A Walk in the Dark (20 page)

When she saw him she stopped for a moment. Maybe she thought she’d cross to the other side and get away. But then she continued walking towards him. She seemed determined, the shop owner said.

She had decided to confront him. She didn’t want to run away. Not any more.

They spoke briefly, getting more and excited. They both raised their voices, especially her. She shouted at him to go away and leave her alone once and for all. Immediately after, there was a kind of scuffle. Scianatico hit her several times, slapping her and punching her. She fell, maybe she lost consciousness, and he dragged her bodily into the entrance hall.

 

 

Tancredi’s phone call came while I was talking to an important client. A major entrepreneur being investigated by the tax authorities for a series of frauds, who was scared stiff at the thought that he might be arrested. One of those clients who paid on time and paid well, because they had a lot to lose.

I told him I had a major emergency on, and asked him to excuse me: we’d see each other tomorrow, or rather no, better make it the day after tomorrow, sorry again, I have to go, goodbye. When I left my office he was still there, standing in front of the desk. Looking like someone who doesn’t understand, I suppose. And wondering if it might be a good idea to change lawyers.

As I was hurrying to Martina’s, which was fifteen minutes from my office at normal walking pace, I phoned Claudia. I don’t remember exactly what I said as I ran, breathless. But I do remember that she hung up while I was still talking, just as soon as she understood
what
I was talking about.

By the time I got there, there was a tremendous commotion. Outside the crush barriers, a crowd of onlookers. Inside them, a lot of uniformed policemen and a few carabinieri. Men and women in plain clothes,
with the gold badges of the investigative police on their belts or jackets or hanging round their necks like medallions. Some of them had pistols tucked into their belts, at the front. Others were holding them in their hands, pointed downwards, as if they might have to use them at any moment. A couple of them were holding bulletproof vests, which hung like half-empty bags. They looked as if they might be about to put them on at any moment.

I asked Tancredi who was in charge of operations – assuming you could talk about operations or anyone being in charge, in all that confusion. He pointed to a nondescript man in a jacket and tie, who was holding a megaphone in his hand but didn’t seem to me to know what to do with it exactly.

“He’s the deputy head of the Flying Squad. It would have been better if he’d stayed at home, but the chief is abroad, so, in practice, we have to get on with it ourselves. We also called the assistant prosecutor on duty and he told us he was a magistrate, and so it was none of his business. He doesn’t want to have to deal with the man, let alone decide whether or not to go in. But he’s told us to keep him informed. A lot of help that bastard is, eh?”

“Have you managed to talk to Scianatico?”

“On the landline, yes. I talked to him. He said he’s armed, and we shouldn’t try to go any closer. I’m not really sure it’s true – that he’s armed, I mean. But I wouldn’t like to bet on it.”

Tancredi hesitated for a few moments.

“I didn’t like the sound of his voice. Especially when I asked him if he’d let me talk to her. I said maybe he could just let her say hello to me and he said no, she
couldn’t
right now. His voice sounded quite unpleasant, and immediately after that he hung up.”

“Unpleasant in what way?”

“It’s hard to explain. Cracked, as if it might break at any moment.”

“Where’s Martina’s mother?”

“We don’t know. I mean, we don’t think she’s at home. I asked him if her mother was there and he said no. But where she is we don’t know. She probably went out to do some shopping or whatever; she’ll be back any moment now and get the shock of her life. We also tried to find his father, the judge, to get him to come and talk to that fucking madman of a son of his. We managed to contact him, but he’s in Rome for a conference. The Rome Flying Squad sent a car to pick him up and drive him to the airport to catch the first plane. But the earliest he can be here is in five hours. Let’s hope by then we don’t need him any more.”

“What do you think? What should we do?”

Tancredi lowered his head and pursed his lips. As if he was searching for an answer. Or rather, as if he had an answer ready but didn’t like it and was looking for an alternative.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, looking up. “This kind of situation is unpredictable. To decide on a strategy, you need to understand what the son of a bitch wants, in other words, what his real motivation is.”

