The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Read online

  Canessa tried his luck. ‘Had he changed at all recently? Anything strike you as different about him?’

  Cammello froze. Without turning around, he said, ‘For the last eight, nine months he was always lost in thought. He read a lot, but lately he was focused on one book, wrapped in newspaper. Everything else was the same: always alone, barely trusting anyone, no condescension. I liked the guy.’ He stepped forward before turning round at the door. ‘Oh, there was one more thing. I heard him muttering to himself once about some judge or other.’

  Canessa felt an electric jolt. ‘A judge?’

  Cammello shrugged. ‘Yeah. And some other word, but I couldn’t hear.’ He put his hand on the door. ‘You know what? This might be the first time I’m rooting for a cop. Petri was a man of honour. I wouldn’t mind you skinning those fuckers who killed him like a dog.’ He disappeared behind the door, and the locks were bolted into place.

  Canessa thought about people like Cammello and the ‘dogs’ they’d killed, dishonourably. But he’d stopped trying to understand the criminal code – who was honourable, who wasn’t. As Canessa saw it, their world was devoid of honour. It had nothing.

  The camorrista’s words confirmed what Annibale already knew: that the Canessa to whom Petri had meant to reveal his secrets was Annibale. Napoleone was just the middleman.

  He backtracked mentally. Eight or nine months earlier, Petri changes his tune, something happens in his life. He keeps a book wrapped in newspaper, maybe a notebook. Something on his mind. What is it, and what’s in the book?

  The former terrorist had a sister somewhere. She would receive his personal effects. He had to get in touch with her: that story about a judge needed confirming now, even if he only turned out to be the one overseeing his parole. He felt renewed hope. He was on the right track.

  It all crumbled, however, as he was leaving the prison. He spotted Rossi standing by the BMW on the other side of the main gate talking to a bald, elegantly dressed man with a bulging belly and recognised Chief Magistrate Calandra in his grey woollen two-piece suit and regimental Marinella cravat.

  He should have expected it. He steadied himself and crossed the paved area separating him from the Secret Service agent. As he did so, he scanned for any other presence in the area, but came up with only the one car and its driver, clearly Calandra’s security guard.

  ‘Colonel, I was just talking to your driver,’ the word was loaded with sarcasm, ‘and I mean I was doing the talking because he’s got your style: very tight-lipped. Nice day for an outing, isn’t it?’ His arm swept across the landscape, stopping at the prison. ‘But that’s a stinking eyesore, any way you look at it.’

  Annibale played along, looking up into the clear sky. ‘Good spring so far, yes.’

  ‘A bit buttoned-up yourself, aren’t you! Almost summer, my friend, almost summer.’

  Annibale smiled. ‘Fair enough. Are you on a day out as well, or are you visiting?’

  ‘I came to see you. I knew you’d be here – don’t ask me how.’ He grinned. ‘Not only is my hearing excellent, but if I were you – if you don’t mind my comparison – I would have started here too. Except Pasquale Cammello wouldn’t have given me a minute of his time.’ His jovial expression faded, and he became serious. ‘Can I steal a few minutes of yours?’

  ‘Are you hoping to ask what Cammello told me?’ Annibale kept to the same light tone, trying not to come across as defensive.

  ‘Oh, if you want to keep me updated, I won’t say no: I’m certainly curious. But no, what I want to talk about is more complicated. How about you let your “driver” join mine, and I’ll drive for us, so we can talk?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Canessa asked Rossi for the keys to the BMW. Rossi, a little perplexed, handed them over reluctantly before heading over to the Croma. Through its tinted windows he caught a glimpse of Calandra’s driver and felt even less reassured. Calandra took the keys like a child with a new toy, grunting excitedly as he settled into the car seat. ‘It may not be the latest model, but this car’s a joy,’ he said as he got a purr out of the engine.

