Cry Wolf Page 10

  ‘You may be right,’ she conceded, wondering what he was hinting at.

  They were walking past a door when Donatella Pignatti pulled up sharply, as if she had just remembered something. ‘Would you care to see our new computer system? It’s a recent investment of which I am extremely proud.’

  The word Archive was written on a piece of A4 paper in blue marker pen.

  She knocked on the frosted glass door. No one answered, which wasn’t surprising, as nobody had yet been appointed to begin the digitalization of a massive handwritten day-by-day archive which recorded more than seven hundred years of local administrative history. Computer boffins were ten-a-penny, but it was hard to find one who could cope with the dog-Latin text that had been in use until the middle of the eighteenth century.

  ‘This should do fine,’ she murmured, raising her hand to her lips. It sounded more like a cough than a sentence.

  General Corsini glanced up and down the corridor, then nodded.

  ‘There are computers in here that anyone would envy,’ she said out loud.

  They stepped inside a room that was lined with shelves full of ancient folders and registers. The air was dry and dusty, heavy with the tang of leather and rotting unturned pages.

  She closed the door and turned to face the general. ‘You frightened me back there,’ she said, her smile more relaxed and natural than before. ‘If somebody is spying on us, I wish you’d tell me whether he’s an enemy of yours or an enemy of mine.’

  ‘Let’s not talk of enemies,’ Corsini said. ‘The important thing is to provide no motive for anyone to see things in a different light. Don’t tell me that there aren’t hidden microphones in your office, because I won’t believe you.’

  ‘We don’t record conversations …’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of your office practice,’ he said.

  There was frequent talk of bugging in the building. Mostly it was joking, but there were people who took it seriously. ‘What would they record?’ she asked him. ‘The gossip of secretaries, the rubbish that Mr X tells Mr Y, who passes it on to Mr Z?’

  At the same time, she always spoke of business and politics as if there were unseen ears listening to every word she said. On that score, frequent swearing was guaranteed to enhance her reputation as a tough nut, if nothing else.

  ‘Is that what you’ve come to tell me?’ She put her hands flat on a desk and leaned close to a computer screen, as if she were reading data. Corsini placed one hand on top of the screen and inclined his head towards hers, as if he were reading the same thing on the same blank screen.

  ‘We cannot stay here long without raising suspicion,’ he said, ‘so let me begin. There are investigations under way on your account regarding contracts you have signed in the last twelve months and others you are about to approve. At a guess, I’d say that you are looking at eight to ten years in prison and the end of a promising political career. Especially now that they have found the clincher.’

  Donatella Pignatti could hardly breathe. ‘Clincher?’

  ‘A shell company that leads back to your husband and, thus, to you. A holding company that owns the land on which a certain university department is soon to be built, along with three halls of residence, a shopping centre, staff apartments, a sports centre, an Olympic-size swimming-pool … Do I need to go on?’

  Donatella Pignatti turned on him with fire on her tongue, her eyes ablaze.

  General Corsini held up his hand. ‘Don’t,’ he warned her. ‘I have copies of the documents in my briefcase. You may insist on seeing the evidence, but I am certain that you already know the details. So, let’s be civil. You are safe until a magistrate decides to move on it. Or until you beat them to the punch.’

  ‘I didn’t know that we were living in a police state.’

  Corsini smiled and clicked his tongue. ‘You do me wrong,’ he said. ‘You know who I am. You know what I do. And this is Italy. Nothing regarding politics or politicians rests for very long in the hands of the magistrate who chances on the case. That is, if the news is permitted to circulate. That’s why I am here. We must work together to ensure that it does not get out.’

  ‘Will you put the cuffs on my wrists?’ Her voice was brittle, though she managed a brave smile. ‘You are famed for your high-profile performances, General Corsini. Live TV, bright lights, a show for the folks at home. The dashing hero who rushes in to rescue Italy – the poor damsel in dire distress.’

