The Milan Contract Read online

  “Quite a likeness don’t you think?”

  Conza picked up the two photographs and held them side by side. Salterton was heavier around the chin, and Stolz looked a little older, but the manager was right. There were similarities.

  “It’s the glasses that make the real difference. One cannot wear them in passport photographs,” he stated, picking up a pen from the desk. Conza watched as he drew thick-rimmed glasses on each portrait.

  “That’s amazing!” said Conza, holding the pictures up. “They could almost be twins.”

  “Quite. It struck me the day Herr Stolz was killed. Strange isn’t it? The other odd thing is that on the same day as the murder, Mr Salterton not only failed to check out, but he left all his belongings behind in his room. It would appear that he left in quite a hurry.”

  “When?”

  “We can’t say for certain, but his room was empty when the maid went to clean it at one o’clock on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Just a few hours after the murder,” Conza concluded. “I know this may seem like a stupid question, but are you sure that there were two different people staying with you; Stolz and Salterton?”

  The manager laughed.

  “In the circumstances Lieutenant, not a stupid question at all, and I would have asked the same had I not seen Mr Salterton at around eight-fifteen on Sunday morning, not long after Mr Stolz had been shot.”

  “Where?”

  “He was in the lift.”

  Conza held the photographs side by side. Romano was right, it was the glasses.

  ◆◆◆

  The manager took Conza up to the first floor. Room 41 was sealed off by yellow and black police tape which Conza ducked under before quickly inspecting Stolz’s room, which was as he’d left it. A breakfast tray with a half-eaten croissant, empty coffee pot, and some untouched fruit sat on the cabinet under the mirror. The wardrobe and cupboards were empty, and the bed slept in.

  “Will we get the room back soon?” asked the manager politely.

  “I don’t see why not. I will check with the station.”

  Conza made a note.

  Room 29 had been cleaned but remained unoccupied. It smelt of lavender even though the shutters had been thrown back and the balcony doors were wide open. Conza checked the bathroom and opened a drawer in the bedroom before stepping onto the balcony. Three discarded Marlboro stubs had blown against the flaking white posts of the balustrade. The manager tutted, but Conza didn’t seem to notice as he leant over the fence. Immediately below, he could see a dark patch of tarmac.

  Conza went back inside and paused in front of the mirror.

  “Have you got CCTV of Mr Salterton leaving the hotel?”

  Romano shook his head in disappointment.

  “I asked the duty manager to check yesterday, and the answer is no, I’m afraid. Your colleagues prevented anyone leaving by the main door on Sunday, so he must have left via the basement. There’s a fire exit down there, which leads to the rear of the hotel. And that ties in with seeing him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, when I saw him, Mr Salterton was already in the lift when the doors opened. Which means that he must have entered it either on an upper floor or the basement. He didn’t get out, and at the time, I merely presumed that having seen the commotion in reception, he decided to return to his room. But of course, he could actually have been on his way down.”

  Conza considered the manager’s hypothesis and nodded in agreement.

  “I reckon you’ve got that spot on. You’re in the wrong job.”

  The two men smirked at each other.

  “I don’t suppose the rear door has CCTV?”

  “Sorry, no. The back-door camera stopped working two weeks ago and hasn’t been repaired yet.”

  They went back downstairs to the left luggage room and Conza picked through Salterton’s belongings. He turned over a baggage label and made a note.

  “What would you normally do with these in the circumstances?” he asked, pointing at the bags.

  “It’s happened before. We contact the guest and ship them back to whatever address they give us.”

  “Have you made contact with Salterton yet?”

  “Actually, no. It was the next job on my list.”

  “Don’t. We’ll do it. I’ll send someone over to collect his things. In the meantime, can I get a copy of Salterton’s registration card, passport, invoice and credit card.”

  “After hearing what Lucia had to say, I asked for all Mr Salterton’s documents to be put in an envelope ready for you.”

  Conza shook his head. “You really are in the wrong job.”

