The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  She’d kissed him, slipped on her tight jeans, and packed her stuff into a nice Louis Vuitton bag (he’d bought her an original, worth over a thousand euros). She kissed him again, offering him a glimpse of her loose breasts under a white shirt, and left the house.

  Panattoni pulled up next to the Garibaldi station entrance and prayed for Rocco to be quick.

  He’d asked the Salemmes if it was truly necessary to bring in the ‘boy’ – that’s what they called him – for a job like this. He was enough, surely? He just had to put on a balaclava, pick up Alfridi, and make him talk. He even had a couple of syringes filled with hallucinogenics, a modern variant of the hyocine the Nazis had used.

  ‘Rocco can take things too far, you know.’

  Claudio Salemme had stopped him. ‘Nando, Nando, you’re getting soft. How else should things go? If we don’t push “too far”—’ he’d raised his voice to an irritating falsetto, ‘—the guy will just call the police or Canessa as soon as he wakes up. Even if he doesn’t see anyone’s face, it’ll still tip him off. Can we run that risk? No. So call Rocco.’

  The car door burst open and he nearly banged his head, bringing him rudely back to the present. Rocco chucked his bag in the back and settled into the passenger seat. He reeked of sweat, even more than usual due to the heat, the train journey, and the early wake-up call that had stopped him from taking a shower (if he ever did).

  ‘Let’s get moving, mate. I need to down a couple of cold Cokes. I’m dying of thirst.’

  Panattoni sighed. The clock on the dashboard said 10.20 a.m. It was going to be a long day.

  Chief Magistrate Calandra adored his new summer Prince of Wales blazer, custom made for him by a tailor he knew in Naples, right behind piazza dei Martiri. He adored the tailor, he adored the square, and one of his favourite cafés was there too, La Caffettiera. ‘These are the things that make life worth living,’ he’d say.

  It was a cool wool in all senses of the term. Rome was starting to get unbearable, except in the evenings when the wind – from the north or who knew where, he’d never figured it out – snuck into every nook. In there, two floors below a government building – formally assigned to another office with another purview entirely – the man who didn’t exist was waiting for him in the lobby of the control centre, where the temperature was perfect. Whenever he went down there, and it wasn’t very often, Calandra would take a box of gianduiotti to his valuable collaborator, who loved those chocolates. He got them sent to him from an old Turin chocolatier, custom-made, of course. One of his first teachers had told him: ‘Remember, if you want to tame a human being, a gift always works better than violence or seduction.’

  The invisible man, in his always out-of-season clothing – today it was a full winter three-piece suit, complete with heavy vest – unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth, savouring it and giving Calandra a grateful, devoted look. He handed over a file stamped with the information services seal: a bright sun casting light over the city walls, on a black background with the Latin motto Scientia Rerum Rei Publicae Salus. Knowledge of issues is the salvation of the Republic. Sure, the Republic, but mostly the people to whom Calandra dedicated his work ethic.

  While Calandra looked through the file, the invisible man explained. ‘We found Canessa in the Sormani Library in Milan, but with a six-hour delay due to a technical issue. Not that much, but just enough to lose him again.’

  Calandra came across a page with seven dates.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The Corriere publication dates he’s researching.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Satisfied, Calandra handed back the file.

  The man stared at him in surprise.

  ‘But we still don’t know what he’s looking for, or where he is now.’

  Calandra patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘You’ve done an excellent job. Don’t worry. Keep up this surveillance. What he’s looking for doesn’t matter. Leave him to his research and make sure no one disturbs him. It means he’s still pursuing his private investigation. Canessa the Tank is on the move, and that’s all we need to know. The rest will follow.’

  He did up his blazer – he was starting to feel cold, and didn’t like being underground for too long – and headed for the lift, anticipating daylight and lunch at the Hassler’s Imago. Good food, and Rome at his feet. No better feeling.

