Death Brings Gold

CHAPTER 14

That morning the sky was grey and so was the city. A competition with no winners.

Walker was standing in front of the big window that from his office looked out onto an anonymous street. Bassani just stood there ,leaning against a wall.

The only audible noise within those four walls was caused by the little stick stirring his coffee. Regular, rhythmic, it was accompanying the Inspector’s thoughts. It was almost a ritual: stirring his coffee, sucking the stick, drinking the scalding mixture all in one breath. And, finally, nibbling the plastic stick. It helped him to relieve the tension. Now that was indeed a good trick to postpone for as long as possible the lighting of a cigarette.

He had almost blended completely with the grey backdrop when a knock- knock, followed by Zambetti’s voice, announced the arrival of Mrs Pilenga.

“Good morning,” said the woman faintly.

“Good morning, Mrs Pilenga,” answered the Inspector, without turning to face her. “Thank you for coming back.”

Martina stood there in silence, also because she had nothing to say. If it was for her, she wouldn’t have come back, but the Inspector had summoned her. And here she was.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Walker invited her. Then, he turned, offered her a warm welcoming smile and sat in his armchair, inviting Bassani to sit down as well. “So…”

He drummed his fingers on the desk, while waiting for Zambetti to reach his position at the computer. He decided the time had come to be direct.

“Did your husband have any enemies?” Maybe a bit too direct.

The widow opened her eyes wide. “No,” she answered almost under her breath. “Not that I know of. You have already asked me that.”

“But between you two… between you and your husband, I mean, there was bad blood between you. Isn’t that true?”

“And why should this be relevant?” asked the woman, irritated. “I already told you last time… it was the same bad blood that there might be between any couple after thirty years of marriage.”

Walker took a deep breath. He couldn’t stand when people screwed with him. He folded his arms and leaned against the back of his armchair.

“Mrs Pilenga, I’ve got a wife too,” he lied, earning a look of surprise from Zambetti. Bassani simply sniggered. “I know what it means to have been married for many years. And I also know what the ups and downs between a husband and wife are. A marital infidelity is not part of these ups and downs. I guarantee it.”

“And what are you trying to say with that?” she asked, giving him a sharp look.

“Mrs Pilenga, maybe what you don’t understand is that we are here to help you. But you need to help us. And you can do so only by cooperating.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We are the police, not a bunch of idiots. Even though there are jokes around about us that make us look like it. We’ve been told that you’ve had an affair. And the truth about this could give us a new lead regarding the death of your husband. Therefore, we expect from you nothing less than maximum cooperation.”

He stopped, allowing the woman to get the message. When he was sure she had, he went further, continuing “Mrs Pilenga, adultery is not a crime in Italy. Perjury is.”

“Are you saying that I am a loose woman, Inspector?” pressed the woman, challenging him.

“No, Mrs Pilenga,” said Walker, shaking his head. “I’m trying to understand who, and for what reason, someone took your husband’s life.”

“And the fact that I had an affair with another man could help you catch my husband’s killer?”

Her tone of voice was suspicious, but her wall of distrust was crumbling down. The tears that appeared in her eyes proved it. The woman rummaged inside her handbag looking for a tissue.

“Why not,” answered the Inspector dryly. “You, or your lover, or both of you. You are all suspects.”

Martina Pilenga’s face turned purple. If this was a cartoon, we would have seen smoke coming out of her ears.

“Are you insinuating that I killed my husband? But do you realise …?”

“No, Mrs Pilenga,” Walker interrupted her, his voice hard. “Mine is only an assumption. Assuming…” he started moving his hands around, “is part of my job. Maybe among thousands of assumptions that don’t lead anywhere, one will jump out and bring you straight to the truth.”

“Alright then,” the woman surrendered. “I admit I have had a relation with another man. But I can assure you that it has nothing to do with my husband’s death. We were at odds, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.”

Walker exchanged a look with Bassani. And this is our first one, he seemed to be saying.

“Try to relax, Mrs Pilenga. If you had admitted your extra-marital relation immediately, you wouldn’t be here now.”

