t one then, and he isn’t one now. Like many at the time, he inhabited a grey area to the left of the Italian Communist Party, that much is true. But he never went against the law.’

  Carla was frantically writing everything down in her notepad.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing yet. However, in exchange for your discretion and honesty, I promise you first-hand information from here on out. Leave me your number.’

  Carla pulled a business card out of her bag. Annibale pocketed it, then offered her a handshake.

  ‘So, we have a deal?’

  ‘We do. Can I have your number too?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Maybe later, when we become friends.’

  Carla nodded. ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry for your loss.’ She watched him go back into the building, and then made a swift exit from the courtyard. She pulled out her phone to update Strozzi, unaware of the man on a scooter. He was pretending to look through the flowerstand. But he was actually eyeing the entrance to the Institute of Forensic Medicine.

  5

  Nando Panattoni dropped Rocco off at the Rogoredo train station, fifteen minutes before the high-speed train that would take him back to Naples. No plane, no security checks, no name or ID. Tickets paid for in cash, every time.

  Rocco had changed his clothes and looked almost like everyone else now. Don’t judge a book by its cover, Nando thought, watching – and worrying about – his accomplice. Barely out of the car, Rocco was already glued to a red-haired woman in tight leather trousers, his eyes boring into her behind. Please don’t do anything stupid.

  Nando abandoned and set fire to the car in the Idroscalo area, which was populated by sex workers and cross-dressers, and then fetched the clapped-out scooter he’d hidden there the night before. He rode back to the city, stopping in a café in via Negroli not just for the amazing custard pastries and Illy coffee, but also because it was one of the very few that still had a payphone.

  He dialled an ex-directory number in the Corso Magenta area.

  ‘Everything go well? Any problems?’ asked the voice on the other end.

  ‘It all went fine.’

  ‘Good. Now focus on monitoring police headquarters, the morgue, courts. Your target’s the brother. I want to know what he does, who he talks to, every little detail. Briefing is at 6 p.m. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency.’

  His stakeout at the Institute of Forensic Medicine had been worth it. Annibale Canessa was here. He wouldn’t lose sight of him.

  He called his partner to let him know where to find Canessa.

  Judge Astroni’s knock at the door of the prosecutor’s office was more like a caress. Without waiting for a reply, he barged into his mentor’s room.

  Antonio Savelli was sitting behind his desk reading through documents. He was a tall man, shockingly thin, a bit like Kojak and famous for his moral integrity. In the troubled years of the corruption inquiries, he’d often spent his nights on a makeshift cot which was now gathering dust in a storage room on the third floor. Savelli had never had any help. He was an inscrutable man who’d got where he was by keeping his distance from all political parties. In Rome they’d say: ‘When he goes on the attack, he pulls no punches.’ And so it was: the man who’d got him his position had received several notifications of impending investigation followed by arrest warrants. He regretted having voted for Savelli’s nomination.

  Unlike many of his colleagues, Savelli spoke very little, but his rare interviews regularly shook the foundations of power, both political and financial. He’d inherited a villa from his maternal grandfather, along with a sailing boat on Lake Maggiore. He’d settle into the cockpit any time he could and chase the wind alone, followed by a cautious police escort.

  He thought of himself as a fair man without weaknesses. He had one, though: his assistant, Federico Astroni, now sitting in one of the leather armchairs in front of his cherrywood desk. Savelli had taken that desk with him everywhere
he went, from the outer suburbs all the way to where he was now. Some people keep family photos, some their qualifications, still others, paperweights: Savelli kept his desk. And it would soon follow him upstairs and into the large office of the solicitor general.

  ‘Such a shame,’ Astroni said, feigning a lack of interest.

  Savelli knew his protegé well. He was there to give his opinion on the Petri-Canessa case, not for small talk. So Savelli cut to the chase.

  ‘I was just thinking: the case falls to Guidoni, but we’re talking about a famous former terrorist and we need someone with more experience alongside him. I had Lorenzo in mind since he’s led three Petri-related cases already.’

  ‘True, but I’d suggest someone who wasn’t directly involved and has no preconceived notions. Someone less biased by past experience. Someone who can go down other paths, not just the obvious terrorist one. Maybe the reasons for the double murder are different, more…’ He searched for the right word, ‘recent.’