The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  Astroni backed him up. ‘The evidence does seem a little weak, I concur. Without the drugs…’

  Marta held her lover’s stare.

  ‘There are no drugs, but there is the escape. Honest people don’t run away – they defend themselves. Plus, there’s the fact that someone warned him.’

  Savelli was forced to agree with his young colleague. ‘It’s true, that is suspicious. An arrest warrant makes sense. We need to find him, even if it’s for his own good.’ He paused before continuing with more authority. ‘However, let’s proceed as we should, and consider him innocent until proven guilty. That man has done the unthinkable for this country, including taking a bullet that was meant to kill him.’ He threw a newspaper onto the table. ‘I don’t want another manhunt ending up in a public shootout. I want a memo released: he comes in alive, or he’s released. Is that understood? Now, back to work.’

  He closed the file and handed it to Marta Bossini. The meeting was over.

  ‘If it wasn’t one of us, who warned him?’

  Chief Magistrate Calandra was furious. Without the anonymous benefactor, their prized horse would no longer be in the race. Thwarted. ‘But more importantly, how did he escape the ambush?’

  His man in grey stood there in front of him looking penitent, as if he were wearing a hairshirt. Calandra suspected he might have self-flagellated before coming to report.

  Outside, the Rome evening was beautiful, oblivious to what was taking place. A secret war. Secret, but real.

  Calandra had swooped into the offices like a fury, having been woken up in a gorgeous hotel on the coast where he’d spent the night with one of his lovers. He was raging.

  He’d even taken off his jacket, and he now stood in just a shirt and his trademark red braces: an unequivocal sign that he was about to start an Inquisition.

  The man in grey emerged from his melancholy to make his report.

  ‘I take responsibility for this, your excellency. I took the day off yesterday. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. How many days off have you taken in the past year?’ Calandra dismissed the apology with a wave.

  ‘A week, ten days.’

  ‘Exactly, so none of this self-flagellation. Everyone needs a breather once in a while. My question is: why did your stand-in not realise what was happening?’

  ‘In all honesty, I must admit that Milan’s prosecutor’s office were very good. Information about the sting was scarce, and the go-ahead only came through on Friday night. As you can imagine, Friday afternoon is very quiet in the courts, especially in summer…’

  ‘…so you’re saying even our informants took a seaside break?’

  Calandra would happily have had a go at anyone at this point.

  The man grew increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Unfortunately, we should have been able to avoid that. A careful observer would have spotted the departure of the police tactical unit for Liguria. There were signs, but my stand-in didn’t notice.’

  ‘Poor showing. Bring them in later. I’d like a word.’ Calandra was simmering down. ‘At least Canessa has avoided capture and if I know him as I do, he’ll be furious – even more so on account of Sara’s arrest. That’s good! But back to the point: how did he get out?’

  ‘We found evidence of a call from Canessa’s lawyer, a…’ he read his file, ‘Cordano’s the name. Calls went to a Swiss phone, presumably Canessa’s.’

  ‘And who warned Cordano?’

  ‘He received a call from an untraceable number… by the police, that is.’ The man smiled. ‘But we know who it belongs to: the lawyer for Pasquale Cammello.’

  Calandra, who’d been leaning back in his chair, snapped upright.

  ‘Cammello helped him? Why?’ Confused, he fell silent momentarily. ‘Of course! Respect for Petri. Petri was looking for Canessa because he’s no longer a cop. A strange ally, somewhat disturbing. But crucial. How did he find out?’

  The man in grey practically curtsied. ‘I don’t have any proof, but I do have a theory. One of their cellmates disappeared. Cammello may have had the same hunch: he’s been recruited as a supergrass.’

  ‘And when there’s a snitch, there’s someone to fuck over, for better or worse. They needed this guy to confirm their theory that Petri had started dealing. Ingenious,’ Calandra concluded.

  There was another silence. The chief magistrate tried to imagine Canessa’s whereabouts, and to anticipate his next move. The situation was bad, but the interesting thing was that there were now more possibilities.

  The man in grey cleared his throat.

  Calandra snapped out of his thoughts. ‘Very well, if there’s nothing else…’

  ‘Actually, your excellency, there is. You’ll remember you asked me to look into the Lazzarini case. Something about it was covered up, though not well enough. We found it.’ He went from hangdog to mildly triumphant and handed Calandra a piece of paper.

  ‘This is more than just something. Why was it kept secret at the time?’ The chief magistrate was genuinely surprised.

  ‘I found some notes. They did conduct an investigation on the down low, but they didn’t find anything or anyone. So they kept quiet. It was after the Moro case, when trust in institutions was at an all-time low. It seemed like the State was unable to abolish terrorism, and the dicey activities of the Secret Service sullied public opinion of the whole system. This would’ve shaken the tree even more. They had no definite identification, so they said nothing.’

  Calandra considered the paper, then handed it back. ‘Make sure this gets to Canessa.’

  The grey man staggered. ‘How?’

  Calandra glared at him.

  ‘Work it out! We screwed up. We need to score a point to get back in the lead.’