The Inspector leaned against the back of his armchair again and observed the woman before him without sympathy. Better being a bachelor for life, than having a wife like her.

“Maybe this relation has nothing to do with the death of your husband but, as I’ve told you before, we need to follow any lead. And at the moment a crime of passion seems to be the only one.”

Mrs Pilenga nodded. It looked like she had understood. She sniffed and dried her eyes again, shaking her head negatively.

“Can I go now?”

Walker sighed. He looked at his assistant and then at the widow again.

“Zambetti, offer Mrs Pilenga something warm to drink – if she’d like – and then accompany her to the exit.”

The assistant nodded. He was about to escort the woman towards the door, but Walker’s voice stopped them.

“Mrs Pilenga?”

“Yes?” she answered , turning back.

“With whom did you have an affair?”

Walker’s voice was calm, but steady.

Martina Pilenga shook her head, as if to push away a question that wasn’t going away. She lowered her eyes and murmured a name.

Zambetti took her by the arm, as you would do with someone who is barely standing up, and escorted her out of the room.

“Did she get offended ?” asked Walker.

“Maybe a bit. But you did well to be so frank, Chief.”

He was beginning to like this Bassani. Caslini had better hurry back from his holidays, Walker thought ironically. Or he was going to find his place taken.

“What do you think?” he asked him.

“About what, Chief?”

“That she might have killed him.”

“Her husband?” asked Bassani doubtful.

“Mh-hm,” agreed David.

“I don’t think so. It seems unthinkable that such a petite woman could even hurt a man. Let alone kill him.”

“Good observation,” said the Inspector. “She could never have done it. Unless…”

“Unless?” asked the man, curious.

“Unless she had an accomplice”.

“An accomplice?”

How the hell can Bassani not bloody get it? Maybe Caslini didn’t have to worry about losing his job after all.

“Yes, an accomplice, for God’s sake. A crime of passion. To get rid of the betrayed husband. The wife, along with her lover and accomplice, kills the husband. A story as old as time!”

Bassani stood there with his mouth open, his eyes like saucers.

“Do you really believe that woman and her lover might have killed that guy?”

“Of course not,” answered Walker straight off, quickly waving his hand through the air, as if he wanted to slap away the idiocy of what he had just heard. “Why would they put that necktie around the victim’s neck?”

Bassani was fed up with the Inspector’s flights of fancy. Firstly he would say one thing, and soon after he would dismiss it. You need to have a lot of patience with your superiors.

“Maybe to mislead the investigations, Chief.”

Walker smiled, allowing himself a blessed moment with his cigarette.

“Do you mind?” he asked after he lit it.

The man gave his approval opening his arms ambiguously. What else could he do?

“But have you seen her, Bassani? Does she look to you like someone who could mislead an investigation? That is a frustrated woman, in search of something her husband couldn’t give her anymore. I’m afraid that Ghezzi’s death, on the other hand, is the work of a professional.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Mh-mh. And the tie around his neck is nothing else than the killer’s signature.”

The man nodded, showing a bitter resignation.

After a beat, it was Walker who spoke again.

“And what can you tell me about her lover, detective?”

Bassani thought about it.

“I don’t know Chief… I’ve got the impression that somehow I’ve heard that name before,” he said succinctly.

CHAPTER 15

When Inspector Walker entered Café Cielo, the man who had invited him to breakfast was already sitting down.

Walker greeted him with a nod and approached him.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Inspector,” replied Carobbio. “Please, sit down” he added, inviting him to take a seat.

Walker obeyed. Then he took off his gloves and scarf and rubbed his hands.

“What would you like?”

“Whatever you’re having will be fine,” said Walker, without giving it much thought.

“Two Scotches, then,” declared the Chief Inspector of Forensic Police.

Walker gave him an incredulous look.

“I was joking,” continued Carobbio, smiling. “You really think I’d have Scotch for breakfast?”

David smiled too.

When the waitress came, Carobbio ordered two cappuccinos with soy milk and two wholemeal chocolate brioches. The girl nodded, firstly showing a perfect smile and then, when she turned her back to them, a rear worthy of a standing ovation. Both men admired the ass, catching each other doing so. However neither one hazarded a comment.

