The Milan Contract Page 18

Moretti went to the kitchen to put the photograph with Stolz’s money and when he returned, scribbled ‘Stolz’s dog – Fideccio’ in his notebook.

  The TV was showing the live stream from the barn. A large American saloon swung into the yard. It was Alex. They watched him climb the ladder towards the camera. Shortly afterwards, the quadrant went black. The remaining two quadrants went blank shortly afterwards.

  “He’s turned the cameras off or disconnected them. I wish we knew where he was, we could get a team out there.”

  “Sorry, I was taken to the barn in the boot of a BMW.”

  “It’s OK, we’ll know soon enough.”

  66

  ‘The Manor House’, Hatchmere, Cheshire, England

  The shrill ring of the phone disturbed Pete Salterton's dark dream of an unknown hand covering his face with a sheet in a Milanese street.

  “Salt, it’s Giuli. Everything’s been sorted. It’s over.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s just after eight. It’s over Salt.”

  “Tell me,” said Salterton, pulling on his dressing gown.

  “You were right, the contract was taken out on you. It was Fanucci.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me happy!” Salterton yelled, as he stepped on to the landing.

  “Salt, calm down. It was Marco Fanucci. He went off-piste. Embarrassed some dangerous people over here. Seems he thought you and I were muscling in on his turf.”

  “And were we?”

  “No, it was all a big fuck-up. Fanucci was working alone. No one knew what he was up to.”

  Salterton told his brother-in-law to wait while he made his way downstairs. He poured himself a Scotch and sat down in the conservatory, just as a well-built man in jeans, anorak and trainers strolled by the window. He was carrying a black Mossberg pump-action shotgun. Salterton raised his hand in acknowledgment, but the man didn’t respond. Salterton shook his head.

  “So, it’s sorted then, completely? You’re absolutely certain?” he asked, as the soldier crouched down before disappearing into a clump of rose bushes.

  “Completely. I’m certain. Mr Fanucci will not be setting his own agenda again, and I’ve received a blessing on our trade. The techie topped himself and his kid has been arrested. Everything’s been tidied up. It’s over.”

  “Thank fuck for that, Giuli. Shame you didn’t get to the shooter though. I don’t like the idea that someone with my name on his list is still breathing, but I’ll have to live with that. These marines give me the creeps and I can’t sleep. They have the floodlights on all night. It’s been like Blackpool illuminations over here. They’ve been paid up to Saturday, I’ll get rid of them then.”

  67

  Poole Magistrates’ Court, Dorset, England

  Harry Chase skipped along the wide glass-walled vestry of the building housing Poole Magistrates’ Court. He was holding his long, pleated black gown with one hand and pressing his horsehair wig to his head with the other. He was between cases and had just fifteen minutes before he would have to bow to the magistrates in Court 2.

  He swiftly gathered a file from the clerk’s office and made his way back down the corridor, picking a route between clusters of nervous court attendees.

  The door to Consulting Room 4 was open and inside sat Jack Stephens; nineteen years old, bored, thin, angular, and awkward in the tie that his ever-hopeful mother made him wear on such occasions.

  “Just for luck, Mr Chase, everyone needs a bit of luck.”

  Jack Stephens would certainly benefit from a bit of luck, thought Chase, ‘that or just a modicum of self-discipline,’ he thought to himself.

  Mrs Stephens rose, her red-raw hands clutching a tear-stained handkerchief, her eyes, dark pools of red, water and trepidation.

  “Mrs Stephens.” Chase acknowledged her before turning to her wayward son, who barely raised his eyes at the arrival of the man who would represent him in court.

  “What is it this time, Jack?” Chase asked as he flicked open the case file.

  “Drink driving, speeding, dangerous driving, failing to stop, no insurance, no tax, no MOT.”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders, but his hands remained buried in his oversized denims.

  “What’s the story then, Jack? Anything I need to know? Says here your blood alcohol level was more than twice the limit. Does that seem about right to you, Jack?”

