Cosi Fan Tutti Read online

  ‘You were about to tell me something when Caputo walked in. Let’s have it.’

  ‘Well, sir, the thing is, I searched the building, like I told you. I didn’t find the prisoner, but I did notice that his belongings had been tampered with.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You remember you gave me that video cassette yesterday evening and told me to put it back with the other stuff. Well, I did as you said, but when I checked the room just now the stuff was all over the floor. All except the cassette, that is.’

  Zen put his head in his hands and stared at the desk.

  ‘How do the clients of that operation on the top floor come and go?’ he demanded. ‘Obviously they don’t use the front entrance.’

  ‘There’s a fire escape at the side,’ Caputo volunteered. ‘It’s nice and secluded, and we have excellent security at the door. There’s never any trouble …’

  ‘What about the normal entrance from the main staircase?’

  ‘That’s entirely closed to the clientele, dottore. There’s no risk of anyone getting into the building that way.’

  ‘I’m not interested in anyone getting in,’ Zen snapped. ‘I’m interested in someone getting out. Someone in police uniform.’

  Caputo looked grim.

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ he said, turning away.

  ‘No! I need you here. You go, Pastorelli. But first, who knows that the prisoner has escaped?’

  Pastorelli frowned.

  ‘Well, Bertolini obviously. Then there’s me, and you …’

  ‘Besides us and Bertolini, you idiot!’

  ‘Nobody.’ ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I phoned you and Giova … Inspector Caputo. That’s all.’

  ‘OK, get going.’

  With an expression of infinite relief, Pastorelli fled. Zen turned to Caputo.

  ‘When you escorted the prisoner to my office the other day, you stopped to pick up his belongings on the way, right?’

  Caputo frowned.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t have wanted to carry them all the way down to the cells and back. And because that’s how the prisoner knew where they were being kept.’

  Caputo gave one of his toothy grins.

  ‘Of course. So it’s important, this cassette?’

  Zen gazed into the middle distance.

  ‘Not according to my sources. But if the prisoner risked recapture in order to take it with him, it begins to look as though they must have been wrong.’

  He turned to face Caputo.

  ‘I need a doctor.’

  Caputo’s eyes widened.

  ‘You feel ill?’

  ‘Not for me, for the prisoner.’

  Caputo goggled still more.

  ‘But dottore, the prisoner is gone!’

  Zen resumed his abstracted expression.

  ‘Nevertheless, he needs to see a doctor. I’m sure you can think of someone suitable, Caputo. Un medico di fiducia. Someone you can recommend without reservation. Understand?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Someone who can be trusted to do whatever might prove necessary,’ Zen pursued, ‘even if the procedures demanded might prove to be slightly irregular. And who, above all, can be trusted to keep quiet about it.’

  Caputo’s predatory grin intensified.

  ‘For the right consideration, dottore, this guy’d perform an abortion on the Virgin Mary. But don’t worry about the money. He owes me a couple of favours, and that makes him nervous. He’ll be glad to help.’

  Zen smiled softly at Caputo.

  ‘Have I ever told you how much I like it here?’ he murmured.

  Sulla strada

  Via Duomo, later the same evening. Running almost due north from the port, this street is dead straight and relatively broad by the standards of the city, but the traffic was as stagnant at that hour as sewage in a backed-up drain. Double rows of parked cars to either side forced the moving vehicles into two narrow lanes just wide enough for a stationary file in either direction. Meanwhile pedestrians, the diminutive lords of this petrified jungle, picked their way through the revving, honking, impotent mass as though negotiating the impressive, irrelevant ruins of a mightier but extinct civilisation.

  But one car seemed to be making some headway, despite everything. It was obviously expensive, a foreign import of some sort, painted a brilliant red. But there were plenty of Volvos and BMWs and Mercedes stalled in the traffic jam, reluctantly rubbing bumpers with such undesirable company as traders’ three-wheeled Ape vans, old Fiat 500s on their third 100,000 kilometres and the usual slew of beaten-up cars, buses, taxis, TIR lorries – even a refuse collection truck. What caused the crush to loosen in front of this particular vehicle was the flashing blue light attached to the roof, and the official police wand insistently waving from the driver’s window.

