Sweet Song, Bitter Loss, page 15
‘Yes please.’
Luciani had an equally fruitless discussion with the hotel manager, and short of demanding access to the CCTV files, he decided he wasn’t going to get any further with trying to find out who the man and boy were. Ten minutes later, deputy minister Santini stepped out of the lift, checking his cufflinks were straight, and, as taciturn as he had been previously, he was taken on the very brief journey in the back of Luciani’s Alfa Romeo patrol car to the beach volleyball arena.
* * *
On arriving back at the station, Major D’Angelo quietly asked Katia to come into his office for a moment. He handed her four hundred euros, explaining that Giorgio had repaid the money he owed her.
‘He’s sorted things with his creditors, and he isn’t in any danger, but I’m very sorry to tell you that you won’t be able to see him again.’
Katia gave a little gasp, and put her hands up to her mouth.
‘He didn’t know how to tell you, because he’s genuinely fond of you, and he wishes things could be different, but, you see, he’s married, so …. .’
D’Angelo waved his hands in the air as though in submission to an impossible situation.
‘I’m really sorry, Katia.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ she whispered, and with a sniff and quick wipe of her eyes, she left his office.
In the incident room, D’Angelo and Rossi had finished eating their panini by the time Lazzaro arrived, so they each gave their de-brief on the day’s meetings and events before Lazzaro brought them up to speed on the search.
‘Officially this is still a missing person enquiry,’ said D’Angelo, ‘but I want it treated as a criminal investigation.’
He picked up a marker pen and stood in front of the whiteboard.
‘Let’s review the situation as it stands. Giovanni Mirelti went outside his family home at seven fifteen on Monday evening, approximately forty-three hours ago. This briefing is for us to consider two possibilities regarding the case, homicide and kidnapping.’
On the left side of the whiteboard, D’Angelo wrote the heading Homicide.
‘We can only address motive and opportunity from the point of view of potential perpetrators.’
D’Angelo wrote the name Mario on the board.
‘Mario, engaged to Giovanni’s sister, Felicita. There was considerable enmity between Giovanni and Mario, in fact the two of them had been arguing moments before Giovanni left the house. Plus, you found out something else, Teresa.’
Taken slightly off-guard by D’Angelo’s use of her first name, Rossi didn’t react for a few moments.
‘He told his friend, Evelina, in confidence, that he had seen Mario stealing money from his grandmother’s purse. Mario was using threats to prevent Giovanni from reporting the matter.’
‘Perhaps Giovanni told Mario he was going to report it anyway. Sufficient motive?’
‘You said you thought Mario could be fairly volatile,’ added Lazzaro.
D’Angelo rubbed his chin and pondered the thought.
‘I got the impression he could be tricky. He made it quite clear he didn’t like answering my questions. He’s been keeping away from the house recently, so I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. We’ll give him a three out of five for motive, now let’s consider opportunity. He was out in the barn, alone, apparently repairing the fuel pipe on the tractor not long after Giovanni was last seen.’
‘How about four for opportunity?’ suggested Rossi.
D’Angelo wrote a four alongside the existing three.
‘Next, the trigger-happy neighbours, Pietro Fiorito and his son, Leonardo. Elisabetta heard two shots being fired which may, or may not, have been shortly after Giovanni went outside. Pietro has admitted that Leo used his shotgun on Monday evening, allegedly to scare away a group of wild boar, but we know that at some time on Monday he shot a bird, a buzzard, which I still have in my freezer at home.’
‘I bet your wife is pleased with that.’
D’Angelo smiled as he wrote the names Pietro and Leonardo beneath that of Mario.
‘Possible motive? Giovanni hates hunting, especially the shooting of birds, and has harangued the Fioritos for it in the past. A row, a sudden loss of control, and Leo turns his shotgun, loaded with heavy duty cartridges, on Giovanni. How does that sound?’
‘I’d give that a four to Leonardo, father accessory,’ said Lazzaro.
‘I agree,’ added Rossi.
‘Opportunity?’
‘Five,’ said Lazzaro and Rossi together.
‘Anyone else on the radar for homicide?’
‘Are we ruling out the father?’
‘No real motive, other than the lad didn’t conform, perhaps an embarrassment. We’ll put him there for now, with just a one for motive and four for opportunity. Agreed?’
There were nods from the two sergeants.
‘Now, today we’ve discovered the other possibility.’
D’Angelo wrote a second heading, Kidnapping, on the right hand side of the board. Beneath it he wrote the name Martin Renson, followed by a plus sign and a question mark.
‘I take it the question mark is for the mystery lady we’re looking for in Montenero?’ asked Lazzaro.
‘That’s right. Renson was at his holiday home until Monday night, when he flew back from Pescara to Stansted in England. There was a woman staying with him, but it wasn’t his wife. It’ll be difficult to check with the flight manifests whether she returned with Renson, as we don’t have a name, but I put in a call to airport security to find out if there’s any record of a young boy travelling with Martin Renson. It’ll probably draw a blank, but, Teresa, do you have our shop receipt in that file of yours?’
‘Right here, Major.’
‘Show it to Emilio, will you.’
