Think Wolf Page 17

  He pointed to a bottle of beer on the next table, and she turned away and left him in peace. He opened the menu, glanced at the indecipherable Chinese characters and meaningless English words, and hoped the ranger would decide to leave before he needed to order anything.

  Cangio was sitting at a table on a dais, talking with a Chinese man.

  What was that all about, Ettore wondered.

  An old friend?

  He wondered if the Chinese would be attending Cangio’s funeral.

  FORTY-ONE

  The chicken stuck like a ball in Cangio’s throat.

  He tried to cough the lump into the palm of his hand, but it wouldn’t come.

  His heart was pumping in places where it shouldn’t be pumping. It throbbed in his forehead, pounded in his ears, while his chest was a dead zone, lungs blocked, neither rising nor falling.

  A fist hit him hard in the ribs – Mister Butterfly’s cure for a blocked oesophagus – and he managed to swallow and clear his throat.

  ‘The truffled chicken was a bit dry,’ Cangio apologised, his eyes watering, his face bright red as his breathing came back. ‘That was quite a punch.’

  The little man grinned as a waiter came running with a carafe of water. Cangio gulped down air, then followed it with water. Imagine choking to death with your would-be assassin looking on as you did the job for him.

  He was probably safe while he was in the restaurant …

  He remembered Soverato beach.

  He wasn’t safe, at all. That day, the ’Ndrangheta killer had walked down a beach full of children and parents, stuck a pistol in the face of a man who was sleeping beneath a sunshade, and pulled the trigger five times in front of hundreds of witnesses.

  While he’d been choking, a different scene had flashed before his eyes.

  It happened to people who were about to die, they said, and now he knew that it was true. They saw the past like a slide show, all the memorable moments in their lives flashed before them in the blinking of an eye.

  London, the year before.

  He’d be in another restaurant, an Indian one.

  There was a way to get out of there alive.

  If he’d had his pistol, he wouldn’t have thought twice.

  Pistols make a lot of noise. They frighten people. No man in his right mind tries to stop a man with a gun. He could have walked up and stuck it in the ranger’s face, and everyone would have jumped out of the way. Out in the street, he could lose himself in the crowd in no time. But his gun was in Umbria. He might have got it through the control gate in the tiny airport of Assisi, but there was no way of knowing what might happen in terrorist-struck London.

  Still, lack of a gun wasn’t going to save the ranger.

  He had killed people in lots of ways.

  He’d have to improvise, wouldn’t he?

  He was looking around for a decent weapon when the rumpus began.

  Cangio turned the table over.

  Plates, knives, forks and glasses went flying.

  He opened his mouth and started to shout.

  All eyes turned, everyone watching him.

  Mister Butterfly’s eyes almost popped with shocked incomprehension as the dinner plopped into his lap. Dark-eyed waiters, blue-eyed customers. Eyes of every colour from every country on the planet were on him.

  ‘This food is shit!’ Cangio yelled like a Friday-night drunk. ‘And as for these truffles …’

  A waiter, braver than most, came running around the table to restrain him and Cangio punched him square on the jaw.

  Next thing, the place was jumping.

  Ettore cursed.

  What the fuck was the bastard doing?

  In two seconds, he had turned the place into a mad circus.

  Half a dozen waiters and waitresses closed in on Cangio’s table.

  He could see the ranger standing on the dais, a head taller than any of Mister Butterfly’s employees, his fists raised, threatening to punch anyone who came near him. The old man was wiping off his shiny suit with a white table napkin, looking like he was heading for a major heart seizure.

  The waitress dumped a bottle of beer on Ettore’s table, then ran out into the street.

  He leant across, grabbed a razor-sharp meat knife from a tray of cutlery on the table by the door, sat down again. If Cangio tried to break out through the door, he’d be walking straight on to the blade.

  A hard jolt struck his shoulder, knocking Ettore aside.

  Two British bobbies in helmets and riot vests came charging into the restaurant.