  Thus empowered, the red saloon nosed through the traffic at all of 10 mph to just south of the cathedral, where it abruptly veered left into a narrow side-street, ignoring the ‘No Entry’ sign. Half-way down the block it pulled up outside a seven-storey house just like all the others and sounded its horn in a series of long blasts. Windows and curtains above opened, but the driver continued to lean on his strident, demanding horn. At length a young man appeared at a window on the second-floor. He waved to the driver of the car, who signalled back. The horn fell silent.

  ‘Who is it?’ demanded the other man, seated inside the apartment before a table strewn with playing cards.

  ‘Gesualdo. I’ve got to run.’

  ‘Work?’

  The first man shrugged.

  ‘Oh, Sabatì! Just as I was finally starting to win! That’s a shitty excuse.’

  ‘We just need to check someone out. Come along, if you want. Then we can come back and finish the game.’

  His companion hesitated a moment.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  Sabatino took out a printed card.

  ‘Via Cimarosa.’

  ‘Wow! You bastards are moving up in the world.’

  They ran down the steep, narrow stairs to the street, where three vehicles now stood nose-to-nose with the red saloon blocking their passage.

  ‘Oh, Dario!’ called the driver. ‘Who invited you along?’

  One of the waiting cars blasted its horn insistently. Dario stood back and stared at the offending driver with slitted eyes.

  ‘This is a one-way street!’ the man yelled. ‘Clear the way immediately! You’re breaking the law six times over!’

  At an exaggeratedly leisurely pace, Dario strolled over to remind the instigator of this rash protest that it wouldn’t make that much difference if they made it seven by rendering his car, if not his person, unserviceable pending lengthy and expensive professional intervention. Meanwhile Sabatino admired the red saloon, whistling appreciatively.

  ‘So where did you get this?’

  Gesualdo smiled.

  ‘Friend of a friend. But what’s really interesting is where he got it.’

  Sabatino glanced at him, but Dario was already on his way back from putting the fear of God into the driver who had so ill-advisedly attempted to enforce the traffic regulations single-handed. Gesualdo said nothing more. With a mighty roar, he reversed at high speed along the alley into the continuing stalemate on Via Duomo. Reaching out of the window, he turned on the blue flasher held on the roof by its magnetic base and handed the police wand to Dario.

  ‘Wave this around a bit.’

  Dario looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Works like a charm. Just try it and see.’

  ‘But suppose some of our friends are about. If they get the idea that you’re a cop …’

  Gesualdo laughed sarcastically.

  ‘Next time I see them, Dario, I’ll let them know that you think they’re dumb enough to think that if I really was a cop, I’d drive around advertising the fact.’

  Dario shrugged.

&n
bsp; ‘I guess you’re right.’

  But just before they reached Piazza Amore, Sabatino leant out of the window and grabbed the flashing light off the roof.

  ‘Kill the wand!’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Dario.

  Sabatino pointed. Locked in the grid of traffic headed the other way was a real police car, with a couple of uniforms in the front.

  ‘All we need now is for them to start taking an interest,’ murmured Gesualdo nervously.

  Fortunately the policemen’s view was blocked by a large orange truck in front, and they hadn’t noticed the presence of their counterfeit colleagues. In fact they didn’t seem to be taking much interest in anything. They hadn’t even bothered to make use of their own lights and siren to carve a passage through the jam, for some reason, seemingly content to lumber along at the same speed as the common public. As well as the two uniformed officers, there was a man in civilian clothes on board, sitting all alone in the back. He seemed to be about to get out of the car, perhaps having realized that at this point it would be quicker to walk.

