Sara shifted her feet back to the floor and looked straight at him.
‘Are we in danger?’
‘I don’t know, but please be careful. Keep an eye out. If you spot a face a little too often in different places, make a note of it. Check the house to see if anyone has been in here while you were out.’ He pulled a piece of paper out his shirt pocket and handed it to her. ‘Here are two phone numbers. You should memorise them if you can. One’s a friend of mine: ask for Max, and he’ll put you in touch with me. The other belongs to Flavio Cordano, a lawyer in Genoa, another friend, and very good at his job. If any legal issues come up, any at all, call him. He knows what’s going on.’
Sara took the paper and stared at it for five minutes, committing the numbers to memory.
‘I really need to leave now.’
‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to Giovanna?’
They went upstairs together. Giovanna had fallen asleep in her pyjamas on top of the bed.
‘She’s sensible, your niece,’ Sara said, tucking her in. ‘You should try to be the same.’
With a mixture of fear and excitement, Annibale realised that he had a family now.
11
Piercarlo Rossi stepped out of the building in via Borgospesso, taking in air cooled by the recent rain. The bad weather had returned in early May, but he’d already switched over to his summer wardrobe and had no intention of pulling out the winter one. He headed towards the city centre, planning on breakfast in via Broletto, even though it was noon already. He knew a café where the waitress had eye-popping cleavage and tattoos that pointed to all the right bits of her body. He’d been trying to chat her up for some time. Not long now, he told himself, then I’ll take her to Santa and Bob’s your uncle!
At that very moment, his past collided with his present.
‘Hello Vampa, you seem to be doing well.’ The voice was only a few steps behind him, but actually came from years ago.
Rossi froze in the middle of the pavement, uncertain whether to turn around or not. There were only two people in the world who’d call him that. Marshal Repetto had given him the nickname because of his lush, arched eyebrows, and the mane of hair surrounding his shiny dome. Like a Transylvanian vampire.
He was the sole heir of an extremely wealthy family of silk workers from Como. Orphaned at an early age, he’d grown up with his grandfather, who told him on his deathbed: ‘Even if you try really hard, and I know you will, you’ll never be poor.’ He’d managed to do some serious damage to the family wealth in the late 70s, but he’d only got it down by about a third. He then fell in love with a girl from Dario Filippi’s circle, the terrorist group known in Milan as the ‘weekday bandits’. They’d made history for the cowardly murder of a journalist and for never spending more than a couple of months in prison, thanks to the new collaboration law – they all ratted each other out.
He’d put a lot of effort into getting into their circles: he knew nothing about politics, the imperialist State, multinationals, that bullshit. He did care about women, and that brunette had a backside that truly moved him. He’d almost managed to bankrupt himself for the one woman he’d ever really felt attached to. Served him right.
His contribution to the revolution, however, had been negligible. They’d kept him in the dark for most of the action: at most, he’d been a ‘postman’, delivering memos. Obviously they never divulged their plans – and he didn’t want to know – but when they’d killed Giuseppe Ardito, the journalist, he’d been shocked to the core. It was too late though. Canessa had arrested him along with the rest of the group in a single operation at breakneck speed all over the city – his trademark approach. Annibale didn’t trust anyone apart from his own team, and when he made multiple arrests, it wasn’t a coordinated raid: he ran like the devil and caught everyone himself.
At that moment, stock still on a pavement in central Milan, the passers-by brushing past him as they went about their daily business, Rossi thought back to his night in the barracks in via Lamarmora, first in solitary, then in the interrogation room. After a short wait, he’d been hauled in to face Canessa and Repetto, one tall and chiselled, the other stocky, but both tough as nails.
‘What are you smiling about, you piece of shit? Wipe that grin off your mug or I’ll do it for you,’ Repetto hissed, his face almost touching Rossi’s.
‘You don’t look like a terrorist, you look like a pillock,’ Major Canessa said, scanning some documents. ‘You don’t look like an intellectual. What were you doing with those arseholes?’
He’d told them the truth for an hour.
When he was finished, Canessa turned off the recorder, removed the tape, and handed it to Repetto.
‘I hope you got to fuck her!’
Rossi held up his thumb and index finger. ‘I was this close, but that’s when they started shooting.’
With a smirk, Canessa stood up, grabbed the papers and shredded them.
‘Piercarlo Rossi, your sins are forgiven. You’re lucky: I’m like God these days, I can do anything. Go in peace. You were never here. You never existed. But if I catch you being a pillock again, even just driving through a red light, you’ll pay for every last thing.’
Rossi had practically kissed the Carabiniere’s hands.
‘Can I really go?’
‘Yes. Piss off, we never met. And remember: I don’t do this for nothing. You owe me big time.’
Rossi turned round at the door. ‘You won’t regret this. Good luck, and if you ever need anything, look me out. Honestly: you want something, I’ll do it. House in the countryside, a holiday, a loan.’
‘Get out, pillock, before I change my mind.’
Here they were, now, in the third millennium.
Behind Rossi, Repetto was smiling. He’d noticed the trimmed eyebrows, the shaved head. ‘Looks like “Vampa” is outdated. We’ll have to come up with something else. You busy? I’m here to remind you of an old promise you made.’
