The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 10

  ‘Not too bad, thank you, except for some sudden business – I imagine you’ve heard?’

  ‘I did, of course. I was truly saddened and surprised.’

  ‘Do you have the time to talk about it?’ Annibale held his breath.

  ‘Of course! When?’

  ‘I’m in town only briefly, but I have time. Do you remember our old café? That should work for both of us, right?’

  ‘That’ll do. I’ll see you there in an hour, just need to sort a few things out.’

  ‘See you later, then.’

  Annibale looked around. Darkness was creeping into the building. It was time for him to leave, but he still hadn’t solved the matter of the people on his tail. He didn’t want to face them in the open. He needed to disappear, without letting his guardian angels know that they’d been spotted.

  What I need is a stroke of luck.

  Just then, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Lorenzo Giannini made his appearance from a side corridor, along with three agents acting as a security detail. He was one of the few magistrates with whom Canessa had always had a good rapport during the war on terrorism. Younger by a couple years, he was a large man now sporting a white beard. He’d always lifted Canessa’s spirits, one of the few in that place who could. Canessa bumped into him, pretending not to see him and hoping that the giant in jeans and flannel shirt would do so instead.

  ‘Annibale!’ Giannini thundered, his baritone voice carrying a decidedly Tuscan accent.

  ‘Lorenzo! Of all people…’

  They hugged under the confused gaze of the security escort. The magistrate suddenly fell serious. ‘I heard about Petri and your brother. That was bad news. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve just been questioned by the prosecutors in charge of the case.’

  The magistrate snorted. ‘Guidoni and Bossini, an odd pairing.’ He added nothing else, already regretting saying that much.

  ‘There used to be a time when a case like this would be yours. Petri especially, you’ve dealt with him several times…’

  ‘True, but things are done differently around here now.’

  He clammed up, aligning himself with his peers; respectful of rules, just as Canessa remembered him.

  ‘What are you up to now?’ the magistrate asked.

  ‘I was just looking for the exit. My memory of this place is a little foggy,’ he lied. ‘I’m getting old.’

  ‘You on foot? I’ll give you a lift! Where are you headed?’

  ‘Towards Corso Sempione, but you can leave me anywhere near there.’

  Giannini placed a large hand on his shoulder and started walking towards the underground car park. ‘Come on, no problem. Also, and I don’t want to appear insensitive by changing the subject, but do you really have a restaurant these days?’

  The magistrate had always loved fine food. His barbecues, with meat ordered personally from Val di Chiana, were legendary.

  Panattoni saw one of the magistrates’ cars pull out of the car park, preceded by the security, but he didn’t bother to look at its passengers. A couple of hours later, when Guidoni and Bossini also left the building, he realised he’d been played. Shocked, he wondered if the target had noticed them, but soon dismissed the thought: that would be a disaster. He called his associate on the other side of the building and dismissed him. Then, using the burner phone, he dialled the number he’d called once already, expecting a violent reaction from the other end.

  ‘We lost him,’ he opened, with as much apology in his tone as he could muster.

  9

  Annibale made himself comfortable at one of the tables in the café run by Sardinians, halfway down the large avenue. Customers came and went, often forced to stand at the bar for their order, and glaring at him for hogging a whole table. He was too busy envying a couple enjoying their plate of spaghetti with sea urchins.

  He’d been there for the past fifteen minutes, ever since Giannini had dropped him off on the corner of via Procaccini. The fine Saturday had drawn almost half of the city’s population outside; the air was crisp, skies were clear. It was the ideal weather to head out, stretch your legs, laugh, forget. Ideal weather to blend in, and not be noticed.

  Annibale kept a watchful eye over his surroundings, all senses on the alert. Which was how he noticed a familiar presence before it stepped into his field of vision.

  Ivan Repetto recognised his old comrade-in-arms from a distance. He smiled, noticing that he’d chosen a spot with several exit points. Canessa hadn’t forgotten the teachings, the rules, the commandments regarding survival in a world that wanted people in uniform dead and buried. He was alert, but only those who knew of his obsessions, like Repetto himself, would notice. Anyone else would simply see a man waiting for someone, maybe a partner, to join him on that mild spring evening.

  A light breeze rustled the leaves on the street. Repetto made himself known from a distance, waved, and came to sit opposite his old friend. They shook hands. He hadn’t changed since the last time they’d seen each other over ten years earlier.

  After they left the force at the end of 1984, almost at the same time (Verde had called it the ‘Laurel & Hardy Farewell’), they’d continued to meet up for a couple of years. Or rather, Repetto had forced Canessa, every now and then, to come to his wife’s family’s summer house in Inverigo. He remembered him as a restless man, lost without his uniform, full of doubt, a mature university student without any real direction. Someone with no financial problems but equally no idea how to spend his time or money. The visits had dwindled until they were phone calls at holidays, then cards in the post. The last one was from 1999. Then… nothing. Now here he was, with the same grey hair he’d had the past twenty years and a web of lines around his eyes. But those eyes hadn’t lost any of their sharpness.

