The child had been in a cave, its opening between slabs of granite, half hidden by boulders. First the family had found the cave, then raised the money to buy the child. She came from Firenze, a surgeon’s youngest, aged twelve. She had been walking to school when she was taken and had been held for two weeks while her captors looked for a buyer in the Aspromonte. It was the first time that the family had invested in the trade. They had paid the equivalent in lira of a hundred thousand euros. The child had been driven south and the handover had taken place in a disused quarry off the main highway near to Capistrano. There was no sign of illness – only terror.
Bernardo had dragged her into the cave – his brothers had held back – and had fastened the chain to the ring they had concreted in the previous week. There was straw for her, and a bottle of water – it was summer so it would not have been too cold. Bernardo, of course, had never been to Firenze, had never seen the luxurious apartment block where the family of a prominent surgeon might live. He would have understood little of the child’s mind, would have thought it similar to his sons’ – they were close to that age. But he had barely known them, and had waited impatiently for them to grow up. He had lit her candle for her, then shown her the lavatory bucket, the bucket that held washing water, the water bottles – even some sandwiches that Mamma had made. He had turned his back on the candle and the crying, and had wormed his way out of the narrow exit. All the time he could hear, as he went away, the crying and the rattle of the chain as she tugged at it. He had left her. Thirty-six years ago she had been worth the equivalent of a million American dollars, which would set up the family for their next venture. Today Giulietta would have called it ‘seed money’ or ‘venture capital’.
He had never exchanged a single word with her, had merely gesticulated with his hands. Bernardo, who was a padrino within his community, had power over almost everything that affected him, but he could not lose the sound of the child’s voice and the choke of the tears.
The door moved and Mamma was in front of him with the bowl in which she had brought the fowls’ feed. They were round her ankles, busy pecking. A good day faced him. His grandson would travel that evening.
He straightened, and could no longer hear the child.
Jago crawled towards a rubbish bin, one with different slots for plastic, newspapers and bottles. He reached up and pulled himself first to his knees, then almost upright. He leaned on the top, where people stubbed out their fags. He looked around him.
She wasn’t there. A dribble of blood showed where she had been.
He sagged. He saw the shoes, the same mismatch. Small pieces of torn card drifted down. The logo of his bank was visible, then shifted when a dog on a lead walked over it. He looked up: an expensive skirt, a coat that stank of money. She would have been a prime client. He was supposed to care. Corporate discipline demanded he be devastated that he had lost a potential customer because he had brawled in the street, had joined an argument in which he had no stake. She walked away. He used the bin again as a prop and levered himself upright. A sign in the pizzeria’s window said the place was shut. The inside lights were off. People watched him. Mothers, teenagers, children, a postman . . .
‘Where are they? A man and a woman – she was hurt? Cut in the face. Didn’t you see? Was an ambulance called?’
No answer from the teenagers, the kids who were skipping school, the dog-walkers or the postman. A mother told him that the man and the woman with the big facial wound had gone in a taxi to the hospital, the one on Spandauer Damm.
‘Has anyone rung the police at Bismarckstrasse?’
He had lost his audience. He could see himself reflected in the glass. There was no blood on his face or his shirt. His hair was dishevelled and his right trouser leg torn. Jago thought he looked drunk rather than injured. He was alive and standing, asking questions, and the entertainment was over: they flowed around him.
Jago Browne went in search of an investigator. Failure loomed large in his mind.
4
‘You took your time.’
‘It’s a busy city.’
‘I’ve been here three-quarters of an hour.’ Jago Browne stood up, feet a little apart, hands on hips, chin jutting.
‘And in forty-five minutes you had ample opportunity to report a crime at the desk. You didn’t use it,’ the investigator countered.
He had strode into the reception area of the police station on Bismarckstrasse and given the name of the man he wanted to see, had watched the woman behind the reinforced glass make the first phone call, then another. Nothing had happened. He had been asked if he wanted to see another officer because Seitz was engaged in a meeting. He had declined. Anger had built. Around him things had continued much as on the previous day – the same stereotypical victims and low-life, the same smell of urine, vomit, cleaning fluid and sweat.
The investigator had come out of an inner corridor, joking with a colleague, then had spoken to the woman at the counter. She had gestured with her head towards Jago, and the man had nodded. He had shown no embarrassment at keeping him waiting, no frustration that a bad penny had returned, neither indifference nor pleasure at the renewed contact. Another day at the coal face. He had come out through the security door, and had indicated, with a finger, that they’d talk in the public area.