The files were spread across his carpet. The prosecutor, on hands and knees, was in front of them. The cupboard was wide open and part of a shelf was empty. Now he pored over them. He had been working that afternoon and into the evening on new challenges, new targets, trying to ease the burden of a failed investigation, to move on. His coat had been hitched over his shoulders, his bag in his hand, and he had made the call to his wife that he was leaving – yes, he was, truthfully, he’d be home in a quarter of an hour – and the phone had rung. He could have let it ring and ignored it.
The escort boys had been on their feet, their magazines dumped in the chairs, radios at their ears, weapons at their hips. They would have thought themselves blessed that their principal’s attention was diverted from failure. But he had turned and gone back in. He had heard a stammering, hesitant voice, words that spewed with a degree of incoherence. A name had been given – and the trumpets had blasted recognition – the location of the padrino and of his cosca, the place where he was hiding, and the soffiato was on his way, driving to the Palace of Justice. The call had been cut. What was the informant’s name? Not given. What make of car was he coming in? Registration? No time to ask. He was no longer going home. He asked if two would go down to the main lobby. A car was on its way – unidentified. The driver would park, walk to Reception and ask for the prosecutor by name. He was to be brought to the office.
He went over the old files so that he could control an interview. The walk-ins were always the best. To turn a criminal, make him a pentito, was seldom satisfactory. But when a man came to the door, asked to come in, was willing to talk and lay his life on the line, he was a rare treasure.
He demanded fresh coffee. The leader of his team would telephone his wife and make the excuses.
They were out of their hide, with the canvas kitbags, the rucksacks and the plastic rubbish bag. It was dark and Fabio had the lenses over his eyes, which gave a watery image of what lay ahead. They were held by the sounds, wasted effort to fathom their source or what they meant.
The dogs patrolled at the door restlessly, the kid sat on the hard chair, listening, and Mamma had come to the door every three or four minutes, looked up the path past the sheets, then turned away. They had gear for enhancing sound but that was packed away now and neither had the inclination to root in the bags for it. They were ready to go. For them Scorpion Fly was over, but they hesitated.
Ciccio said it was the television. It was a muffled noise, faint, maybe distant shouting, or perhaps a poor soundtrack on whatever programme was on. They wanted out. It was always difficult to walk away from failure, but it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. Both were more familiar with failure than success.
Fabio slapped Ciccio’s arm. Enough. They had authorisation to quit. Ciccio nodded. He punched in the code and was poised to transmit. A message on the screen blocked his own. Maintain location. Observe and report.
They went back to the entrance to their shallow hole, lay down and seethed.
Carlo watched the maresciallo. A little fellow, unlike most of the unit. He lacked their physique, and his spectacles were high magnification. He was giving someone serious stick on the phone. Carlo had the impression that he was being fobbed off. They’d all experienced it: the greatest revelation ever in law enforcement came into a control room, but the bastards were all too busy, or hadn’t the sense, to react. He wasn’t winning.
‘I can tell you where the fugitive is lying up. Have I seen him? No, I have not. Have I a direct informant? No. What I have are my eyes and my instinct. Isn’t that good enough?’
No. The phone was snapped off. The little guy came to them. They had new information at the Palace of Justice. An informant was coming in. The maresciallo was surplus to requirements.
‘Their privilege,’ Carlo said. ‘We’ll see what shows. That’s where the padrino is, don’t doubt it.’