  When he left the hotel, Conza checked his watch and decided to walk to the Abebe bakery. On the way he called Sergeant Moretti and asked him to carry out a background check on a Peter James Salterton. Conza listened as Moretti repeated the name, address and passport number.

  “And Georgio, he came in on British Airways. Check the flights out of Malpensa to the UK on Sunday for a reservation in the same name.”

  29

  Café Roma, Milan, Italy

  The policeman sipped nervously at his lukewarm cup of coffee and checked his phone for the fourth time in as many minutes. He was glad lunchtime trade was slow and only two other tables were occupied, but the heat was making his scalp itch and he desperately needed a beer. A crowd of tourists had gathered outside the Ambrosian Library just a few metres from his table, but he ignored their chattering and excited laughter. ‘I’ll give him one more minute,’, he promised himself without conviction.

  For ten minutes, Giuliani Zeffirelli had been observing him from the corner of a building about a hundred metres away. Satisfied, he strode across the cobbled street and sat down.

  “Where the hell have you been? You’re late!” exclaimed the ageing policeman in a hissed whisper.

  “Relax. I’m here now,” Zeffirelli stated with upturned palms before waving the approaching waiter away.

  “How’s the investigation going?” Zeffirelli asked casually, loud enough to make the policeman wince and look around.

  “Keep your voice down…please.”

  Zeffirelli waited, his gold and platinum-covered fingers clasped together.

  The policeman leaned forward.

  “The chauffeur’s gone missing. Nothing to do with you, I take it?”

  “Probably run off with his mistress. You know what a mistress is don’t you?”

  The policeman briefly visualised the young man he would return home to that evening. He considered getting up and walking away from this vicious bastard but knew that that was an option he’d forsaken a long time ago.

  “We’ve found the girl,” he whispered so quietly that Zeffirelli had to roll forward to hear him. The policeman pushed a scrap of paper under the sugar bowl.

  “It’s the address of the bakery where she works. Her father works there too.”

  Zeffirelli looked at it for a second before snatching it up. He mouthed the name and address.

  “Does she know anything?”

  “Lieutenant from Finanza filed a report last night. He’s convinced she knows the killer. He’s going back out to interview her this afternoon.”

  “Time?”

  “How the fuck would I know!”

  Zeffirelli shrugged and took a small blue envelope from his jacket and placed it on the table. The policeman’s hand darted out, but Zeffirelli was quicker and pulled it out of his reach.

  “Who’s the Finanza guy?”

  “Conza… Lieutenant Conza.” His eyes remained fixed on the envelope.

  Giuliani Zeffirelli nodded, stood up, tossed the envelope onto the table and walked away.

  “Give my love to your boyfriend,” he shouted over his shoulder, loud enough to make those in the queue cease their chatter and stare at the man in uniform.

  30

  Apartment 3, Villa Nuova, Genoa, Italy

  Kadin was already awake when the sun rose above the lush, green f
oothills of Monte Fasce to the east. His sleep had been fitful, and he’d dreamt of the grey-haired man, guns, BMWs and cameras. But he was surprised his most vivid dream was of his father repeating the instruction, “Stay out of sight, contact nobody and watch television.” ‘Watch television?’

  Kadin suddenly saw himself sitting on the barn floor. It was early on Sunday morning, and he was pointing at the blinking red light of a camera.

  “Do they ever switch those off? Do they ever sleep?”

  Surprisingly, his father had laughed but answered him, “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

  At any other moment in his life, Kadin would have been shocked to learn that his father knew any phrase in Latin, but at that moment, nothing had penetrated the dread that had formed in his frightened mind. His father had translated the phrase for him.

  “But who watches the watchers?”

  Kadin’s eyes widened and he sprinted up the hallway to the lounge. He flicked through the TV channels. An advert for breakfast cereal, news, a cartoon, a weather channel. He stopped pressing the remote and tried to think.