  8

  Panattoni gave the steering wheel of the Fiat Doblò he’d stolen from the long-stay car park at Malpensa airport a little squeeze. The chances of its owner noticing its absence that day were almost nil. Once his job was over, the car would end up in a ditch, cleaned up and torched, just to make sure. All he had to do was watch it around the security cameras in the car park; everything else was child’s play. It wasn’t the first time he’d stolen a car, after all.

  A damp, sticky heat had descended upon the city, earlier than forecast. Panattoni had never fully got used to Milan’s climate, with its erratic seasons. And since he didn’t believe in climate change, all the fault lay with that fucking city. Rome, for example, was something else entirely.

  Speaking of oddities, Panattoni was starting to realise that he’d never really got the hang of so much of the action, behaviour, and situations he’d lived through after… how many years in Milan? Almost ten now. Was his a crisis of conscience? Hardly! Too late though… Maybe more of a mid-life crisis, he told himself, adding Fuck that. Whatever it was, he wanted to quit. Had to.

  That whole thing was proof of that. Experience was telling him something was off: all the other dirty jobs he’d done on the Salemme payroll had been quick, even the ones that had ended in violence and bloodshed. Surgical, not a trace. This one was different: it was dragging on. And they weren’t confronting just any old person, a witness to silence, a lawyer to bribe, a business competitor to warn, not even a low-list criminal with a loose tongue that needed cutting. Those were all easy to deal with. Too easy.

  Panattoni wasn’t a rookie. He knew about Annibale Canessa, knew his story, and he’d found out even more about him in the past couple of days. Canessa might have been out of the game for the past twenty years or so, but he was a tough nut, a former high-ranking Carabinieri officer, trained and trigger-happy. To judge by his movements, he was also still in shape. After all, you don’t forget some things, and it takes little to get back into your old habits.

  Rocco opened the car door, making him jump. Again.

  ‘Panattò, what’s up, why you so jumpy?’

  ‘I don’t like any of this.’

  ‘Eh, you’ll get over it,’ Rocco teased, cracking open yet another can of Coke.

  They’d spent the past two hours in the Bonola shopping centre car park. Never together for more than a couple of minutes, that was the rule. Now that Rocco was back, it was his turn to stretch his legs, get a coffee, or buy some lingerie – he’d spotted a get-up that would look mouthwatering on his girlfriend, and wouldn’t last long on her. It was a good distraction from his job, which was to grab the queer, chuck him into the van, drive to some out-of-the-way location, and make him sing.

  This time, he hadn’t brought a gun.

  ‘We should be clean, just in case we get stopped.’ He started mumbling a good-luck chant. ‘We won’t need more than this baby for the sucker.’ He pulled a leather-grip Laguiole knife from his jacket pocket and waved it around with his usual soulless grin.

  Panattoni shuddered. He hoped the fruitcake would show up soon. Sitting there next to Rocco was making his stomach churn.

  Davide Alfridi walked up the steps of the Bonola underground station at 8.15 p.m., at least two hours later than expected, and started walking briskly along via Cechov. There’d been an issue with a tractor company’s online banking, and he’d had to work overtime. He was worried for his ‘doggy’, as he called his new Jack Russell. He’d only had him a couple of week
s, and was still trying to find him a suitable name. He’d noticed that the pup suffered from separation anxiety, and that was enough to convince him that dogs were better than people. He needed to find himself a boyfriend, someone he’d love and trust enough to ask him to stay at home and take care of the furry new arrival.

  The sun was setting, but it was still pretty hot, and Alfridi tried to stay under the trees and their shade. He’d never been so excited: the Corriere mission, working with that super inspector – he was definitely not what the online articles said – and Canessa’s warning to watch out. He looked around, just in case. No one. Maybe he should have asked the Carabiniere what to look out for.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  A van pulled over on his left side and a man waved at him. They were going in the opposite direction, and it wasn’t easy for the driver to lean out across the seats to talk to him. Alfridi thought it might be a courier, someone with a delivery. There was some space between two parked cars, so he stepped off the pavement to hear him, leaning towards the car door.

