The Milan Contract Page 3

  On the table, she found a short note written in Kadin’s lazy scrawl:

  Hi Mom,

  Sorry – but I forgot – I was supposed to visit the museum in Bergamo with Emil today.

  Haven’t seen him for ages, so will probably stay with him over the weekend.

  See you on Monday – kiss Sor and Youss for me

  K xxx

  Jamila tutted and tried to call his mobile, but there was no answer, so she left him a voice message.

  She sighed at the prospect of spending the weekend entertaining Soraya and Youssef without Kadin’s help, and she mouthed a silent prayer that her husband would not return until her son was home.

  7

  San Carlo, 60 km East of Milan, Italy

  It had been five days since Issam Bennani had failed to return home from one of his frequent visits to the small bar on Via Beroldo. His family hadn’t missed him; Kadin, especially so. He despised his father’s drinking, his shady deals and his whisky-fuelled rages. Kadin had started to believe that this time, his father had gone for good.

  In the summer months, while college was closed, Kadin worked on the reception desk at the city leisure centre. He enjoyed the job, but it was Friday and he was looking forward to a weekend off as he hurried down the dimly lit staircase to collect his Vespa from the underground carpark.

  Later, he couldn’t remember the explosion of pain that ran from his kidneys to his fingertips as the electrical energy stored in the cattle prod discharged into his spine. Kadin was unconscious before he hit the tarmac, and when his eyes opened, he could still feel waves of prickly heat running across his scalp and through his fingers. He lay panting in pain and confusion on the clear plastic sheet. He passed out again.

  Kadin regained consciousness when he rolled against a wheel arch and banged his shoulder against the metal side of his enclosure. It took him a few seconds to work out that he was travelling in the boot of a car, although he couldn’t remember how he’d got there. Desperately, he tried to search for a recent memory; he was leaving work, a colleague slapping him on the back, collecting his keys and phone from his locker, he was walking down the stairs, the door to the car park was open, there was a humming sound… and then nothing.

  He felt for his mobile, but his pockets were empty. His temples throbbed and his eyes stung. Until his sight adjusted to the dark interior, he thought he’d been rendered blind by whatever had hit him. He tried banging on the boot lid but had little control over his limbs, which were still weak from being electrocuted. Panic was causing him to hyperventilate and bright dots swam through the fluid in his eyes.

  The car finally stopped, and the rumble of the engine ceased. When the boot opened, a short, stocky fair-haired man beckoned to him to get out. Fearing his life was about to be brought to a sudden end, Kadin shook his head and clutched his knees to his chest. A second man appeared, much taller than the first, but just as muscular; slightly older, his dark, wiry hair pulled into a ponytail. The fingers and backs of his hands were covered in smudged, dark-blue tattoos and his teeth were streaked yellow and brown.

  Kadin remained coiled and refused to move. His chest felt hollow and his legs had stiffened. He knew for certain that these men were used to violence, and believing he was about to die, he just lay still, closed his eyes and shouted for help as loud as he could. The men looked at each other and the one with fair-hair sighed. No one would hear him. They waited for Kadin to scream himself hoarse.

  Still curled in a ball, Kadin sobbed and rocked against the side of the car. Urine soaked through his trousers and a small pool of yellow liquid found a crease in the plastic sheet and trickled towards the rear of the boot.

  The men didn’t threaten Kadin, they didn’t hit him or shout. They didn’t make any demands, they didn’t answer his tear-filled questions, nor acknowledge his anger or hatred. They made but a single statement and delivered it without emotion, detached from the cruelty their words conveyed. They were ambivalent to his disintegration as a human being. What they said, the only words they uttered, were simple, unambiguous and not open to negotiation. If Kadin wanted to see his family alive again, he had to get out of the car. If he refused, his family would die.

  It was just a statement of fact.