  He was thrown for a moment. He’d missed his chance. He’d be crazy to try anything while the cops were there.

  He watched as Cangio held up his hands in surrender. The coppers grabbed his wrists, then they walked him towards the door and the street. They were no more than three steps apart, when Ettore saw the ghost of a smile on the ranger’s lips.

  Ettore slipped the knife into his pocket and followed them outside.

  ‘What’s all this about then, chum?’

  They were standing in the street outside the restaurant. The policeman who had spoken had a chubby face, red cheeks, dark freckles and piercing green eyes.

  Cangio didn’t say a word to explain himself.

  He wanted to be arrested, wanted to be driven fast and safe out of Soho in the back of a Black Maria. He would have liked nothing better than to be locked up in a police cell for the night. To have the chance of speaking with a senior officer, explain what he was doing in London, asking him to phone Perugia and confirm what he had said with the RCS captains. It was a golden opportunity. Anything was better than dying.

  The other bobby leant close, sniffed his breath. ‘It’s the drink. You can smell it. He’s been drinking something fancy, if you ask me.’

  Cangio could have told them it was the stink of Chinese truffles, but he didn’t.

  ‘He doesn’t look drunk to me,’ the first one said. ‘What’s your name?’

  Cangio pulled out his passport, showed it to the man.

  ‘Italian, are you? On your own? There’s worse trouble than him knocking around tonight,’ the bobby said to his mate. He handed Cangio his passport back, watched him put it away in his jacket. ‘I bet the grub was lousy, right? Go on, then, piss off, will you.’

  The other man flared up. ‘Are you letting him go?’

  ‘He got his free meal, didn’t he? Go on, fuck off!’

  The policeman turned away, and his mate went after him.

  Cangio found himself standing alone on the pavement.

  Facing the man with the lizard tattoo.

  Cangio turned and ran like hell.

  The ranger darted through the crowd, head down, feinting left and right, nippy as a mountain goat, but keeping a straight line like a rugby player heading for the try line.

  Ettore wasn’t used to running, he could barely keep up. Physical exercise was something you did in jail. The crowd was getting thicker too, more people pouring into Chinatown all the time, heading for the restaurants.

  Ettore thought he’d lost him, then he caught sight of the ranger.

  There was heavy traffic on the main road.

  Ettore saw him stop, look back, then dart across the road and down a staircase.

  FORTY-TWO

  If wolves had been so dumb, they’d be extinct.

  He was running down the wrong escalator staircase.

  Instead of heading up to Angel via the Piccadilly line on a train full of people going to a place full of pubs, cinemas and restaurants, he was on the Bakerloo line heading south. Away from the city centre, far from the crowds, and into an area that was an abandoned no man’s land by night once you left the roundabout and the buses behind.

  Fear had forced him into making an error.

  He heard sharp footsteps on the moving metal stairs above him, a train pulling in on the track below. He leapt the last few steps, then raced down the platform alongside the emptying carriages, only hopping on the Tube the insta
nt the doors let out a hiss as they got ready to shut.

  He caught his breath, then turned around.

  Lizard Man was in the carriage behind him, staring at him through the plate glass of the dividing door, watching his every move, like a snake closing in on a cornered prey before it struck the fatal blow.

  If he had come to London with murder in mind, he must be armed. With a gun, perhaps. He must have had friends at Assisi airport to smuggle a weapon on to an aeroplane. Did he have friends in London, too, who might be supplying backup?

  And yet, the man seemed to be alone.

  Then another thought flashed through his mind.

  Did Lizard Man know London better than he did?

  As the train picked up speed and rocked on the rails, he wondered why the ’Ndrangheta hadn’t tried to kill him in Umbria. Had they been too busy taking care of Marzio, Maria Gatti and anyone else who had stood in the way of what they were doing?

  And had his own turn now arrived?