“Chocolate in the morning wakes the mind up, Inspector,” said Carobbio. “Did you know it?”

Walker, still absorbed in following the progress of the girl’s bottom, was caught unprepared.

“No,” he answered, bringing his eyes towards the other man. “I’ve never heard this one. Maybe because in the morning I wake my mind up with these,” he concluded, throwing his packet of Marlboros on the table.

“Oh, Inspector, that’s a really bad habit! Anyway, that thing about the chocolate is not a rule. I mean… it wasn’t a Nobel prize winner who discovered it, but for me it works. I can’t explain why, but chocolate in the morning wakes up my neurons.”

“Well, let’s hope it has the same effect on mine”, Walker said with a wink.

After this amusing exchange of witty remarks, the waitress arrived with their breakfast.

Carobbio waited until the girl was gone.

“Let’s get down to it, Inspector. To serious matters,” he said gravely.

“I’m all ears,” answered Walker, knowing that the Chief of Forensic hadn’t invited him to breakfast just to discuss chocolate brioches.

Carobbio took all the time he needed to explain the situation.

“We have examined the fingerprints discovered at Ghezzi’s.” He chewed a piece of brioche with pleasure and swallowed it. “As I have probably already mentioned, three sets of fingerprints were found in the flat. One belongs to Ghezzi, the owner of the flat; the other to his wife, Mrs Martina Pilenga, and thus far everything seems normal.”

Carobbio allowed himself another sip of cappuccino.

“The problem is the third set,” he continued calmly. “It belongs to a minor craftsman from that area.”

“And who is he?” asked Walker, curious.

“He’s someone called … ah, I’ve got his name on the tip of my tongue. Damned old age! Anyway, he’s known for being someone who is quick to use his hands.”

“What do you mean?” asked David, interrupting him.

Carrobbio continued, as if nothing had happened.

“It means that when there’s a fight, he is not the type to back down. He has a record because he has been charged several times for minor scuffles.”

“Well, fist fighting is not exactly like killing a man,” said Walker ironically.

“That’s true, Inspector. But if I were you, I’d start to get more information on this character. And I’d put him under surveillance.”

“I’ll work something out when I’m back at Police Headquarters.”

“Wise decision,” Carobbio congratulated him. Then, he became serious again, coming to his real purpose for organising their meeting. He slipped a yellow envelope out of his briefcase. He opened it and selected some photos featuring a man’s face. “I wanted to show you these.”

“Is he the third fingerprints man?” guessed Walker.

“That’s right,” confirmed Carobbio. “Do you know him?”

Walker took all the time he needed to observe the images.

“Never seen him before,” he acknowledged.

Carobbio slipped another sheet out of the envelope.

“And here you can find all his personal details. With my bad memory, I have to write everything down.”

Walker took it and started reading. Reading the man’s name and surname was enough to make his heart speed up.

Suddenly he lifted his eyes.

“Fuck!” he said. “I don’t know him, but I know who he is.”

When he arrived at Police Headquarters, Walker summoned Bassani to his office.

“Detective, we have a lead,” he informed him.

“Good.”

Then, before showing him the photographs, he rattled off the little speech he had prepared while he was in the car .

“Yesterday, when Mrs Pilenga mentioned the name of her lover, you said you had heard that name before. Is that right?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember where. My memory has never been my strongest point, Chief.”

Here’s another one with a short memory, Walker thought.

“Let me try to jog your memory” he said , as he laid out on his desk the photos Carobbio had left for him. “It’s Mrs Pilenga’s lover.”

Bassani tried to find a more comfortable position in his chair. He had barely looked at the photos when he blurted out:“ Damn!That’s where I heard that name before. Some years ago, when I was still in uniform, some other officers and I jumped in to stop a fight between locals and immigrants. He was one of the most difficult to handle.”

The detective paused briefly.

“He is one guy who really knows how to use these” he stated, holding up his hands.

Walker smiled, satisfied.

