Sweet Song Bitter Loss Read online

  ‘Be quiet ………’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ shouted Anna over the tumult. ‘Felicita, fetch a glass of wine for Mario. And put the bowl of cherries you picked this morning on the table. Giovanni, finish your water. I won’t have this arguing at dinner.’

  Bruno switched the television back on. It was half an hour before the football match was due to start, but he would find something to drown out the family arguments. As he was flicking through channels trying to find a half-watchable programme, his youngest son, Giovanni, plonked his glass back on the table, jumped up, and ran to the doorway.

  ‘Hear that, Laura? It’s the buzzards. They nest every year in the big trees up on the hill.’

  ‘That pathetic mewing noise?’ spat Mario. ‘You sure it’s not a pigeon farting?’

  Mario laughed at his own joke, as Giovanni darted back outside, his bright, dark eyes gazing up into the early evening sky.

  TWO.

  The following morning, Tuesday, shortly after eight o’clock, Major Antonio D’Angelo of the Abruzzo carabinieri, Chieti Provincial Division, parked in his usual space in front of the local headquarters, and strode to the station’s front door. Standing one metre eighty-eight, Major D’Angelo was unusually tall for an Abruzzese, but, despite an unwelcome widening of his middle-aged girth, didn’t lack the typical muscular physique inherited from peasant farming stock, the Abruzzo ‘contadini’. His thick, black hair had turned silver at the temples, but his face had not lost the good looks of earlier years, and his twinkling dark eyes remained as mirrors to his emotions. From looking kind and thoughtful, they could change in an instant to show sorrow, or inquisitiveness, or anger. Few people were foolhardy enough to cross Major D’Angelo when anger was reflected in those expressive eyes.

  He greeted the civilian secretary, Katia Martorella, in the reception area, then requested the overnight incident report.

  ‘Already with Sergeant Lazzaro,’ she smiled. ‘He’s beaten you in this morning.’

  Major D’Angelo returned the smile, and walked the few paces down the wood-panel lined corridor to the office shared by Sergeant Emilio Lazzaro and Trooper Roberto Di Silverio, but finding the sergeant alone in the room. After exchanging pleasantries, D’Angelo asked if there was anything on the overnight report that required attention.

  ‘Another break-in, this time the pharmacy in Ripana,’ said Lazzaro, glancing through the printed page he was holding. ‘A disturbance outside Bar Sporting in via Frasca – probably to do with last night’s football result – a missing boy out at Montenero, and – blah blah blah – oh, a theft from a till in the café in via Roma.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What age, the missing boy?’

  Sergeant Lazzaro looked again through the report in his hand until he found the relevant entry.

  ‘Eleven years old. Last seen at about seven-fifteen yesterday evening when he walked out of the family house alone. Not been seen since.’

  ‘Eleven. Gone to a friend’s most likely. He’ll turn up sooner or later. What’s happening about the pharmacy break-in?’

  ‘I told Di Silverio to go straight there and liaise with the local police vigile, Constable er….,’ the sergeant checked a note by his phone, ‘Bellini. Constable Bellini.’

  ‘God help us,’ groaned Major D’Angelo. ‘Our intrepid Trooper Di Silverio will probably line suspects up against a wall and start shooting them, unless Bellini can stop him.’

  Sergeant Lazzaro chuckled. Shorter and stockier than his commanding officer, his broad face, flattish nose and large chin reminded the major of a bulldog. The second-in-command was also reliable, loyal, and resourceful. The pair had a successful and informal working relationship, such that at least in private they were on first-name terms.

  ‘Come on, Tonio, he’s improving. He might make a decent carabiniere one day.’

  ‘And I’ll be the general in Rome,’ scoffed D’Angelo. ‘He’s obsessed with weapons,’ - the major glanced at pictures of military hardware which the trooper had put up on the wall, including one with Di Silverio himself smiling broadly with an assault rifle in his hands – ‘and he thinks the best thing about his uniform is that it helps him pick up more girls.’

  ‘At least that gives him a reason to look smart. Look Tonio, I know you two don’t see eye to eye,’ said the sergeant in a more serious tone, ‘but he’s young, he’s got a lot to learn, - and he’s well-connected. He comes from a good family, Di Silverio.’