  As the train braked hard and rattled into Embankment, the Lizard Man stepped out quickly onto the platform, blocking his escape, one hand holding onto the open door while he waited for Cangio to make a move, jumping back on the train as the doors hissed and it prepared to depart.

  If he had a gun, why didn’t he use it?

  The same thing happened at Waterloo, and again at Lambeth North, a sort of cat-and-mouse contest, Lizard Man taunting him, daring him to make a run for it, while he hung back, unwilling to take the risk.

  Was the killer nervous about using a weapon on the Underground, afraid of being caught on an empty platform, alone with a corpse and the smoking gun in his hand?

  The tannoy sounded, and a tinny voice filled the near-empty carriage: This train will terminate at Elephant & Castle.

  Was that the plan?

  Get him to Elephant and Castle, then terminate him?

  Three minutes later, the train pulled in at the end of the line. Lizard Man darted out onto the platform and took up his blocking position again, as if expecting the train to depart.

  Hadn’t he heard the announcement?

  Or hadn’t he understood it?

  Cangio took his chance – he could only go left – and found himself running in the direction of the yellow Way Out sign.

  Had Lizard Man been dreaming?

  Or was he a stranger in London?

  He was halfway up the escalator before he risked a look back.

  The hunter was down at the bottom of the staircase. He had paused, looking around as if to find his bearings, then spotted him.

  Cangio sprinted upwards, onwards, for the street.

  Elephant and Castle.

  Exits east, west and south.

  He knew the area a bit, but not that well.

  Which exit had he taken when he was working at Death Row?

  That was what another Italian dishboy had called the greasy spoon where Cangio had survived for a couple of weeks after arriving in London the first time. He had spent his time washing dishes all day long in water that was never hot and rarely changed, wiping cups and plates with a dishcloth that stood up on its own without any help. The place might still exist, though by now it would be closed for the day.

  South?

  He heard footsteps closing in, and dashed in that direction, hoping to lose the Lizard Man in the maze of pedestrian tunnels.

  If he could just manage to skip on a bus.

  He’d sometimes taken the number twelve to the West End after work, though plenty of bus routes passed through Elephant and Castle. Any bus would do, a bus going anywhere, just so long as it carried him away and left Lizard Man behind without a ride.

  Panic drove all memories out of his head.

  He ran for his life.

  He had to keep Cangio in sight.

  He had no idea where they were.

  The ranger had an advantage on him there. He’d lived in London.

  Cangio pushed his ticket through the electronic barrier, kept on running.

  Ettore vaulted the barrier, kept on chasing, despite the shout behind him, ‘Oi, you! Where’s your bloody ticket!’

  Was that why Don Michele hadn’t trusted him after the killing at Soverato beach? ‘You’ll get yourself in trouble,’ the don had told him when he’d offered to follow the ranger to London and kill him there. ‘Wait ’til he comes home, Ettò, they always do.’

  Cangio went charging down a tunnel like a hare out of a trap, and Ettore went after him.

  Did Cangio have friends in that part of town? Was that the plan? A place to disappear? If he lost the ranger now, he was in trouble, and he knew it. Don Michele would crush him like an insect. Lose the ranger, he wouldn’t be going home.

  He’d have no home to go to.

  He had to get closer.

  One jab with the knife he’d nicked from the Chinese restaurant, a sharp thrust into the small of his back, pushing up towards the ranger’s lungs and heart, and that was that.

  Desperation was driving him, he was gaining ground.

  Use the knife, he told himself, there’d be nothing to be desperate about.

  FORTY-THREE

  Cangio broke into the fading daylight, streetlights fighting the gloom.

  And there was Death Row – Giovanni’s Cafeteria, the sign proudly proclaimed.

  Merda!

  He’d found the café, but the bus stop he wanted was on the far side of the roundabout.

  There were buses pulling in, others pulling away, but he was on the wrong side of the busy junction. He’d been hoping to jump on a bus that would take him back towards Trafalgar Square and Chinatown, leaving Lizard Man in the lurch.