“Inspector Carobbio told me the same thing.”

He paused, just enough time to light another cigarette followed by two good drags.

“Maybe he’s the man we’re looking for,” he said, pointing at the face staring at him from the photographs.

CHAPTER 16

The sound of footsteps forced Romeo to look up. A last-minute client had just arrived.

He asked himself why some people just can’t come and buy their fucking newspaper half an hour earlier, instead of showing up two minutes before closing time, when he had already filled in the goods return form. He couldn’t wait to go home. The day had been deadly boring.

“The Evening Courier, please.”

The newsagent leaned forward to get the newspaper from the already wrapped parcel of return goods and handed it to the client.

“One fifty.” How many times had he already said those words?

The last-minute client rummaged in his pocket and retrieved the coins.

“Thank you,” said Romeo, “and good night.”

“Goodbye,” the man answered.

The newsagent stood staring at the client walking towards the exit. Suddenly, the man stopped.

What the hell is wrong with him now? Romeo asked himself.

Then he realised that something on the big notice board had caught the man’s attention.

Romeo kept watching him, while the man was looking at the collage of old photos.

“Do you like it?” asked Romeo, with a hint of irony.

“It looks like there’s a century of life here,” said the client, with an amused smile.

“Not a century. But half a century, yes.”

“Are you a photography enthusiast? I am too.”

“No, my passion is not photography. It’s only that I like seeing myself with the people who have come into my life and, in one way or another, have left a mark. Positive or negative. For example, in the first photo on the left I am with my wife on our wedding day. Negative mark: she left with somebody else before our fifth anniversary.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, you don’t have to feel sorry. Life would have been hard with her. Maybe it was better like this. Actually, it was definitely better like this.”

Romeo noticed the embarrassed look on his client’s face. He tried to bring back the conversation towards a less personal level. In the end he would have liked to continue that conversation. It had been a long time since someone had looked at his photo collection.

“So do you like my idea? I mean, the photo collage.”

“It’s truly brilliant!” the man exclaimed, showing his amusement again. “But do you also have celebrities in there?”

Romeo went around the counter and joined the client. The conversation might begin to be interesting. In the end the day was taking a turn for the better. Coming home could wait.

“Well, celebrities… Yes, there’s some. For example, that one dates back about twenty years ago” he said, taking pride for it, while showing a photo that had faded with time. “I’m with Marco Van Basten, that was the year when AC Milan won both the UEFA Champions League and the Italian Champions. Eh… those were good times.”

“Indeed! Are you supporting AC Milan too, eh?”

“Yeah. But everything’s changed now. Now we’re a minor-league team.”

The client smiled, making a strange movement with his hand. He didn’t know why, but he was beginning to like that man.

“You’re right, it’s a really bad football team. It’s better taking an interest in something else. I don’t know… beautiful women, for example.”

Romeo became gloomy..

“I’ll leave that to you. I’ve never had any luck with women. I didn’t have any when I was young and still had hair, let alone now. Bald and with this gut.”

The client smiled, amused. Then, Romeo noticed that another photo had caught his attention. Before he could say anything, the man had already anticipated him.

“And who is this guy?” he asked. “He looks thunderstruck. His eyes are popping out of his head.”

Romeo moved closer to the board, squinting his eyes to focus on the image. Then he put on his glasses that he kept around his neck. He stood there for a moment thinking, before he answered.

“Ah” he said finally, “now that one really is a weird character.”

When he turned again towards him, the man’s eyes were already set on him, waiting and greedy for knowledge. Romeo checked the time on his watch. Now the conversation was really turning better.

“If you’re not in a hurry, I can tell you that guy’s story.”

The client nodded, satisfied. It would have been impossible not to read the curiosity in his eyes. That’s what the client was waiting for.

***

“He should arrive,” Mrs Beatrice told her friend.

The other woman nodded.

“Usually he comes back around this time. He works late hours. At least, from what I gather. Maybe he works shifts.”

“Ah, you’ve already spied on him, eh? Old busybody,” Beatrice told her, joking.