  8

  Sunday

  Guardia di Finanza Headquarters, Milan, Italy

  Some eight hours after the murder of Lukas Stolz, Raphael Conza returned to the neat, orderly office he shared with two other agents, one of whom was on holiday in Sicily, and the other in Rome attending a specialist course on money laundering. Conza was glad he had the office to himself – the quiet helped him think.

  He turned on the electric fan and opened one of the wooden sash windows that overlooked the long narrow courtyard that sat between the three buildings of the Guardia di Finanza regional office.

  On his computer screen he double-clicked a news icon and read a vague report on the Lukas Stolz murder. After a brief description of the murder scene, the report went on to say that ‘the police were trying to identify the rider of a Vespa seen in the vicinity at the time.’

  A young, shirt-sleeved clerk knocked on the already open door.

  “Lieutenant Conza?” he asked with a grin.

  “Yes.”

  The clerk deposited a box file onto the table in the centre of the room. ‘Well done, Brocelli’, thought Conza as the clerk left without speaking further.

  Across the top right-hand corner of the box file, a label read ‘Copies’. In the centre of the lid was another label, ‘CASE No: MIL07/20/DER/HOM101’.

  Conza flicked through witness statements, photographs and other papers collected by Brocelli’s team. Conza opened his notebook and selected the document labelled ‘Witness Statement – Sami Ricci’.

  Disappointingly, Ricci’s statement only repeated what Brocelli had already told him. The chauffeur worked for a local car hire company, he was given the job the night before and didn’t know nor had ever met Lukas Stolz before today. When the killer appeared, Ricci had dived for cover under the car from where he thought Stolz said “Take it,” just before he was shot.

  Ricci’s description of the gunman was, ‘medium height, slim build, wearing a balaclava and black clothes’. Ricci stated that the motorcycle then, ‘headed south-east towards the city’.

  Conza pulled out his mobile phone and called Police HQ front desk.

  “Hi, it’s Conza at Finanza. Can you put me through to Sergeant Mancini, homicide?”

  While he waited, Conza reread the chauffeur’s statement. He was interrupted by the light, cheerful tone of Sergeant Lorenzo Mancini.

  “Hi Raffy, what can I do for you?”

  “Hi Lorenzo, just a quick one…you took a statement from the chauffeur in the Hotel Napoli job?”

  “That’s right, Sami Ricci. Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t know, if I’m honest. In his statement he says he only heard a small-engined motorbike?”

  “That’s correct. He couldn’t be more specific. What’s up?”

  “Probably nothing, but Milan Citynews is reporting the killer was riding a Vespa and I wondered where they got their information from.”

  “They didn’t get it from us. But you know what they’re like, Raffy. They make up what they don’t know.”

  Conza heard his friend chuckling.

  “Thanks, Lorenzo – can you put me through to Brocelli’s office please?”

  “No worries. See you soon.”

  After a short delay, Conza heard his monotone voice, “Captain Brocelli.”

  “Conza here. I read on the internet that the perp left the scene this morning riding a Vespa.”

  “So?”

  “The thing is Captain; no witness identified the make of motorbike and I was wondering why Citynews think it was a Vespa?”

  “Well Lieutenant Conza, that’s where you’re wrong. A few hours ago, a witness turned up at the cordon and told one of my officers that the killer escaped on a Vespa.”

&
nbsp; Conza ignored Brocelli’s antagonism. “Great. So we have a second witness.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Where is he now, and why wasn’t his statement in the box?”

  “Firstly, it’s a ‘she’ not a ‘he’. And secondly, the witness is a minor and can only be interviewed in the presence of her parents.”

  “So, someone’s been sent to speak to her?” asked Conza patiently.

  “Not exactly. The address she gave was false. We’re making further enquiries.” He ended the sentence in a rapid whisper.

  “Bloody hell. What’s the name of the cordon officer?”

  “Corporal Sigonella.”

  “Is he still on duty?”

  “Only until four.”

  “Which roadblock?”

  “Via Acerenza.”