  Jack Stephens shrugged again and stared at his spotless and garishly pink designer trainers.

  “Tell him, Jack love,” implored his mother as she rested a trembling hand on her son’s knee.

  Jack shifted, jerking his leg away from her touch.

  “Yes, come on Jack, tell me.”

  After a pause, only interrupted by the whimpering of his mother, Jack sat up a little and glared at the barrister.

  “Fucking coppers, Mr Chase, they’ve always had it in for me.”

  “Have they done something to you, Jack? What’s the problem?”

  The boy refused to elaborate and resumed staring at his trainers.

  “They’re always picking on him, Mr Chase. Got it in for him on account of his dad.”

  Chase ignored her.

  “Look, Jack, in about ten minutes, two policemen are going to tell the magistrates they clocked you racing along the A338 at over 100mph in a car that was uninsured, untaxed and barely roadworthy. They’re going to swear that when they eventually got you to stop after chasing around Ringwood for twenty minutes, you were so pissed you couldn’t stand up. The magistrates on hearing this are going to take one look at your long and not so distinguished criminal record and will not hesitate to send you to Crown Court, where, if your tie works, you’ll be sent down for two years. Do you understand me, Jack?”

  Jack began tapping his foot on the floor impatiently as his mother started crying again.

  “So, if you can tell me something that may be of assistance when I’m trying to save your backside, now would be a good time to do so!”

  Ten minutes later, three magistrates listened wearily to Harry Chase LLB (Hons) as he passionately set out the tragedy that was Jack’s life; criminal father, haphazard education, economic hardship, unsuitable influences, long-suffering mother. Chase could recount the story without notes. He was well-practised at it.

  Jack Stephens was released on bail to appear at Bournemouth Crown Court on a date to be set. Throughout the short hearing, his hands never left his pockets and when he stood up, the waistband of his denims barely remained in loose proximity to the base of the narrow and shapeless cheeks of his backside. Chase watched Mrs Stephens and her sulking son shuffle across the Sandbanks Road towards the bus stop in front of the park gates.

  Chase had come to the law relatively late in life. After serving in the Royal Air Force for sixteen years, he’d only started studying law because it was difficult. He craved the challenge.

  He was forty by the time he was awarded a first-class honours degree and a year later, he qualified as a barrister. It had been five years since he’d been called to the Bar and taken a solemn oath in front of an oversized painting of Charles I at the Middle Temple in London.

  But now, as he watched the futureless young man waiting for a bus, he wondered if he’d known then what he knew now, would he have just said, “Thanks Charlie, but what’s the point?” and walked quietly off into the sunset.

  68

  Handsworth Wood, Birmingham, England

  Suzie squeezed Nyala’s hand and tapped in the number. The man who answered spoke Italian very quickly and she wasn’t sure she’d reached the right person.

  “Good afternoon, is that Lieutenant Conza?”

  “It is, speaking.”

  “Ah, good, you speak English,” she heard herself saying, much too slowly.

  “Yes, I do, my mother was born in Hampshire. So yes, but I’m a little rusty.”

  “That will make things much easier, for me at least. My name is Suzie Tadesse, I am Nyala’s aunt. Nyala Abebe, do you recognise
that name?”

  “Nyala, yes, of course. Is she OK? Can I speak to her?”

  Suzie covered the phone’s mouthpiece and asked Nyala if she wanted to speak to him. Nyala looked unsure.

  “Shall I put him on speaker? Would that be OK, Nyala?”

  Suzie laid the phone on the table.

  “Lieutenant Conza, you’re on speaker. It’s probably easier for everyone if we converse in English. Nyala can translate for Mazaa if needed.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Suzie listened while the lieutenant updated Nyala on everything that had happened since they’d last spoken. Her father’s condition remained critical, but stable. Conza gave Nyala the details of the hospital so she could speak directly to his nursing team.

  The Italian police had interviewed Nyala’s friend, and amazingly, seen a film of his captivity and the planning of a murder. Conza told Nyala that Issam Bennani was dead but didn’t offer any details. Suzie guessed he’d taken his own life.