  But as the red Jaguar passed by, the line of traffic going the other way suddenly started to move, then to pick up speed. For a moment it seemed as though some plug had been pulled, and that everything would now be easy. Then, without any warning, the whole thing ground to a halt once again. The refuse truck stopped dead, its brake lights bathing the police car in an eerie red glare. The uniformed driver groped for the brake pedal, but he was still speaking to his colleague in the front passenger seat and hit the clutch instead. The police car slammed into the tail-gate of the truck, not fast enough to do any serious damage, although the civilian in the back went sprawling into the space behind the front seats while the two cops, who naturally hadn’t bothered to buckle their seat-belts, shot forward and struck their foreheads on the windscreen and the steering wheel respectively.

  The one in the passenger seat recovered first. He glanced at the driver, who had blood streaming from his nose.

  ‘That son of a bitch!’ he yelled in dialect. ‘I’ll squash his balls like tomatoes!’

  He got out of the car and strode towards the front of the truck, some sort of municipal maintenance vehicle by the look of it. But when he was more than half-way there, the door of the cab swung open and three men in overalls jumped out and turned in a line, facing him.

  What happened next is unclear. The policeman may have started to say something, but no one remembered that. All they remembered – the few who had not been looking the other way at the time, or whose view had not been blocked by another vehicle – was the gunfire, the abrupt volley of rapid, hammered shots which ‘could have come from anywhere’. Almost everyone remembered the policeman falling, the gunmen sprinting away, abandoning their truck, the screams, panic and general confusion. On the other hand, no one at all seems to have noticed the man in civilian clothes struggle out of the back of the police car and run off down a narrow alley as fast as he could go, his handcuffed arms swinging stiffly from side to side.

  Due bizzarre ragazze

  By this time, the red Jaguar was over half a mile away. Thanks to a judicious use of the police wand and the flashing light, which allowed him not only to disregard the rules of the road but to intimidate those similarly bent on ignoring them, Gesualdo had been able to indulge to the full his penchant for massive acceleration, emergency braking, breath-taking near-misses, controlled skids and all the other techniques associated with the chaos theory of urban driving.

  None of this seemed to have improved the mood of the two men in the front of the car. The brief effervescence of male camaraderie had gone flat, leaving a thin, sour, strained silence. Both Gesualdo and Sabatino appeared to be sunk in a mood of sullen apathy, punctuated by frequent sighs, which baffled and slightly alarmed their passenger. Maybe it was a mistake inviting myself along, thought Dario De Spino.

  By now he had known the two men for almost a year, but was frequently forced to admit to himself – though not to others, for knowledge was his business – that what he didn’t know about them easily outweighed what he did. He had met Sabatino first, actually tried to pick him up in a bar! It rapidly became clear that Sabatì was not that way inclined, but it also became clear that he and Gesualdo liked hanging out with Dario, in a spirit of casual, bullshitting camaraderie, and that they were connected to some very big players indeed.

  Exactly which players, Dario had never been able to determine exactly, although he wouldn’t admit this to anyone else either. On the contrary, being seen with Gesualdo and Sabatino had upgraded his own image considerably in quarters where such enhancement can make the difference between a sweet deal and a kiss-off – or something far worse.

  So it wasn’t just altruism which made Dario wish to raise his companions’ spirits by any possible means. The world in which he had been born and had his being was rich in portents, omens and auguries. Read them wrong and you were dead, often literally. Maybe the lads were simply suffering from indigestion, or maybe someone had, God forbid, put the evil eye on them. In either case, he needed to find out, and fast.

  ‘So how’s business with you two?’ he asked a trifle too breezily. ‘Personally I’ve been doing a little distribution work for one of the big names in the pharmaceutical sector.’

  No harm in hinting that he too had powerful contacts whose identity he could not, needless to say, reveal. In fact the deal was a one-off involving a couple of kilos brought in by a friend of a friend, in both senses of the word, to be marketed through various gay discos, the discretion of whose clientele was assured.

