lightly on the shoulder. ‘I like that attitude, too. You have convinced me we can work together, now can I convince you?’
‘That depends. What would I be doing?’
‘I can’t say yet.’ Massimiliani pointed at the portfolio he had tossed on the table. ‘Read what’s in there. It will take you about an hour to read, two hours to learn.’
‘What is it?’
‘An old DIA report on the Camorra in Naples and environs. It gives descriptions of their activities, the names of the main families. It’s pretty basic stuff. Actually, I pulled most of it off the internet.’
‘I thought we were talking about the Ndrangheta. What’s the Neapolitan Camorra got to do with anything?’
‘Ah, what indeed? If only we knew.’
‘I’m sure you do know.’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t. I am not going to talk about it until I know you’re on board. The situation is still developing. I can arrange for the Questore to give you time off, or, if we go down the official route, I can get the Prosecutor General to sign off on your temporary transfer of jurisdiction. If I were you, I’d take the time off. You get paid, and that can be topped up with some travel expenses.’
‘Where would I be travelling to, Naples, Calabria?’
‘I can’t say until we’re agreed. I can say, however, this could open a whole new career for you.’ Massimiliani strode over to the door and looked again at the suitcase. ‘Looks to me like you are already packed and ready to go.’
Massimiliani opened the door. ‘Monday morning, nine o’clock, Polo Tuscolano Operations Centre. Go in the north gate. Use my name. If you’re there at seven, you’re there. If not, no problem. You decide.’
13
Saturday, 29 August
Milan
It was after watching the girl waiting for the number 45 bus climb into the car for the fiftieth time that Magistrate Francesco Fossati suddenly realized why he had been doing this. With a knot in his stomach in case he was too late, he called up the police at the Monforte-Vittoria station immediately and ordered them to sequester all the video recordings from the office building for the previous weeks, only to be told, with a certain tone of disdain, that this had already been done. An hour later, he and an inspector were sitting in his office watching grainy images of the girl as she left the sports centre every other weekday at the same time.
Teresa Resca had been going to the swimming baths on Via Piranesi on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays ever since she finished school in June. She took the 45 bus from her house in San Donato at around two and took it back again at around four. It was almost a door-to-door service, but, to be safe, her father sometimes liked to meet her as she got off and walked back to the house through a narrow, isolated orchard path leading to the apartment block. She always phoned as the bus was drawing close to home. If he could not make it, then she took the long way round, increasing her walk by five minutes. When she failed to call or show up, they called the police immediately.
The father said he knew who it was, what they were doing, why they had done it, and as the investigation moved forwards, it looked like he was right. Giovanni Resca published essays, wrote a blog, gave talks and even put on earnest theatre performances, all for the sake of alerting the Milanese to the fact that the Ndrangheta was very much among them. He had received so many threats from the very start that over a period of five years of campaigning journalism, he had made the fatal mistake of becoming almost blase. He thought they might kill him, because this is what they had threatened, but they had never threatened his wife or their one child. Then the threats stopped, along with Giovanni Resca’s embryonic career in journalism. Branded an agitator, his shows of political satire drew shrinking audiences to ever-smaller venues and newspapers stopped publishing his articles. The upside was that the threats dried up along with his work.
The magistrate had been true to his word and conducted a ruthless and invasive but quick and efficient line of inquiry that day by day rapidly extinguished theories of kidnapping for ransom, incest, fraud, substance abuse and voluntary flight and elopement until they were left with two options: what the father had been saying all along, which many of the police thought improbable and a symptom of his deluded tendency to see the Ndrangheta everywhere, or a random snatch of a young girl by sex traffickers or a killer. None of the endings was going to be good, and yet the parents still seemed so hopeful it was almost irresponsible of them. Despair was better than hope, he knew; but his job was to bring home a body.
‘Watch the woman,’ the magistrate told the inspector. ‘You never see her properly because the camera’s too high and far away, but from the dyed-yellowish shade of the hair, the shape of the body and the way she moves, I could tell it was the same person. The technicians agree with me.’
The woman had turned up four times in a row and stood waiting at the bus stop with Teresa. They could be seen chatting a little. She was always there at the same time as Teresa. Possibly they chatted in the bus together. Together, they watched new video footage from the San Donato metro station, the terminus of the number 45 bus. Teresa got off several stops before the end of the line, but the woman, along with other passengers on their way to the metro station, stayed on to the end.
The police had put in the hours and expertise to filter down the video to one telling moment. Helped by the absence of commuters and traffic in August, they had captured a video feed of the woman getting off the bus at the metro station, then, instead of taking the metro or another bus, she got into a car, which resembled the one Teresa was to climb into a few days later. The car could be clearly seen turning and heading back in the direction the woman had just come from. Again, the number plate proved elusive.
‘She did not need to make that bus journey,’ said the magistrate. ‘She got on that bus specially to be with Teresa.’
The inspector nodded in agreement. ‘We’re checking other cameras for that car. Eventually we’ll find it.’
‘What were Resca’s articles about?’
‘Money laundering, construction companies and the financial crisis.’
‘And he loses his child for that?’
‘Giovanni Resca wanted his voice to be heard. He wanted people to read his articles and hear his truth. Now, with politics on vacation, every national newspaper and even the foreign press are following this story, and linking it to Resca’s articles, talking about his shows and his leftist politics. He got the fame he wanted and lost his child.’
‘We can’t find any connection to the woman. No one has any idea of who she might be,’ said the inspector.
‘That’s because she is no one. Let’s say you want to abduct an innocent but not stupid girl in broad daylight, how do you do it? First, you send a woman. This woman casually stands at the bus stop and strikes up conversation, almost certainly about how slow the bus is in coming. They get on, Teresa gets off, and the woman stays on board. A few stops later, the woman gets off and is picked up by her accomplices. Next time Teresa’s at the bus stop, there’s the woman again: more friendly conversation. Now Teresa knows the woman gets off at a later stop. One more meeting, more friendly conversation, by now they may be on first-name terms. Then, in for the kill. The woman is there chatting away, a car pulls up, and, why, a stroke of luck, it’s a friend who has spotted her there at the bus stop, offers her a lift home. The woman accepts and is halfway into the car when — where are her manners? — she extends the offer of a lift to Teresa. The driver, a friendly type, could even be another woman, has no problems with this: they’re going past Teresa’s house anyhow, as Teresa knows. In she gets. Fourteen years old, never harmed anyone, still full of trust and hope.’
14
