The Abomination Read online

  “Unless he isn’t a person at all,” Gilroy said slowly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re probably too young to remember the old phonetic alphabets—”

  “We use phonetic all the time. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie. . .”

  He nodded. “That’s the standard US-NATO set. But before that was introduced, every service had its own, slightly different version. The Navy alphabet started with ‘apples’ and ‘butter’, for example. The British Royal Air Force said ‘ack’ for A and ‘beer’ for B, so ‘anti-aircraft fire’ became ‘ack-ack’. And in the old US Army alphabet, the phonetics for W and B were William and Baker.”

  She stared at him. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? But we still don’t know what WB stands for.”

  “Perhaps not, but we do know that the military at that time had a penchant for codenaming operations using the old service alphabets. Operation Victor Charlie was an offensive by the US against the Viet Cong in Vietnam. Able Archer was an A-bomb simulation back in the 1980s.”

  “So ‘Operation William Baker’ might have been a codename for—” She stopped, staggered by the implications.

  “Exactly. ‘Operation War in Bosnia’.”

  Thirty-six

  AT THE TRONCHETTO car park, Aldo Piola climbed into his car with a weary sigh. It was well after ten o’clock. Only the fact that Kat had made him promise to be at her apartment by eleven at the latest had made him leave when he did. The results of the forensic tests from the crime scenes, which always took a week or so to process, had come through. Most simply told him what he already knew, but even so the reports, which were written in a dry scientific language that often required the use of a dictionary, had to be gone through line by line in case he missed something.

  The traffic, which would have been light if he’d made the journey a little earlier in the evening, was dense again now. A new production of Rigoletto had recently opened at La Fenice, and many of the drivers heading back to their homes on the mainland were in black tie. Once over the Ponte della Libertà he indicated right for his turning, glancing automatically into his rear-view mirror as he did so.

  A carnival mask, a blank white Bauta, loomed up from the back seat like a ghost. For a moment he couldn’t process what was happening, thought it must be some kind of joke. Then he felt a leather belt slipping round his neck, the reek of sour food as a gruff voice spat into his right ear. “That’s it, Colonnello. Keep driving. I’ll tell you when you can turn off.”

  The accent was Venetian, working class. Piola steered back onto the carriageway. It was difficult – his head was being wrenched back and up by the tightness of the belt, making it hard to see the road.

  “What do—” he croaked, but the belt jerked impatiently against his windpipe.

  “No talking.”

  After five hundred yards his assailant said, “Turn here.”

  He took the exit the man indicated. It led off the dual carriageway to an industrial estate. There were several open patches of ground where developments hadn’t yet taken place – roundabouts with access roads that petered out into wasteland, where one day warehouses or light industrial units would be built.

  The man pointed. “That one.”

  When the road ran out, Piola had no option but to slow down.

  “Turn off the engine.”

  He was aware that his heart was pounding. He focused on the fact that his assailant was wearing a mask. Why do that if he was going to kill him? To his left, he saw a single headlight approaching across the rough ground. Thank God. Then he realised that of course the man would have brought an accomplice. Hit-men always used motorbikes to escape.

  The man wrapped the belt around his fist, tightening it further, the edges biting painfully into Piola’s windpipe. Piola could hear his captor breathing as he worked it tight. Something metallic and very solid tapped his head, just behind his right ear. A gun.

  “You should keep your nose out of other people’s business,” the man’s voice said.

  The gun came into his field of vision, the barrel turning so that it was pointing directly into Piola’s forehead. He fought to breathe. Was he going to die after all? Here, on a piece of wasteland, like so many policemen before him? Involuntarily, he flashed on all the bodies he’d seen that were found exactly like this. Two bullets in the head. Bloodspray on the driver’s side window, away from the gunman’s clothes. No witnesses.

  He held his breath, waiting for it to happen.

  There was a click.

  Relief flooded his limbs. Not dead. Not dead after all. Mock—

  “Next time,” the voice said, “it’ll be loaded.”