  19

  Repetto was as restless as a benched player waiting to step into the game. But his coach was stubborn: even if he’d spotted his restlessness, he was showing no signs of letting him back on the field. His wife had forbidden him from getting involved any further, especially after Canessa had trumped all other dangerous fugitives to become Italy’s Most Wanted.

  But Repetto had to get away, and quickly. His wounds had more or less healed, and any lingering discomfort was nothing that a painkiller wouldn’t squash. Annibale needed him, especially now. He might be risking forty years of marriage in one fell swoop, but he had to get out of that gilded prison. He looked out of a window on the first floor of the villa.

  He’d already clocked the cars in front of the house. They weren’t trying to hide so much as to discourage. There’d be no arrest. They weren’t stupid: they knew Canessa wouldn’t show up; he’d never openly involve Repetto. They were there to make a point: they had their eye on everything.

  Repetto had to laugh. They didn’t know him. At all. Annibale would never get caught. If he chose to disappear forever, no one would see him again. He was out there, somewhere, planning his next move. And Repetto needed to be out there with him. Helping him.

  His scanned the garden, which was basically woodland. It would be easy to escape through the trees, breaking through the surveillance. But where would he go? He had no news of Canessa. Had he gone back to the loft? Unlikely. Then there was Barbara. What could he say without making her angry?

  He felt a presence behind him. His wife appeared at the living-room door with an envelope.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Registered mail, from your phone provider.’

  Barbara wasn’t particularly beautiful, but she was confident, a strong woman in all senses.

  ‘Why are you giving it to me?’ he teased. They often played this game, but both knew who had the final word in the family.

  Barbara smiled patiently. ‘Because it’s strange. First of all, it wasn’t our usual postman, and he didn’t look like any postman, rea
lly. His hands were too clean, know what I mean?’

  She was the wife of a Carabiniere, after all.

  Repetto looked at her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He took the envelope and opened it. Inside he found another envelope addressed by hand.

  Repetto started. He looked at his wife, then back at the note, signed with the name almost no one knew about.

  Max.

  20

  Carla was reeling, but not due to the heat. Canessa’s story had suddenly blown up. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Distressingly. All those adverbs. And not one of them positive.

  She blamed a dawn phone call from Strozzi – oddly, the same time he’d sent her to report on the double murder in via Vittor Pisani the morning after she’d slept with him. She’d learned to put that aside, but she couldn’t exactly forget it. Maybe, though, things were coming full circle.

  Strozzi had given her the news of the day – maybe the year – with no discernible emotion. In fact, it had actually been the news of her life.

  ‘This morning, a police tactical unit entered the house and restaurant owned by Annibale Canessa and his aunt. He was missing. Word is that someone warned him, and he escaped the raid. He’s wanted for drug dealing, criminal association and as an accessory to murder. No one knows where he is. I just wanted to let you know. Please, Carla, if you hear anything about this, anything at all… This story is becoming dangerous. I’m worried about you.’

  She spent the next three hours with her eyes glued to the fan, the blades slowly rotating above her in a sort of unsuccessful hypnosis. Did Strozzi suspect her and Canessa?

  She had no idea what to say or think. Of course it was all bullshit. The man she knew wasn’t the one everyone else was describing. She’d skimmed the front pages of all the major news sites. Apart from a few minor publications, no one was questioning the story or attempting an alternative reading.

  She’d been on that side of things more than once, but now, at the centre of the circus and knowing the person under attack, she was coming to realise how shitty that approach was. It was entirely devoid of reason. There was no attempt to dig behind the accusations.

  It was all maddening! Everything was crumbling around her. The man she loved (yes, damn it, she did), the one who’d called her the night before, tired after a long day at the restaurant… He was now a fugitive from the police, the Carabinieri, even the Guardia di Finanza. She felt hurt in spite of herself. She looked around, but didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. Were they tapping her phone? Could they do that?

  Where was he?

  The meeting was set up for Wednesday in the Lampugnano station car park. Evening rush hour, and a man appeared in the crowd: black hair, salt-and-pepper beard, a pair of thick glasses. A bit of a limp. Someone who’d seen better days. Rossi stared for a moment before turning away. His surprise was equalled by his fear when the man opened the door and sat next to him in the Bentley.

  ‘Rossi, really! Couldn’t you have gone for a less noticeable car this time! Although… they’d never expect me to be sitting in a car like this.’ It was Annibale’s voice.

  Rossi’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t get used to the transformation. The clothes, the mannerisms, tone of voice – everything belonged to a different man with a different story to Canessa’s. It was an incredible disguise.

  Annibale had called him in Zurich. ‘You’re my last asset left,’ he’d told him.

  ‘I found you a place in via del Carroccio,’ Rossi said when he recovered from his surprise, ‘at the junction with via De Amicis. It belongs to a foreign pharmaceutical company. It’s not far from the Sant’Ambrogio underground station, just like you asked.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Do you need any money?’

  Canessa smiled. ‘I’m good for money and weapons.’ And he pointed to his feet, where he had dumped a gym bag.

  The Bentley slipped into the chaotic evening traffic.

