Tommasi. Was that his name? Canessa wasn’t sure. After another fruitless run through the microfilm, he decided to break for lunch. It was way past time, but his stomach had started complaining. He would talk to an ‘expert’ while he ate, he told himself. He left his post as it stood, with the microfilm still in the reader, told the librarian and headed outside.
Corso di Porta Vittoria was surprisingly quiet, with very few pedestrians and only a couple of cars. He checked the clock on the corner: 3 p.m. He looked for Repetto – who had obviously changed his location and disguise – and spotted him without jacket or tie sipping a coffee in a café near the courts. His leather briefcase had been replaced by a small rucksack at his feet. Canessa walked in and leaned against the bar. They both looked around. Canessa ordered two of the fresher looking sandwiches and a beer, and they sat down at one of the tables furthest from the entrance.
‘Do you remember the doctor Petri killed in 1980? It was the first attack after via Gaeta. I was still in hospital.’
Repetto smiled. ‘Of course. Moscati. The San Carlo one.’
‘That’s the one!’ Canessa exclaimed. ‘I could only think of Tommasi. Thanks.’ He wolfed down his food and made for the exit.
‘Are you going to be in there for long?’ Repetto asked. ‘I do have a family, you know…’
Canessa turned around. ‘You’re right, Ivan. Head home. I still have quite a bit to do, but I don’t think I’m in danger. Not at this stage.’
Repetto didn’t budge.
‘I’ll wait. I don’t think it’ll take you too long.’
He was right. Canessa found the name, and with it a lead.
Now that he knew what he was looking for, he started scanning the newspapers, sure that the name would show up in a title or subtitle. And there it was. A small piece, bottom right of the page, almost drowned out in all the other slugs. That particular piece of journalism jargon still amused him; after all, the news was also about slugs, though a different type entirely: ‘Moscati back in Novara. To be buried tomorrow in family plot.’ The article spoke briefly about Francesco Moscati’s coffin which, for those who hadn’t been able to attend the funeral service, would stop in the Famedio in Milan’s Cimitero Monumentale, before continuing to Novara to be interred in the family tomb. The Moscati were a well-known dynasty of doctors.
Canessa was sure that Petri had stopped at that point. There was nothing else in the paper that could be of the least interest to him. But why had he been looking for that article? Why, after thirty-five years, did he care where one of his victims was buried?
Canessa whirred the film back, one, two, eight days. There was the news of the killing, right on the front page:
the red brigade strike again.
doctor moscati killed.
‘Shit!’ he exclaimed. One of the librarians glared and silenced him with a finger to her lips.
He still needed to find a link between the dates Alfridi had provided. He picked one at random: 18th June 1979. He flicked back, scanning only the first pages. Ten days earlier, a giant headline:
no end to terrorist massacre.
two policemen killed in turin.
Of course. Tartaglia and Collini. The former a Neapolitan brigadier, the latter an officer from the Brescia area, a young man described by all as a great guy, passionate and full of life. They’d been killed like dogs, lured by a phone call into an ambush in Turin’s Vallette neighbourhood, an area of council estates and industrial warehouses not far from the prison.
Annibale quickly flicked back to the 18 June edition and checked for both names. He eventually found one in the regional news, a small piece at the bottom of the page:
collini, private funeral
in gargnano cemetery
Collini’s family had refused a State service and his sister had been very critical of the institutions, blaming them for not keeping their citizens safe.
Petri was searching for his victims’ burial spots. Was that the link? What did it mean? It made no sense.
Canessa stretched his legs under the table and laced his fingers behind his head. It was getting late.
As he pulled out his phone to text Repetto, he heard one of the librarians behind him.
‘I’m sorry sir, you can’t come in. We’re closing in twenty minutes.’
Repetto turned on the charm. ‘I’m not looking to come in, love, I’m trying to get my friend over there to come outside.’ She eyed him suspiciously but let him in all the same.
Ivan, you old dog, Canessa thought. In a flash, Repetto stood at his side.
‘So?’
Canessa spoke quietly. ‘He was looking for the cemeteries. I’m not sure why.’
‘The cemeteries?’
‘Yes, the burial places of the people he’d killed. I found two almost identical articles in the list of dates. I was about to check a third.’
Flicking through the editions prior to 10 September 1978 brought a result. Another of Pino’s murders, in Genoa: Marchetti, the judge. Canessa lingered over the photo, feeling emotional. Marchetti, gentle and quiet, had been a friend of his father’s; they’d known each other their entire life and he’d been nearing retirement. Of course it was his duty, but Marchetti’s death was another reason Canessa had chased Petri so doggedly.
He flicked quickly to 10 September. It took him a little longer this time, but eventually he found Marchetti again, this time in an obituary, which reported that the body was resting in Staglieno.
Annibale leaned back in the chair. ‘This is a lead, an actual lead,’ he told Repetto.
‘But why did he care about where they were buried?’
Canessa rewound the microfilm and replaced it in its box. He paused. The sun slanted further through the window.
