The Cold Summer Page 17

  “Anyway, the idea of a pervert doesn’t fit in with the ransom demand. I can’t see some raging sex maniac planning to extort money from someone like Grimaldi, can you?”

  “A psychopath might do something like that.”

  “A psychopath meaning a crazy guy?”

  “A psychopath meaning someone with a personality disorder. Psychopaths aren’t crazy, they’re completely affectless – they don’t have any kind of feeling – and they’re manipulative. They think quite logically and they can rape, torture and kill without feeling even a smidgen of remorse. Serial killers, for example, are usually psychopaths.” Fenoglio broke off and smiled. “I’m playing teacher’s pet, aren’t I?”

  “You’re certainly playing the teacher. But I get the picture. Someone who’s really bad, maybe even a pervert, but may be intelligent. Someone who smiles at you while he’s cutting your balls off.”

  “Precisely. Books on criminology are full of stories about people like that. In theory it could fit.”

  “So?”

  “So, working on that hypothesis, it struck me that whoever it was can’t have been a beginner. It couldn’t have been the first time. To do something like that, apart from having the disposition, you’d need practice. You’d need to have done a kind of apprenticeship. In addition, to know who Grimaldi is – and to know that he can get together a lot of money in a short time – you’d need to be from the area. So I did a bit of research on local individuals with the appropriate records.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “I checked those with records for rape, indecent assault or indecent behaviour, and who were living in the north of Bari. A fairly arbitrary yardstick, not much more than random, I know. But I thought it was worth a try, like putting a chip on a number in roulette.”

  “How many did you find?”

  “Quite a few, at first sight. But on closer inspection, many were just flashers who hang around parks in the evening. Some had been sentenced for indecent assault, but they were isolated incidents a long time ago. Among those with more serious and repeated charges against them, some were in prison and others had moved to another area. In the end, I was left with two who might theoretically correspond to the profile.”

  “And did you check them out?”

  “Yes.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you get anyone to help you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I didn’t even believe in it myself.”

  “So what about these two?”

  “I went to see them. I wanted to look them in the face. One of them is half crazy, a complete maniac. Mentally retarded, and from a dysfunctional family. Sentenced twice for abusing children. You should have seen his apartment in the middle of a housing estate. He doesn’t have a licence, can’t drive, and with the best will it’s impossible to imagine that he was our man.”

  “And the other one?”

  “The other one I saw yesterday. He’s in a wheelchair, has been for years. He was accused of raping a little girl, but at the end of his trial he was acquitted and released. A few days later a group of people wearing hoods broke his back. Nobody knows who they were. He hasn’t walked since.”

  “I know the case. It’s not true that nobody knows who they were: it was the girl’s father and uncles, and they did the right thing. That was the last girl that piece of shit raped.”

  “I appreciate your concern for civil rights.”

  “Fucking justice. Anything else?”

  “I thought of looking at the lightning kidnappings.”

  “That thing the snitch told us about?”

  “The snitch?”

  “Lopez.”

  “Now I remember why you and I never talked much.”

  “I need a double espresso.”

  “So do I. Then we have to go and see someone.”

  2

  They both had double espressos in cappuccino cups at the Bar Riviera. Pellecchia put in three spoonfuls of sugar and two of cream.

  “Where are we going?” he asked as they left the bar.

  “The Libertà district, to talk to a friend.”

  A few minutes later they were in the bottle-green Arna which nobody apart from Fenoglio wanted to use any more.

  “This car is really crap,” Pellecchia said, fiddling with the faulty window handle. “The worst ever.”

  “You’re forgetting the Fiat Duna.”

  “You’re right. The Duna was the shittiest model ever. This comes second on the list of shittiness. What’s the address?”

  “Via Pizzoli. There’s a leisure centre —”

  “The Albino’s place?”

  “You know the Albino?”

  “Who doesn’t? If he’s the one you’re talking to, it’s best if I don’t go in with you. We’ve had … a bit of a misunderstanding. Maybe if I’m there he’ll feel uncomfortable and won’t be so ready to talk.”

  Fenoglio was about to reply, then realized that Pellecchia – whatever his misunderstanding with the Albino – was right.

  “Okay. Wait for me in the car. I won’t be long. I’m just testing the waters.”

  Vito Marasciulo, alias the Albino, had started out as a burglar, but having once been arrested thanks to his very white hair being recognized “beyond a shadow of a doubt” by a witness, he had decided that for someone like him it was more sensible to stay with the backroom jobs. So he had devoted himself, profitably, to high-class fencing and the running of gambling dens. Every now and again, he was arrested and spent short spells in prison: a kind of business expense he accepted without complaint. He was highly respected, even though he had never been a Mafioso. He had refused – taking care not to offend anyone – all proposals for affiliation that had been made to him over the years.

  Few things happened in certain circles, in Bari and the surrounding area, that the Albino didn’t know about, or couldn’t find out about.

  His acquaintance with Fenoglio went back several years.