Panattoni was sitting in his flat-cum-office in via Bergamo. It was in a 1960s building and boasted all the kooky features of that architectural period. In his loft on the top floor, a spiral staircase wound up from a large open-plan room to a terrace with a stunning view over the city. At that particular moment, however, the PI wasn’t interested in urban landscapes.
He was waiting for new orders from his retainers. He’d been to a funeral in Reggio Emilia, where he’d blended in with the crowd, careful not to be caught on police camera, then returned to Milan. ‘All clear,’ he’d reported. The brother wasn’t in a hurry and he was still in the dark, that much was clear. But according to Nando’s retainers, Canessa would soon be coming to Milan to start his own investigation. They were sure of it.
‘You’re in charge of finding out when he arrives. Which is why we need to keep tabs on the people he may contact.’
They gave him a list. The first name on it was Ivan Repetto, a former marshal.
He liked afternoon sex; it reminded him of his youth. Back then, the right time to meet girls was the afternoon, not the evening. During Milan’s wintry, grey hours, it really excited him to lie in bed knowing that everything was still going on outside while he was naked inside with the latest young thing who’d fallen for him, and whom he wouldn’t see again. He felt like he was floating.
He had the exact same feeling that rainy afternoon as he lay under the sheets watching Marta get dressed. They were in what used to be his parents’ room and was now his. Well, it was their furniture, but the actual house was different. The large walnut bed, for example, was from the Thirties, a piece of Fascist Modernism. An architect he knew had told him how much it was worth – definitely more than all those fussy nineteenth-century reproduction pieces that adorned the bedrooms of Milan’s wealthy.
Marta Bossini was sitting in front of the mirror that used to be his mother’s
. He loved her back, and he loved taking her from behind so he could caress her spine.
She’d slipped her skirt back on, but she was still topless. Feeling his gaze on her, she turned around and gave him a faint smile. No, definitely not love, but maybe devotion.
Astroni threw out a question with studied casualness. ‘So, how’s the Petri-Canessa case going?’
It was the first time he’d mentioned it. He’d held back for a while, playing down his apprehension and curiosity, but he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
Marta reached behind her to hook her black bra.
‘It’s tricky. We don’t have any leads yet, but it was obviously a professional job. So far, though, we can’t figure out the motive. We’re digging through their pasts to see if there’s any crossover, any point of contact. It’s time-consuming.’
Astroni sighed and sat up in bed.
‘I get it. But if it were down to me, I wouldn’t rule out recent elements. All three main characters in this triangle had new lives. And I don’t like having Canessa’s brother, the former Carabiniere, in the background.’
Marta weighed up his words, filed them away mentally and nodded.
‘I didn’t like him at all during the interview. He was kind of numb and lost, but his eyes kept flashing with what I’d call rage…’
‘You’re right. Rage,’ he interrupted, ‘is a form of renewable energy. Don’t underestimate it. Just like the need to be in the centre, to play a starring role.’ Almost to himself, he added, ‘I wonder where his pride has got him this time. Maybe he’s crossed his own line.’
Marta slipped her arms into her jacket and moved closer to Federico for a quick kiss.
‘How and why would he have crossed it? To get close to the man he arrested?’
Astroni spread his arms. ‘Oh, I don’t know. But I do know he’s dangerous, and he might intervene, might even tamper with evidence, for good or ill. Trust me: he’ll get in your way, so watch out.’
Marta pulled on her raincoat and stopped at the door. ‘Did you know him well? In his prime, I mean?’
Her lover flashed her an evil grin. ‘Fortunately not. We judges were cannon fodder back then. They were police, prosecutors and judges all rolled in one. Only obedient little judges worked with the likes of Annibale Canessa.’
‘And you weren’t one of them. But those days are over now, right?’
Federico stepped out of bed, naked and defiant.
‘You bet they are.’
12
A long line of cars hovered over the sun-baked countryside, headed for Milan. But they were speeding along in the opposite direction, aided by a fog-free morning.
Annibale was studying the documents Cordano had given him. He was the defence lawyer for the prisoner and Annibale had contacted him to get an interview in the Opera Prison.
Rossi was driving, playing his part. He and Annibale had met five days earlier at the Marchesi Patisserie, while Repetto kept watch. With no time for nostalgia, Canessa had explained what he needed. ‘Somewhere remote, but not completely isolated, with space for a car, more than one exit. Not in the centre, but not too far out in the suburbs either. It absolutely cannot be traceable back to you. Two clean phones, a satellite with a foreign SIM, a fast car for me – not flashy – and another car that you’ll be driving when I don’t want to. In case someone comes looking for us, we need to have time to disappear. Oh, and when you find the house, do a supply run. Non-perishables.’
Rossi, somewhere between amusement and irritation in his new role of prop finder, set down his cappuccino. ‘Anything else? Women? Weapons?’
Annibale granted him a tired smile. ‘I’ll arrange the women,’ he joked. ‘Can you also get hold of some machine pistols and some automatics? Clean, good quality stuff.’ Thinking back on the conversation now, he grazed the stock of his trusty Beretta at his waist, felt his revolver strapped to his right ankle. He was sure that even if they had to open fire, he wouldn’t need to use his old friend. Then again, you never knew.