“And in this case?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I’m thinking, I don’t like at all.”

I was about to ask him what it was he was thinking that he didn’t like at all, when I saw Claudia’s van arrive. In chronological order: a squeal of tyres as she came round the corner, the noise of gears suddenly changing, the back wheels mounting the pavement, the bumpers hitting a rubbish bin. She made her way
through the crowd, in our direction. A uniformed policeman told her she couldn’t go beyond the crush barrier which demarcated the area of operations. She brushed him aside without saying a word. He tried to block her way, but just then Tancredi ran up and told him to let her pass.

“Where are they?”

“He’s barricaded himself in Martina’s apartment,” Tancredi said. “He’s probably armed, or at least he says he is.”

“How is she?”

“We don’t know. We haven’t managed to talk to her. He was waiting for her outside the building. When she arrived they talked for a few seconds, then she shouted something like, ‘Go away or I’ll call the police, or my lawyer’, or both. It was then that he hit her, several times. She seems to have lost consciousness, or to have been stunned, because they saw him dragging her inside, holding her from behind, under the armpits. Someone called 113, a patrol car arrived immediately, and a few minutes later we got here.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t know. In a couple of hours the special forces should arrive from Rome, and then someone will have to take responsibility for authorizing them to go in. In a case like this, nobody knows what to do. I mean if it has to be a judge, the head of the Flying Squad, the chief of police or who. The alternative would be to try and negotiate. Easier said than done. Who’s going to talk to that madman?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Claudia said. “Phone him, Carmelo, and let me talk to him. I’ll ask him if he’ll let me in to see how Martina is. I’m a woman, a nun. I’m not saying he’ll trust me, but he may be less suspicious than with one of you.” Her tone of voice was strange.

Strangely calm, in contrast to her face, which was distraught.

Tancredi looked at me as if he was seeking my opinion, but without asking me anything. I shrugged my shoulders.

“I have to ask
him
,” he said at last, nodding towards the deputy head of the Flying Squad, who was still wandering around with that useless megaphone in his hand. He went up to him and they talked for a few minutes. Then they both walked towards us and it was the deputy head who spoke first.

“Are you the nun?” he said, turning to Claudia.

No, I’m the nun. Don’t you see my veil, idiot?

Claudia nodded.

“Do you want to try and talk to him?”

“Yes, I want to talk to him and ask him if he’ll let me in. It could work. He knows me. He might trust me and if I go in I think I can persuade him. He knows me well.”

What was she talking about? They didn’t know each other at all. They’d never talked to each other. I turned to look at her, with a questioning look on my face. She returned my gaze for no more than a couple of seconds. Her eyes were saying, “Don’t open your mouth: don’t even think about it.” Meanwhile, the deputy head of the Flying Squad was saying it was worth a try. At least they had nothing to lose with a phone call.

Tancredi took out his mobile, pressed the redial button and waited, with the phone flat against his ear. In the end Scianatico answered.

“This is Inspector Tancredi again. There’s someone here who wants to talk to you. Can I pass her to you? No, it’s not a policewoman, it’s a nun. Yes, of course. We’re not even thinking of coming any closer. All right, I’ll pass her to you.”

Yes, this was Sister Claudia, Martina’s friend. She’d been wanting to talk to him for a long time, she had a lot of important things to say to him. Before continuing, could she say hello to Martina? Oh, she wasn’t feeling well. On Claudia’s face a kind of fissure opened up, but her voice didn’t change, it remained steady and calm. Never mind, I’ll talk to her later, if that’s OK with you, of course. I think Martina wants to get back together with you. She’s often told me that, even though she didn’t know how to get out of the weird situation you were both in. I can’t hear you very well. I said I can’t hear you very well, it must be this mobile. What do you say I come up and we have a little talk? On my own, of course. I’m a woman, a nun, you have nothing to worry about. Besides, I don’t like the police either. So shall I come up? Of course, you just look through the spyhole, that way you can be sure I don’t have anyone with me. But in any case you have my word, you can trust me. Do you think a nun walks around with a gun? OK, I’m coming up now. On my own, of course, we agreed. Bye for now.

