Gianrico Carofiglio - A Walk in the Dark

I’ve often thought about that day in court, and what happened later. I’ve often wondered if things could have gone differently, and to what extent it was all down to me, my behaviour at the trial, the way I questioned Scianatico.

I’ve never found the right answer, and it may well be better that way.

There were several witnesses, and they all told more less the same story. Which doesn’t often happen. I spoke personally to some of these witnesses. In the case of the others, I read the statements they’d made at police headquarters, in the hours immediately after the events.

Martina was coming back from work – it was fivethirty or a little later – and had parked less than fifty yards from the front entrance of her mother’s apartment building.

He’d been waiting for her for at least an hour, according to the owner of a clothes shop on the other side of the street, who’d noticed him because “there was something strange about his behaviour, the way he moved”.

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.