  A patrol car had stopped a young man on a moped who had been weaving in and out among the people in Via Sparano, a pedestrian street. They had confiscated his vehicle, and he had flown into a rage and insulted the carabinieri. They hadn’t taken it well. The young man, who was the Albino’s son, had been bundled into the car and taken to the station. They were giving him a lesson when Fenoglio had arrived and made them stop. The next day the Albino had come by to thank the marshal, telling him that in future, whatever he needed, he would be at his disposal.

  They parked on Piazza Garibaldi. Fenoglio got out, noticing one of the Albino’s men keeping an eye on the situation from the corner of Via Pizzoli. Obviously, the man noticed Fenoglio, too: it was his job. The marshal walked over unhurriedly. At the entrance to the centre stood a man with broad shoulders, a prominent belly and disproportionately large, calloused knuckles. Fenoglio couldn’t recall seeing him before.

  “Is Vito around?”

  It wasn’t this man who replied, but a hoarse voice from inside.

  “Good morning, marshal. I was just going to get a coffee. Want to come with me?”

  One coffee at home when he woke up; another on his way to work; the double espresso with Pellecchia just earlier. This would be the fifth, and it was only 10.30.

  “Sure.”

  The Albino came outside into the sunlight. An unfamiliar situation: they always met indoors, in badly lit rooms that stank of smoke. The back rooms of gambling dens, storage closets, dubious offices. The Albino was a creature of the dark.

  They set off in the direction of Via Napoli. The man with the knuckles made to follow them, but the Albino stopped him with a gesture of the hand.

  Outside the bar there was a small group of young men having a heated argument in dialect. When Fenoglio and the Albino arrived, they fell silent and stood aside to let them pass.

  “We’ll sit in the back,” the Albino said to the barman.

  “What can I get you?”

&
nbsp; “Coffee and brandy for me. You, marshal?”

  “Coffee without brandy.”

  The back of the bar was clearly not intended for the public. There was a single table with two chairs; around it, crates of beer and boxes of snacks. Beyond the back door could be glimpsed a yard with dirty walls and peeling plaster. There was a vague smell of cats.

  The barman brought the coffee and the brandy. The Albino poured half a glassful of brandy into his cup and downed it all in one go.

  “How are you, marshal? I haven’t seen you in a while.” “We’ve been busy.”

  The Albino nodded. “I know. You’ve been making a lot of people angry.”

  Fenoglio thought he detected a hint of anxiety in the Albino’s voice. He decided to ignore it.

  “You know what the problem is?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “That you’ve arrested Grimaldi and all those bastards of his. People who aren’t worth a damn. They call themselves men of honour, men of omertà, and their mouths are full of words like respect, but they’re just lousy drug dealers, although instead of pushing the odd sachet on street corners they deal in large quantities. Plus, they’re butchers, they like killing people. You did the right thing arresting them, but you know what everyone’s saying?”

  “What?”

  “They’re saying that now Palese, Santo Spirito and Enziteto are wide open. That’s all anyone is thinking about: what do we have to do to take these places over now that Grimaldi’s inside?”

  “And who is going to take them over?”

  The Albino shrugged. “Some guys who were affiliated in prison, who say they’re sgarristas, santistas, all that bullshit. I don’t know, but every time someone gets taken out, those who come after him are always worse. With coke you’ll never win, it’s impossible. It’s like sex: there’ll always be people who want to sell it because there’ll always be other people who want to buy it. The only solution is to make it legal. But nobody will ever dare do that. Coke suits everyone, the underworld and the cops. With coke, cops are never afraid they’ll end up unemployed. I don’t know if I’m making sense. Maybe I’m just too old. One day, one of those people will even come to me and ask me to pay protection. What should I do then?”

  “What should you do?”

  “I’m not going to pay those bastards. Either I get them shot, but then that’ll start a war that’ll end with me or one of my family being killed, or else I pack up and leave. Once you start to pay, you’re dead. I’m staying here as long as people respect me and don’t ask me for anything. The day I see one of those fucking killers come to my house and ask for money, I’ll know it’ll be time to shut up shop.”

  From the breast pocket of his shirt he took a packet of filtered Nazionali and lit one.

  “How old are you, Vito?”

  “Fifty-two.” After a few moments spent pondering that answer, as if he himself were surprised by how old he was, he yelled at the barman to bring him another brandy.

  The barman materialized with a small rounded glass full of liquor. After placing it on the table, he whispered something in the Albino’s ear. The Albino gave a slight smile.

  “So, what do you need?” he said, looking Fenoglio in the eyes.

  “You know about Grimaldi’s son, don’t you?”

  The Albino was unable to hold back an expression of disgust.

  “You know Lopez says it wasn’t them.”

  “I know. I’ve read the newspapers.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “No. True, he admitted to those murders, but it may just be that he’s ashamed about the boy. It’s a nasty business. Do you believe him?”

  “Maybe, yes. And anyway, there’s nothing that points to them. I have to look elsewhere.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “You can help me find someone who was kidnapped, paid the ransom and didn’t report it.”

  The Albino stubbed his cigarette out on the floor – there were no ashtrays on the table – and knocked back his drink. “Even if I find him, what are you going to do with him? People who’ve been kidnapped will never say anything. They’re shit-scared, quite rightly.”