  No response.

  ‘What a life!’ he went on. ‘Up at all hours, from one end of the city to the other, the phone ringing off the hook, trying to keep track of inventory, and God help you if you botch a sale! The only perk is the built-in wastage inevitable in any transportation and repack aging operation.’

  Still no response. Dario leant forward between the two front seats.

  ‘Here you go, lads. Something to lift your spirits.’

  Gesualdo did not take his eyes off the road. Sabatino glanced down at the plastic sachet of crystalline white powder in Dario’s outstretched palm. With a violent motion of his hand he slapped it away.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ yelled Dario, scooping the sachet up off the floor. ‘That’s pure coke!’

  The silence from the front seats merely intensified.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you two?’ Dario demanded.

  The only reply was a massive sigh from Gesualdo.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Dario.

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just drop it, will you?’ snapped Gesualdo.

  Dario leant forward again, scanning the street ahead. He was really worried now. If the car had been going slowly enough, he would have opened the door and made a run for it. But there was no chance of that, the way this maniac was driving.

  ‘Gesuà! Sabatì! For God’s sake, what’s happened?’

  ‘It’s personal,’ muttered Sabatino.

  The Jaguar squealed round a corner, right into the path of an oncoming bus. With a flick of his wrist, Gesualdo cut into an alley on the other side of the street.

  ‘Our girls have left Naples,’ he said.

  Dario stared at him, then burst into relieved laughter.

  ‘Is that all? They’ll be back.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘To study in London.’

  ‘Lucky them! They’ll come back with all kinds of certificates and qualifications and land some great job.’

  ‘Not here, though,’ Sabatino replied gloomily. ‘Somewhere up North, where all the classy jobs are.’

  ‘Or maybe they’ll meet someone in London and not come back at all,’ said Gesualdo.

  Dario laughed again.

  ‘In that case, lucky you!’

  Sabatino turned around.

  ‘What’s that s
upposed to mean, you idiot?’

  Dario shrugged broadly and winked.

  ‘There are plenty of other women around.’

  ‘Not like Orestina and Filomena.’

  ‘What have they got that the others haven’t?’ demanded Dario. ‘One’s as good as another, since none of them is any good except for one thing. Anyway, that’s beside the point. They’ll be back all right, and before you know it you’ll be knee-deep in mortgage payments and credit-card bills, not to mention a pack of brats. This may be the last chance you ever get to kick off the traces. So instead of making life hell for yourselves and everyone around you, why not get out there and enjoy yourselves?’

  ‘Enjoy ourselves?’ repeated Sabatino incredulously.

  ‘Right! Get out there and play the field for all you’re worth. Just like your precious females will be doing in London.’

  Gesualdo brought the car to a screeching halt and swung round to face Dario.

  ‘Don’t you dare insult two of the purest, most faithful women who have ever lived! You have no idea what they’ve had to go through from their family for taking up with the likes of us.’

  ‘That’s probably your main attraction,’ commented Dario cynically. ‘If you’d been a couple of guagliune per bene, they wouldn’t have given you a second look. In short, you’re the most interesting men they’ve ever come across here. But in London? Do you think they’re going to waste their time there weeping and worrying about you two? Give me a break! Women need to be the centre of attention. If you aren’t around to give it to them, they’ll find someone who is. It only makes sense for you to play by the same rules.’

  But Gesualdo had already climbed out of the car, followed closely by Sabatino. The front doors slammed with percussive finality.

  ‘Wait for me, lads!’ called Dario.

  ‘We’ve got private business here,’ Gesualdo told him coldly. ‘Either wait or make your own way home.’

  He and Sabatino disappeared down a set of stone steps running steeply downhill between walls overhung with foliage. Dario looked after them for a moment, then shrugged and lit a cigarette. As he did so, he noticed a taxi standing opposite, apparently just paying off its fare. Dario walked over and started to negotiate with the driver, a no-nonsense babe somewhere in her fifties.