Читать книгу A Known Evil: A gripping debut serial killer thriller full of twists you won’t see coming - Aidan Conway - Страница 26

They found parking easily enough on Via Merulana and walked up the slight incline of the broad flagged pavement in the direction of the Basilica. In January, with Christmas done and dusted, the area saw little human activity and, with the pall of fear over the city, tonight it felt deserted. In winter, from this spot, if you could ignore for a moment the hypnotizing fairy-tale gold mosaics and baroque facade of Santa Maria Maggiore which greeted you, it was possible to see in the distance the sister basilica of San Giovanni by looking over your shoulder down the dead-straight boulevard. When spring came the plane trees would burst into life making the same long road between the two basilicas richly forest-like and mercifully cool, dappling the fierce sun held at bay overhead. But now, in the dark, all was bare and skeletal against the ashen sky.

They slipped into the warmth of Shwarma Station and ordered liberally from the dazzling array of Syrian and North African specialities at much saner prices than some of the more di moda kebab joints where conservative Romans went to be cosmopolitan. Stuffed vine leaves, falafel, couscous, hummus, and kebabs. There was no alcohol but they could wait. They took a table under the TV at the back of the room. There were the usual diners: expatriate Arabs, students, nostalgic types relishing the simplicity of paper table cloths and ordinary people and just a little edge. This was a meeting place, too, for the Islamic community and in the coming and going of Moroccans, Egyptians, Arabs, and Libyans there were, for sure, some less than legitimate characters caught up in the mix. For a good five minutes they ate in silence until they had seen off the first wave of their hunger.

“So, what’s new, Dario?”

“Depends what you mean? You mean the local shenanigans or the murder mystery?”

“All right,” said Rossi, “if you could give me some firm leads on either score, I’d be buying you dinner next time as well as today, but I’ll take whatever’s going.”

“Well, as far as my theories on the immigration rackets are concerned, I can’t get much unless you can secure me those wire taps on a few key individuals.”

Rossi shook his head.

“You know that’s impossible. No judge will give me the time of day if it’s anyone near the top of the tree with connections to high-ranking individuals. They’ll laugh me out of town. And for me to take the law into my own hands on this one, well that would be signing my own, I won’t say death warrant, but it could be close.”

Iannelli had the air of the mad scientist on the verge of the big discovery but thwarted by factors beyond his control. Rossi could almost imagine him screaming at the unbelievers “The fools!”

“I know I’m onto something big there, Michael, big and transversal. Do you follow? Everyone could be involved. Left, right, centre, Church, the co-ops and charities, even ex-terrorists. That’s the word I’m getting. We just need those taps and we could do something. Somebody would have to listen then.”

Rossi was intrigued but he knew that in these matters the system moved at a speed and in a manner comparable to that of plate tectonics in the earth’s crust: vast strategic interests that bordered one another yet only clashed decisively in certain key moments and when perhaps you least expected it. But nothing was likely to move until someone wanted it to move. It had to be at the bidding of some deus ex machina, but not a general saviour, rather some saviour of yet higher interests. Russian dolls. Stories within stories. Yes. The Arabian Nights.

“And the murders?” Rossi enquired. “What’s out, Dario? I mean, the notes, the suspect? This prick-teasing at the press conference. What’s the word on that?”

It was Iannelli’s turn now to shake his head.

“Nothing from me, Michael, I’m holding fire, but sooner or later somebody’s always going to let something slip. You know that.”

“And tip-offs?”

“Nothing.”

“But d’you know who they’re going to arrest or not?”

“Well, I do have a sneaking suspicion it might be someone close to Ms Marini, if that’s what you mean.”

“Obviously, but who?”

“Look,” said Iannelli, wiping his fingers on a napkin, “I know about the MPD link but until there’s an arrest we won’t be going with it. ‘Police are close to an arrest in The Carpenter case’, if you like. Something like that. But you clearly know how close, don’t you? Though you don’t look exactly tickled by it.”

Rossi rolled an olive across his plate with his fork.

“What do you want out of this, Dario? The same as me? To get a killer off the street? Or to have a high-profile show trial that can run for God knows how long? Or do you think there’s more here than meets the eye? Do you want it to be more than the sum of its parts? Is that where you think this is going?”

“Michael, isn’t it always more than the sum of its parts when there’s politics in play?”

“So you think Spinelli is involved?”

“In some way, yes. He has to be.”

“But guilty?”

“That remains to be seen. You’re the policeman here, aren’t you?”

“But no smoke without fire. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Look,” said Iannelli, “if a high-profile politician’s lover is brutally murdered close to the most crucial parliamentary elections in recent Italian history, there has to be something going on. It has to be more than coincidence. And added to that, she just happens to be a judge’s daughter, a mafia-pool judge’s daughter. Well, what do you think? What does your instinct tell you?”

“I don’t think he did it.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons. It’s partly gut-feeling but it just doesn’t fit.”

“So why are you here talking to me?”

“Because I need your help.”

“And do you think I want to help you?”

“I think we have a common goal here, Dario.”

“Go on.”

“I think we both want to see something finally change, for the better, in this godforsaken country. In this godforsaken political establishment.”

“And this is how it’s going to change? Chit-chatting over kebabs?”

“They want Spinelli to go down, Dario! They’ve practically taken the investigation out of my hands, so something has changed here, for sure.”

“Who wants him to go down?”

“Well,” said Rossi, “I was hoping you might tell me that.”

“All right,” said Iannelli, throwing his crumpled napkin onto the empty plate and sitting back to deliver his peroration. “Nothing happens by chance. Think Pasolini. Think Pecorelli. Think Dalla Chiesa. Go right back to Enrico Mattei. All killed because they got too close to the truth, too close to nailing the corrupt politicians, too close to getting the Yanks and their petro-dollars out of our economy and off our backs.”

“So it’s a conspiracy,” said Rossi, “and the puppet masters pull the strings we can’t even see to cut, never mind get to the guys themselves?”