  ‘Forgive me, President Pignatti,’ he said. ‘I do not think that your arrest would be prime-time watching. It wouldn’t even make the headlines.’ He pulled a wry, lopsided grin. ‘You know as well as I do that, for the moment at least, you are just a large fish in a very small pond. Local news for the local papers. That means page twenty-two in Corriere della Sera or the national dailies. However, we can make the front page together …’

  The door opened a fraction, and a head peeped into the room.

  President Pignatti spoke up loudly: ‘The archive will soon be available to the public, historians and researchers.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me, President,’ a voice said, ‘I didn’t realize—’

  ‘This is not a place to smoke, I’ve told you before!’ she shouted.

  The door closed quietly and she bent close to Corsini again. ‘But you are a national figure,’ she said in a determined whisper, ‘a high-ranking carabiniere officer who is often in the public eye. This small pond evidently means something to you. Let me ask you a question. Are you trying to blackmail me?’

  Corsini stifled a laugh by feigning a cough.

  ‘If I request to speak with you in private, and in a room where we will not be overheard, you must realize that I am not attempting to entrap you. Indeed, I am offering my hand to pull you out of the hole that you have dug for yourself. A very deep and dangerous hole, I would add. I also know that you have been the object of … unwanted attention, let’s say: anonymous threats, things stuffed through your letterbox, or left in full view on your doorstep …’

  ‘Is my private life an open book?’ she said.

  ‘You can be certain of it. You opened the door one day and found the body of a chicken without its head. You told your secretary. Ten days later, you opened the door again and found the body of a cat. You found the head, too. They were lying on the welcome mat a foot apart in a pool of blood. The next day, the phone calls started. It’s all in here,’ he said, indicating his briefcase. ‘It would be hard to explain why you didn’t report the situation to the authorities. You should have come to somebody like me. Still, I have taken it on myself to make sure that you don’t get into similar scrapes. After all, we have your splendid political career to think of, don’t we?’

  ‘Why would you help me?’ Donatella Pignatti threw a cocktail of a glance at him: equal shots of fear and hope, a cube of ice and a shot of bitters.

  Corsini saw the victim’s head on the block, waiting for the axe to fall. ‘We need to confront an enemy together, President Pignatti.’

  ‘Which enemy are you talking of?’

  ‘An enemy that we can defeat. Our victory will warn the others that we are to be feared. It’s an ancient strategy of war, dear lady. Find an opponent you can annihilate and the others will think twice before they attack again.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about military tactics, General Corsini. It’s hard to apply them to the world of politics.’

  ‘The Art of War by Sun Tzu is a book that every politician should read.’

  The Queen arched her plucked eyebrows. ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she said. Then she tried to bluff. ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea what we are talking about.’

  Corsini smiled, but not a trace of it appeared on his lips. ‘I know what is happening in your region,’ he said. ‘A river of money is flowing through your office as a result of the earthquake. You will create an army of enemies who would give the world to lay their hands on the information in my briefcase …’

  ‘Is that what you are doing?’ she s
aid. ‘Using what you know to threaten me?’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t care what you do, but you and I must work together on a project that I hold dear. There is a battle I must win. And you’ll win, too, by helping me. I want your full cooperation. You’ll put no obstacles in my way. The State must triumph. Always. You and I represent the State …’

  ‘What are you asking me?’

  ‘I am not asking, I’m telling you. Don’t you want to be on the winning side?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  General Corsini smiled. ‘Would you believe me if I said you did? What I propose is a victorious collaboration which will be to the advantage of both of us. One day, when you have risen to the top of the ladder, I may presume to ask a favour, I hope?’

  The Queen’s face reminded Corsini of his six-year-old niece when he read her a fairytale and she asked him if he thought Prince Charming would save the Sleeping Beauty.

  ‘What do I have to do?’ the president asked.

  As General Corsini took the lift down to the ground floor, Donatella Pignatti caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a plate-glass door. The visit had turned out better than she could have imagined. This stranger had brought her a string of pearls.

  The fact that he wasn’t handsome made no difference. Pearls?