Apart from the things she said, what almost hypnotized me was her tone of voice. Calm, reassuring – hypnotic, in fact.

“Do you want to put on a bulletproof vest?” Tancredi asked. She looked at him without even replying.

“OK. Before you go up, I’ll call you on the mobile, and you answer straight away and then leave the line open. That way at least we can hear what you’re saying and we’ll know what’s happening.”

He turned to two guys in their thirties, who looked like housing-estate drug dealers. Two officers from his squad.

“Cassano, Loiacono, you two come with me. We’ll
go up together and stay on the stairs, just below the landing.”

“I’m going with you,” I heard myself saying, as if my voice had a will of its own.

“Don’t talk bullshit, Guido. You’re a lawyer, you do your job and let us get on with ours.”

“Wait, wait. If Claudia can get the negotiation started, I could go in after her, I could help her. He knows me, I’m Martina’s lawyer. I can tell him some nonsense – we’ll call off the trial, withdraw the charges, that kind of thing. I can be of help, if the negotiation goes ahead. If on the other hand you have to go in, obviously I’ll get out of the way.”

The deputy head of the Flying Squad said that in his opinion it might work. The important thing was to be careful. Great advice. He didn’t give any indication that he might come too. To avoid a bottleneck, I presume. His ideal policeman wasn’t Dirty Harry.

 

 

In my memory, what happened next is like a blackand-white film shot through a dirty lens and edited by a madman. And yet vivid, so vivid I can’t tell it in the past tense.

The three policemen are in front of me, on the last flight of stairs before the landing. As far as we can get without running the risk of being seen. We are very close, almost on top of each other. I can smell the pungent sweat of the taller one: Loiacono maybe, or maybe Cassano. The doorbell makes a strange, out-oftime noise. A kind of
ding dang dong
, with an oldfashioned echo that’s quite unsettling. There’s a voice from inside the apartment, and Claudia says something in reply. Then silence, a long silence. I assume
he’s looking through the spyhole. Then a mechanical noise: locks, keys turning. Then silence again, apart from the sound of our held breaths.

Tancredi has his mobile stuck to his left ear. With his other hand he’s holding his pistol, like the other two. Against his leg, the barrel pointed downwards. I remember the action all three of them performed before coming in. Slide pulled back, round in the chamber, hammer cocked gently to avoid accidental firing.

I look at Tancredi’s face, trying to read in it what he can hear, what’s happening. At a certain moment, the face distorts and before I need to think what it means, he cries, “Shit, all hell’s breaking loose. Smash the door down, damn it, smash the door down right now.”

The bigger of the two officers – Cassano, or maybe Loiacono – gets to the door first, lifts his knee almost to his chest, stretches his leg and kicks the door with the sole of his foot, at the height of the lock. There’s a noise of wood splitting, but the door doesn’t yield. The other policeman does exactly the same. More splitting wood, but still the door doesn’t yield.

Another two, three, four very violent kicks, and it opens. We all go in together. Tancredi first, the rest of us behind. Nobody tells me to wait outside and do my job while they get on with theirs.

We pass through a number of rooms, guided by Scianatico’s cries.

When we get to the kitchen, the scene that meets our eyes looks like some terrible ritual.

Claudia is sitting astride Scianatico’s face: she’s gripped him between her legs, keeping him immobilized, and with one hand she’s pinned his throat, her fingers digging into his neck like daggers. With
the other hand clenched in a fist, she’s striking him repeatedly in the face. Savagely and methodically, and as I watch, I
know
she’s killing him. The frame widens to include Martina. She’s on the floor, near the sink. She isn’t moving. She looks like a broken doll.

Cassano and Loiacono seize Claudia under her armpits and pull her off Scianatico. Once her feet are on the ground, she does what the two officers are least expecting: she attacks them so quickly they don’t know what hits them, they don’t even see the punches and the kicks. Tancredi takes a step back and aims the pistol at Claudia’s legs.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Claudia. Don’t let’s do anything stupid.”