Sweet Song, Bitter Loss, page 21
‘I need a boot puller. It’s too tight.’
Renson blew out through his nose in irritation, then stalked off to fetch the wooden device from his tack room. Teresa kept glancing anxiously down the drive, willing a police car to come. When Renson dropped the boot puller on the ground in front of her, Teresa heaved and strained to remove one boot, then took a rest before attempting the second.
‘Hurry up,’ growled Renson.
This was it. End game. It seemed Teresa’s mission would fail. She could think of no more excuses for delay, she would have to return home to Abruzzo without any answers, a question mark still hanging over the bizarre note found in Renson’s Montenero house. After struggling with the second boot for as long as possible, she eventually had to admit defeat, as she put her other trainer back on. Renson was standing, hands on hips, watching her, as Teresa walked to her car and unlocked it. Another glance down the drive where she saw, in gaps between the trees and bushes, glimpses of a car, similar to her own, but coloured blue and white, coming towards the farm. She turned to look at Renson, unable to conceal a smile of triumph. He had now also spotted the approaching police car, watching it arrive with a look of puzzlement on his face.
The young constable parked, put his cap on, and walked to where Teresa had re-joined Renson near the stable block.
‘Sorry to trouble you Mister Renson, sir,’ said the constable awkwardly, ‘I’ve been asked to attend a possible incident here.’
He looked from Renson to Teresa, expecting to hear a reason for his instruction to come.
‘I wish to report verbal and physical threats against me by this man,’ said Teresa, pointing to Renson.
‘And you are, Ma’am?’
‘I am Sergeant Teresa Rossi of the Italian carabinieri.’
Renson was staring at her, dumbfounded.
‘You wish to lodge a formal complaint,’ he mumbled, reluctantly fishing a small notepad put of his pocket.
‘It depends,’ she replied, looking at Renson. There was a short silence.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Dave,’ said Renson. ‘Let me speak to the lady in private for a few moments.’
Looking somewhat relieved, the police constable retreated towards his car.
‘Do I press charges, or do I get some answers?’
‘I have no idea what that note is about,’ said Renson defensively, ‘but I’ll hazard a guess.’
He looked towards the policeman, judging him to be safely out of earshot.
‘My wife is devoted to her law career, and spends an increasing amount of time in South Africa. She hardly ever comes out to our holiday home in Abruzzo any more. I’ve begun having a – relationship – with a young lady out there. It’s most likely that she inadvertently left that receipt at my house.’
‘What is the name of this lady?’
‘Look, she’s married, I’m married. Can’t we just leave it at that?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mister Renson. We’re investigating what could be a serious crime, we have to make checks. Her name please?’
Renson looked at the ground, struggling with the consequences one way or the other. Teresa glanced meaningfully in the direction of the young policeman, hovering near his patrol car.
‘Her name is Bianca. Bianca di Lello. She owns a business in Montenero, a butcher’s shop. I presume either she owes Mirelti some money, or the other way round. That’ll be all there is to it, I promise you.’
‘Thank you, Mister Renson. If we’re satisfied with the outcome of our enquiries, you won’t be hearing from us again.’
‘For what it’s worth, I apologise for my behaviour. I thought you were …. . anyway, I’ve probably had punishment enough. I’m President of the rugby club, you see, and Dave Ormerod over there is our first fifteen full-back.’
TWENTY-ONE.
D’Angelo cursed himself for a fool as he ended the call and closed his phone. Teresa had rung him just as he was entering the basement-level car park beneath Pescara carabinieri headquarters, and what she had told him now seemed so obvious. Why hadn’t he seen it for himself? The attractive woman with long chestnut hair at Renson’s house had been Bianca di Lello. Renson’s explanation about the written note also made sense : the butcher either owed money to Mirelti the rabbit-breeding farmer, or Mirelti the customer owed money to the butcher. Bianca would have to be spoken to, of course, just to be sure, but this episode now looked like only one more leaf blowing in the breeze. D’Angelo stopped on the small landing between the two flights of stairs and leaned back into the corner. He was still in that position when Captain Luciani caught up with him.
‘Are you alright, Antonio?’
‘Yes, fine. Thinking, that’s all. Come on, onward and upward, as they say.’
Luciani grinned as the two of them continued on their way to Colonel Battista’s office.
‘Enter,’ called Battista, after the customary pause. ‘Ah, Antonio, pleasure to see you. You are well, I trust?’
‘So far, so good, Edoardo, and yourself?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
D’Angelo noticed a familiar-looking file, and his spirits sank. Battista was sitting behind his desk and indicated the two visitor chairs, but D’Angelo had walked straight round the desk, his arm outstretched, giving Battista no option but to stand and shake D’Angelo’s hand. The close proximity of the two men emphasised D’Angelo’s overwhelming physical presence.
‘So,’ said Battista, when they had settled in their respective seats, ‘the boy in the hospital morgue, is he your missing person?’
‘It’s not Giovanni Mirelti, no, but......’
He put his hand towards Luciani, prompting the captain to impart his news.
‘I saw that boy coming out of the hotel where I was collecting Signore Santini, the government minister, you may remember, Colonel.’