  Pain exploded through his skull. He jerked forward, only to jerk back again as his neck tightened against the belt. Not a bullet into his brain, he thought, but a pistol-whipping. The gun smashed into his head again – the man was using the pistol like a club, hammering him with the heavy grip. God, the pain. More blows rained onto his skull, each one threatening to shatter it like a walnut. His vision closed into a long, dark tunnel as consciousness slipped away. Another blow, this time to his forehead. He felt the skin splitting open like a laddered stocking, the numb sting as air met blood.

  A final blow to the back of his head, and everything went black.

  Kat liked to cook, although she didn’t own a single cookbook and had little interest in learning new recipes. To her, the pleasure lay in doing what she’d done a thousand times before; processes learnt as a child in her mother’s kitchen, requiring absolutely no thought. To make duck ragù she first sliced an onion, softened it for five minutes in oil while she chopped the duck giblets and liver, and then, while those were frying too, chopped the rest of the duck. A glass of red wine was added to the sauce and allowed to evaporate. Meanwhile she boiled water for the bigoli, the fat tubes of buckwheat-and-duck-egg pasta that are to Venetian cuisine what spaghetti is to the South. Finally, a couple of bay leaves and some chopped tomatoes went into the sauce. Then she washed two lovely whole radicchio from the neighbouring town of Treviso marbled with red veins and perfect at this time of year, and put them to one side, ready to sauté as soon as Aldo arrived.

  She wasn’t surprised that he was late, and in any case the ragù would only improve with more simmering. She opened a bottle of Valpolicella, a nice ripasso, hearty enough to pair with the duck but not as overwhelmingly heavy as the more traditional Amarone, and poured herself a glass.

  While she was waiting she booted up her laptop. And then, because she thought it would amuse him when he arrived, she went to Carnivia and typed in his name.

  ALDO PIOLA, COLONNELLO DI CARABINIERI, VENEZIA – THREE ENTRIES.

  “Only three?” she said out loud. “Aldo, you disappoint me.” She clicked again, and stopped short.

  ALDO PIOLA. THE WORD IS THAT HE HAD AN AFFAIR WITH AUGUSTA BARESI.

  ALDO PIOLA. CURRENTLY PURSUING THE FORENSIC TECHNICIAN, GERARDINA ROSSI . . .

  ALDO PIOLA. SO, HAVE HE AND ALIDA CONTI SLEPT TOGETHER YET? THERE’S CERTAINLY BEEN A LOT OF FLIRTING GOING ON . . .

  Kat stared at the entries. Two of the names meant nothing to her, but she knew and liked Gerardina, a dark-haired, pretty forensic technician. Piola had worked a case with her, over a year ago.

  She’d known about his wife, of course, but this was different. Somehow, discovering that she wasn’t his first affair disturbed her.

  No, admit it, she thought to herself. Be honest.

  It hurts.

  She tried to analyse why she felt this way. Surely it was crazy to be jealous of previous lovers, but not of the wife he went home to every evening? She’d be outraged if a man got upset about her own former partners. So why did these past affairs, or possible past affairs, make any difference?

  Because, she realised ruefully, she’d been flattered to think that his feelings for her were so overwhelming that he’d broken his marriage vows for her sake, and hers alone. She’d known absolutely that what they had wasn’t a
fling or a liaison or any of those other casual, throwaway words. Not that she’d expected it to be permanent – far from it – but it was somehow a thing apart, bound up with the incredible intensity of the murder investigation.

  She’d read somewhere that in the armies of Ancient Greece and Sparta, a male fighter took a younger warrior to be his lover for the duration of the campaign. The two would train together, sleep together, fight together, and ultimately die together. In some strange way, her relationship with Piola felt more like that than an affair.

  “Fuck you, Aldo,” she said aloud.

  She’d told herself that she wasn’t going to look up what other people had said about her on Carnivia. But now, a little bitter, and with the wine making her reckless, she did.

  KATERINA TAPO – NINE ENTRIES.

  She clicked.

  ARE YOU sURE?

  YES.