  Calandra enjoyed the drive. Canessa had always admired, if not outright envied, the Secret Service officer’s ability to navigate life by latching onto its more appealing aspects: a signature tie, a nice car, a good restaurant. He took it in with gusto, and a look that embraced all the positives. Never left anything out.

  He kept quiet for a while, his eyes on the wheel. As the traffic increased closer to the city, he said nonchalantly, ‘You’re set on carrying along this road.’ It was a statement, not a question. He shifted gears and stopped at a red light. ‘You know, Colonel, I think this is quite a significant matter, something you can’t see through on your own.’

  Annibale automatically brought his hand to his belt, but realised his gun was still under the seat. ‘Are you offering to help?’ he asked, unable to hide his sarcasm.

  ‘For what it’s worth, yes. Or at least some impartiality.’

  The answer caught Annibale off guard. He was tired of this foreplay.

  ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

  Calandra took one hand from the wheel and held it up as a gesture of peace. ‘No, not all. But I am, you might say, an outsider. Whereas you’re right in the thick of it. So you may need to focus on the whole, and you might be fast – I know you’re good – but I have the advantage. I’ve followed this country’s history for several years, up close, and in all its dark corners. You’ve stayed on the sidelines, Colonel.’ He fell quiet, as if expecting an invitation to continue.

  Annibale was a good listener, and he was definitely interested. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You seem intent on not letting go, and so you’ll keep going. That might involve my superiors, especially its consequences. Which is why I wanted to speak with you: to invite you to continue.’

  Annibale was surprised, almost shocked. He’d thought Calandra wanted to tell him off, warn him, even threaten him. He was expecting anything but a green light, an invitation to plough right ahead.

  The Secret Service man chuckled. ‘Please don’t look so surprised. I do admit that I’d be worried if you got hurt. But we don’t want you to stop.’

  ‘I honestly don’t understand what use I can be to the government,’ Annibale said.

  Calandra cut in front of the number 24 tram, setting off a concert of blaring car horns. ‘I’ll be honest with you. You’ve met the prosecutors in charge of the case. A couple of unsettling characters, if you catch my drift. Guidoni’s mediocre, Bossini is ruthless – motivated by some resentment I can’t place. A Jacobin of the worst kind. Black and white, the exact opposite of how I see life. There aren’t any shades of grey as far as that woman is concerned.’ He paused. ‘My dear Colonel, we’re only at the opening skirmishes, but you’ll soon be clashing with them. And not only them. Look: the prosecutor’s office has become extremely powerful over the past few years, especially in Milan. It does what it wants, and it often goes against politicians publicly. They don’t accept interference from Parliament, and I doubt they will from a former police chief – no offence. Canessa the Tank on a collision course with the magistrature: I’d like to see that!’

  It was all starting to sink in. ‘You think we’ll have a run-in on account of my investigation and my personality, and you want something out of it. You’re hoping I’ll do something to hurt or weaken them. But what if I don’t? What if I make an agreement with them? Have you considered that?’ He paused. ‘What I don’t understand is this: doesn’t this government support the magistrature’s actions, both out of principle and as a political strategy? They’ve dealt some serious blows to their opponents. Aren’t they currently trying the leader of the opposition?’

  Calandra took the outer ring road, heading towards Ravizza Park. He brought the BMW to a halt under an oak tree and the second car stopped behind them.
The chief magistrate opened the car door. The air was cool, despite the exhaust from the cars on the street next to them. They got out and headed into the park itself. Calandra took a deep breath.

  ‘Times change, my dear Colonel. One can’t deny the usefulness of the magistrature for the current government, of course. Initially, actually, it was almost a political task. It swept away the old powers favouring those currently governing the country, though I don’t think that was actually the goal of the majority of magistrates. But we can’t always delegate to judges the duties that belong to others. Power holds on to power. Do you understand what I’m saying? You can’t hide behind judges as a long-term strategy. Plus, people are afraid of uniforms, an invasive State. First you get the applause, and then they’re bored and become unsettled. Legacy of the Bourbons, the Austro-Hungarians, the Vatican. And the war is over.’

