The Milan Contract Read online

  Kadin Bennani stood beneath the pillared arches of Genoa Piazza Principe station and took a deep breath. He’d spent the journey clutching his bag and avoiding eye contact. At Voghera, where he changed trains, he bought a can of Sprite from a vending machine and sipped at it until it turned warm and flat.

  On the train, and despite the overwhelming exhaustion that tugged at his eyelids, he’d forced himself to stay awake. His senses had swung violently in keeping with his erratic mood. There had been painfully sharp moments of high alert, when his paranoia tried to seduce him to run away and hide, and periods of numb submission during which he’d tried to imagine the aftermath of confessing his crime to a fellow passenger, or the conductor, or to the two policemen standing in the ticket hall in Voghera. But he hadn’t confessed, and he’d convinced himself that for his family’s sake, he would stay strong and follow what he believed was his father’s escape plan.

  Kadin walked over to the map outside the station and searched for the ‘Rivoli’ bus stop marked in his timetable. He found it on the No. 635 bus route. Quickly, he memorised directions to the nearest stop.

  “Columbus – alley – turn right at church – cross the road – 635 – Rivoli.”

  Kadin hitched his bag onto his shoulder and crossed the forecourt past the Christopher Columbus statue. Scanning right, he kept walking until he saw the top of a narrow cobblestone path leading steeply downwards in a direction the map had told him was towards the docks and sea beyond. Kadin began to descend until at the end of the street, he saw the blue and white of a city police car. With as much curiosity as he could muster, he stopped to read a poster outside a church extolling the virtues of repentance until he saw the police car move off up the hill. Shortly after turning right, he crossed the main road and twelve minutes later, he was on the bus heading eastwards, away from the spoon-shaped basin of Genoa’s main port.

  The bus was almost empty, but he sat near the back, so he could maintain a clear view of the doors and other passengers. He alighted at the Rivoli bus stop and crossing back across the road, walked up a narrow incline between high-sided buildings. As he neared the crest of the hill, he spotted a three-storey, red-brick building rising above a clump of poplar trees. On a stone sign above the door were the words ‘Villa Nuova’.

  The entrance door wasn’t locked, and it opened onto a cool, shaded hallway of white and grey marble. Ignoring the lift, he ran up the white stone steps to the third floor. The ‘VN3’ key unlocked the door of Apartment 3.

  Not since he’d been a small boy could Kadin remember saying, “Thanks Papa”, but for the second time that day, the relief and sorrow that he heard in those words, spoken aloud as he pushed the door closed behind him, made Kadin sob.

  18

  St Pancras Station, London, England

  The maroon-coloured Jaguar sat at idle in front of St Pancras station. Its passenger stepped off the Eurostar, tired, irritable and in need of a cigarette. The driver jumped out of the car at the sight of his boss, but Pete Salterton ignored him as he stopped to light up a Marlboro and make a phone call. It was just after nine o’clock in Italy.

  “Giuli – it’s Pete,” he said wearily, drawing smoke deep into his lungs.

  “Jesus, Pete. I’ve just got back from the morgue. Had to wait until only the night porter was around. I couldn’t believe it, nearly crapped myself when he pulled back the sheet. I really thought it was you lying on the slab.”

  “He was picked up by a Merc, a black Merc.”

  “I know, Leo told me. Shit, Pete. Do you really think the bullet was meant for you?”

  “I’m not taking any chances. What have you found out?”

  “The dead man was a kraut. Lukas Stolz. He’s not known to us or anyone I’ve spoken to, but I’m still checking.”

  “And the shooter. What do we know?”

  “Police have no leads worth a damn. They reckon the Merc driver’s clean.”

  “Speak to him. Sometimes they don’t want to get involved. He may know something that he hasn’t told the cops.”

  “I’ll get Leo to have a word.”

  Salt reflected on this and briefly imagined the pain that Leo’s ‘word’ could inflict on the chauffeur.

  “Tell Leo to take it easy would you?”

  “I’ll speak to him. Don’t worry.”