  ‘Hey, sorry,’ said the person behind the wheel, a large man in a mover’s uniform, ‘but do you know how to get to via Ojetti from here?’

  ‘Of course!’ Alfridi gave him directions.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Alfridi turned to step back onto the pavement – at least there are some people around with good manners – when he heard the van’s side door slide open.

  Two hands grabbed him and he found himself handled like a parcel – though they might have taken more care with a parcel – and slammed against the side of the van.

  Everything went dark as he lost consciousness.

  9

  The number 94, again, the Sormani Library, again. Annibale Canessa was troubled. He kept checking around, his eyes scanning for any possible threat. He was doubly troubled, and that just wouldn’t do. He’d adopted one golden rule all his life: limit the time you spend being worried, and if you’re troubled, limit your reasons to one.

  The first reason was tactical. Coming back to a place where he’d consulted material using his real name and real ID wasn’t a wise move. But thinking about it, only Chief Magistrate Calandra had any way of knowing what he was up to, and he wasn’t dangerous at this stage. The prosecutors? According to the news, they had no interest in keeping tabs him. Not yet, anyway. Some of the journalists closer to the courts had written that there was some illegal dealing going on (weapons? drugs?), but almost as if they didn’t believe their own words, or had been forced to write them. Canessa knew they wouldn’t write something like that without the explicit consent of the relevant prosecutor.

  Despite his concern, he calmed down somewhat when he spotted Repetto among the crowd of people waiting for the number 12 across the road. He was disguised as a lawyer; he’d even brought a small briefcase. He’d promised to watch Canessa’s back like the good old days, and he was sticking to his word.

  The second reason wasn’t tactical, and that made it even more dangerous. Carla Trovati. They’d just spent their second night together, and he’d ended up sleeping by her side, unable to let go of her and her soft breathing, her beautiful, naked body. He still wanted her, all of her: he wanted her company, her words, her lips, her scent. They’d made love as soon as they woke up, with passion and tenderness. She really got to him. He was trying to hold back, but most of his thoughts were currently – and dangerously – focused on her.

  ‘One thing at a time. Right now, it’s a second round with the papers.’

  Scanning his environment one last time, Annibale walked up the steps.

  Carla sat at the table in her t-shirt and underwear, her New York Times mug empty before her. God, that man also made the best coffee she’d ever had.

  She was troubled. She’d bumped into him waiting for her outside her building, and as he headed into the bathroom for a shower (‘Do you mind? Sorry, it’s been a really long day’), she’d tried surprising him with a minimalist (that is, practically invisible) matching silk lingerie set. Annibale, with hands that were clearly capable of anything, ran a finger along her panties’ waistband, arousing her like never before.

  As he’d moved lower, to her buttocks, he murmured, ‘It’s very easy on the eye, even easier to take off, but I much prefer what’s underneath, not just here.’ His fingers brushed lightly against the black silk triangle, causing her to shudder. ‘But also here.’ He’d kissed her forehead, then her lips.

  Carla wasn’t one for morning sex, never had been. Once you’re up, you get going was her rule. She’d told Annibale too, but he’d pulled her on top of him. She’d straddled him, and when he slid inside her, biting her nipple, he smiled. ‘Surely it’s better to come than go?’

  They chatted through breakfast together, and she’d been struck by their shared gestures, their easy domesticity. Then he’d told her about his fruitless research, revealing Alfridi’s findings in the Corriere archives and the dates of the editions Petri had looked up. She froze. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d found something in Petri’s access trail.’

  Canessa stood up, leaned over to kiss her, and moved towards the door.

  ‘I didn’t know if I could trust you yet.’

  Carla gave him a faint smile.

  ‘Well, I didn’t make it that tough.’

  Rocco lit himself an unfiltered Camel, leaned against the Doblò and nodded. The sun was already high and they needed to get going, but the Neapolitan killer was in the mood for smoking and chatting.

  ‘He’s the first queer I’ve met who’s got balls as well as arse.’