Rossi had been swift and thorough, just as expected. He’d suggested a renovated warehouse made into a luxury loft in the 1980s. It was near the canal, just down from the Canottieri Milano sports club but on the other side, and surrounded by a high wall. Accessed via a small door on the Alzaia, it had a gate onto the alleyway for vehicles. There was an even smaller door, well hidden, that opened onto a vacant field. ‘It used to belong to an idiot who lost it on crack. He gave it to me to repay a debt, and it’s still in his name, registered in the Virgin Islands. Even if they’re good, they’ll still only find the company. They’ll have to work much harder to figure out which partner it actually belongs to.’ He handed over the keys to an Alfa 156, almost new, waiting for them in the yard.
‘Colonel, this one’s yours. I found a slightly older BMW for myself, so we can be a little more chic. Rented under a false name from a Swiss society I’ve got shares in. Company card. They’ll have to travel all over the world to actually catch me.’
Annibale put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Great. You’re hired. Pick me up tomorrow morning at 7.30. We have things to do.’
He’d spent the night in the loft, in a large bed on the mezzanine. He immediately clocked the skylight, which offered a fourth emergency exit: over the roof, and a quick leap into the neighbouring allotment. Someone was clearly taking care of that, so he’d need to note down who it was and what their routines were. He then hid his weapons in a cupboard: a couple of Sig Sauer P226s and the two MP5SD3 Heckler & Kochs that Rossi had procured for him.
He made himself a plate of pasta with bottarga he’d brought from Liguria. He decorated sliced Sardinian tomatoes with anchovies, and paired it all with a Pigato Rossi had put in the fridge.
He was alone again, but it wasn’t the loneliness of the past twenty-five years. He liked this new feeling. It was his choice: the inevitable suffering before a battle, when you won’t back down.
All night he was tense and alert, just like when he was a soldier preparing for action. He was ready. Half-asleep, he tightened his grip on the Beretta he’d placed under his pillow. Old habits are hard to break.
He was now in the car with Rossi, and they had nearly arrived at the Opera Prison.
‘Who am I?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Anni— Max.’ Rossi caught himself immediately, but not soon enough to escape a slap from Annibale.
‘Me – Max, you – Vampa, Repetto – Angelo. Remember: no names or surnames.’
They reached the prison gates. Annibale pulled out both guns and slid them under the seat.
Rossi couldn’t take his eyes off them.
‘Are you going to leave them there?’
‘I can’t take them into the prison, can I? Look, don’t worry.
Just don’t stay out here. Go into town, grab a coffee and keep an eye on the car. And remember—’
‘—to note down everything that seems out of place, anyone looking at me too closely, same car driving past more than once. I got it.’
‘Good man,’ said Canessa. He got out of the BMW and approached the prison gates.
13
Pasquale Cammello had consented to speak to him.
He was a camorrista, a criminal working with the Camorra in Naples, and he had two life sentences and one pending reevaluation. More importantly, he’d been Pino Petri’s cellmate. Annibale hadn’t been confident he’d agree to talk, but he’d tried to fix it up all the same. Surprisingly, Cordano, the lawyer for the case who’d acted as middleman, had given the green light for the interview and now Cammello was waiting in a room whose walls looked filthy but actually weren’t: the colour was naturally ugly. Annibale sat wondering how they’d got that colour when the iron doors opened, and Cammello stepped in.
The guard uncuffed his large wrists and pushed him into a chair on the other side
of the table. No one suggested a handshake.
Cammello spoke first. He was tall, thin and balding, and he looked more like a school teacher than a criminal.
‘I know why you’re here, Cop: you want information on Pino,’ he began fairly aggressively. ‘In any other situation, I’d never sit here and talk to you. But I liked Petri. He was a good lad. He had balls, he was honest. He thought the same of you.’
Annibale couldn’t mask his surprise. A mistake, but he didn’t catch himself in time.
‘So he talked about me?’
The camorrista’s disdainful stare made him realise this wasn’t a conversation; it was a favour he was granting to the former Carabiniere. No questions allowed. Cammello would talk, Canessa would listen.
‘Couple of months ago, I spotted an envelope with your name on it among his things. I said: “I know that name!” He stuffed the envelope under a book and looked at me in a way that terrified even the likes of me, the rare times he’d give me that look. “He used to be a Carabiniere,” he admitted. “What, you’re writing to cops now?” But he didn’t say a thing, and I learned that when he went quiet, that was the end of the conversation. Fuck all left to say. But he did respect me some, and he told me how out of all the cops he’d met, you were the only one who impressed him. He told me about that woman you left out of things in Spain. He goes, “He tracked me down for three years, finally found me. I never hated him. I would’ve liked to know him better, but it wasn’t possible at the time. Maybe now…” That’s it. He never talked about you or your brother after that. Then he got shot down.’
He mentioned it as if that were a natural consequence, as if he and Petri were bound to go that way: taken out in the middle of a road. He stood up and called the guard.
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 11