  Max was his nickname, like Vittorio De Sica’s character in the old film Annibale had forced him to watch over and over again during long stays in the barracks, country hotels or safe houses, every time it aired on TV. It was the name of a young soldier who dreamed of fighting with style, an officer and a gentleman, with both military and life skills.

  Annibale ordered some beers and a plate of spaghetti ‘like the one that young couple are eating’. The pair turned around and chuckled, and he saw the woman give him a look that reminded him of his younger days. Now, however, he had other fish to fry.

  Repetto didn’t offer his condolences. He didn’t believe in platitudes. There was no need for that sort of thing between them.

  ‘This whole shooting thing is complicated. I have a feeling about it. It was ruthless, planned. A professional job.’

  He gave Repetto a short summary. Beers and spaghetti arrived in the meantime, and Repetto declined to partake of the pasta.

  ‘Someone was waiting for them, and they knew that Petri had called my brother. They were worried he’d say something, which is why they took them out. They were watching them. This isn’t a small matter.’

  ‘Petri never talked, never became a supergrass, never disavowed his actions. He didn’t even claim to be a diehard or a political prisoner. He’s always been quiet. A wall. What could he possibly have to say now? All his exploits have already been traced and recorded.’

  Annibale set down his fork. ‘Yes, Ivan, that’s our first question. And the answer? We have no idea. Second question: we have no idea who he would say it to. My brother? It makes no sense. He was a librarian in Reggio Emilia…’

  Repetto took a sip of his cold beer. ‘Maybe he needed something… or someone, a middleman.’

  ‘I thought of that too. He wanted to talk to me, but couldn’t track me down. I’m not in the phone directory, and it’s not easy to find me. But he knew my brother lived in Reggio Emilia, because they were arrested on the same day; it was all over the news. He wouldn’t have forgotten
that detail. Maybe he thought we were still in touch and sought him out to ask him to meet with me.’

  ‘Why not phone?’

  ‘No, never on the phone. Maybe he wanted to be sure I’d be willing to listen, gauge the interest. Maybe. Another detail we’ll never know. We do know this though: anyone who kills so brutally has some horrendous thing to hide from their past – and something big to defend here, now: money, power, reputation.’

  ‘Again: Petri was arrested in the 80s. Why not take him out then, if he knew all this? From your speculation, these are people with resources and means.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t know back then. Maybe they thought he didn’t know and they’ve now realised that actually, he did.’

  ‘Maybe Petri was blackmailing them,’ Repetto suggested, ‘or he gave them the impression that he wanted revenge and they pre-empted him. Possibly?’

  ‘That would be a stretch, and it still wouldn’t cover everything.’

  ‘What else, do you think?’

  Annibale didn’t reply, lost in his own thoughts. The air was full of voices and laughter.

  ‘Young people are much better looking these days, don’t you think? Your kids must be grown up by now. Do your daughters go out at night?’

  ‘Of course! My eldest has already made me a grandfather, and the youngest – she’s the one who answered the phone – is nearly twenty and almost never in the house any more.’

  Annibale smiled. ‘If I had a daughter, I’d be worried sick every time she left the house.’

  Repetto shook his head. ‘You torture yourself if you get wound up in that thought. Sure, I worry a little when they’re away, but they have to live their own lives.’

  They fell silent for a while, and finished their dinner with a coffee. Repetto waited for his friend to break the silence.

  ‘Those two prosecutors, Ivan… you should’ve seen them. What a pair: a dickhead who thinks he’s Big Jim and a woman you’d have called a prick tease.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Guidoni and Bossini.’

  ‘She’s quite famous. Haven’t you ever heard of her? She’s been following a lot of corruption cases, part of Astroni’s pool.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about her, but Mr Muscle seems unfit for this inquiry. And she’s clearly trying to control him, manipulate him, get him where she wants him. She seems to have been put there specifically to influence the investigation, but I can’t figure out why.’

  ‘A cover-up?’ Repetto was shocked.

  ‘I don’t know, but something rings hollow. Something’s off key, murky, something’s not being said. To top it off, Calandra’s involved.’

  ‘The Secret Service? I mean, yeah, with a former terrorist gunned down…’

  Annibale paid the bill and they headed for the city centre, while the couple who’d been waiting for their table silently thanked them.

  The time came for Repetto to pose the question that had been looming over them since the start of their reunion. ‘Why did you call me, Annibale?’

  Annibale stopped walking, and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I need help. I’ll be looking into this case, but I don’t want to drag you into it more than I have to. I was followed today, all the way to the courts. This is dangerous. There’s more than one person behind it, and they have resources. I want you to stay out of it, but I’m hoping you’ll help me from the back benches, with the logistics.’

  Repetto raised a hand. ‘I won’t shy away from this.’

  ‘Look, I can’t have you on the front line again. I need you in the background,’ Canessa replied.

  ‘I’ll come along with you, like old times, but don’t forget you’re no longer in uniform. What authority do you have to look into the matter?’

  ‘None, but that won’t stop me. The story here is muddled, all out of order. I want to focus on the details and set them straight in my own way, if necessary. I got the feeling in the prosecutor’s office that they’re not going to see it through. I’ll need to do it. You stay in the background. Just find me what I need.’