  Someone else would soon be shedding tears.

  NINETEEN

  Lunchtime, the same day

  ‘False move, Seb.’

  Cangio’s fingers froze on her flesh. ‘Eh?’

  She raised herself on her elbows and looked him in the eye. ‘Do you call that a caress? It may put me to sleep but it sure isn’t going to turn me on. What’s bugging you? We’re in bed together!’

  Cangio opened his mouth to speak, but he knew that she was right.

  ‘You called me,’ she protested. ‘What a romantic tryst this turned out to be!’

  He had phoned her that morning, halfway through his patrol of the western perimeter of the park. ‘I’ll be home for lunch, if you fancy stopping by.’

  ‘Lunch?’ she’d said with a wry laugh. They met during her lunchbreak whenever they could manage it. The supermarket closed at one o’clock, and it opened again at four. ‘What have you got in the fridge?’

  There was stale bread, and not much else.

  Loredana had laughed. ‘Stocked up for seduction, as usual! I’ll bring the groceries, but you’d better make it worth my while. Lunch sounds fine, but I fancy something a bit … you know, spicier to finish off with.’

  He had played dumb. ‘Ice cream?’

  He’d been thinking about her all morning, eager for lunch and even keener for the dessert, but Marzio Diamante had phoned him the minute he got home. Marzio had been patrolling the other side of the park that morning, up on the mountains overlooking the town.

  A body had been found outside the village of San Bartolomeo sul Monte.

  Two minutes later, Loredana had come bustling into the kitchen, armed to the teeth with a farmhouse loaf, a bag of San Marzano tomatoes, two mozzarella cheeses the size of cannonballs, a bottle of Farchioni extra-virgin olive oil and a bottle of Trebbiano white wine.

  ‘Let’s get lunch out of the way,’ she’d said with a grin.

  She’d set to work with a sharp knife, sliced the cheese and tomatoes, laid them out in two tiers, red on white, added a sprinkle of salt and pepper, a sprig of fresh basil that she crushed with her fingers, then finished it off with a generous lashing of Farchioni’s finest olive oil.

  ‘God’s gift to the working girl!’ she’d said as she laid lunch on the table.

  The Caprese salad had been delicious enough to distract him for five minutes. But then he’d started to think again about what Marzio had told him.

  The body had been pushed into the cleft of a rock …

  ‘Hey, cowboy!’ Loredana’s lips had pressed against his. A trace of olive was there, and he’d licked at it. ‘It’s time for dessert.’

  ‘Mm, that oil is tasty!’

  Three minutes later, they were naked in bed. He’d lost himself inside her, and the time flew by. They dozed for a while – she’d been working flat out all morning – then she’d woken him up, they’d kissed, and it had started all over again. At a certain point, she’d skipped out of bed. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she’d said. A minute later, she’d returned with the bottle of olive oil. ‘This stuff is amazing on your skin,’ she’d said, dribbling a few drops into the palm of her hand and rubbing it into his chest, moving slowly downwards.

  Another five minutes had gone by.

  ‘Now, it’s your turn,’ she’d said, rolling on to her front.

  That was when she’d pulled him up on his caress, and his hand had stopped moving.

  Now she rolled back on her shoulder and looked at him. ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  He took a lock of her hair and wound it around his finger. ‘There was an earthquake last night. Did you feel it?’

  ‘It couldn’t have been very big,’ she said. ‘I slept like a log. But everyone was talking about it in the store this morning. So what? This is Umbria. Earthquakes happen here all the time.’

  ‘At San Bartolomeo sul Monte. It was big enough to spew a man out of a rock.’

  Her brown eyes opened wide. ‘A man? Out of a what?’

  ‘The remains of a man …’

  ‘Oooh, spooky!’ she said.

  ‘Marzio spoke to a farmer up there. It was quite a sight, apparently. A body jammed deep into a crevice, a skeletal leg sticking up in the air. The carabinieri were there.’

  Loredana frowned at him. ‘Do they know who he is?’