Lazzaro read the note on the back of the receipt.
‘It was in Renson’s place, beside his computer. Thing is, Emil, none of Giovanni’s family admit to having had any contact with this English guy, so why would he write that they have to pay him next week?’
‘Weird. I don’t understand it,’ said Lazzaro.
‘That makes three of us. As far as I know, the Mirelti family aren’t particularly well off, so an odd choice for a ransom demand, but we’ve all been involved in some bizarre cases.’
There was a murmur of consent from the other two.
‘And this note is all we’ve got?’ asked Lazzaro.
D’Angelo shrugged and spread his hands.
‘Not much, I grant you, but we have precious little else to go on. We bagged up some glasses in case it comes down to a check for DNA, but there was no obvious evidence that Giovanni had been at the house, and there was nothing on Renson’s computer.’
D’Angelo looked at the names he had written on the whiteboard.
‘Strongest candidate for homicide is Leo Fiorito, but at this stage we haven’t got enough to pull him in for questioning. We have to speak to Martin Renson, but I doubt if the British police will take us very seriously, so I can’t think they will be sufficiently motivated to conduct any sort of a meaningful interview.’
‘So we have to send someone over there?’
‘I don’t see any alternative, Emil.’
‘Would the British police allow that?’
‘You’re right, it has to be official, but if we keep it low key, just between myself and an equivalent rank in whichever force we’re dealing with, I dare say we’ll manage to get away with it. If we take it up the chain, especially if politicians get involved, then I wouldn’t be too optimistic.’
‘Have you thought about who could go?’
‘That’s another tough one. Whoever goes will have to be able to speak decent English, which, unless we borrow someone from outside our area, narrows the choice down to Teresa or myself. I want to keep a handle on things here during this vital initial period, yet Sergeant Rossi is acting as liaison with the family and is taking on responsibility for co-ordinating the investigation.’
‘I don’t mind going,’ said Rossi, after a brief silence. ‘After all, I’ve hardly started the co-ordinating job yet. How long will I be away? Two days, three at most.’
‘Makes sense,’ chipped in Lazzaro.
‘Alright, Teresa goes,’ agreed D’Angelo. ‘Are you able to go at short notice?’
‘No problems, Major.’
‘Good. The comune at Montenero will be able to tell you Renson’s home address in England and hopefully some contact details.’
‘I made a note of his e-mail and business address from the laptop.’
‘Well done, good thinking. Check which police force is based in that area, and I’ll liaise with an appropriate officer – I think their Inspector is roughly equivalent to my rank. I’m going to request a budget for you to go with an oppo, but don’t worry, you’ll be going on your own. I’ll show afterwards that I slashed the operation budget in half as part of my cost-cutting initiative. Get a gold star from the colonel. I’ll put Katia on to arranging your travel, so let her know as soon as possible what your eventual destination in England will be. We might as well try and land you as close as possible.
FIFTEEN.
Colonel Battista had ordered that an empty office be turned hurriedly into a temporary makeshift incident room, as control centre for Operation Seahawk. A map of the Abruzzo Adriatic coastline had already been pinned to the wall, a map which Battista was studying carefully, his finger moving from one location to another. His mind was juggling with how many possible landing sites required what level of resources. It was an area of expertise in which Battista took great pride, ever since he achieved top grade in his promotion exam for the module ‘Allocation of Resources’. As he looked at the map, he began to have doubts about his earlier assumptions. Perhaps it would make more sense to land the illegals at one of the small bays further south, then take them by road up to the Pescara area.
Battista tried to put himself in the mind of a people-smuggler. All down this coast, the beaches shelve gradually out to sea, so a boat with an inboard motor wouldn’t get close enough to shore to be able to disembark a group of migrants, in which case it would have to tie up at a small fishing jetty. It might be possible to come ashore unseen and unnoticed in the early hours of the morning, but the downside would be that all fishing vessels are known and accounted for by the local community, and an irregular landing would attract attention, especially if a truck was on hand to transport the illegals further north. Then the truck itself being driven at night would add risk to the enterprise, depending on how far it was from landing point to safe house. At one of the bigger ports or marinas, on the other hand, there would obviously be more potential witnesses to the landing, but the coming and going of fishing boats and pleasure craft is more normal at these entry points, and therefore less likely to attract notice. Battista tapped the map with his finger, as though expecting it to provide the answer for him. He came to his decision. Rather than having mobile patrols covering stretches of coast, he would place officers on look-out at the five most likely landing spots, with two mobile teams ready to respond to any report of a landing.
On cue, his Divisional Commanders filed into the incident room for the Operation Seahawk planning meeting, at which Battista began by giving orders for the overall plan.
‘Two officers at each of the following possible landing zones,’ he explained, then, referring to the map, he stabbed his finger on each of the marinas at Silvi, Montesilvano, Pescara, Francavilla, and Ortona. ‘Two rapid-response mobile teams, one here, and one here.’ He indicated points on the main coast road, just to the north and south of Pescara.
‘The operation will commence tomorrow, Thursday, at twenty-three thirty hours until apprehension of suspects. If no landing is sighted, the operation will stand down at zero five thirty Friday morning. Communication between sighting officers and back-up will be strictly by secure radio. No mobile phones operating on a commercial network provider will be carried by any of the officers involved. Is that clear?’