Luigia looked at her, amused.

“We are old busybodies,” she remarked, winking at her.

They’d been on the landing for fifteen minutes, waiting for the new tenant to come home. He was a young man in his thirties, with dark skin. But not really black. Brownish. As if a perfect mix between a white and black person. They didn’t know what the right word was to describe an individual of that skin colour.

He was a handsome young man, oh yes. Muscular too. But they were too old now to even think about picking him up. There was another reason why they had decided to wait for him. They couldn’t wait to introduce themselves and gossip for a while about the habits of the other tenants who lived in the old council building. Minding other people’s business helps you live longer, Beatrice and Luigia were convinced. Or they wouldn’t have reached eighty and eighty two years old respectively.

They heard a squeaking sound from the ground floor. The old door of the main entrance had been opened.

“He’s coming, he’s coming,” Beatrice exclaimed, all excited.

They were beside themselves with delight. They were going to vie with one another for who was going to gossip the most.

Luigia rubbed her hands. They would have certainly told him everything under the sun. That lad was going to stay and listen to them.

But both friends saw the disappointment in each other’s eyes when a man with a dark coat appeared on the staircase. His face was covered by a scarf and his head by a wool cap. The collar of his coat, turned with the point upwards, helped hide his identity.

The elderly ladies stood there in silence looking at him. The man, with his eyes behind glass lenses, nodded his head in a polite greeting. Beatrice and Luigia did the same.

Then the man that they’d never seen before continued climbing the stairs, and disappeared from view.

“And who was that man?” Luigia asked her friend, under her breath.

“How would I know?” the other lady answered, almost whispering. “Between us, you’re the best gossip.”

“Look who’s talking…”

Luigia would have liked to say something else, but at the squeaking sound from the main entrance door her friend anticipated her.

“This must be him.”

She nodded, her bright eyes revealed her happiness.

***

The man looked around, sitting on the ruined fabric of the couch that he had found at a dump. He was moving his eyes from one side to the other of the lounge, the biggest room of his two-room flat.

His… What a nonsense! It was owned by the council. He felt ashamed for even thinking that only immigrants and old lonely people would live in one of these council houses. Immigrants, old people and himself, Giuliano Giuliani.

If he hadn’t been caught, maybe he would have become the leader of a criminal gang, a really big one. With a lot of dough. After all, hadn’t he got away with it when, during a job someone had died?

You don’t make history with “ifs”, you don’t make anything with “ifs”, he admitted to himself.

But, if… here he goes again. Well, who cares. If his life had been different, maybe he could have even had a family. A beautiful wife and a couple of brats around the house. He should have quit dealing earlier. Had he got out once he’d made his money, he could’ve thought about starting a family.

Instead he was all alone. And certainly he would remain like this for the rest of his awful life. Besides, which woman, even one of the really desperate ones, would want to have a relationship with an incomplete man?

That question made him look down at his arm that no longer had a hand, and down at his leg that was without a foot.

He sighed.

Then he cursed out loud.

***

Romeo went to the entrance door and locked it. The newsagent’s was officially closed. His working day was over.

“I bet you’ve never heard such a bizarre name before,” he said to the client. “That guy was called Giuliano Giuliani…”

“Like an old goalkeeper from Udinese Football Club, I think.”

“Ah, I didn’t know that. Well, if so, then I’ve lost my bet.”

They chuckled, like friends.

Then, the newsagent regained his train of thought.

“Going back to Giuliani… those were the times when if a client wanted to buy a copy of La Gazzetta Magazine with the special supplement, he’d come to me. I was the only one who could supply that.”

“Special supplement?” the client asked, with a perplexed expression that was a pleasure to watch.

“Yes, back then, when someone wanted to smoke some good weed he’d come to me to buy his copy of la Gazzetta dello Sport. I’d insert it among the pages of the newspaper. I had the best Mary Jane in all Milan. At least, that’s what I thought. I didn’t know that on the other side of the city – in Quarto Oggiaro – there was a Giuliano Giuliani who had it as good as mine. And in industrial quantities.”

