The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 13

  The large desk was tidy. There was no computer, because Giannino Salemme hated all ‘modern contraptions’, as he called them: emails, mobile phones, the internet. ‘The only net I want to know about is the one I use to catch sea bass,’ was one of his regular technophobic comments. ‘Nothing can replace a working human brain.’

  A series of shelves ran along his office walls, all in dark cherry wood, with sliding glass panes protecting volume upon volume of antique books, some extremely rare.

  There were no pictures apart from a single family photo showing his wife (with her sickly face, poor Mum, thought Claudio), and even that was relegated to the one spare nook in that extravagant display of bibliophily. These weren’t just legal texts – the collection boasted art catalogues, essay collections, novels and poetry. And Giannino Salemme had read almost all of them, unlike many who surrounded themselves with books as if they lived in an abbey, and yet never pulled out a single tome, not even to use as a paperweight.

  His son Claudio, on the other hand, considered himself a practical man. He wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, and he’d never in his life touched a book that wasn’t a university textbook – and that only after turning a corner following his rebellious youth. He’d ruined eyes on them, and burned them all after graduation in a sort of personal catharsis. It was his belief that literature, the arts, familiarity with stories, history and feelings made people too sensitive and therefore too easily controlled. He was convinced, without a shred of proof, that only the uncultured could have the cold blood, the ruthlessness and determination to order the most extreme acts, to make the harshest decisions. His certainty, however, cracked a little whenever he entered this dark temple to knowledge. Maybe Giannino Salemme was the exception to the rule…

  Lost in this reflection, he heard only the end of what his father was telling him.

  ‘—worried.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I was saying that I see you looking worried. When you knock on my door it’s usually because you’ve done something stupid or because something is bothering you.’

  Claudio was always annoyed when his father saw through him. He could never get used to this power dynamic, despite being smart enough to understand that his moment had yet to come, and that his boss was someone else.

  ‘I don’t think Panattoni is up to the task with Canessa. Maybe we need to do something more drastic. Maybe we should call back his Neapolitan colleague.’

  Giannino Salemme shook his head.

  ‘No. Panattoni has done an excellent job thus far. Let him work. He’ll find Canessa again soon, you’ll see. We can’t fall back on extreme measures unless there’s a real, tangible threat. We have to be cautious.’

  ‘Canessa has been to prison to talk to Pasquale Cammello – isn’t that a threat?’

  ‘No, the meeting didn’t go anywhere. Cammello can’t have told him anything.’

  ‘You know him that well?’

  ‘I know, or rather knew Petri that well, yes.’ Giannino Salemme broke into one of his predatory grins. ‘He wasn’t one to talk much. Not with his comrades, not with anyone watching his back. He was a loner, suspicious, prickly.’ He leant his heavy arms on the desk and smiled. ‘Things are fine as they are. Let the whole thing blow over, and keep an eye on the field from a distance. We have good radar and good allies. They won’t surprise us.’ He picked up the phone. Claudio knew their time was up but he still had something to say.

  ‘I get that he’s an old friend of yours, but I’ve never liked him. I don’t trust him. He’d kill his own mother to get what he wants.’

  Giannino Salemme put the phone down. The gap between his lips formed a grin that was truly disturbing.

  ‘We would do the same, my son. But that is precisely why we are in no danger. We’re in this hand in glove. To get what he wants and keep what he has, he’ll have to defend us and we’ll have to defend him.’

  17

  The building was like any other around Centrale. Not far from where they massacred my brother and Petri, Annibale thought as he looked at the ghostly monolith of the station. He ran through the brass plaques that named law firms, medical practices, insurers, even a comics publisher that populated the building. None of these buildings served as a private home. They emptied out no later than 8 p.m. and stayed that way over the weekend, holidays and summer.

  A light rain was falling again, and the traffic was hosting another concert of car horns. It was a Thursday evening in mid May.

  Annibale had asked Rossi to leave him out there a couple of hours earlier and had let Rossi go.

  Recent events – the meeting with the prosecutors, his conversation with Cammello, the unexpected chat with Calandra – had left him feeling powerless.

  He’d thought it would be easy to get back into the fray, straight-forward like it used to be, when he had the strength of the State behind him and his moral strength within, or at least what he considered to be some kind of consistent morality. All of that had combined to create a bulwark against the troubling scenarios he’d had to face while on duty. He’d thought that by jumping back in the game, he could identify his target, go after it and get to it, steamrolling every obstacle. Just like all those years ago. But circumstances had changed.

  Back then, there was a war on, with all the corner-cutting allowed in a state of emergency. He’d been a uniformed soldier and somehow, at the same time, a free agent despite procedures and hierarchy, willing to turn a blind eye. There were regular compromises, the path was sometimes unclear, and the differences between the State and its enemies blurred. This was a new season, and though it seemed the war was over, the road was still full of pitfalls and traps, even more than actual enemies. He was more of a detective inspector than a colonel these days. Yet no matter how many people still called him that, the army and the force were no longer behind him. His father, the general, historian and military strategist, would have drawn a parallel between World War I and II: on one side, the trenches, the advancing enemy, and no option for failure; on the other, a shifting battlefield, threats from all sides, ambush and retaliation.