  “Why is everyone telling me not to worry today?”

  Silence.

  “Cops talked to another witness. A kid. Gave a false address, I’m on to it though.”

  “Does he know anything?”

  “It’s a girl, and yes, maybe. The false name and address could mean she knows something, but kids lie to the cops all the time in the city, so it could be a dead end. On the other hand, she may be the only person who saw the shooter.”

  “OK, follow it up and let me know as soon as you hear anything. I’m on my way home.”

  Salt hung up, ground his cigarette into the pavement and without a word to the driver, climbed into the back seat of the car.

  “What the fuck have you got me into, Giuliani?” he muttered to himself as he closed his eyes.

  19

  Apartment 3, Villa Nuova, Genoa, Italy

  Kadin locked the front door and dropped his bag in the narrow hallway running the length of the apartment.

  To his right he found a small kitchen with a window overlooking the sloping street he’d just climbed. In the fridge, there was milk, butter, eggs and dried meat. Kadin sniffed at a carton of milk before taking a deep draught. He looked out over the swaying masts of yachts parked in the marina a few hundred metres below. He thought once again of making a run for it.

  A note was pinned to a corkboard next to the fridge. Kadin recognised his father’s wiry handwriting: ‘Cleaner – Tuesdays and Thursdays’.

  His head throbbed as he tried to work out what day it was and for a few seconds, convinced himself it was Monday, before retracing the events of the past forty-eight hours and concluding that it was only Sunday. Still the same day he’d killed a grey-haired man in front of the Hotel Napoli.

  Opposite the kitchen, Kadin found a neat, clean, windowless bathroom of white porcelain, black marble and brushed-steel. A small extractor fan spluttered into life when he turned on the light to reveal a shower cubicle with a rollback door. In a small cupboard he found an electric shaver, deodorant, cologne, and a large box of paracetamol. Kadin recognised the faint aroma of his father’s aftershave and placed the milk carton on the side of the sink before dousing his face in cold water. He thought of his father, sitting on the floor of the barn, smiling weakly as Kadin was ushered out the door and into the boot of the BMW. Kadin scooped more cold water over his face but avoided looking into the mirror.

  In the corridor, he found two doors that opened outwards. Behind the first was a narrow cupboard with slatted shelves on which sat an iron, neatly pressed bedsheets, a pile of clean towels and some unopened boxes of soap and other cleaning materials. A mop in an orange bucket stood in the corner. The cupboard smelt strongly of lemons and Kadin breathed in the clean aroma as if purging himself of the bitter scent of his own sweat and urine-stained clothes. A second cupboard contained a modern-looking boiler, clothes horse and washing basket.

  The bedroom was further down the hall. It contained a double bed, two cupboards and a wardrobe, in which some trousers, shirts and a jacket had been hung up, still wrapped in the plastic of a commercial laundry. None of the clothes looked familiar, but the bedroom smelt of sandalwood; and his father. The growing realisation of his father’s parallel existence – a secret home, the trappings of domesticity and unfamiliar belongings – aroused in Kadin a strange mixture of curiosity, disgust and grudging respect.

  The wide window running the length of the bedroom’s far wall was shuttered but narrow bands of sunlight spilt onto the wood-tiled floor. On the bed, the duvet had been pulled back and folded neatly in half across its width. Four clean, plump white pillows were stacked against the headboard.

  Kadin
shook his head in amazement, but physical and mental exhaustion drowned any further thoughts of his father’s neat, ordered ‘other life’ and he collapsed face down on the bed, immediately falling into a deep but anguish-ridden sleep.

  20

  Monday

  Raphael Conza’s Apartment, Milan, Italy

  The morning after the murder, while drinking coffee in his apartment, Lieutenant Conza received a phone call from Sergeant Georgio Moretti of the State Police incident room. Conza didn’t know Moretti but listened intently as he was provided with a precise, detailed update on the murder investigation. The sergeant spoke in clear, logical sentences and Conza felt himself warming towards the softly spoken but intelligent voice at the other end of the line.

