I was glad of the endorsement but still puzzled. Fanfani cleared his throat. ‘Rory has told me about the death of the man in Newcastle. The man you believe to have been Werner Schmidt. I understand that you are enquiring into this matter.’
‘Yes.’ I said.
‘I have some information for you. I am willing to give you this information in exchange for something from you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I was very prominent in Rory’s organisation. Like him, I demonstrated and talked on the radio. I went to the court, waved banners…’
The recollection was taking its toll of him. He faltered, then drew a deep breath and went on. ‘My picture was in the newspapers. But, the years have gone by and we have learned to live with our grief, as you see.’
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering what would come next. The only thing I could think of was that Fanfani and Coleman had someone else to dob in.
‘Late last year,’ Fanfani said, ‘I received a telephone call. It related to Werner Schmidt. There are things about this call that would interest you, Mr Hardy’
‘Such as?’
‘Ah, no. Here is where we must strike a deal. If what I tell you leads you to the man who killed Werner Schmidt, you must undertake first, not to harm him and second, to let me talk to him before anyone else-before the lawyers and the police.’
‘That could be difficult to arrange, Mr Fanfani.’
‘Nevertheless, those are my terms.’
‘Would you mind telling me why?’
Fanfani looked stricken. He shook his head and made a gesture to Coleman to take over. Coleman patted Fanfani’s shoulder and, although he scarcely moved in his chair, he seemed suddenly to occupy centre stage. ‘Antonio does not have very long to live, Mr Hardy. Perhaps a year, perhaps less. The thought of dying without knowing what happened to his daughter, without some certainty in the matter, is deeply troubling to him and to his wife.’
Anger flared in Fanfani, giving him a spurt of energy and spirit. ‘The priests tell me to forget my daughter. To compose my soul. I cannot. They are wrong. I must know. I believe that the man who telephoned me knows something about Schmidt and… my Angela. I feel it! I must speak with him.’
Coleman’s voice was a soothing balm. ‘Antonio told me about this telephone call at the time. It was our first contact for many years. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. But when you reached me with your information, it seemed like an intervention… You wouldn’t understand, Mr Hardy.’
‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘But I can follow up to a point. Mr Fanfani, all I can do is promise you that I’ll try to arrange things the way you want them. I’ll make it a priority.’ It was a professional sounding statement but in fact it was totally wild. I meant it, though, more or less. I drained the second can and wished there was another on offer, or something stronger.
‘That is fair enough,’ Fanfani said. ‘I believe that you are a man of honour.’
‘I believe that, too,’ Coleman said.
So much belief was hard to stomach, especially with nothing but an empty beer can for a prop. I said nothing and sat still.
Fanfani spoke slowly; the hesitation of the non-native speaker getting stronger and making his words almost halting. ‘Two things. One, the telephone call. It was made from outside Sydney. I heard the STD beeps. Two… do you remember my placards, Rory.’
‘Yes,’ Coleman said.
Fanfani almost smiled. ‘They were written in Italian. I have a better command of strong language in Italian than English. This telephone call, Mr Hardy, was from a man who spoke Italian.’
17
I guess you don’t get to be the carpet king without being observant and a shrewd judge of character, and I’ve never been known for my poker-face. The words were hardly out of Antonio Fanfani’s mouth before Coleman jumped in. ‘That means something to you, doesn’t it, Mr Hardy?’
‘It might,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me exactly what the caller said?’
Fanfani took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. It was cool in the darkened room but he was sweating. ‘I cannot remember, exactly. He said something like, “Abbiamo lo stesso nemico, Antonio.” ‘
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t speak Italian.’
Coleman again. ‘ “We have the same enemy, Antonio.” Something like that.’
Fanfani nodded. ‘Yes. He was drunk or upset. He said a few more words, but I could hardly hear them and I don’t know what they were.’
‘Still Italian?’
‘I think so.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘The caller was from the south of Italy or, at least, he spoke in the southern dialect. He might not have been born there. You don’t understand these things?’
I shook my head.
‘Italian is not like English, Mr Hardy. The one language is not spoken from Palermo to Rimini. The different areas have different languages. They are called dialects but they are more than that. I am from the north.’
He’d fallen into lecturing mode and it was suddenly very irritating. I couldn’t help wondering whether this had been part of the problem between him and Angela. ‘I find the Glasgow accent pretty hard to understand,’ I said, ‘also Belfast and Lancashire. What’s your point, Mr Fanfani?’
‘I have thought very hard about it, but I cannot tell whether this man was old or young. Some of the things he said sounded like childish speech, but some of the Italians born here who do not learn the language properly sound like that. Or it could just be that I am unfamiliar with the southern dialect and do not know what is childish and what is just… ‘ He looked to Coleman for help.
‘Slang,’ Coleman said.
‘Yes. Slang. But this man knows something! He knew who I was. Who else could he have meant but Werner Schmidt? I ask you. Who?’
He was getting flushed and excited, showing signs of whatever illness he was suffering from. Of the two men, I had more sympathy for Fanfani. He didn’t have Coleman’s unctuous style and his pain and guilt were consuming him as much as the disease. I wanted to help him. I got out my pen and pad and made some notes-the private detective’s version of the bedside manner. ‘I’ll be frank with you. What you’ve told me does tie in with my other enquiries.’
‘That’s good,’ Fanfani said.
‘Yes. But I’m already working with the police and I may have to
… ‘
Fanfani and Coleman exchanged looks.
Coleman nodded.
‘I understand that you can’t do anything criminal, Mr Hardy,’ Fanfani said. ‘But I beg you to consider my position. I only want to talk! I am prepared to engage you…’
‘I already have a client.’
‘Would there be a conflict of interest?’ Coleman asked smoothly.
‘I don’t know.’
Fanfani used the handkerchief again and then put it aside as if denying his weaknesses.
‘Let me put it another way. I have many friends in the Newcastle area, especially among the Italian community there. This could be of great help to you, wouldn’t you say?’
You didn’t have to be a member of Mensa to pick up the implied threat. Great, I thought, the way I’m going