‘You’re quite sure it’s the same boy?’
‘Certain, Colonel.’
Battista drummed his fingers on the desk. Another murder to investigate, resources getting stretched.
‘Dottore Sibona is doing a PM,’ continued Luciani, ‘he’s going to contact me as soon as possible with preliminary results.’
‘We’ll decide how to follow up once you’ve heard from Sibona. In the meantime, Captain, you may return to your desk while we’re waiting.’
D’Angelo and Luciani made brief eye contact as the captain stood and left the office.
‘So, Antonio,’ said Battista, shuffling a few papers around on his desk, ‘you haven’t found the missing boy yet.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘How long has he been gone?’
‘Four days.’
‘Four. Mm. Little chance of finding him alive, then.’
‘I like to think there’s always hope, but …. .’
D’Angelo put his hand out, palm upwards, suggesting the colonel’s prognosis may well be correct.
‘I’ll leave it to your judgement as to how long you keep looking.’
‘Yes, Edoardo. Thank you.’
Battista slid the blue personnel file in front of him with an air of mystery, as though it was a playing card that could be the ace of diamonds, or could be the two of spades. He adjusted his wire-frame spectacles, then opened the file, making a pretence of reading details that he already knew.
‘You’ve held the rank of major for a long time now,’ he said, without looking up.
Understatement of the year, thought D’Angelo. He had once been one of the youngest majors on the force, now he’s nearing fifty. Overlooked for promotion time after time. He didn’t respond.
‘You’re a good officer, Antonio, but you’re ten years my senior in age, and I’ll be looking for my next move within three years.’
‘You’ve done very well, Edoardo.’
‘Dammit, Antonio, that’s not what I’m getting at,’ snapped Battista, now looking up from the file. ‘Perhaps you’ve been held back by some, - some historical issues, but if you’re going to move ahead, you should be here, where the action is. We’ve got some big cases live right now. You can’t spend the rest of your career out among the olive pickers and fig eaters.’
D’Angelo kept his mouth clamped tightly shut. He knew that if he responded to that remark, it would end up as another adverse comment in the blue file.
‘I’m not saying a missing contadino boy isn’t important, of course it is, but here we’re up against gangs.’
Battista stood and began walking around the room.
‘Drugs, people traffickers. There are two nasty murders currently under investigation, and another from the end of last year that’s still not closed. We need our best people working on the big cases.’
Battista returned to his seat at the desk and started turning pages in the file.
‘As a young major, you were selected to spend some time on secondment to the New York Police Department, a prestigious posting.’
Here we go again, thought D’Angelo. Always, eventually, it comes back to this. It was a statement, not a question. He said nothing.
‘Your assignment terminated prematurely. Tell me what happened.’
‘I believe the facts are summarised in the file there.’
‘Yes, the “facts” are written up here, but facts don’t necessarily tell the whole story. You have a reputation for choosing not to wear a firearm. Would I be right in thinking that your reluctance to bear a weapon came from your experience in New York? I want to hear your side of it, Antonio. I need to understand.’
D’Angelo took his eyes off Battista and looked towards the window. He rubbed his mouth with his finger, thinking, remembering. Should his lips remain sealed, condemning himself by silence, or does he try once again to convince a senior officer that his actions were justified.
‘It was a long time ago,’ said D’Angelo, his lame opening remark simply a ploy to buy some time. Battista sat watching him, silent and still, with his chin resting on steepled fingers, like a preying mantis sizing up a potential victim.
‘I was there because they wanted to boost the numbers of Hispanics and Italian speakers in their police department.’
‘And because of your experience in narcotics,’ said Battista, tapping the file with his finger.
‘It played a part,’ agreed D’Angelo. There was a big problem with drugs in New York, but there were communities within the city that the police found difficulty in reaching. Back then, heroin was the biggest problem, a dirty drug at the best of times, but even worse when there were contaminated batches on the streets. These bad batches seemed to be particularly prevalent among the Latino population. Considerable numbers of kids were dying, and pushers were operating freely, in the streets, round the tenements. I was teamed up with a Puerto Rican detective, DS Valeria Martinez, with a brief to try and disrupt operations at the user end, while others concentrated on finding the bosses, some of them mafia. Some days I felt like we were actually making a difference, other times it felt about as useful as attacking a bear with a twig. We had been keeping an eye on a young gang member for several days. He was only seventeen, but he had been suspected of supplying drugs since he was about thirteen, and had risen to be quite a hot-shot, doing the rounds in his own exclusive patch in a brand new Mercedes. He also happened to be Puerto Rican. I knew we had to actually catch him in the act of doing a deal to hope for any chance of a prosecution, so we got in position ahead of him at one of his regular supply locations, myself close to where he would park his car, Valeria waiting twenty metres away to pick up the customer with their newly-bought fix. She knew what to look for. The heroin was hidden inside little rubber toy Disney characters. On cue, our suspect turned up, and before long I saw him pass a small coloured object out of the car window to his customer, in exchange for a wad of dollar notes. I moved quickly. I pulled open the door and grabbed the key from the ignition, while at the same time telling the guy that I was a police officer and that I was arresting him on suspicion of supplying a class ‘A’ drug, and would he please step out of the car.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No. Something about his demeanour immediately put me on my guard. He sat there, looking at me, then his eyes flicked down to the dashboard. His girlfriend was alongside him in the passenger seat, and I heard her say “no, Juan”. I put my hand around the grip of my revolver and drew it a little way out of its holster. For a few seconds, nobody moved, then his hand flew to the glove compartment, he pulled open the flap, and grabbed the butt of a hand gun. I had fractions of a second to make a decision. I was a sitting duck. The thirty-eight calibre Ruger Service-Six revolver was a powerful weapon, and very unforgiving at close quarters. The explosions as I fired two rounds into his chest were deafening inside the car, then the girl was screaming, her hands over her ears.’