  With these thoughts swirling in his head, Annibale stood waiting to get into the third-floor office in the sad, grey building Petri had walked into every morning at 8.30 a.m. and walked out of at 5.30 p.m. The plaque read accountancy, admin and web support. From what Repetto had told him, it was a modern accountancy business using practical financial software for supermarkets, small businesses and private companies with varied investments and interests. Petri had studied IT in prison and this was one of the places that employed people on parole. The director’s name was Flavio Spano.

  Annibale was hoping the office would clear out a bit, and he waited for some of the employees to leave. He kept an eye on the second-floor offices, to escape notice as he entered. He needed news on Petri that he couldn’t get through official means, a fact that frustrated him. He was a nobody, these days, even as he played detective.

  The bravado he had felt at the start had abandoned him. But he would press on, as he always did. He checked his watch and stepped into the building.

  Spano left the fish tank he’d fashioned for himself at one end of the open plan area crammed with a dozen desks.

  The space wasn’t enormous, but it was cleverly designed. A long corridor stretched all the way to the wall where there was an office on each side with glass partitions, just like you see in American films. One was dark now, and the other belonged to the owner, something Annibale had worked out when he asked to speak to him and the receptionist dialled him. The man in the first fish tank had lifted the receiver and looked up. The reflection on the glass had prevented him from seeing the reaction to the woman’s message. Was it resignation or cooperation?

  He walked across the work space, followed by the only other person still there on that rainy evening: a pale y
oung man with greasy blond hair and a face pitted with acne. Spano, on the other hand, looked like a fifty-year-old who meant business: sure of himself, his thick moustache balancing out his receding hairline. He had the look of a holdover from ’68 who’d abandoned his hopes of changing the world, and become jaded as a result. That first impression would turn out to be not far from the truth.

  Spano offered his hand with detached courtesy. A regular grip. The I-know-who-you-are-and-I-have-my-eye-on-you type, Repetto would’ve said.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Spano knew who he was, Canessa realised immediately, just as he realised he wasn’t going to breach that wall. He tried anyway. ‘My name is Annibale Canessa. I’m the brother of the man who was killed with Pino Petri. I’m looking into the reasons behind this whole mess, and I wondered if you—’

  Spano raised a hand to interrupt, as if that information was of no importance. Behind him, meanwhile, the young man with acne had stood up and was gathering his things into a bag. ‘I’m sorry, but there is nothing I know that can be of any use to you,’ he said, dry but polite. ‘And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I’ve already spoken to the prosecutors in charge of the case and I believe there are correct procedures to follow. I’m sorry about your brother, but I don’t think there’s space for personal investigations. There’s the magistrature, there’s the prosecutor’s office, and in my opinion the people working there are good. This country needs to trust its legal system.’

  It was hopeless. Canessa realised he was up against someone who’d exchanged revolutionary purity for judicial rectitude and ruthless moralism. There was no wiggle room, no nuance, no points of contact. The boy behind the inflexible Spano, however, was looking at him with interest as he slipped on his raincoat. Annibale smiled weakly, bit his tongue, and tried hard not to slip out of his humble and submissive amateur-detective persona.

  ‘You’re right, of course. I’m no bounty killer, and I don’t mean to stand in the way of the law. We’re on the same side. I’ve had some experience and I put myself at their disposal. Sometimes it can help to have another set of eyes, a different perspective on the same information.’

  ‘Maybe I wasn’t clear.’ The man’s tone turned sharp and threatening, as if he were still the old activist despite his corduroys, cashmere vest and tie. ‘I know who you are and who you were, the methods you used back then. They warned me you might be paying me a visit. You didn’t follow the rules thirty years ago and you’re not going to follow them now. Now please leave, or I will call the prosecutors – actually, I’m calling them right now.’

  He pivoted and headed towards his office. Annibale clenched his fists and dug his heels into the carpet to stop himself from following as he would have done in the past. He was tempted, but he realised that no good would come of the temptation, only trouble.

  He saw the secretary squirm, felt her terrified gaze on his whitening knuckles. Her horsey face looked apprehensive. Canessa took a deep breath, relaxed and walked back towards the glass doors.

  The last thing he saw was Spano on the phone before he turned around and headed for the landing. Only when he could no longer be seen did he run down the stairs to the exit, looking for somewhere to catch his breath and release his anger.

  18

  He didn’t immediately realise he was being followed, and when he did he was furious. He stepped out of the front door and blended into the crowd, worried that he might suddenly see a policeman or, worse, Carabinieri car patrol. They would undoubtedly invent some excuse to stop him – obstruction, tampering with evidence, anything would do – and he’d never be rid of them. After his questioning, he’d promised never to have anything to do with those two: they’d pursue their investigation, he’d stick to his.

  He was already on via Vitruvio when he noticed someone following him. He avoided turning round so as not to scare them away. He was determined to turn the tables this time, to be the hunter instead of the hunted. He kept walking along the pavement, away from the station. He crossed at the traffic lights, looking for the perfect window to reveal his shadow. Oddly, the guy was disappointingly unconcerned about being spotted. Clearly not a pro.