  ‘I swear I’ve heard this already, many years ago…’

  ‘Indeed, it’s just like when we finally finished with terrorism. We got tired of indignation, too. People change; it’s life. Revolution is followed by a period of calm, the people want to have fun again, they want peace. And the government doesn’t want the judicial system breathing down their necks. If they continue to grill the leader of the opposition, they’ll turn him into a martyr.’

  ‘And you’re hoping that this case will unravel in their hands, maybe with a nudge from me.’

  Calandra stopped walking and pulled out half a Toscano from his cigar holder. He offered one to Canessa. ‘I didn’t know you smoked cigars,’ Calandra commented, surprised.

  ‘I used to every now and then, with my friend Repetto. When you retire, things you never thought possible start happening. You’ll see.’

  Calandra laughed, then went serious. ‘Yes, that’s what we hope, Colonel: that you’ll do what you were famous for thirty years ago: some dirty work. Drag this prosecutor’s office into a war it might lose, or that’ll at least weaken it. Make it look bad, get it to make mistakes. What I think is more likely is that it will be the first to find out the truth.’

  The Secret Service man let out a cloud of smoke and sighed. Annibale Canessa didn’t like being used, nor did he care to wage a war against the prosecutors. All he knew was that he would stick to his path, single-handedly (or nearly), against everything and everyone. If Calandra could help, all the better.

  ‘I’ll do what I have to, Calandra. My war may cross over with yours, maybe not. But your help could be useful to me, and this is where we circle back to my first question. Do you know something I don’t?’

  Calandra raised his hands. ‘Trust me, I would tell you if I did. All I know is something you’ve also figured out. These are muddy waters, and the magistrature are more involved than it seems. Putting Guidoni and Bossini in charge is the sign. Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark. Be careful.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Rossi and Canessa were stopped at a welcoming osteria in viale Montenero for a bite to eat. It was noisy, packed and steamy. Maybe it was the pasta e fagioli, but Annibale suddenly felt snowed under by responsibility. He often felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. For now, he focused on his duty to the man in front of him, happily devouring a burrata cheese from Andria.

  ‘He’s from the Secret Service. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you into this. Things may definitely go the wrong way. There are more people involved, and they’re more dangerous than I had imagined.’

  Rossi’s fork stopped between his plate and his mouth, a string of white cheese swaying from it.

  ‘You’re getting rid of me?’

  ‘I’ll keep using your skills and resources, but I don’t want you on the front line. I can’t have you as a chauffeur unless it’s unavoidable.’

  Rossi knew the decision was final. Damn, he thought, just when I was getting used to it.

  14

  Panattoni was desperate. For the past few days he and his partner had been staking out the company run by the former Marshal Repetto. They were in an industrial area filled with warehouses, outlets, supermarkets, appliance stores. Not a cheery place, but not as filthy or terrifying as some of the locations he’d been sent to on the edge of Milan.

  Panattoni was from Tor Bella Monaca originally, but had got used to the city centre and its amenities, its comforts. He hadn’t been back home in years, and every time he ended up somewhere that reminded him of it, he felt blue. His nostalgia, however, would always be reserved for the balcony in via Bergamo.

  It wasn’t the stakeout that made him restless, but the phone call he had to make to his employers every evening at 6 p.m. They got angrier every day.

  They wanted him to bug Repetto’s office, and it had been extremely difficult to explain that bugging a company that produced, installed and maintained security systems would be a suicide mission.

  In his rear-view mirror he spotted a Punto coming up behind him. His partner. Finally he could get out of there. If only he didn’t have to make that damn phone call.

  ‘He spoke to Cammello, the son of a bitch.’

  Marta Bossini slammed her new handbag down on Guidoni’s table.

  ‘Which one’s the son of a bitch, Canessa or Cammello?’ Her colleague clocked the expensive accessory and attempted to lighten the mood. ‘Did you go for some retail therapy?’