  “What will happen to Kadin now?” Nyala asked when Conza had finished.

  Suzie sensed the vagueness in Conza’s response.

  “Nyala, he’s saying the police will make recommendations as to what happens to Kadin. He’s still a child and that will make a great deal of difference, but Lieutenant Conza is trying to tell you he simply doesn’t know.”

  Nyala slowly shook her head as Suzie picked up her phone.

  “You are off speaker now, Lieutenant, thank you for looking after Amadi. He’s a good father and son.”

  “He is under close protection, Mrs Tadesse. He’s strong, like Nyala, it will make a difference.”

  “Let’s hope so. It’s clear Kadin needs a good lawyer; I take it the state will provide one?”

  “A lawyer has already been assigned.”

  They exchanged goodbyes and a promise to stay in touch.

  ◆◆◆

  Suzie held her niece’s hand.

  “You heard what the lieutenant had to say. As soon as the police announce Kadin has been arrested, you will no longer be in danger. But I agree with him, it might be wise for you to stay with us for a while, just to let the dust settle. What do you think?”

  Nyala wasn’t sure about the dust, but she understood enough to know that her stay in Birmingham was about to be extended. She spoke in Italian with her grandmother before turning back to Suzie.

  “We’ll stay here for a couple of weeks, Aunty, but we must return home soon to look after my father.”

  “I understand, but there’s no point rushing back, Amadi’s in good hands and there really is nothing you can do for him until he’s been released from hospital. In the meantime, I’ll stay in touch with Lieutenant Conza and keep you updated with any news, Is that OK?”

  “Thanks, Aunty. I think I was right to trust Lieutenant Conza, he’ll fight for Kadin.”

  “I believe you’re right, Nyala” Suzie replied. “He sounds like a good man.”

  69

  Chambers of Harry Chase, Bournemouth, England

  Harry Chase sat in the small office overlooking the lower town gardens and from his first-floor window, watched a family of holidaymakers sitting on a low wall next to the stream. They removed the wrappers from their ice creams before discarding them in the water. The ducks raced over to the paper in a rush of wings, but there was nothing for them to peck at, so they went back to dipping their heads in search of food.

  The scene made Chase feel old and he imagined himself berating the family for their selfish act, knowing it would have no effect. He checked the clock on the mantlepiece and picked up the phone.

  “Raphael? It’s me, Harry. How the devil are you? I got your message.”

  “Harry, great to hear your voice, thanks for calling back. Things are a bit hectic over here, how about you and the family?”

  “You know, Raffy, same old, same old. Helen’s great, puts up with me, so things can’t be too bad. Kids are doing well, they’re off school this week. Dreaded family holiday is drawing near.”

  “Stop the miserable old git routine, Harry, you know you love them.”

  “My kids or family holidays?”

  “Both! Now listen, you’ve been on my mind the past couple of days. It’s a case I’m working on, wondered if I could pick your brains?”

  “Pick away Raffy, sounds intriguing.”

  “OK, first of all, if someone is forced to commit murder, do they have a defence?”

  “You mean duress? Can you be coerced into committing murder?”

  The family in the park laughed as the youngest child chased a distraught duck around the lawn. Chase pulled down the blind.

  “I’m not conversant with Italian criminal law, but since the Nuremberg trials, most countries generally don’t allow duress as a defence for murder. I strongly suspect that Italy’s in that category.”

  “What if the killer is only seventeen?”

  “Age has a bearing, clearly. The problem remains that a court is likely to say that one life is never more valuable than another. Duress, even for a minor isn’t a valid defence, I’m afraid.”

  “Well there isn’t much I can do about it for now. The kid will appear before a judge in the morning and I’m guessing he’ll plead not guilty. After that, it will take months to come back to court.”

  “It would help if you could put the people who coerced him behind bars. At least then the media will have their pound of flesh. It won’t get him off, but it may stop the dogs barking.”