  Pausing in front of a shop with bathroom mirrors on display, he recognised him. It was the pasty-looking guy from Spano’s office and he seemed nervous, huddled in his raincoat and holding on to his tote bag.

  Canessa realised that he wanted to talk, but something was holding him back. Maybe they were still too close to his workplace, or maybe he was looking for somewhere more private. So he led his shadow down a twisting path of streets, cars, people on their way home, and rumbling trams to a quiet mooring. A clean café with a large woman who had a twinkle in her eye behind the bar. He stopped at the door, as if in invitation, then stepped onto the neutral ground and sat down at one of the three tables, all empty.

  ‘Good evening.’

  The woman’s cheeks lit up with a cheery smile. ‘Good evening! Horrible weather, eh? I’m closing in a few minutes. Do you want a coffee?’

  Canessa looked towards the entrance.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone. We’ll order together.’

  The boy hesitated at the door, as if trying to gather his courage and his strength to take the final step. The café owner came to his rescue. ‘Please, come in, come in, don’t just stand there in this weather! Your friend’s waiting for you!’ And so the boy, smoothing down his greasy hair, walked into the café and hurried over to Canessa’s table.

  ‘Hot chocolate?’ Canessa asked.

  The young man shook his head, and spoke to the owner. ‘A Martini please, no ice.’

  Weird, Canessa thought. ‘The same for me, please.’ He’d imagined him a health-nut, a vegan, the enemy of all vice. He was proved wrong again as his interlocutor fished a pack of unfiltered Gauloises out of his bag and placed it on the table.

  ‘It’s a shame you can’t smoke in public any more. At least I can still put them in front of me and savour the moment I’ll light up, as soon as I’m out of here. Do you smoke?’

  ‘Not really, no. If I’m with friends, I might partake of half a Toscano.’

  ‘Good for you.’ He paused. ‘I’m Davide Alfridi.’ He offered a sweaty hand, a weak but sincere handshake. ‘I’m sorry about the way Spano treated you.’ He spoke quickly, downing his drink and ordering another from the owner, who was keeping an eye on them, worried she might be dealing with a couple of drunks. ‘He’s obsessed with justice, rules. Ironic, since he went around smashing things to pieces thirty years ago.’

  ‘Have you worked with him for long?’

  ‘Eleven years, since the beginning. We were partners, equals back then.’ He lifted his glass to toast the old company. ‘Then I realised I wasn’t cut out for the fish tank, for giving orders and dealing with other people – especially being ruthless with them, the ones who don’t pay or try to defraud you. Spano still has some of his old… intimidatory ways. So I handed over my shares and stayed on as an employee. It’s a little embarrassing for him, but he can’t be without me. The software, our programs, they’re my design.’ His smile wasn’t triumphant. ‘It’s just… Spano, he was in some gang or other back then, played security during demos, one of those guys with a crowbar who now hang off every word from the prosecutors they used to call slaves of the system. He told me as much; he finds it funny, almost. Well, he took a strange turn, but he’s not alone. He’s not a bad man though. He helps so many people.’

  A sudden, almost imperceptible note in his voice gave Canessa a clue to Alfridi’s sexual orientation. He didn’t think he’d betrayed any change of expression, but Alfridi read his thoughts and his face lit up. He smiled, dropping all his shyness. ‘We were lovers, yes. Many years ago…’

  The young man – whom Canessa now realised was in his midthirties – downed another Martini and looked at him. ‘Petri talked to me about you. He ad
mired you, even if he had no idea where you’d gone. I’d like to help…’ His voice dropped to a whisper, as if something were weighing on his heart.

  Annibale took the lifeline that had been thrown to him from that uncertain ship. ‘Had you noticed any changes in him recently?’

  ‘Maybe seven or eight months ago. He was quieter, more distracted. He carried this book with him – it could have been a notepad, one of those larger ones, covered in newspaper.’

  The same thing Cammello had said.

  Canessa insisted. ‘What was it? Did he tell you?’

  ‘No, he was very protective of it, and he was very clear about his personal boundaries.’ He smiled. ‘I was curious, of course, but I never pressed. He had a personal attachment to that book.’

  ‘Do you think someone less respectful of boundaries might have taken a look?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Petri’s past scared a lot of people, but also his present.’

  The noise of the evening traffic wafted towards them. Alfridi added quietly, ‘Just like you. Spano is right about that. You can be scary even when you’re trying to be kind.’

  Annibale didn’t reply. He didn’t show it, but made a note to revisit his own behaviour going forwards.

  Alfridi continued. ‘If he didn’t tell me, I can’t imagine he would have told anyone else. I was the only one he spoke to in the office. He was good, fast, did everything we asked him. But other than Spano, who’s given so many ex-cons and paroles a job, or me, Petri had no connections to speak of. Partially due to his colleagues, mind you, but also his own aloofness. In any case, as I was saying, he seemed different, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you what was pressing on his mind.’

  ‘What did he tell you about me?’

  ‘He asked me if, after all these years, you would agree to meet him. I told him yes, that he should look you up, try finding you. That’s all.’