  Conza took a final swipe before hanging up.

  “I’ll go to speak with this Corporal Sigonella, but in the meantime, you may want to find out how the information about the Vespa is already being touted by the Milan press corps.”

  Conza threw the witness statements back in the box, left his office and took a taxi back to the Hotel Napoli.

  9

  Garage 9, Vialle Vincenzo Lancetti, Milan, Italy

  In the minutes following his brief encounter with Nyala Abebe, the vivid self-loathing and disgust at what he had just done was replaced by panic. He’d recognised Nyala immediately and there was no doubt she’d recognised him. She had even smiled.

  Hurriedly, Kadin rolled the motorbike into the garage, switched off the engine and pushed the door shut. He listened. Just the tick, tick, tick of the Vespa’s motor as it cooled in the still, dust-filled air. Kadin leant against the door and realised it was the first time since Friday that he wasn’t being watched; he was alone. He retched, but his stomach was empty, and he spat out the acrid bile that filled his mouth and bit at his throat.

  The fluorescent tube flickered and chattered before flooding the room with a blue-white glow that chased away the shadows and overpowered the weak shafts of sunlight that barely pierced the dirty, narrow skylight high above him.

  Kadin had been in the garage many times, but that was before he’d become a killer. A murderer. Now, it looked different. Everything looked different; somehow sharper and more clearly defined. As if for the first time, Kadin noticed how large the garage really was. At some point, it had served as a workshop and along the left-hand wall ran a thick, sturdy workbench; scarred and scratched wood, blackened by the oil and grease of a thousand car parts being hammered or filed or bent back into shape. A tall red and rust-fringed toolbox sat in one corner, long devoid of the casters that had once made it mobile. Three shelves on the wall were filled with dusty oil bottles, petrol cans, wheel hubs and paint pots. And inexplicably, on the wall by the door, someone had hung a long case mirror and placed next to it, an elephant’s foot umbrella stand.

  A metre-wide strip of thick, ill-fitting planks ran down the centre of the concrete floor and the sight of it stirred in Kadin a memory.

  “The inspection pit is the key to all this. You need to stay safe.”

  ‘The key is to a safe. The safe is in the pit,’ Kadin remembered, praying he had interpreted the coded dialogue correctly.

  10

  Via Acerenza Roadblock, Milan, Italy

  The carabiniere gestured for the driver to turn his cab around as it approached the roadblock. Conza told the taxi driver to stop and wait for him, then beckoned to the policeman, identity card in hand.

  “Lieutenant Conza. Finanza. Are you Corporal Sigonella?”

  The young policeman nodded suspiciously.

  “You spoke to a young girl who witnessed the getaway this morning. Is that right?”

  “Yes, but she didn’t see much.”

  “I want you to tell me exactly what was said, Corporal. Exactly.” Conza fixed the young man’s rather distant gaze.

  “OK, but as I said, there’s not much to tell.”

  Conza waited.

  “At about 12:45, a young black girl on a bicycle asked me if she could pass through the cordon to get home. I told her the road was closed and she would have to go around.”

  “Go on.”

  “She asked me what had happened, why the road was closed. I told her there’d been an incident up at the hotel. I asked her where she had come from and she told me she’d been delivering bread in the city.”

  “Did you ask where she’d been delivering?”

  “Er, no. Should I have?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Keep going.”

  “I asked her if she’d been down this road earlier. She said she had.”

  “Good. What time?”

  “At around seven this morning. I asked her whether she’d seen a motorcycle driving along this road from the direction of the hotel. She said she had, a Vespa.”

  “Did she get a licence plate?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask her for a description of the rider?” Conza asked hurriedly.

  “Of course I did, Lieutenant. But she went all moody on me. Obviously didn’t want to get involved. You know what these people are like.”

  Conza ignored the implied racial slur and pressed on.

  “Description?”

  “She said something vague about the rider being dressed in black. A balaclava covering his face – she said it all happened very quickly, and she didn’t see anything else.”