‘I have an idea, but I need to confirm it. Call Rossi. I’m going to need him to drive tomorrow.’
11
‘Panattoni is strange.’
Claudio Salemme offered his father a flute of champagne. He prided himself on his expertise, having taken a wine-tasting course. Unlike all his other misguided hobbies, he’d actually seen this one through. His interest in wine seemed to stem from an actual passion, and it was confirmed by the care he took to nurture it, just like a vine.
They were in the kitchen of their enormous house, which occupied the entire top floor of a building in via Caradossi. Along with the champagne, they were also enjoying their view of Santa Maria delle Grazie, its Bramantesque dome ablaze in the summer sunset.
‘This is very good,’ Giannino Salemme commented, downing the entire glass. The kitchen was gigantic, and the Salemmes enjoyed spending time there in the evenings before going out to pursue their actual passions: young women, picked up in trendy new clubs, chi-chi restaurants, discos and exclusive bars.
They each had independent access to the kitchen, which served as a barrier of sorts. They had silently agreed to live under the same roof, as long as neither invaded the other’s space. This was their neutral zone, and their evening drinks at the American-style bar were a good way to recap the day, talk about work and sound out ideas.
The champagne was chilled and accompanied by a selection of olives from Calabria, slices of ham and walnut bread.
‘It’s a cuvée special, 1999. Classy stuff, produced in a small maison, six hectares of modern, biodynamic techniques,’ Claudio explained, glad the wine had hit the mark.
‘What were you were saying about Panattoni?’ Salemme senior interrupted him. He didn’t really care about the wine’s story. He just wanted to drink it.
‘He’s paranoid, talking too much. I don’t think he’s going with the flow.’
Giannino Salemme swallowed an olive and spat the pit into the sink. The cleaner would deal with it in the morning.
&
nbsp; ‘I can understand why. We’ve never asked him to push this hard.’
‘There was no other way.’
‘I’m not denying that. I’m just thinking that we’ve done plenty of nasty things without regrets, but they all ended quickly. Wham, bam. This one is dragging on and on.’
‘Why not get rid of Canessa then?’
‘You young people! Always rushing. No. There’ll be no more deaths, at least for as long as we can keep on top of the situation, stay one step ahead of him.’
‘Do you trust your sources?’ Claudio watched his father crack an ugly smile and raise his glass for more champagne. He poured out some more, adding, ‘Clearly you do, since you’re keeping them all to yourself.’
A little irritation there. Giannino Salemme patted Claudio’s shoulder. ‘Son, it’s better if you don’t know everything. We need to compartmentalise. I’ll tell you when you need to know. Don’t worry. Now my apologies,’ he hopped off the stool, ‘but I need to freshen up. I’ve got a lady waiting for me.’
12
‘Slow down!’
Rossi was so startled he nearly swerved. God! Canessa still scared him, even after all this time. It seemed like he was asleep, and maybe he actually was – but with one eye open, like in films and novels. Or both eyes closed, mind churning.
Admittedly, Canessa was trying to get some rest, making the most of travelling as he’d always done. That was why he had someone else drive him whenever he could. He stored up sleep like an animal stores up food before hibernating. A reserve for all the times when he might not be able to sleep for a while. He was doing so now, despite having slept for ten hours straight.
He hadn’t spent last night with Carla, unlike the two before that. But they’d chatted on the phone when he left the Sormani Library and Repetto had gone home.
‘How are you? Any news?’ Carla asked immediately.
‘You know what? I miss you,’ Annibale replied.
Carla’s stomach somersaulted. Good lord, am I really in this deep already? ‘I miss you too,’ she said.
They lingered in silence for a moment, and then they both started talking at the same time, ‘I wanted to tell you that—’
They laughed.
‘You first,’ she invited.
‘Listen, tomorrow morning I need to head outside Milan, and I’m leaving early. I don’t think I can see you this evening – I mean, if you want to see me, that is.’
I really do, she said to herself. ‘Look, you beat me to it. I can’t either. I have a night shift, and I’m off to the courts in the morning. The case prosecutors have called a press conference.’
Canessa took a sharp breath. ‘Have they found anything, do you think?’
‘I don’t think so, but they have to have something to show for themselves – people are already complaining. It’s like: “Courts Silent on Shooting in Milan”. Where are you going?’
‘Unlike them, I have an idea but I need to check it out. If you invite me over for dinner tomorrow…’ He left the sentence dangling, ‘I’ll tell you what I found.’
Carla smiled, sorry that he wasn’t able to drop by right then.
*
That morning, Rossi had picked him up at 6.30 in another BMW, a newer model with a Swiss numberplate. The air was crisp, the morning sky clear. Canessa had directed him towards the southern entrance to the Don Lorenzo Milani overpass, as a meeting point for pick-ups.
‘In case someone’s following you, so they won’t know where I’m based.’ Canessa walked there, going through a private residential garden by picking the lock on the gate. Rossi might have understood all those precautions in the 1970s, but now it felt more like paranoia than secrecy. Sure, they’d killed his brother, but this whole civil war game seemed out of place, dated. We’re in the third millennium, for Christ’s sake. But he’d never contradict Annibale, not even under torture.
