The dangerous driving required his full attention, which kept his thoughts away from the complicated mess he was making of everything. He needed to catch up with Konrad, stop him, talk to him, and then turn him in. He needed to get down to Calabria, find out about this woman, Curmaci’s wife. Massimiliani, for all he thought he was subtle, had failed to register any surprise whatsoever that Hoffmann was headed southwards on the A3. Evidently they already knew Konrad’s destination.
Blume switched off the stereo that presumed to answer his calls for him, and when his phone rang a quarter of an hour later, he had to hold it against his ear in the normal manner of all the other drivers on the road.
‘Can you see him?’
‘At this precise moment, no,’ said Blume. ‘But we are on the A3. There is no other way to go.’
Massimiliani seemed to find Blume’s answer believable. ‘I’m going to call you back soon.’
He meant what he said. Three minutes later, he was back.
‘Look, before I get to asking you about the change in plans, I want you to fall back a little,’ said Massimiliani.
‘What?’
‘You’re too close. Your phones started moving away from the hotel at exactly the same time, and have remained locked at the same point ever since. From here it looks like you’re tailgating him. Drop back a bit. If he goes off the autostrada, we’ll let you know.’
‘You’d think Konrad would know better than to leave his phone on,’ said Blume. ‘He’ll probably turn it off any minute now, though I suppose you’re tracking the IMEI number, so he’d need to dump or destroy the phone…’
‘I wouldn’t know about that sort of stuff,’ said Massimiliani. ‘I’m just passing on some advice from a person here who knows more than me, and he says to drop back.’
‘OK,’ said Blume. He trapped the steering wheel between his knees and pulled Konrad’s phone out of his pocket with his other hand and tried to slide the battery cover off with his thumb. It would be suspicious if Konrad vanished from the network just as they were talking about it, but he saw no alternative. Finally, the battery cover popped off.
‘Of course, now we know his story, we know his destination,’ said Massimiliani.
‘We do?’ said Blume.
‘Sure. He’s headed towards Calabria. Where else does that road you’re on lead? You’re still too close, if you don’t mind me saying. Pull back.’
‘Konrad speeded up. I need to stay close.’
‘Yes, I noticed that. That camper van must have some engine,’ said Massimiliani.
Blume fingered the battery in Konrad’s phone. ‘Suppose you’re wrong?’
‘About his destination? No. We know it’s Calabria, but not for the reasons we thought.’
‘What are the reasons?’
‘You’ll get briefed in good time, but for now…’
‘Tell me what you know about Konrad. I’ll be waiting for your call,’ said Blume. He hung up and put both hands on the wheel.
40
Milan
They found Teresa Resca’s body on Tuesday morning between the railway lines and the quarry lake, half a kilometre from the abandoned buildings they had searched. A team of volunteers, policemen working overtime and, crucially, dog handlers, beginning at first light, had spread out over the area, and there she was, Teresa, a small heap, face down, already sinking into the mud. The great mystery was how she had not been discovered earlier. The other was why whoever had done this to her had not tried to dispose of the body in the lake. Or maybe they had.
By now it was clear there was no organized crime connection. Fossati was not surprised that Bazza had been right. From the start he, too, had doubted that the father’s denunciations of the Ndrangheta had had anything to do with the disappearance, thought his articles and opinions, ignored for so long by the mainstream press, were now being reprinted as part of the late-summer horror story.
Be careful what you wish for.
Teresa’s mother received the news in hospital, where she had been taken two days before. She was under sedation, suicide watch, and armed guard.
The suspects were Kosovars, already in custody. They had been arrested on charges of loansharking in the past, and now faced life for murder. They started confessing and accusing each other within half an hour of the body being found.
Lost in his political obsessions, Giovanni Resca had failed to notice that his wife, who worked nights in the Policlinico San Donato, the very hospital in which she now lay drugged, though this time legally, was living far beyond her means. The jewellery he had assumed was cheap imitation was real, the clothes he attributed to her innate sense of style were designer, the irascibility, constant running nose, late lie-ins and increased tolerance and liking for liquor were not signs of an unshakeable cold. Nights out had been disguised as night-shift work, requiring her not only to hide the expenditure but to create the impression of earning overtime. She had borrowed € 50,000 five years ago, had made regular payments, yet now owed the Kosovars € 180,000. Her apartment was rented, her car was a Skoda, and her husband a failure, so when they came looking for collateral, they found nothing but her child.
Whether they had intended to kill the girl was another matter. The woman at the bus stop, who now had a face and a name, Altea Agushi, seemed also to have a conscience, or it might have been an instinct for self- preservation. Whatever it was, her testimony put her partner Dardan, now in San Vittore prison, in a very bad position, even if she continued to insist Dardan had not really meant to harm the girl. They had only wanted to scare the parents. But Dardan was a kick boxer, and hardly knew his own strength.
Fossati believed her, in that he believed the killing made no sense and was unplanned. When the girl started screaming, Dardan probably just lost it for a moment, as his wife said. But the moment was a long one. It had taken more than one blow to silence her, and when the moment was finally over, time had stopped for ever for Teresa.
‘I told you it could never end well, this story,’ said the magistrate.
The inspector beside him shook his head in disgust at the whole sorry mess, then brightened up a little. ‘Amazing that dog. It was like it knew. You’d almost arrest the dog and the handler for the way they went straight to the spot.’
‘What can you do with people like Dardan and Altea?’ asked Fossati. ‘You can’t make them care. That would be the best punishment: make them care. But you can’t. You can put them away for life, but you can’t touch them inside.’
The policeman ignored his musings. ‘I hear that the wedding ring we found helped make a breakthrough in that case of the dead Romanians. You know, the one that’s connected to the killing of the insurance guy, Arconti, and the judge in Rome?’
‘That is no concern of yours or mine,’ said Fossati.
‘Word spreads,’ said the inspector, unrepentant.
‘You police talk to each other too much.’
41
On the Road to Calabria
Massimiliani did not call back for half an hour, so Blume was able to continue his pell-mell driving and listen
