of the worst cappuccinos in the region.
“Do you have the passenger list?”
Tancredi nodded. Then he looked around, as if to check that no one was watching us. No one could have been watching us, because the bar was empty, apart from the fat lady behind the counter. The perpetrator of those delightful cappuccinos.
“Among the passengers coming from Montenegro was a gentleman who’s quite well known in certain circles.”
“How do you mean?”
“Luca Romanazzi, class of 1968. He’s from Bari, but lives in Rome. Twice arrested and tried for Mafia connections and drug trafficking, twice acquitted. Middle-class family, father
a municipal employee, mother a nursery school teacher. Brothers normal. A normal family. He’s the proverbial black sheep. We’re sure he took part in a series of armoured-car robberies - according to various informants - and that he was involved in trafficking with Albania. Drugs and luxury cars. But we have nothing that’ll stick. The son of a bitch is good.”
“He could have organized this whole operation.”
“Yes, he could. He could also be an accomplice of your client’s, to take another plausible hypothesis.”
“I need to show his face to Paolicelli.”
“Of course.”
“That means I need a photo, Carmelo.”
He didn’t reply. He looked around again, moving only his eyes, and then took a yellow envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and gave it to me.
“I’d be grateful if this stayed confidential, Guerrieri. And after you’ve shown it to your client I’d be grateful if you burned it, or ate it, or whatever you like.”
I was listening to him with the envelope in my hand.
“And I’d also be grateful if you put it away. For example, doing a complicated thing like putting it in your pocket before everyone in the bar realizes that Inspector Tancredi delivers supposedly confidential papers to a criminal lawyer.”
I didn’t bother saying that “everyone in the bar” seemed to me a bit of an exaggeration, seeing that the lady behind the bar had been joined only by a little old man who was drinking a double brandy, completely uninterested in us or the rest of the world. I thanked him and put the envelope in my pocket. Tancredi was already getting up to go back to police headquarters.
16
Every job has its breaking points, its fault lines. Cracks on the wall of consciousness that make you realize - or should make you realize - that you ought to stop, change, do something else. If it’s at all possible. Of course it almost never is. And besides, you almost never have the courage to even think about it.
I had many symptoms of a breaking point coming. One of them was the nausea I always felt when I had to visit the prison. It would begin as a creeping anxiety when I was still in my office, continue as I was on my way there, and turn to disgust when I was at the checkpoint and they were registering my name, taking my mobile phone, locking it in a cabinet, and opening the first of the many doors I would have to go through to get to the interview room.
That day the disgust was particularly strong, and physical.
As I waited for them to bring in Paolicelli, I asked myself what I would do if he recognized the man in the photo. I’d go back to Tancredi, and he would tell me that he couldn’t do anything else for me. Taking a photo from the Flying Squad databank was already a big favour. He could hardly start an investigation, based purely on the hypothesis that Luca Romanazzi had stuffed Fabio Paolicelli’s car full of drugs, either directly or through an intermediary. I didn’t need a policeman or a private detective for an investigation like this, I needed a magician.
If Paolicelli didn’t recognize the photo, it was all a lot simpler. I had done my best - nobody could deny that - and all I could do now was limit the damage. My duty became much simpler. The appeal was completely hopeless and we had to plea-bargain. No dilemma - I’d had enough of
“Do you have the passenger list?”
Tancredi nodded. Then he looked around, as if to check that no one was watching us. No one could have been watching us, because the bar was empty, apart from the fat lady behind the counter. The perpetrator of those delightful cappuccinos.
“Among the passengers coming from Montenegro was a gentleman who’s quite well known in certain circles.”
“How do you mean?”
“Luca Romanazzi, class of 1968. He’s from Bari, but lives in Rome. Twice arrested and tried for Mafia connections and drug trafficking, twice acquitted. Middle-class family, father
a municipal employee, mother a nursery school teacher. Brothers normal. A normal family. He’s the proverbial black sheep. We’re sure he took part in a series of armoured-car robberies - according to various informants - and that he was involved in trafficking with Albania. Drugs and luxury cars. But we have nothing that’ll stick. The son of a bitch is good.”
“He could have organized this whole operation.”
“Yes, he could. He could also be an accomplice of your client’s, to take another plausible hypothesis.”
“I need to show his face to Paolicelli.”
“Of course.”
“That means I need a photo, Carmelo.”
He didn’t reply. He looked around again, moving only his eyes, and then took a yellow envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and gave it to me.
“I’d be grateful if this stayed confidential, Guerrieri. And after you’ve shown it to your client I’d be grateful if you burned it, or ate it, or whatever you like.”
I was listening to him with the envelope in my hand.
“And I’d also be grateful if you put it away. For example, doing a complicated thing like putting it in your pocket before everyone in the bar realizes that Inspector Tancredi delivers supposedly confidential papers to a criminal lawyer.”
I didn’t bother saying that “everyone in the bar” seemed to me a bit of an exaggeration, seeing that the lady behind the bar had been joined only by a little old man who was drinking a double brandy, completely uninterested in us or the rest of the world. I thanked him and put the envelope in my pocket. Tancredi was already getting up to go back to police headquarters.
16
Every job has its breaking points, its fault lines. Cracks on the wall of consciousness that make you realize - or should make you realize - that you ought to stop, change, do something else. If it’s at all possible. Of course it almost never is. And besides, you almost never have the courage to even think about it.
I had many symptoms of a breaking point coming. One of them was the nausea I always felt when I had to visit the prison. It would begin as a creeping anxiety when I was still in my office, continue as I was on my way there, and turn to disgust when I was at the checkpoint and they were registering my name, taking my mobile phone, locking it in a cabinet, and opening the first of the many doors I would have to go through to get to the interview room.
That day the disgust was particularly strong, and physical.
As I waited for them to bring in Paolicelli, I asked myself what I would do if he recognized the man in the photo. I’d go back to Tancredi, and he would tell me that he couldn’t do anything else for me. Taking a photo from the Flying Squad databank was already a big favour. He could hardly start an investigation, based purely on the hypothesis that Luca Romanazzi had stuffed Fabio Paolicelli’s car full of drugs, either directly or through an intermediary. I didn’t need a policeman or a private detective for an investigation like this, I needed a magician.
If Paolicelli didn’t recognize the photo, it was all a lot simpler. I had done my best - nobody could deny that - and all I could do now was limit the damage. My duty became much simpler. The appeal was completely hopeless and we had to plea-bargain. No dilemma - I’d had enough of
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