There were nods and murmurs of consent.
‘Good. I will now leave Major Camponelli to chair the meeting for details to be arranged and specific personnel allocated to the operation. For now, good day, Signori.’
* * *
Marco could feel damp patches on his shirt beneath his armpits, then a tickling sensation as a bead of sweat ran down the small of his back. He was guided past double doors, which in the evenings were opened to patrons of the Blue Diamond Club, leading them to the hall where these wealthy businessmen and professionals, and the occasional visiting Mafia boss, could gamble their earnings at the blackjack, roulette, baccarat and craps tables, or on the house-advantage gaming machines.
Ahead of Marco was another polished door with a brass handle, but not for him the mirrored, carpeted elevator. The Macauan Chinese at his side, who moved with the ease and grace of a gazelle, yet was rumoured to be able to kill a man with a single karate blow, swerved down a corridor to the right, then stopped to enter a four-digit code into a wall-mounted keypad. Marco, as a European and therefore not entirely trustworthy, was not even allowed to know the code. The steel door clicked open, and without a word or change of expression, the Macauan held the door open to allow Marco through to the utilitarian staircase on the other side, which provided access up to the first floor.
Marco fingered the open neck of his shirt as he climbed the stairs, wishing he had been allowed time to put on a tie, knowing the value Signore Lau placed on his employees being properly dressed. Marco also gave himself a reminder to call his employer ‘Sir’ and ‘Meester Lau’ rather than Signore. The idiom of ‘when in Rome …’ didn’t apply to Meester Lau. Marco looked up into the small lens, then tapped nervously on the polished oak door as it clicked open.
‘Permission to enter, Sign – Meester Lau?’ he said, in a rather squeaky voice. He coughed discretely to try and clear his constricted throat.
The man who sat regally behind his walnut desk merely indicated with an open hand that Marco was permitted to sit in a high-backed oriental-pattern chair in front of the desk.
Lau was fifty-four, and beginning to show the signs of the over-indulgence that came with comfortable living, despite the careful cut of his tailored shirt and raw silk suit. He had the broad face and straight, black hair of an Oriental, but less narrow eyes and sharper nose as evidence of the mixed Portuguese with Chinese heredity. He slowly replaced the cap on his Parker fountain pen, an early gift from his parents, which he still favoured when signing letters or writing notes, and placed the pen in the ivory holder on his desk.
‘I understand you were compromised while delivering a service to one of our important clients.’
Marco found some of his duties distasteful, in spite of the handsome renumeration. He found it extraordinary that his boss was able to compartmentalise aspects of his business empire. He made the provision of innocent minors to sexual predators sound like take-away pizza delivery.
‘I wasn’t expecting a carabinieri officer to be waiting outside the hotel, sir. I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful in future.’
Marco’s breathing was erratic, causing his words to come out in fits and starts. He knew how pathetic he must sound, as he surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on the tops of his trouser legs.
‘I pay you well to do a simple job, but you can’t even do that properly.’
Marco tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.
‘How many times have you been told,’ continued Lau, ‘that discretion is a key element of our service. Mister Santini hopes to become deputy Minister of the Interior before too long. A client in that position would be extremely helpful for our business, but your stupidity and carelessness have resulted in a serious breach of security. I take it the carabinieri man saw both you and the boy quite clearly?’
‘It was very brief, sir. He only had a few seconds to see us.’
‘But he followed you along the street, and saw our vehicle drive away.’
‘We were long gone by the time the officer peered round the corner. He is a good driver.’
‘A good driver with a useless courier.’
Marco could feel prickles of sweat on his top lip which he attempted to lick away.
‘That vehicle will be out of service until we know whether or not it is being sought. You will personally dispose of the other asset.’
‘You, you mean the boy, sir?’
‘Deal with it.’
‘Shall I send him back to Libya, sir?’
Lau blew through his nose and leaned back into his leather-upholstered seat.
‘If I were to write on a piece of paper something that would incriminate you, would you drop it in the bin or burn it?’
‘But sir, I’m not a …. I don’t do that, I don’t know how. And he’s just a boy.’
‘In that case, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Your mess, you clear it up.’
Lau pressed a button beneath his desk, releasing the door with a faint click, then retrieved his pen from its stand and picked up a printed sheet of paper from the sheaf in front of him.
Marco stood up on wobbly legs, his temples throbbing, and made his way to the door, which he closed behind him as he left the room. He staggered down the stairs, frightened he was going to either pass out or vomit, and once he was back on the polished marble floor of the club entrance, he half ran, like a drunk heading for the toilet, until he barged through the front door and out into the street. The Macauan was watching Marco leave, then Lau’s voice came through his bluetooth ear-piece.
‘Make sure he completes his final duty, then terminate his contract.’
* * *
Sergeant Lazzaro took the call from Gattone.
‘We’ve done most of the centre. A couple of vague possibles, but they didn’t come to anything, and now Davide and the dog have to return to Chieti. Shall we carry on, or call it a day?’