  Bossini sat down and glared at him, but got the opposite of what she wanted. Guidoni chuckled.

  ‘It’s not against the law. He asked to talk to him and he was granted access. We can’t force that “nice” camorrista to talk to us. And he can’t have talked that much anyway. He doesn’t know anything.’

  Marta was unable to keep her surprise from erasing her frown. ‘Are you hiding something from me?’

  Guidoni was enjoying upsetting her. ‘What do you know, for once the useless Guidoni has an ace up his sleeve, but all in good time. Now we need to shake up our Rambo here, remind him of his place. And the first thing we need to do is call the place where Petri worked and let them know they’re about to receive a visit, and to let us know when it happens.’

  Marta was surprised. The gym rat with few friends in the judicial branch was revealing himself to be up to the task. Almost on her level. He needed to be reminded of his place.

  She crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up to the dark line on her tights and drawing a poorly concealed glance from Guidoni.

  ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself. Go ahead and make that call.’

  15

  ‘A good start, but we’re going in circles now.’

  The comment – actually a criticism, as only Strozzi could deal them out – was bouncing around Carla Trovati’s brain. She’d been at her desk for the past two hours nursing her irritation at this way of pointing out a mistake or something missing. All journalists who made it up the ladder had to put up with its banality. The ridiculously asinine plural. We’re going, we’re doing… Who’s this we?

  Carla had believed, for a while, that it was all teamwork, shared responsibility, and they all won or lost together. Then she’d realised it was a deceitful, gloating, fucker of a system, designed to make you feel even more of a loser, a traitor to the cause.

  ‘We all lose, because of you.’

  Carla hated that plural. And when they asked, ‘Why didn’t we have this?’ with feigned kindness, instead of slagging you off, what could you say? ‘Your honour, I didn’t have it because I’m an idiot? Please just tell me off.’ Too easy, huh?

  She was mulling this over one morning in the office. As the first to arrive, she’d walked across the empty room that was local news and sat down at her cupboard desk to wait for an idea. It was almost noon and even in her small room she could feel the damp, heavy air that threatened the arrival of summer heat. Caprile wasn’t there, the whole office was practically deserted: journalists on the trail of stories, press con
ferences, pacing up and down the courts of law. Maybe she should go too. But Carla had been tasked, from day one, to follow Annibale Canessa’s every move, and she’d gone a whole week without losing track of him. She’d been to his brother’s funeral, but she hadn’t been able to get close again since the morgue. Canessa had stopped replying to her, started avoiding her. He avoided everyone else too, if that was any consolation.

  Out of the entire team working on the Canessa-Petri story, she was the only one to have got any actual news out of it. But Strozzi had warned her: if she didn’t come up with anything else, it’d be fair game and she’d be back to her previous tasks. Thank you! Next…

  After their night together, their relationship had entered a sort of limbo. Formalities, small talk, no hint of anything more, a smile, a joke. Strozzi was smart. Maybe he’d got what he was after, another notch, or maybe he was waiting for the right moment for another fuck. He wouldn’t show any signs of weakness until then. I’m a nice guy, we slept together, but nothing changes between us. I’m the boss, you’re the employee.

  In any case, she still couldn’t track down Canessa. No idea where he was, no idea about anything. He’d disappeared, though she knew he was out there, and almost definitely in Milan pursuing his own investigation.

  She looked up and noticed that something was different on the wall in front of her desk: Caprile had swapped the calendar photo of Monica Bellucci’s butt, October 2019, for the generous bosom of a small blonde from some TV show. Even Caprile moves on, updates things.

  She was the only one hanging on.

  16

  Claudio Salemme knocked gently at the heavy office door before turning the handle. He hesitated to widen the crack he was looking through while he waited for an invitation. His father, Giannino, finally waved him in as he finished off his phone conversation, accompanying his goodbyes with annoyed gestures.