When he opened the car door, Canessa saw immediately that Rossi was agitated. ‘Bad night?’ he asked, buckling up. He pulled the SIG from under his jacket and slid it into the pocket in front of him.
Rossi sighed. ‘Where to?’ he asked, fingers poised over the satnav screen.
‘Gargnano, Brescia, the western branch of Lake Garda. But before we leave the city, let’s stop somewhere good and grab some breakfast.’
‘Not a fan of the service area caffs?’
‘Not a fan of their cameras. Unless I have access to them.’
Despite being Italian, Rossi drove like any Swiss driver in Italy: 200 kilometres per hour. And just like the Swiss, he believed that speed cameras were ornamental: even if they did work, the fine would never reach him.
We’re all the same, aren’t we, Canessa thought as he dozed. The only difference between innocence and guilt is whether the speed camera is working.
*
They reached their destination in under an hour. Rossi parked the car behind a bend in the road so it wouldn’t be visible from the entrance, and they made their way into the Cimitero Monumentale in Gargnano. It was a beautiful site, spread over the side of the mountain and dominated by a chapel that seemed in danger of being impaled by the rocky peak above it. To Canessa it resembled a theatre, with the dead on separate stages, so they all had a good view of the lake.
Despite the early hour, they spotted a man limping between the gravestones, broom in hand. He must have been the custodian, or one of the cleaners.
‘Follow my lead, and don’t talk even if he speaks to you directly,’ Canessa ordered.
The caretaker’s eyes followed them as they walked up the steps. When they got to the top row, just beneath the chapel, they started walking down again, peering at the terraced rows.
Right on cue, the caretaker called out, ‘Good morning! Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?’
His voice was as strong as his body was weak: his right leg caused him obvious discomfort. He couldn’t have been more than forty, but he looked much older. It wasn’t his body so much as his face, which was lined and disappointed, as if he’d suffered some sort of deprivation. His clothes, however, retained some dignity: beige trousers, a light blue shirt, a blue vest, all clean and ironed.
‘Good morning! I’m Major Zanella, Carabinieri,’ Canessa replied, waving his old badge as deftly as a street magician.
That was all the man needed. He stood to attention and would undoubtedly have clicked his heels together had he been wearing shoes instead of sandals. Chest out, chin high, perfect posture.
‘Brigadier Camastri Davide, retired, at your service, sir.’
‘At ease, Brigadier.’ Canessa looked at his leg once more. ‘Injured on duty?’
The man smiled bitterly. ‘You could say so. We were chasing a car here on the lake, near Riva. A group of robbers after a hit. The driver was fresh out of the academy. He’d just started his shift and I was giving him some driving lessons when we got a call about a robbery. A moment later their car cut in front of us. There was no time to change seats, I just told him to floor it. He seemed to be doing well but then he must have got nervous. He lost control and we crashed into a tree – the only one for two kilometres around. Couldn’t have aimed better if he’d done it on purpose. Good thing it was there too, or we’d have ended up in the lake. I ended up like this; not a scratch on him. He left the force a couple of months later.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Canessa said. He pulled out Petri’s photo. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
‘Isn’t that the terrorist, the one they shot down?’
‘That’s the one. Giuseppe Petri.’
‘The photo makes him look younger. He looked older when he came here.’
Canessa didn’t visibly react. ‘When was that?’
He thought about it for a minute. ‘It was still cold. Maybe end of February. I didn’t know who h
e was then, of course. Or rather, I knew the name like everyone else, but not what he looked like… You know, I still have some of my old cop skills,’ he chuckled. ‘I studied him for a bit – there aren’t many new faces dropping in here. He started looking around, just like you. But before I could ask, he’d found the tomb.’
‘Can you show us?’
The custodian turned around. ‘It’s right over here,’ and he set off along the row, broom in tow. He stopped shortly after, pointing with his arm. The tombstone bore only a name and dates:
bruno collini
22 february 1955 – 2 june 1979
‘It’s strange, you know. When I heard the news on TV, I was almost sad, despite his history. I was happy to see him here.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because everyone else has forgotten about this kid. He was all right, kind and positive. He had a lovely girlfriend. They were going to be married at the end of summer. She still got married a year later to a rich boy from Toscolano. Likes his Ferraris. And I can’t shake off the idea that there was something going on already. In any case, she’s never been here since I’ve been on shift, and I haven’t heard anything different from the others. Collini’s parents both died in the early ’80s. His sister kicked up such a fuss when it happened, but she maybe comes only twice a year. I’m the one who changes his flowers – I use the ones thrown out by all those self-righteous sorts who come once or twice a week to refresh their relatives’ graves. Some have too much, others have nothing. Poor kid.’ He paused for a while, genuinely moved. ‘So when that guy came with a big bunch of irises and some candles, well, I was pleased. Then I found out he was a terrorist, and he’d killed a bunch of people. Does that make any sense to you, Major?’
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 21