  Conza raised his eyebrows in encouragement.

  “I asked her about the rider’s build, weight, height etc, but she just seemed to get scared, so I stopped asking her questions and radioed it in.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I told Captain Brocelli what the girl had said, and he asked me how old she was, so I asked her. She said she was fifteen. The captain told me to take down her details and he’d arrange for someone to visit her at home to take a statement. So I asked her for her name and address, and she became really defensive. Asked me why I needed it.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  The corporal rose to his full height. “I told her straight, I said, ‘There’s been a murder and you may be the only witness. We need to send someone round your house so you can make a statement in front of your parents.’”

  Conza closed his eyes for a few seconds.

  Confused as to why the lieutenant was shaking his head, the corporal pulled a notebook from his breast pocket.

  “Nadia Touami, Flat 3, No 28 Via Ass –”

  Conza raised his hand. “Didn’t Brocelli tell you? The address is false. Name’s probably false too.”

  “False?” said the corporal incredulously.

  Conza didn’t elaborate. He simply turned, climbed into the taxi and told the driver to take him back to the city.

  The corporal watched the rear of the car until it disappeared from view.

  “Asshole.”

  11

  Friday – Two Days Before the Murder

  San Carlo, 60 km East of Milan, Italy

  The barn was silhouetted against the star-filled night sky when Kadin arrived at the depressing conclusion that no one was going to help him. He shuffled forwards on his backside and eased his feet over the edge of the boot. The fair-haired man gestured towards the door of the wooden building. Kadin rolled onto the cold concrete yard, slowly easing the stiffness in his back and stretching the cramp from his aching calves. The air was still and heavy, but a faint aroma of yeast or bread reminded him of Abebe’s bakery and made him think of Nyala. In the light of the car’s headlights, he saw only dried brown, mulberry hedges and rolling fields of scrub stretching out into the darkness. There were no other buildings or signs of habitation nearby, although Kadin wondered if the faint orange glow on the horizon, could be a distant town or city.

  The man gestured towards the barn again. Slowly, Kadin walked forward and gingerly pressed his fingers to the cracked and split timber of the door. In that moment, in the confusion of still being alive while rema
ining convinced he would be killed at any second, Kadin could have imagined any number of things awaiting him in the barn. But he would have been wrong.

  A bright white industrial lamp on a tripod illuminated much of the building’s interior. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Kadin looked around. Two canvas seats and a picnic table had been set up in the middle of the room. Beneath the table, a large cardboard box and bottles of mineral water still wrapped in plastic. Against the far wall, two stacks of wooden pallets a couple of metres high and next to them, hanging from iron hooks, a long wooden ladder. The roof was vaulted, its apex hidden in shadow. Grey, worm-eaten timbers crisscrossed above his head. Fixed to a joist by duct tape, a metal box with a blinking red light, its lens directed at him. Another box and another red light. They were watching him. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  As his eyes adjusted to the contrasting light and shadow, he made out the shape of someone huddled in the far corner. He edged towards the figure; recognition came swiftly. His father, Issam Bennani, was sitting on the floor, knees slightly raised, back arched, trembling hands pawing at the top of his head in deep and consuming anguish. He looked up and smiled weakly. In that instant, his empty, bloodshot eyes conveyed to Kadin the ragged shreds of emotion that barely remained – sorrow, regret, fear and above all, hopelessness.

  Kadin gasped, ran to his father and held the broken man who began weeping into the crook of one limp and lifeless arm. Kadin suppressed the compulsion to scream, to shout at his father a thousand questions, and a thousand more words of anger and rebuke. But it was pity that rose up from Kadin’s stomach and caught in his throat. So he said nothing as Issam’s frail body rolled onto Kadin’s knees and as one, they wept together.

  The sound of the BMW driving away made Kadin sit up in excitement. He dragged a sleeve across his eyes and pulled at his face.