  “We’re hoping to make some arrests tomorrow, if not this evening.”

  “Sounds a difficult case.”

  “You could say that. A murder planned live on television. A phantom robbery. A guy with a body double. A kid coerced into killing the wrong man. Suicide. Tortured witnesses. It’s been crazy, but it’s coming to a head now.”

  “Sad to confess, Raffy, but I’m envious. But you said that was the first thing, what’s next?”

  “Oh yes, the murder victim’s name was Lukas Stolz.”

  As Conza spelt out his name, he thought of Katherine and her brother’s betrayal.

  “He worked for Skyguard in the Midlands. I’m guessing you know Skyguard from your time in the air force?”

  “Let me tell you something, Raffy. When you hang up your flying boots and leave the RAF, you go two ways; civil airlines, or Skyguard. I know half a dozen guys who were headhunted by them when they left the cockpit.”

  “Sounds like you missed out there, Harry. You got to wear a wig instead.”

  “I’ll thank you not to disparage my working uniform, Lieutenant. Anyway, you said his name was Lukas Stolz – sounds German.”

  “East German, actually. I’m researching his background. I’ve already spoken to his sister, and I’ve put out requests to police in Warwick. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to hear about Stolz from a work colleague. In truth, I don’t think Stolz is relevant to the case, I think he was killed by accident. But I have to cross the t’s.”

  “No problem, I’ll talk to a pal of mine, Jimmy Appleton. He knows everybody at Skyguard. By way of payment for my magnanimous services, you can tell me a little about the investigation. You know how nosy I am.”

  They laughed.

  Conza gave Chase a brief summary of Lukas Stolz’s murder, Kadin’s escape and the subsequent inquiries.

  “That’s one hell of a story. So Stolz wasn’t the intended target? They were really after this chap Salterton?”

  “It’s the only explanation that fits. All except for the evidence going missing, of course.”

  “Really? Tell me about it.”

  “You sound like Georgio, Sergeant Moretti. He’s always looking for problems.”

  “So, come on. Tell me about this missing evidence.”

  “I really don’t think it’s important. Stolz wasn’t the right man. It’s just that his belongings went missing from the station the night he was killed.”

  “That’s odd. Was the Bennani kid supposed to take anything from him after he’d be
en shot?”

  “Only his mobile phone. He did take the guy’s cash, but it turned out the victim gave it to him voluntarily. Thought he was being robbed. That confused us for a while. Anyway, Kadin was told to drop the phone into a bin near the station, which he did.”

  “So the organisers needed the real target’s mobile phone. I’m assuming it was collected by them.”

  “Correct again. We have CCTV footage of the man they call Max picking it up the same day.”

  “So they wanted something stored on the phone. But assuming it wasn’t password-protected, they would have quickly realised they’d shot the wrong man.”

  “I thought about that, Harry, but it doesn’t make sense. Salterton is a career criminal. Can you imagine him storing anything incriminating on his mobile phone? In any case, he’d have locked it with a password. You know as well as I do, criminality breeds paranoia. No, I don’t think they wanted his phone at all, they just needed Kadin’s getaway to be masked. I don’t think it’s any more complicated than that.”

  “But you said it was in a suppressing sleeve. They’d already ensured Kadin wasn’t tracked. Why go to the trouble of retrieving a phone they didn’t need?”

  “Harry, I hate you. You know that.”

  “Don’t shoot me; if you pardon the expression. I’m just trying to help. Maybe they were looking for something in his phone case? That would make more sense.”

  “Sadly, Kadin said it wasn’t in a case.”

  “All right, go back to Stolz for a second. What did he have with him?”

  “He’d just checked out of the hotel. He had an overnight bag and an attaché case. His wallet and phone were in his jacket.”

  “And everything was taken from the police station?”

  “That’s right. I didn’t get a chance to look in his overnight bag, but I did list everything in the briefcase. He had a calculator, an old newspaper, a magazine, his notepad and some keys.”

  “Which newspaper?”