  The television was sitting on a long Spanish oak cabinet. Kadin rushed forward, fell to his knees and tore back the double doors. Two shelves, filled with humming black boxes, cables running between them and three LEDs like small green eyes. At the rear of the cabinet, three of the cables disappeared through a hole, presumably joining the boxes to the television.

  The boxes were plain, dimpled black metal; devoid of manufacturers’ logos or other markings. Kadin was sure they weren’t just satellite receivers or DVD players, and there were so many of them.

  He shuffled back to the sofa and scanned the buttons on the remote. He selected ‘Source’. On the screen, a menu appeared, giving him the option to select inputs to the television. Three icons: ‘Satellite’, ‘HDMI 1’ and ‘HDMI 2’. There was a tick next to the satellite icon. He used the down arrow to select ‘HDMI 1’ and held his breath in anticipation. The screen flickered for a few moments before four black and white images appeared, each in its own bordered quadrant. In the top left square, he recognised the empty forecourt. Top right, the table, chair and tripod lamp. Bottom left, the pallets and ladder hanging on the wall. And in the bottom right square, the steel drum, crate, and sandbag, its frayed top twitching in the breeze.

  Kadin slumped back in the sofa and gasped.

  “But who watches the watchers?” he heard his father say again.

  31

  Milan, Italy

  Zeffirelli left the café and darted down a narrow alley before using his mobile.

  “Leo, grab Paolo and a police ID and start driving out to Via Enrico Cosenz. It’s in Bovisa. Call me when you’re on the road.”

  A few minutes later, his phone buzzed into life.

  “You on the way, Leo? Good, yes. Enrico Cosenz. There’s no number. You’re looking for a bakery.”

  …

  “Now listen carefully. You’re going to talk to a Nyala Abebe, write that down. N Y A L A A B E B E, that’s right.”

  …

  “She witnessed the Hotel Napoli shooter leaving the hit.”

  …

  “She’s young and scared already, so you won’t need to get heavy. I don’t want this ending up with another body in the river. Have you got that? Keep things simple and don’t start throwing your weight around.”

  …

  “She’s already been interviewed by a dick called Lieutenant Conza. C O N Z A, yeah. He’s convinced the girl knows the shooter. You need to find out a name.”

  …

  “No, she’ll talk. Her father might be there, so use him for leverage if you need to. Now listen, this Conza guy is due back there again this afternoon, so you need to get in and out pretty sharpish. OK?”

  …

  “No, I don’t have a fucking time, just don’t hang around.”

  …

  “Good, that sounds like a plan. Remember, no unnecessary rough stuff. Salt’s getting twitchy and he’ll have my dick in a sling if we bring heat on the family.”

  …

  “No, that’s fine. Call me when you’re done and watch out for that Conza guy turning up.”

  …

  “Yes, OK. And Leo, don’t leave there without a name and address.”

  32

  ‘The Junction’ Café, Milan, Italy

  Conza reckoned it would take him around fifteen minutes to walk from Hotel Napoli to the bakery but decided to stop on the way for coffee and a sandwich at a café just off the Piazza Giovanni Bausan. He placed his order and sat at a pavement table in the sunshine.

  He called Sergeant Moretti, but before he could bring him up to date with developments at the hotel, Moretti’s voice rattled in excitement.

  “I’m glad you called. The ID check on Salterton, it lit up the system like a Christmas tree. The guy has done time for everything from handling stolen goods to GBH, with a lot of other things in between. Nasty piece of work. He’s well known to the Brits. I’ve put in for a call to the Greater Manchester Police. I also saw his name on the guest list at the Hotel Napoli, but I’m guessing that’s no coincidence.”

  “No coincidence, Georgio.”

  Moretti whistled when he heard Conza’s account of how a man looking like Stolz had fled the hotel shortly after the murder.

  “Wow, Raffy, now that is interesting.”