  Conza took down notes as the Sergeant spoke. The chauffeur, Sami Ricci, had been reported missing by his girlfriend. Moretti sounded concerned and told Conza that a state policeman had been sent out to interview her. Conza made a new entry on the page in his notepad already headed ‘SAMI RICCI’.

  Conza was updated on the work being undertaken by the authorities in Berlin. Enquiries were being made and the necessary paperwork drawn up to allow access to Stolz’s bank accounts and card records. The process had been delayed by the need for a positive identification of Stolz’s body.

  The Heidelberg address in Stolz’s passport turned out to be that of his sister, Katherine Harper. She’d informed local police that her brother was unmarried and as far as she knew, she was his only next of kin. Moretti added that Stolz’s sister was booked on a flight to Milan on Tuesday afternoon, from where she would be taken directly to the mortuary to confirm that the grey-haired man with a hole in his head was her brother, Lukas Albert Stolz.

  Katherine Harper had confirmed that Stolz worked for Skyguard Industries at their headquarters in England and had been living in Warwick for the past two years. Conza noted down the address. Once again, the mention of England made Conza think of Harry Chase.

  Conza was told that Skyguard had an office in Milan.

  “Who’s down to go and see them?”

  “Me actually, Lieutenant,” responded Moretti, “I was going to drop in this afternoon.”

  “I’ll come with you. What time were you thinking of going?”

  “Around two. The office is in the city centre, north end of Via Torino. Where do you want to meet?”

  Conza pictured the long, narrow, shop-lined road.

  “I’m in the city all morning, let’s meet in the garden by the Piazza Duomo at quarter to. OK?”

  The sergeant completed his narrative by informing Conza nothing had been discovered from the tram ticket found in Stolz’s wallet, but enquiries were continuing but the search for the girl on the bicycle had stalled.

  “We’ve given her description to the city police, but nothing so far. We weren’t given much to go on.”

  Conza thought for a moment.

  “Did Corporal Sigonella make a statement about his conversation with the girl?”

  “Yes, I sent a copy to your office this morning.”

  “I haven’t received it yet. Do me a favour and read it to me.”

  A minute later, Sergeant Moretti began to narrate the somewhat awkwardly worded statement that had been given by Corporal Sigonella.

  When Moretti had finished, Conza took so long debating whether to say anything, the Sergeant had to ask whether he was still there.

  It had occurred to Conza that Corporal Sigonella had failed to mention the girl had been delivering bread in the city yesterday morning. The police would have no idea how to begin the task of finding her. Conza decided not to say anything for the time being.

  Conza finished the call and updated his notebook. On the page headed ‘QUESTIONS’, he circled the words ‘Witness – girl – bread’, after which he rinsed out his coffee cup, and left his apartment.

  He had planned to make another visit to the hotel but that would have to wait, he had a new plan.

  21

  Milan City Centre, Italy

  Conza walked the short distance to Porto di Mare underground station and took the metro into the city where he changed lines and climbed the stairs back into the sunshine at Monumentale. Skirting the old wall of the cemetery, he arrived in front of the central tram depot, a sprawling tear-dropped shaped building nestled between three roads on the edge of the Bullona district.

  Focusing on the nearby cafés and street vendors selling snacks to the commuters and sightseers, Conza began asking the proprietors whether they usually opened on a Sunday. Only two cafés responded positively, but both confirmed they bought their bread from local bakeries. Conza recorded the details and moved on.

  Next came the train stations. He began at Milano Centrale and discovered three vendors that opened on a Sunday, but the owners all denied purchasing bread for cash the previous day. Twice, Conza suspected he was not being told the truth, but despite reassuring them he was just trying to contact the bakery owner, the proprietors merely shrugged their shoulders and refused to assist him further. Conza made a note of their details before walking the short distance to Milano Porta Garibaldi station.

  Conza’s plan failed to uncover any further information about bread or the bakery in the first six vendors, so he sat down at a café table in the piazza in front of the station’s main entrance. After asking the same questions about opening times and bread, he ordered a coffee and sfogliatella pastry from the waitress, a skinny, middle-aged woman with thin pale lips, dry, dyed-blonde hair, yellow fingers and an expression that said she probably didn’t like her customers.