  Cangio shrugged. ‘Not yet …’ He leant close and kissed her. ‘He’d been shot in the head, Marzio said. A big gun at close quarters, by the sound of it.’

  Then he caught one of her nipples between his lips and sucked on it gently.

  ‘Hey, lunch is over!’ she said, but she didn’t pull away, instead leaning closer, her hand sliding down to the pit of his stomach, moving gently, making the most of the olive oil that remained. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone being killed around here before,’ she murmured.

  ‘Has anyone gone missing?’

  She pulled a face at him. ‘Do we have to talk about bodies?’

  Cangio wasn’t listening. ‘They should find out who he was from the DNA.’

  ‘Why are you so interested?’ she said. ‘You’ve got this body to work on …’

  ‘A man shot through the forehead, then they push him down a hole? In Umbria?’ he said. ‘As if …’ He hesitated. Did he need to unload his worries on to her?

  ‘As if what?’ she pushed him.

  ‘Where I come from,’ he said, ‘people often disappear.’

  Cangio saw the look of impatience on her face. ‘That’s Calabria,’ she said. ‘This is Umbria. Um-bri-a! Things like that don’t happen up here.’

  ‘But it did happen,’ he said. ‘It happened in San Bartolomeo.’

  ‘And you start thinking straight away about the Mafia.’

  Cangio smiled. ‘The Mafia’s from Sicily. In Calabria we have the ’Ndrangheta. The ’Ndrangheta are much more dangerous …’

  ‘You sound sexy when you say it like that.’ She laughed, trying to imitate him, growling out, ‘’Ndrangheta, ’Ndrangheta.’

  He could never have imagined telling any of the girls in London about the ’Ndrangheta. They weren’t interested in what you were thinking. They were interested in one thing only: what you had inside your pants.

  ‘There’s nothing sexy about a criminal organization that murders people,’ he said. ‘They make an estimated forty billion euros tax-free every year out of drugs, slot-machines, violence and prostitution. And now they are going legit, ploughing their dirty money into business and investments all over the country. Nobody says no to easy money, especially when they point a pistol in your face.’

  Loredana laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him towards her. ‘Is that what
happened to you, Seb? Did they stick a pistol in your face?’

  He stared into her eyes. ‘I saw them kill a man, Loredana. I was a witness. That’s why I ran away to London. Which makes me a coward, I guess.’

  ‘Forty billion euros,’ Loredana whispered. ‘What do they do with it? I mean to say, you can’t just walk into the Post Office and say you’d like to deposit forty billion euros.’

  ‘Forget the Post Office,’ he said. ‘There are banks in difficulty, businesses in trouble – they never refuse a helping hand, a much-needed investment. They don’t ask where the money comes from. The ’Ndrangheta never stops making cash, and they need somewhere to hide it. There are plenty of people who are willing to help them.’

  Would she think he was trying to explain away his cowardice by telling her how powerful the mobsters were, and how weak he and others like him really were?

  ‘Who owns the supermarket where you work?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘The chain’s head office is in Bologna. They’ve got big stores all over the place. Are you trying to tell me that the Mafia … the ’Ndrangheta, is running the whole of Italy?’

  ‘Forty billion euros is more than a rich African state makes in a year,’ he said. ‘I bet you’ve never been to Crotone. It’s a small town down in Calabria. They found a man one day, and the police discovered that he had seven million euros in the bank. The money wasn’t his, though. He probably knew nothing about it.’

  Loredana’s eyes were wide open, staring at him. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘He was a dummy, a name. He could have bought the best hotel in town, yet he was sleeping under bridges, the richest tramp in the province. Nobody knew until the police ran his name through the computer and came across his deposits and withdrawals.’

  Loredana cupped her head in her hand. ‘Have you ever checked the banks to see how rich you might be?’

  Cangio laughed. ‘I haven’t, and I hope I’m not!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The tramp was dead when they found him. Maybe he’d discovered what was going on and they’d cut his throat.’

  ‘What about the money?’