  He hadn’t finished talking with Mister Butterfly.

  They still had more to tell each other …

  The killer came bursting out of the pedestrian walkway.

  Something glistened in his fist as the metal caught the light. There was no escape.

  Except …

  Instinct kicked in.

  A number twelve was approaching the bus stop.

  A tried and trusted friend. When he finished work at Death Row, he would climb aboard, say good evening to the driver, show his ticket, then add, ‘Take me home, Battista,’ as if the bus were a limousine, and the driver was his personal chauffeur.

  ‘Save my skin, Battista!’ he breathed quietly.

  There was a way. He’d done it before, vaulted the metal safety barrier and sprinted across the wide road, ignoring the traffic. Once he’d been hit by a man on a bicycle. ‘That’ll teach you!’ the cyclist had shouted. ‘Fucking pedestrians, you don’t know your arse from your tits!’

  Cangio didn’t hesitate.

  Think wolf!

  He followed his instincts.

  He was three metres short when the ranger jumped.

  Three metres short of ramming the knife into the ranger’s kidneys, and ending the farce. Once the blade sank home, it was a question of ripping with all your might, severing anything that got in the way until you hit something vital. The shock was always fatal. Then all he’d have to do was drop the knife, walk away and jump on the first bus that came along. Then take a taxi to the airport, and he’d be eating breakfast in Italy.

  But the ranger was gone.

  Ettore vaulted the guardrail in pursuit, glancing left, and then it hit him.

  In both senses.

  Fuck me, he thought in a moment of blind panic, that bus is going the wrong way.

  As the N133 came roaring round the corner on its way to Brixton, ‘Battista’ didn’t have time to hit the brakes.

  The noise was terrific.

  A loud thump, a clang of metal, the popping squelch of something bursting open.

  Brakes screeched and car horns blared as Cangio stopped and turned to see what had happened.

  There were people standing in front of the bus, fists to mouths, the driver covering his face with his hands.

  Cangio took a deep breath as he ran back across the road and stared down at th
e man who had been trying to kill him.

  Lizard Man lay twisted in the gutter, his body crushed beneath the nearside wheel, his neck now bent and broken, blood seeping from his nose and his ears, the blue tattoo replaced by a raw red gash.

  Then a mobile phone trilled in the dead man’s jacket.

  Cangio dropped down on one knee, pushed his hand into the Lizard Man’s pocket.

  ‘Hey!’ someone objected.

  ‘He’s Italian,’ Cangio said. ‘I speak Italian.’

  He checked the name on the display – Simone Candelora – and pressed the answer button.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’

  It had taken Ettore ages to answer the phone.

  ‘Is your battery flat, or something?’ Candelora shouted, his voice louder than usual, England being so far away.

  The sì that came back was barely audible.

  He wondered whether Ettore had been drinking.

  ‘I can’t find fucking Marra,’ Candelora growled, ‘but when I do, he’ll wish he’d never been born. I’ve looked all over for him. If he’s on the run, let’s hope he doesn’t find his way to the fucking carabinieri … Ettore, are you listening to me?’

  The silence lengthened.

  Ettore might be busy, hunting down the ranger.

  ‘Did you waste him in the restaurant, then?’

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘OK, then. Text me when you get to the airport.’

  Candelora ended the call and cursed. That twit was close to getting things dusted in London, a place he didn’t know, while he was stuck in the backwoods of fucking Umbria to no good purpose.

  If Marra talked, the entire operation was blown.

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  He had to find Marra.

  Fast.

  Cangio slipped the Lizard Man’s phone in his pocket.

  He put his hand on the shoulder of the bus driver. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said. ‘We all saw what happened. This man was Italian, a tourist. It was his first time in England, apparently; he didn’t know which way the traffic flows. An unlucky accident.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the driver murmured. ‘I’ve called the police. There were plenty of witnesses. I hope you’ll tell them what you saw?’