  “I’m going to take a wild guess that Salterton wasn’t in Milan sightseeing. Georgio, find out who he deals with over here, there may be something on his Europol file. If not, ask the Manchester Police, they may have some names.”

  “OK, I’ll get on with it.”

  Conza was about to hang up when the sergeant suddenly exclaimed.

  “Lieutenant, wait…”

  “Sorry, Georgio, I’m still here – go on.”

  “Shit, I almost forgot to tell you. They’ve found a body snagged up under the Ponte delle Barche in Ticino. From the description it looks like Stolz’s chauffeur, Sami Ricci. I think he was tortured to death… Lieutenant… Lieutenant?”

  But Conza was already running.

  33

  The Abebe Bakery, Via Enrico Cosenz, Milan, Italy

  Nyala had slept with the phone next to her pillow. She’d left twelve messages on Kadin’s mobile and had made up her mind that if she hadn’t heard anything by morning, she would call Lieutenant Conza. Nyala knew she had no choice and the memory of the policeman’s words echoed as she awoke. “He’s the one whose life could be in danger and because of what you know, maybe your life too.”

  She lay in bed and listened to her grandmother preparing breakfast. ‘I’ll give him until lunchtime,’ she decided as she tapped out another text message.

  “I’ll have breakfast when I get back,” she shouted to her nana as she darted out of the apartment.

  It took her just over twenty minutes to jog to the running track in Parco Sempione, where she timed herself over five thousand metres. She was slow. Her legs felt heavy and she found it difficult to control her breathing. She sat on top of the steep grass bank and tried to call Kadin again. Still no answer.

  On the way back home, her phone rang twice, and she felt herself panicking in case it was him. But on both occasions, the name on the screen wasn’t Kadin’s, just clients trying to place bread orders. She let the phone ring until it switched to voicemail.

  It was after eleven by the time she reached home to receive a ticking off from her nana for missing breakfast. Nyala could only mutter some excuse about not being hungry, as she retreated to the bathroom to shower and change. While she was getting dressed, she received another call from a customer, but there was nothing from Kadin.

  She picked at a cheese salad her grandmother insisted she eat, but as soon as she could, Nyala slipped out of the apartment and walked round to the bakery to give her father the phone messages.

  As she turned the corner into Via Enrico Consenz, Nyala spotted the maroon-coloured Alfa Romeo parked next to the bakery’s steep
narrow stairs. She stopped and swallowed deeply. It was the police, and she knew that the time had come. She recalled the image of Kadin on the Vespa, ripping the balaclava from his head. She couldn’t put this off any longer. ‘He’s the one whose life is in danger.’

  As she reached the top of the cellar steps, she heard a man’s voice, deep and forceful. She was sure it didn’t belong to the policeman who had visited her the day before; this voice sounded harsh and forceful. A sudden chill ran down her neck and she felt her scalp tense. Keeping close to the wall, Nyala tiptoed down towards the half-open door.

  “As I’ve already explained, Mr Abebe, Lieutenant Conza is a colleague. He was going to talk to your daughter today, but got held up, so he asked us to speak to her instead.”

  “And as I’ve already explained, my daughter isn’t here, and I want to know what this is all about.”

  “We just want to talk to her that’s all.” A different voice, struggling to remain calm.

  “What about?”

  The first man; reasonable but assertive: “I’m not your enemy, Mr Abebe. Nyala’s in a lot of trouble, she’s lied to the police and she’s trying to protect a murderer. We need to talk to her. Just to put things straight. Get her story, that’s all.”

  “What murderer? Nyala would never get involved with such a person.”

  “Does she have a friend, or know anyone who rides a Vespa?” The second voice again.

  “Kadin? Kadin Bennani?”

  Nyala stepped around the corner of the doorway.

  “It’s me you need to speak to.”

  But the tall, thin one with the tattooed neck was not quick enough and she saw his hand closing around the hilt of the knife. She looked away as if she hadn’t noticed.

  “What do you want to know?” Nyala asked with as much confidence as she could muster.