  They’d left him his car keys, at least. He could only have been unconscious for a few minutes – he could see light bouncing off to his right, as the gunman’s motorbike careered away over the rough ground.

  He felt for his phone. Also still there. So he could call for an ambulance. Or go straight to the Ospedale dell’Angelo, less than twenty minutes away. He knew he shouldn’t really drive with possible concussion, but he was damned if he was going to sit and wait for some paramedic to tell him so.

  He started the engine. The cut on his temple was bleeding into his right eye, so he angled his head to one side. That was better.

  He drove up to the main road and turned left, away from the hospital, in the direction of Kat’s apartment.

  She read the entries with a mixture of horror and detachment. So this is what people think of me.

  “Slut” figured more than once, as did “manipulative”, “ambitious”, “self-centred” and “bitch”.

  PRICK TEASE . . . HAS ALL THE MEN WRAPPED ROUND HER LITTLE FINGER . . . LED ME ON . . . THINKS SHE’S SOMETHING SPECIAL . . .

  And one that almost made her smile:

  I THOUGHT SHE WAS WAY TOO HOT FOR A TRAVEL AGENT.

  Then there were the ones like:

  CALLED HER BACK THREE TIMES, SHE NEVER ANSWERED. LOUSY LAY ANYWAY, DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO SEE HER AGAIN.

  You didn’t need to be a detective to spot the inconsistency in that.

  What came across with horrible clarity was the way people resented her. Women resented her because men were attracted to her. Men who were attracted to her resented her because she hadn’t slept with them. Men she had slept with resented her because she hadn’t called them back for a second date.

  Once, when she was at the Training Academy, she’d seen something similar about herself written on a cubicle wall in the toilets. For days she’d been miserable. She’d even tried being extra nice to everyone, in an effort to make herself more liked. All that happened was that she despised herself. And finally, after a few days, she’d thought, Oh, fuck it.

  What am I meant to do? How am I meant to behave?

  Whatever people thought, she never used her looks to get favours or promotions. OK, so maybe asking Francesco Lotti, who clearly had a soft spot for her, to swing her a homicide allocation could be construed as taking advantage. But what was the alternative? Stop trying to get ahead, just because she looked a certain way?

  Irritably, she pushed the thought aside. She looked a little further down the list of entries. It was all pretty much the same, a litany of bitchiness and envy mixed with a few names. Nothing that actually mattered.

  Apart from the last one.

  KAT TAPO. HOW LONG BEFORE SUAVE COLONEL PIOLA FALLS FOR HER CHARMS? THEY’VE BEEN SEEN ENJOYING LATE NIGHT RISOTTI AT THE OSTERIA SAN ZACCARIA ON MORE THAN ONE OCCASION. I DON’T SUPPOSE HIS WIFE AND KIDS HAVE SEEN MUCH OF HIM RECENTLY. . .

  Her blood ran cold. That changed everything. If the anonymous gossips were this vile about men she’d had casual hookups with, imagine what they’d make of an affair with her boss.

  The doorbell rang.

  As she stood up she looked at her kitchen with fresh eyes. The duck ragù simmering on the stove. The pan of water waiting for the bigoli. The sauté pan ready with its little pool of golden-green olive oil for the radicchio. How sad is this?

  She decided that the only sensible course was to break it off. Tonight, while her resolve was still strong. They’d have the talk, and then it would be over.

  The doorbell rang again.

  She composed her features into the neutral expression appropriate for someone about to end a relationship and opened the door.

  He fell inside. “Oh my God,” she gasped, all her thoughts immediately forgotten. “What happened?”

  “Gunman,” he croaked. He touched his throat. “Can’t talk.”

  “I’ll get some grappa.”

  She got him a glass of grape spirit and went to run hot water for his cuts. “Come here. And lie down.”

  He wouldn’t lie down, but she got him into a chair so she could sponge his temple. “What have they done to you?” she whispered, horrified.

  He closed his eyes. “Nothing much. I’ll live.”