  “I’m not interested in getting a statement from them. I just need to hear what happened, to get some kind of lead. Find me someone, and I’ll deal with it.”

  The Albino sighed, his expression filled with scepticism. “You won’t get anything. You’re deluding yourself. As far as I’m concerned, it was Lopez and those other two sons of bitches.”

  Fenoglio didn’t reply.

  “Okay, I’ll try and find them. But I’m not guaranteeing anything.”

  “Thanks, Vito.”

  “Do you have a mobile phone?”

  “They’re too expensive.”

  “A lot of your colleagues have them. Do they earn more than you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Will you be at the station this evening?”

  “If you tell me you’re coming, I’ll be there.”

  “Around eight. I repeat: I’m not guaranteeing anything.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Marshal?”

  “Yes?”

  “You can tell Corporal Pellecchia I don’t bear a grudge. If another time he wants to come in with you, he can come. He doesn’t need to wait in the car.”

  3

  “Hot, isn’t it?”

  “It’s summer.”

  “What about the Albino?”

  “He told me to tell you that he doesn’t bear you any grudge.”

  “How did he know I was here? I parked two blocks away.”

  Fenoglio shrugged.

  The Arna moved laboriously through the traffic. A moped with a noisy exhaust, ridden by two youths who were trying to look tough, overtook them on the right and slipped between the queueing cars. Pellecchia stared at them with the absent, dangerous look of an old cat watching two stupid mice come too close.

  “You never told me what your problem was with the Albino.”

  “Once, many years ago, during a search, I slapped him in front of his kids. I shouldn’t have, but sometimes I can’t help myself. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, I do. And how did he react?”

  “He didn’t. But he didn’t look happy about it. I was careful for months after that. I was almost certain he’d make me pay for it one way or another.”

  “But nothing happened.”

  “No, nothing happened.”

  “It’s not the Albino’s style, doing something to an officer. He’s old-school, he knows there’s no point and it causes nothing but trouble.”

  Pellecchia didn’t reply. He started whistling a tune, perhaps without realizing it. He turned into Corso Cavour from Via Putignani and put the cigar in his mouth. “What now? Back to the station?” From outside, someone launched an oath directed at someone else’s dead relative.

  “I think so. What do you want to do?”

  Pellecchia looked at his watch. “It’s nearly one. Let’s go to Torre a Mare and have something to eat. A friend of mine has a trattoria there where they make incredible spaghetti with sea urchins.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  Pellecchia let a few seconds go by, to see if Fenoglio added anything. “You think I don’t pay in restaurants,” he said at last.

  Fenoglio breathed noisily. That was precisely what he’d been thinking.

  “All right, sometimes I don’t pay. They’re friends, there’s nothing wrong if every now and again they offer me lunch or dinner. Sometimes it’s on the house, sometimes I pay. With a bit of a discount, but I pay.”

  Fenoglio wondered whether to deliver his eloquent speech about the fact that a public servant, particularly a law enforcement officer, shouldn’t eat for free in restaurants.

  He decided not to. It was a period of great confusion, better to drop the moralizing. Not to mention the fact that he could do with a good dish of spaghetti with sea urchins accompanied by a bottle of chilled white w
ine.

  “All right, let’s go. Does your friend’s restaurant have a car park?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because I wouldn’t like us to park a service car on the street, have our spaghetti with sea urchins, and then discover that someone has taken it for a spin.”

  The trattoria faced the little harbour of Torre a Mare with its fishermen’s boats. It had nets hanging on the walls, a counter of fresh fish and an unauthorized veranda.

  Predictably, they didn’t limit themselves to the spaghetti with sea urchins. Pellecchia’s friend – his name was Franco and his head was bound in a knotted handkerchief that made him look like a pirate – said they really had to try the fried fish and the mussels au gratin. Then they really had to try the ice cream affogato. Then, of course, they really had to try the almond pastries and the homemade rosolio.

  “I’ve never asked you, do you live alone?” Fenoglio said, pouring himself a little more wild fennel liqueur.

  “Every now and again I sleep over at my girlfriend’s place, but I have my own apartment. It was my parents’, I have all my work things there.”

  “Your work things?”

  “I like doing woodwork.” Then, as if to overcome a hint of embarrassment: “I have a big room that I use as my workshop. Agnese isn’t even allowed inside.”

  “Are you happy, Tonino?”

  Pellecchia didn’t seem surprised by the question. “I don’t know what that means exactly. But I don’t think I’ve ever been unhappy. I should remember, shouldn’t I?”

  Fenoglio laughed. “Yes, I suppose you should.”

  “Maybe I’m not sophisticated enough to feel sad. I don’t think much. In my opinion, it’s thinking too much that makes people unhappy.”

  It was a throwaway sentence, but Fenoglio took it seriously, thought it over as if looking for a hidden meaning.

  A car pulled up close to the entrance of the restaurant. Its windows were down and the stereo was blaring out a Neapolitan song by Carmelo Zappulla at full volume. Pellecchia turned in the direction of the noise and narrowed his eyes.