  ‘Which proves that any pool can become contaminated, even a gene pool. And before you start bowing and scraping to the rich and powerful Di Silverio family, bear in mind that they’re only where they are because some long-deceased ancestor was adept at bludgeoning his neighbours into submission and stealing their olive groves and vineyards before paying them a pittance to work for him.’

  ‘That may be so, but keep in mind that Trooper Di Silverio’s father has – erm - influence.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting I overlook the boy’s shortcomings just because his papa plays golf with Colonel Battista?’

  ‘I think you should go a bit easy on him, that’s all.’

  ‘What is his nickname for me – Virgun?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘You’d be surprised the things I know, Emil. Virgun. The officer with the virgin gun. He thinks I’m wet because I hardly ever carry my personal weapon. I can hear him now, holding forth to his mates : “My commanding officer is issued with a Beretta 92FS pistol, a beautiful hand gun, but he wants to keep it pure, so it never gets taken out. He wants his gun to stay a virgin.’

  ‘And when is he going to learn the truth?’

  ‘The truth, Emil?’

  ‘I get to know things as well, Tonio. I heard the story about your time in New York.’

  Major D’Angelo felt a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. There were fewer times these days when the memories of his secondment to the NYPD, and the repercussions, came back to haunt him.

  ‘That’s history, Emil,’ he said coldly.

  The awkward moment was rescued by a call on the internal phone, as Major D’Angelo picked it up.

  ‘Yes Katia, what is it?’

  ‘A traffic incident on the ring road. By the parade of shops just before the hospital roundabout. Woman and child injured, don’t know how seriously; the ambulance has been called and is on its way.’

  ‘At least it should get there quickly, not far to go. Where are the Civil Police when you want them? Aren’t they supposed to take care of the roads? OK Katia, I’ll take it myself. Sergeant Lazzaro in command here in the meantime.’

  ‘RTA on the ring road,’ explained D’Angelo to the sergeant, grabbing his cap from the top of the desk where he had dropped it earlier. ‘Call me if anything crops up that I should know about. See you later.’

  When Major D’Angelo arrived at the scene of the accident a few minutes later, the ambulance was already in attendance. The paramedics were carefully assessing the victims and lifting them into the vehicle, flashing blue lights indicating the urgency of the situation, but in the road behind them, chaos reigned. People were shouting and gesticulating wildly as Major D’Angelo parked the Alfa Romeo Giulietta patrol car outside Luigi’s hairdressing salon, firmly fixing his peaked cap in place as he marched forward to take charge of the situation. He often wished his compatriots would act rather more calmly in such circumstances. He went first to speak to the senior paramedic to make sure there were no life-threatening injuries, and that her team were in control of their task, noting that a member of the public seemed to be helping with the children. He then studied the scene of the incident. A black VW Golf had slewed to a halt facing towards the curb, several metres beyond a pedestrian crossing, while behind the crossing was parked a blue Fiat Panda, the driver standing by the open door looking anxiously around him. Traffic was building up to bo
th north and south on the single-carriageway road.

  ‘Anyone not directly involved in this incident, or witness to it, please move on,’ bellowed Major D’Angelo to the gathering crowd. The shouting and arm-waving gradually diminished, as the ambulance, siren wailing, turned in the road and headed towards the roundabout two hundred metres away, before taking the first right up a long hill to the hospital.

  ‘Who is the owner of this car?’ demanded D’Angelo, pointing to the black Golf. A young man, one of the more vocal within the crowd, stepped forward.

  ‘You were driving this vehicle when the incident took place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Park it there in front of the pizzeria so that this traffic can get moving again, then wait beside my patrol car with your identity card, driving licence, vehicle registration form, and the car insurance document.’

  ‘But this is crazy, it was not my fault,’ he insisted, his hands held together as if in prayer, and waving them up and down. ‘That idiot there just stopped, I thought he was going to the hairdressers. The fool, he’s to blame,’ yelled the young man, pointing to the driver of the blue Panda.

  ‘Be quiet,’ shouted Major D’Angelo, ‘and do as I tell you.’

  He then approached the somewhat bewildered-looking man standing beside the Panda.

  ‘Will you explain to me what happened,’ demanded D’Angelo.

  ‘What – er- happened? Yes. I – erm – I stop here because, er because ……’

  ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man, I am English.’

  ‘OK, I can speak English,’ said D’Angelo. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘There was a lady, just there by the zebra crossing, with a small child at her side and a youngster in a buggy …. .’

