Nicola Rocca - Death Brings Gold

He recognised the voice as belonging to that great piece of ass, Martina.

“ … you’ve reached our voice message. The Ghezzi’s are not at home at the moment. If it’s urgent, please leave a… ”

“Fuck off,” snapped Giovanni, after he hung up.

He felt stupid for mistaking Martina-answering machine’s voice for the flesh and blood Martina .

For a moment he even doubted he was supposed to pick Raffaele up that day.

He scrolled down the list of text messages until he found the conversation with the dickhead. Raffaele’s last message dated back to 9:03 pm of the day before.

Could you pick me up tomorrow as well? Thank you. Raf

He’d sent a reply two minutes later.

Ok. Good night.

He stood and gazed at the screen on his mobile phone. He hadn’t make a mistake, not at all. Raffaele himself had asked for the lift.

“Dickhead,” he said to a colleague that couldn’t hear him. “Probably still sleeping.”

He was about to put the car into gear and start driving, but something inside him – something that he couldn’t explain – told him that it wasn’t the right thing to do.

“Dammit!” he cursed, banging the wheel with his fist.

He stopped the car and sat there, contemplating the muted colours of a morning that looked as dull and grey as the city.

His side window reflected the image of a man in his forties that had no desire to deal with that freezing morning again. This also reminded him of a phrase that somebody –he couldn’t remember who – had said to him a couple of weeks before:

Mirrors will always reflect an idiot.

He smiled and in doing so he felt a bit more idiotic than before.

He started counting down mentally from three. When his imaginary timer reached zero, he unlocked the car door handle and got out of the car, closing the car door behind him. As he was crossing the road, he pressed the button on the car key. In return, he heard the sound of the car’s central locking system engage. He didn’t know why, but crossing the street as the car locked itself always made him feel cool…

He smiled at the thought.

When he reached the gate he realised – as he should have imagined– that it was closed.

As he engaged his climbing skills, he asked himself what the point was of having a seventy centimetre high fence. His mind could not formulate an answer.

He walked down the path towards the glass door. He pulled the handle down, luckily it was open. He began climbing the stairs.

Reaching the landing on the first floor he saw his image reflected in the glass of the big window. He then remembered who had told him that stupid thing about mirrors and idiots.

The memory of Angelo Brera saying those words managed to get an almost hysterical laugh out of him. Then, he composed himself and continued going up.

When he reached the second floor, his wheezing suggested to him that maybe, from now on, it would be better to spend his time jogging instead of going to the pub and drinking Irish beer while watching twenty two guys on a giant screen kicking a ball around in exchange for millions of Euros a year and hot babes.

He covered the last flight of stairs trying to work out how many lifetimes someone with his job would need to work to earn what those boys pocket annually.

He reached the third and last floor now gasping for air. He moved closer to the door of his colleague’s flat. He knocked, lightly at first, with his knuckles. Then again with his hand in a fist.

No answer. Whatthefuck.

He pushed the door bell and in return received a sharp ring coming from inside the house.

Apart from that, no other sound.

He rang it a second time.

Another sharp ring and nothing more.

At that point, he instinctively pulled the door handle down. And to his surprise, realised the door to the flat was open.

What he saw when the door swung open forced him to turn away. For a long moment, he thought his imagination was playing a horrible trick on him. Rather, he hoped it was.

Taking a breath, as if building courage, he looked back. His imagination had nothing to do with it. It was all real.

With one hand holding himself up against the door frame, against his will, he began retching violently.

CHAPTER 5

When the police arrived at the flat, they found the man still visibly shaken.

Shortly after, an ambulance had arrived, along with the Police Forensic Team.

Inspector Carrobbio, head of Forensic Police, immediately set his men to work. The victim was Raffaele Ghezzi who had lived an apparently quiet life for around fifty years.

“Well, quiet,” detective Bassani said, “until someone killed him.”

The body was lying on the floor in an unusual position. It looked like he was asleep, rather than dead. His hands were placed on his chest, in proximity of the heart, one on the other. A yellow-gold coloured necktie was wrapped around his neck. The necktie was carefully arranged on the dead man’s chest, as if to make him look like the main protagonist in a ceremony.

“It almost looks as if somebody made fun of him,” said an officer, nodding towards the lifeless body.

“I still can’t believe it,” Belmondo jumped in, as if in defence of his dead colleague.

“Ah, our witness is getting better, at last,” said Bassani. “Are you feeling better now?”

Belmondo indicated yes with a light nod of his head, but judging by his wide open eyes, it was easy to see that he was still in shock.

“Good. Good for you,” stated Bassani, straightening his hat.

“Can I go now? I don’t feel well. I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.”

“A bit more patience, Belmondo. The Chief Inspector will be here shortly.”

Giovanni Belmondo moved closer to the wall. He leaned against it, as if the weight of death made the relatively simple task of supporting his body impossible for his legs.

After a few minutes Chief Inspector Walker arrived.

“Good morning, Chief,” Bassani greeted him. “Casual look today, hey?” he added, taking in Walker’s dark jeans and Moncler down jacket.

“I should be recovering, but it seems like somebody up there doesn’t like me.”

“Yeah,” confirmed Bassani, giving just a hint of a smile.

Bassani summed up the situation for Walker, then he pointed at Belmondo, still leaning against the wall.

“He’s the one who found the victim. And called us.”

“Good,” said Inspector Walker. “Let’s go and have a chat with him. But first, let me have a look at the poor guy.”

He moved closer, standing a few centimetres from the dead body and stared at it for some time.

“What happened to his wrists?” he asked Bassani, who moved closer, frowning.

“To his wrists?”

“They appear to have bruises on them” Walker told him.

The detective squatted down to get a better look.

“Yeah, you’re right Chief. I didn’t notice it.”

“This job requires a good eye, Bassani. Otherwise you’ll never usurp my position.”

“But I don’t plan to…”

“Yes, you all say that, but..” joked Walker. “We’ll have a better idea when we receive the autopsy results. Now let’s go and see what the witness has to say.”

He moved at a decisive pace, his 180 cm-tall body carrying the muscles of a former workout freak beginning to go to fat.

“Chief Inspector Walker,” he said to Belmondo, stopping in front of him.