Romeo paused, noticing that the interest in the eyes of his anonymous client was growing. People may have said these were not the kinds of things you’d discuss with anyone, but at this stage he had nothing left to hide. He’d made his mistakes and had paid for his errors. That life belonged to his past. But it would always be his life and he could recount it to anyone he wanted to, any time he felt like it.

“I met him in jail,” he continued. “We got caught within days of each other. And we ended up in the same prison. He was a really tough guy. With a knack for business, you know what I mean? For a certain type of business. But in jail he wasn’t popular with the other inmates. One night, he was raped by four of them. Someone joked about it saying that they made his arsehole as big as the window of Milan Cathedral.”

The newsagent stopped, proud of the laughter he elicited in the client.

Then, Romeo’s voice became serious again.

“He had probably mentioned names that he should have kept secret. And jail, as everyone knows is like a big community. Inside everyone knows everything about everyone. To survive you should see and hear as little as possible. You need to plug up your mouth and your ears … to avoid having your arsehole plugged by someone else.”

He granted himself a satisfied little laugh, that his new friend echoed immediately.

“I remember that we became very close” he continued, “even though outside we had been rivals. He made me a proposition to do business together, once we were out of jail.”

“And did you start a.. farm business?” the client said ironically.

“Ah, that’s a good one! No, I called it quits with everything. I mean, I continued selling newspapers, but without special supplements.”

Another pause. And another laugh.

“And what about the guy? What happened to him?” asked the client.

He was really interested, thought Romeo. Good, an enjoyable night.

“I believe Giuliano carried on with his dealings. After a couple of years he even ended up on the front page.”

“On the front page?”

“Yes, he had been assaulted by a group of unknown individuals, according to the journalist’s report. They assaulted him in the middle of the night and beat him to a pulp.”

“Did they kill him?”

“No, for God’s sake! He has a thick skin!” stated Romeo, enthusiastically. Then, getting darker, he continued. “But they ruined him. Apparently they cut off his hand, or his foot. Now I can’t remember exactly. The point is, after jail I have never seen him again. Maybe it’s better. Otherwise now I too could have also be without one of these” he concluded merrily, showing his hands.

***

It was just a matter of seconds. The mixed race young man’s silhouette materialised on the stairs.

“You must be the new arrival, right?” Beatrice was quicker than her friend.

The young man answered with a smile.

“You’ll like living here,” Luigia continued. “ it’s a safe place.”

They waited until he reached the landing area, then Beatrice started talking again, without letting up.

“Let us give you some advice.” She was saying this in a low voice, almost whispering. “Because here even walls have ears.”

The young man looked perplexed.

“If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask,” Luigia added. “Anything.”

The young man nodded, as his eyes darted towards the flight of stairs. Beatrice noticed he was in a hurry. She decided she could not let him go upstairs. At least not until she had informed him of the building’s quirkiest people.

“Yes, Luigia is right. If you need any favour, please ask us,” she said, indicating with a wave herself and her friend. “On the other hand, if you have certain needs to fulfil… Well, in that case you should go up a couple of floors. Mrs Pina, despite her age, is still very active…”

“True,” Luigia confirmed. “When her husband finds out something, you can hear them shouting from here. Even the building’s walls shake.”

The young man gave a hint of a smile. Then his hands clutched nervously at his trousers, as if he was thinking up an excuse to get away from these two crazy old women.

Luigia noticed it.

“Yes, what Beatrice is saying is completely true. Mrs Pina is getting it on with that really weird guy, the one with a hand and a foot missing …”

“That’s right” the other woman confirmed. “See, Mrs Pina is a lot older than him. But, you know, there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle …”

“Besides, she was already doing that when she was young, good tunes,” Luigia remarked. “They say that Pina, when she was twenty, was always up for it. I don’t know if I make myself clear.”

“Yes, but now” Beatrice continued, “at seventy years old behaving like a tart … and with that guy … Giuliano”.

“Well, at least they’ve found each other. Because he’s not a saint either, eh. Think that up until some years ago he was constantly in and out of prison. Him and his strange dealings...”