  “Nothing much!” A thought struck her. “You are going to report it, aren’t you? Get forensics to examine your car, have a proper investigation. . .”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re crazy! Why not?”

  “Because I was on my way here,” he said quietly. “How could I explain that, without people finding out about us?”

  She hesitated. It was her cue, she knew. She would never have a better opening. Aldo, they’re already starting to gossip. We need to talk . . .

  She said nothing. She knew, in that moment, that she didn’t want this to end. Some day, yes, but not here. Not now.

  His bloodshot eyes opened, looked up at hers.

  “Kat, I’m falling in love with you,” he said wearily, as if he was breaking the worst news in the world; as if he wished it wasn’t so.

  Thirty-seven

  AVVOCATO MARCELLO LOOKED appalled. His eyes kept straying, with a kind of horrified fascination, to Piola’s face, now sporting a number of livid red-black bruises. Once Kat thought she saw the prosecutor actually flinch, as if imagining the pistol smashing into his own smooth-skinned, well-shaven face.

  “And those were the only words he said? ‘You should keep your nose out of other people’s business,’” he persisted. “You’re sure?”

  Piola nodded. “Quite sure.”

  Marcello’s expression attempted sympathy and alarm at the same time. “This is terrible,” he said for the third or fourth time. “Truly terrible.”

  It wasn’t clear, Kat reflected, whether he meant specifically terrible for Piola, or for anyone tangentially attached to the investigation.

  “And do you have any idea,” the prosecutor continued, “why this might have happened?”

  Piola passed over a copy of Mareta’s disc.

  “You want me to watch this?” Marcello said nervously.

  “Please.”

  Marcello managed about two minutes before reaching out to eject it from his computer. “Terrible,” he repeated, as if in shock.

  “The link to organised crime is now incontrovertible.”

  “Indeed.” Marcello picked up an old-fashioned-looking fountain pen and rolled it back and forth anxiously in his fingers, as a man might toy with a cigar he isn’t allowed to smoke until later. “And you had the disc why?” he asked after a few moments.

  “Mareta Castiglione chose to give it to the Carabinieri, rather than the Polizia di Stato,” Piola said. He didn’t think it worth antagonising the prosecutor by mentioning that he’d shaken Mareta down to get it.

  Kat found herself looking at the pen in Avvocato Marcello’s hand. It was an Aurora, the oldest and most prestigious Milanese pen makers. The best ones cost up to a thousand euros.

  “So in a sense,” Marcello said thoughtfully, “the gunman was right.”

  “Sir?” Piola said, clearly surprised.

  “I
don’t mean to criticise, Colonel, or to make light of your injuries. But the proper course of action would have been to pass the film, and the person who gave it to you, straight on to the commissario with responsibility for investigating the organised crime aspects of this case.”

  Piola said nothing.

  Marcello kept building on his riff. “Indeed, this unfortunate affair illustrates precisely the dangers of not following such a course. An investigation into organised crime requires special measures to protect the safety of the investigators. It becomes almost foolhardy, in a sense, to try to follow such leads without proper precautions.”

  “Sir,” Piola said. “If I may . . . We think we’ve lifted the stone on a major pipeline out of Eastern Europe—”

  “Exactly,” Marcello said, nodding. “Organised crime. It should be handed over to the Polizia in the first instance, and then to the proper international authorities.”

  “We believe the girl in the film is an Eastern European, forced into prostitution in Italy against her will. Before they died, Jelena Babić and Barbara Holton were seen questioning Eastern European prostitutes around Stazione Santa Lucia. They were looking for a particular girl, a Croatian. Their deaths and the organised crime aspect of this case are inseparable.” Piola stopped, aware that he was starting to raise his voice.

  Marcello barely glanced at him. “I’m just not sure your investigation is going to tell us very much more, Colonnello. You don’t know who the girl in the video is, or who the girl the two women were seeking was, or even why they were looking for her in the first place. And while of course I’m glad you’ve dropped the ridiculous suggestion that the United States Army was somehow implicated in the murders, it does seem that we’ve come to the end of the line as far as collecting evidence is concerned.”