  Canessa was silent, batting a single idea around in his brain.

  His adversaries were always one step ahead. Whenever he got close, they made sure he fell back a square by setting a trap or blocking his path. They couldn’t be that smart. Sure, they had the tools, the means, the contacts, important allies, but it was all too much.

  Rossi was talking to him.

  ‘Sorry, say again?’

  ‘What’s your priority? Dealing with the allegations, or continuing the investigation?’

  Canessa looked at him, suddenly lighting up.

  ‘Clearing the air.’

  21

  She was nervous about seeing him again. It was odd that he wanted to meet somewhere as busy as largo La Foppa at dusk. But maybe the distraction of a crowd was exactly what he was after.

  To let off some steam, she’d worked out in the downstairs gym in the old newspaper building in piazza Cavour. The place was trendy now, filled with models and wannabes.

  On the exercise bike, she thought back to the call that had come through to Caprile.

  ‘Okay…’ her colleague had handed her the phone, a little confused but mostly curious. The person on the other end had asked him to put Carla Trovati on without transferring the call.

  ‘Hello?’ Carla was tentative.

  ‘Largo La Foppa, via Moscova corner, 7 p.m.’

  Click. That was it.

  Even though she hadn’t recognised the voice, she knew it was about Annibale.

  Since then, she’d been imagining their reunion. She was as nervous and excited as a teenager on her first date. The element of danger made everything stranger and more mysterious. She might be seen to be aiding and abetting a fugitive. She was, however, sure of one thing: she would tell him I love you the moment she saw him. She’d waited long enough.

  She left the house without a bra, and now she could feel everyone’s eyes on her tight-fitting sports top. After the gym, she’d headed home, intending to change quickly before her appointment. So she hadn’t noticed the man behind her as she climbed the steps to the lobby. She swung around, coming face to face with a stranger.

  ‘Follow me. Don’t say a word.’

  The voice. That voice.

  ‘Annibale?’

  His hair was black, he had a beard and he seemed bigger. She didn’t recognise him. But the voice was his.

  ‘Shhhh!’

  He shoved her brusquely downstairs towards an emergency exit, then across an inner courtyard and through another door.

  ‘Stop.’

  Why was he treating her like this?

  He looked outside, then grabbed her arm and forced her to run behind him, to the other side of the street towards the Swiss Centre skyscraper. He dragged her to a small door with a small thread running from it. He pulled on the thread and the door opened. They walked down two flights of stairs and along another putrid corridor until they came to a locked lift. Annibale pulled out a key, and turned it in the lock. The doors opened, and they whizzed to the top of the building.

  Once inside the contraption, Carla couldn’t hold back. ‘What is going on? Why are you acting like this?’

  In reply, Canessa took a pair of binoculars from the bag slung across his shoulders.

  ‘Let me show you something.’

  The lift stopped and they stepped out onto the roof.

  ‘Stay behind me and do what I do.’

  Annibale crouched over and ran behind a cube of concrete that held up an antenna. He took the binoculars and slowly leaned out. He focused for a moment and then handed them over to her.

  ‘Right ahead, on the roof with the green tiles.’

  Carla followed his instructions, but even when her eyes had adjusted to the binoculars, she couldn’t see anything.

  ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Keep still. Watch for moveme
nt.’

  She was exasperated, confused and hot. Here she was, wanting to tell him how much she loved him, and instead she was preparing a long list of insults.

  Just then she saw what looked like a moving metal pipe… then another… Was she was imagining things? Eventually she sighted two people in balaclavas – and those ‘pipes’ were rifles with optical sights. Precision weapons. She spotted a third figure holding an enormous set of binoculars. She started – would she and Annibale be spotted too? But they were focused on the other side of the street. She moved back behind the antenna and handed the binoculars to Annibale. They stood facing each other for what seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Police special forces. Snipers.’ Annibale seemed distressed as he explained. ‘They’re monitoring the entire largo La Foppa, waiting for me to show up. Standard procedure for an armed and dangerous fugitive. Just in case the ground team needs backup.’

  Carla shuddered with fear. They’d been discovered.

  ‘But how did they know to find us there?’

  Annibale shook his head. There was sadness in his voice.

  ‘I don’t think you meant to betray me. But as I always told my men during a terrorist hunt: sloppiness and distraction are forms of betrayal.’

  Carla’s face reddened with anger and hurt. ‘How can you even think—’

  ‘You’re the only one I told. And I obviously didn’t warn them!’

  ‘Annibale…’

  ‘Who did you tell?’

  She rubbed her arms, which were damp from the heat, her run, the wave of emotions. She was overcome by dread.

  ‘Giulio Strozzi. But you don’t think—’

  ‘Why did you tell him?’

  ‘Because somehow he found out about that night we went into the archives. He told me I could lose my job and that he was worried for me. I had to promise to tell him everything. I did. I trusted him and I still trust him. He’s a piece of shit as a person, but he’s always behaved professionally. He just wanted to protect me. He swore that everything I told him would stay between us. I reported on your investigation too, but I never told him about us, or about how I feel about you. I… I love you Annibale.’