Battista turned over a few pages of the file in front of him.
‘But that sequence of events was disputed, by both the girl and Detective Sergeant Martinez.’
D’Angelo remained stony-faced.
‘I had to go and file a report straight away, then I was interviewed by three senior officers, but I regarded it all as routine, steps that must be taken if a member of the public is shot and killed by a police officer. I managed to get an hour or two of sleep, but when I returned the following morning, I was in for a big shock. I had seen the girl and Martinez being ushered into an interview room, which I had thought rather strange, but when I went back in front of the three-man panel, I was asked to hand over my badge and sidearm, and was told I was suspended from duty pending further enquiries. It was a complete hammer blow.’
‘Detective Sergeant Martinez corroborated the girl’s account of what happened.’
‘Martinez had run to the car when I fired the two shots. The girl had got out of the car and was yelling at DS Martinez in Spanish. I was busy calling the station to report the incident and alerting them to the fact that there had been a fatality. I assumed Martinez was trying to calm the girl down until other officers and an ambulance arrived.’
‘But perhaps that wasn’t the case after all.’
‘The girl had said that Juan was only trying to get his driver’s licence out of the glove compartment when I shot him. The handgun he had been reaching for was on the floor well, under the steering column. The girl said I had pulled the gun out myself and dropped it on the floor.’
‘And Martinez believed her?’
‘I have always supposed that Valeria Martinez said what she believed to be the truth. She had nothing whatsoever to gain by doing otherwise, but she had been too far away to see what had actually happened. I think she convinced herself that she had witnessed what the girl told her.’
‘And you were the one who was discredited.’
‘Perhaps because I was the outsider, a hot-blooded Italian. Over the next few days, the boy, Juan, was described as being popular, God-fearing, who loved his Mom, although he might have been coerced by some bad men into selling a few drugs. I was painted as an out-of-control trigger-happy foreign cop.’
‘But there was no trial.’
‘No, they didn’t want a trial. A quick dismissal and getting me out of the country was the preferred solution. They checked for my fingerprints on the boy’s gun, but of course didn’t find any. “Inconclusive”, they called it.’
‘But in Martinez’s statement, they said you had ….’
Battista scanned through the sheet of paper on the file
‘…. . “boasted you would take this grubby little pusher off the streets,” and I quote.’
‘I never denied I wanted him locked up, taken out of circulation. In that moment when I was trying to arrest him, it was going to be him or me, and I made my decision. The irony is that he would probably have killed Valeria Martinez as well, then gone to ground, but ….’
Battista slowly closed the file.
‘I’m going to add some notes in here,’ he said, tapping the file. ‘Now while you’re here, you can have your medical check and do a routine firearms proficiency test.’
Battista’s internal phone bleeped.
‘One minute, Antonio.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Battista.’
He listened for a few moments. ‘Very well, Luciani, bring him to my office when he arrives.’
He replaced the handset.
‘Dottore Sibona is coming here in person to give his report on the dead boy. You may be interested to hear what he has to say, so please join us when you’re through with the MO and firearms examiner.’
TWENTY-TWO.
‘You don’t smoke, then.’
‘No.’
‘Drink?’
‘I take it you mean alcohol?’
The elderly, silver-haired man looked up with rheumy eyes, pale and placid behind bi-focal lenses.
‘Beer when the weather’s hot. Wine …. .’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a glass or two of wine a day.’
D’Angelo kept quiet. If the Medical Officer had asked him how much wine he drank, he would have been truthful and owned up to three or four glasses most evenings. Sometimes a whole litre. He wasn’t going to dispute that one or two glasses would be fine, if only he could stick to that limit. Along with most of his colleagues, D’Angelo thought these medical checks were a waste of time, especially with this particular MO. He had retired as a civilian doctor, though no-one was sure if that was due to age or ineptitude, and then he had become Medical Officer in the carabinieri. Even the civilian family doctors played a very dubious role, being well paid for merely referring patients to an appropriate specialist department in a hospital, causing chaos in the hospitals. Everyone knew the system was faulty, especially the heads of A&E in the hospitals, but like so many faulty systems in Italy, nobody seemed to be able to find a solution. People just shrugged their shoulders and said “that’s the way it is. It’s Italy”. D’Angelo accepted that routine medical checks were compulsory, so he remained acquiescent.