  His maniacal laugher swept across the empty countryside, with its scattered empty farmhouses and ruined warehouses, and only birdsong and the buzzing of bugs in reply. The clear sky was enough confirmation of being outside of Milan’s greater metropolitan area.

  They’d been there all night, beating up Alfridi. At first, he was so scared he’d pissed himself.

  ‘Fuck, that’s disgusting!’ Panattoni had yelled, holding Alfridi’s thigh down. They’d used the Rocco method. ‘You work them with no real reason, and they cry Why? and you say nothing. After a while they lose their minds. Some of them even think they deserve it.’ Two hours later, however, when they’d told him why he was there, when they’d asked him what Canessa was looking for at the Corriere, and, most importantly, if he’d found it, the young man’s gaze – emerging from two heavily bruised eyes – had hardened. It suddenly became clear – to Nando at least – that they wouldn’t be getting any more information out of him.

  They moved on to more brutal techniques, with no response. At dawn, when Alfridi had lost all resemblance to a human being, Panattoni had left, resigned. On his way he’d kicked the man’s bag, spilling its contents. Out rolled a pack of biscuits, which he’d ignored earlier. Looking at it now, however, he had an idea. Sure, they were only biscuits, but not just any kind: they were dog biscuits.

  All he had to do was walk back in and say, ‘I wonder who these are for? Is there maybe someone waiting at home, feeling all alone? Let’s go pick him up, bring him over here, and have some fun together…’

  Alfridi had tried widening his eyes in fear, but the movement was rendered impossible by the bruising. After a final, half-hearted refusal, he’d spoken. About Canessa, the newspaper, the dates. And his torturers knew he was telling the truth.

  Rocco complimented Nando – ‘Well done, nice idea!’ – unaware that Nando had only tried giving Alfridi a way out, a means to end his suffering. He’d been genuinely impressed. However, he was also currently in the grass, wiping clean the knife he’d used to slit the man’s throat.

  ‘Glad you appreciated it,’ he’d replied non-committally. By this time, Panattoni was completely fed up with himself and his monster of a partner.

  ‘What do we do with the body?’

  It was halfway through the morning, and
getting hot. They needed to hightail it out of there.

  ‘Leave him. We’re going.’

  ‘But they’ll find him and Canessa will know we’re after him.’

  Panattoni spread his arms and shrugged.

  ‘Rocco, he’s gonna figure it out anyway when he looks for Alfridi and can’t find him. He’ll know what happened.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll think he’s on holiday, or he went to see his mum, or…’

  Panattoni wasn’t listening. He was ready to leave and he headed for the Doblò. But he stopped in his tracks after a few metres. In front of him stretched a tract of uncultivated land, fading into tall grass and lines of poplars.

  ‘Canessa is going to fuck us over, I can feel it. We’re going to pay for everything, even our antecedents,’ he muttered. ‘Good word, that one, who knows where I read it.’

  ‘The fuck you saying?’ yelled Rocco.

  But Panattoni was already in the van.

  10

  Canessa froze.

  On his third run through Milan’s local news on 21 April 1980, something caught his attention. A name. He thought he recognised it, but he didn’t stop in time and it disappeared again in the sea of lines. Admittedly, there were several names he’d recognised since he started looking through the newspapers: politicians, actors, singers, sports personalities and criminals. The right name, however, had eluded him like a balloon floating away from a child.

  He focused. It had to be someone with ties to Petri. But how, since Petri was one of the most dangerous terrorists around back then? He was a ruthless killer. Could the name he was looking for belong to another terrorist? He rejected that theory: Petri knew everything about his former comrades, and he wouldn’t have been ambushed by one of them. So if not an accomplice, what about a victim? Who had he killed in that time period? In March 1980, Petri and Antonio Malerba had killed a doctor from the San Carlo hospital, a left-leaning man famous for his progressive ideas but critical of the Red Brigade and the armed struggle in general. Just the sort of target the terrorists preferred. Canessa and his team had arrested Malerba soon afterwards, though not before spraying a volley of bullets at his legs. He’d survived, but he was pretty roughed up.