  Conza checked his watch. ‘Three more hours of doing this,’ he complained to himself with a sigh. His phone buzzed quietly. He’d missed a call from Police HQ and there was a voicemail. He listened to Sergeant Moretti’s anxious voice asking him to phone back.

  “You asked me to call you,” Conza said after waiting a few minutes for the sergeant to be tracked down.

  “Lieutenant Conza.” Moretti hesitated before continuing. “There’s a problem here.”

  A brief image of Captain Brocelli’s sweaty frame, sitting behind his desk, floated across Conza’s thoughts.

  The volume of the sergeant’s voice lowered to that of the confessional.

  “We – someone,” he corrected himself, “seems to have mislaid Stolz’s belongings.”

  Conza tensed.

  “We’ve still got the shell cases and bullet fragments, but everything else has gone missing.”

  In his mind, Conza quickly sorted through what he’d seen and heard the day before in the police van. An image of shell cases and bullets appeared on one side of the table, on the other was Stolz’s briefcase, wallet, and holdall. In his hand, Conza saw the square keyring.

  “I guess all hell has broken loose down there?” Conza eventually offered in sympathy, as he pictured the commissioner of police, face flushed, spitting venom at everyone in general, and anyone in particular not quick enough to move out of his way as he charged around the corridors of HQ.

  “You could say that.”

  Conza ended the call and sat thinking about what had happened over the past twenty-four hours. He tried to pull together the fragments circling above the image of a grey-haired man with a hole in his forehead. ‘The chauffeur may have just run off with a new lover or got drunk and fallen asleep on a tram. The missing evidence may have been stuffed in a locker. It wouldn’t be the first time.’ But neither notion sat comfortably with him. ‘Something about this case just doesn’t feel right.’

  Conza subconsciously offered a quiet thank you as his coffee and cake were placed on the table.

  “Grazie,” he repeated, meeting the pale green eyes of the dyed blonde who’d remained standing over him.

  “Why do you want to know?” she asked with neither hesitation nor worry, her eyes bright with aggression.

  Conza’s musings about the case evaporated.

  “Why do you want to know about the bread?” she reiterated.

  S
he waited patiently, her eyes not leaving his, arms folded across her narrow, tight chest. Conza knew at once that she was unafraid, and almost certainly too streetwise to believe his story about wanting to contact the bakery owner on a private matter. But he was also sure the woman knew something, something he needed. He nodded for her to join him. The woman paused, glanced over at the kitchen, and sat down, arms folded, eyes pointedly fixed on his.

  She gave a casual nod when Conza showed his identity card, but he caught a flicker of recognition as she eyed the Finanza department stamp.

  “I’m trying to track down the witness to a murder.”

  “The baker?”

  “The delivery girl.”

  The woman considered Conza’s statement for some time before responding. Conza waited.

  “She’s a good girl,” the woman suddenly proclaimed, before adding a moment later in sad confession, “she’s not like the rest of us. She could get out of here.” Almost imperceptibly the woman jerked her head to her left and right to emphasise the place from where she believed the girl could escape.

  “Look, I’ll be honest.” Conza saw an ironic smile flicker across the woman’s lips. “I’ve got two witnesses to a murder. One’s gone missing and I need to find the other one. I don’t know what’s going on, but if she’s in danger, I need to find her. That’s the truth.”

  “Mob?”

  Conza raised his hands. “I really don’t know. It may just be a botched robbery, but I don’t think so. If it was a planned hit and she knows something, I need to get her off the streets – fast.”

  The woman unfolded her arms, leaning forward so that Conza could sense the warmth of her tobacco-and-wine-flavoured breath.

  “Nyala Abebe. Father runs a bakery off Via Enrico Consenz. Don’t let anyone hurt her.”

  The woman stood and without another word or gesture, strode off behind the counter and through the curtain of multi-coloured plastic ribbons into the kitchen.