  ‘We used to have the means, an infrastructure, loyal people,’ Repetto objected, but Annibale’s wry grimace stopped him.

  ‘We can set things up again. We have a number of favours to call in. Start with Rossi – it’s time to collect.’

  They’d reached the Arco della Pace. The square was all lit up, and the trees on the opposite side cast their shadows over the cobblestones. Young people were hanging out on the stone benches and outside the bars.

  ‘They have guns,’ Repetto sighed.

  ‘So do I.’ Canessa grinned.

  He’s still the same, thought Repetto.

  10

  Cosima, Maggese’s widow, had spent all afternoon watching people coming and going on her quiet suburban street. She’d also attended the funeral, in order to pay her respects to the kind man who’d helped her with her shopping. But she hadn’t come forward, and instead stood in the shade of the wall tombs – there was her husband’s, bless his soul. Now night was falling, and everything was settled again, calm and quiet.

  Peering from behind the curtain, she could see the swing where she’d spotted her neighbour exactly one week ago, absorbed in his thoughts. It was another Saturday. Not as nice as the one of the tragedy, but warmer.

  Cosima wasn’t all that fond of children, but she was impressed by the composure of the ‘little orphan’ (she’d automatically decided that’s what she was). In the middle all those people, she’d been able to maintain a touching gravity. And it suddenly hit Cosima that there were now two widows in the houses opposite one other on her road in the suburbs of Reggio Emilia.

  She cast one last glance across the road and saw a man walking around the swing. It must’ve been the brother. But unlike poor Napoleone, who never looked towards her window, it seemed like this one could read minds like they do in films, because his eyes shot up to meet hers. Mrs Maggese nearly screamed. She let go of the curtain and went back to the news report on the preliminary hearings involving the head of the opposition. ‘The last big corruption trial,’ the journalist called it. Judge Federico Astroni was explaining why the politician (what a shame, she really liked him) deserved his sentence. What a handsome man, she thought.

  There was very little news from upstairs. The last of Giovanna’s friends had left a while ago and apart from a short break for supper, she’d kept to her room, quietly reading.

  ‘She mumbles to herself, making up stories. Napoleone and I were worried when we found out, but then we realised that this fantasy world of hers wasn’t closing her off; it was actually opening her up,’ Sara told Annibale. They were sitting in the vast kitchen, in what now seemed to her an unbearably empty space. She’d wanted it that way originally because it reminded her of her family’s farm in Bassa.

  Canessa was washing up after the meal he’d made for his sister-in-law and niece: spaghetti with clams and salted cod. Zia Mariarosa had brought the ingredients directly from Camogli. She’d come over the previous morning with the rest of the family, thinking, as Annibale had, that the funeral would be a small, close-friends-only affair. Instead, there had been at least five hundred people, and as he set the last plate on the rack, Annibale had another wave of regret at having shut down all communication with Napoleone. For his stubbornness in denying all possibility of a reunion, and his cowardice. But there was something else troubling him, too. He’d been surprised by how few nosy strangers there’d been at the funeral. Surprised and even a little envious.

  Napoleone had lived a full life. He hadn’t run away, he’d built something – and in so doing, he’d left something. Annibale had known he would. He’d said so the last time they’d seen each other: that of the pair of them, Napoleone would be the one to start a family.

  From a practical point of view, the worst thing ab
out the funeral was that he hadn’t been entirely sure about who was a friend and who was there out of nosiness. He’d tried to get a look at each face, but he’d only recognised the police officers. A pair of them had had recording equipment. He wished he’d had the authority to ask for copies of the tapes so he could go through them and identify anyone, a face, an expression that might help him move forward in his pursuit of the truth.

  He joined Sara on the couch. She’d kicked off her shoes and was leaning head in hand on the armrest, with her legs stretched out next to her, still draped in the elegant black trousers she’d worn at the service. She flashed him a tired smile.

  ‘Are you staying over tonight?’

  ‘I should go. I need to pick up some stuff at home and head back to Milan.’

  She seemed surprised. ‘Milan? Why? For the investigation?’

  ‘For my investigation.’ He ran his hand along bookshelves almost groaning under the weight of the books they held. All used, all read. ‘Did Napoleone like his job?’

  ‘He did. He found peace and answers in the library. He lived for us – and his books. He even had one in his pocket when he was shot.’ Her eyes welled up. ‘Annibale, what are you going to do? One of the few times Napoleone told me about you, he said you were like a Panzer tank. His word. You lose control, run over everyone and everything. Wouldn’t it be easier to leave it all to the people in charge of the investigation? When we met in Milan, I wanted the truth from you. Now that Napoleone’s buried, I feel like I’m ready to put it aside if it means they’ll leave me alone.’

  He turned a tough look on her. ‘The truth will bring you peace. I abandoned my brother once before, unwilling to confront our shared history. I owe it to him, and also to myself. Listen to me, Sara. I’m up against some dangerous people and the only thing that holds me back is the thought of you and Giovanna somehow getting dragged into this. They may not think you know something, but they could hurt you to get to me. I don’t know who “they” are exactly, but I know they’re ruthless.’