  ‘Zebra?’

  ‘That marking. Pedestrian right of way. We call it a zebra crossing in UK.’

  ‘I understand. Please continue.’

  ‘Well, they were about to cross the road, the buggy was partly off the curb, so I stopped to let them across, but the car behind me – that VW over there – came straight past me and ploughed into the lady and her children.’

  ‘I see. What is your name please?’

  ‘Fenwick. Jim – James – Fenwick.’

  ‘Are you resident here Mister Fenique?’

  ‘No. No, I have a holiday place here, over at Canosa. I come out three or four times a year.’

  ‘So this is not your car?’

  ‘No, it’s a hire car. I picked it up from Pescara airport when I arrived last Friday.’

  ‘Then you don’t have an identity card?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could I see your passport please.’

  ‘It’s in my jacket – in the back there.’

  D’Angelo glanced in at the back seat of Jim Fenwick’s car.

  ‘Please get it for me.’

  Jim Fenwick retrieved his passport from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Major D’Angelo, just as a buzzing from his inside pocket indicated that D’Angelo had an incoming call. Like many of his colleagues, D’Angelo carried a personal mobile phone as well as his carabinieri issue compact radio, which was kept in a small leather pouch on his belt. From a quick look at the screen of his mobile, he could see it was Sergeant Lazzaro calling.

  ‘Yes, Emil, what is it?’

  ‘Just had another call about that boy.’

  ‘Boy?’

  ‘The missing boy. From Montenero. The local vigile rang to say the mother is getting very worried about him.’

  Major D’Angelo looked at his watch. Eight twenty-three. If the boy and his pal have gone off somewhere, they could be a while yet.

  ‘Alright Emilio, I’m nearly done here. I’ll be back shortly, then I’ll look into it. Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing else Tonio. See you soon.’

  D’Angelo ended the call and looked at Jim Fenwick’s passport.

  ‘You live in – Sheffield.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you were born in Germany?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I take it you were on your own when you were driving?’

  ‘No – no, my wife was with me. Nadia. She’s Italian. From Rome originally.’

  Major D’Angelo looked around ostentatiously.

  ‘Oh, er, she went with the ambulance,’ explained Jim.

  ‘She was hurt?’

  ‘No, she’s fine. She’s a paediatric nurse, you see, and she, erm, she went to help take care of the two small children.’

  ‘Ah. The lady in the blue top?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘If you wait here for a few minutes, Mister Fenique, you can follow me up to the A&E, Pronto Soccorso we call it, at the hospital, then we can find your wife.’

  ‘Oh, right, thank you.’

  D’Angelo walked to the group of bystanders who were still watching proceedings.

  ‘So, you were all witnesses to the events here?’

  The spectators started to shuffle away, leaving just one person, a portly man in his mid-fifties, standing alone.

  ‘Your name please, Signore.’

  ‘De Marco. Gabriele De Marco.’

  ‘Could you tell me where you were and what you saw, Signore De Marco.’

  D’Angelo had taken a small black notebook and pen from his top pocket and was writing : Witness, Gabriele De Marco.

  ‘Sure,’ said Gabriele, ‘I had just come out of the hairdressers there – Luigi’s – and I was trying to decide whether to pop across for a coffee and croissant. I was right behind the Signora and her two little kids who were waiting to go over on the crossing. That car there, the Fiat, stopped to let them go, so I thought to myself, yes, I’ll follow them across the road while the traffic’s stopped, but as I was about to step off the pavement, that other car, the black one, came up behind and overtook the Fiat and hit the lady and her kids. Sent them flying. Terrible, it was.’

  ‘Thank you Signore. Could I have a look at your identity card please.’

  De Marco pulled out his wallet and handed over his ID card.

  ‘Address, via Cicconetti, number seven, is that correct?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Thank you Signore De Marco. I shall contact you if it should prove necessary. You may go now.’

  Major D’Angelo turned and walked with a determined step back to his patrol car, where the Golf driver stood waiting, looking a good deal less confident than previously. D’Angelo took the proffered documents and silently checked them.

  ‘So, Signore Valini, Aldo Valini, you admit you hit the lady and her children on the pedestrian crossing?’

  ‘Yes, but …. .’

  ‘It appears you recklessly overtook a stationary vehicle, ignoring the pedestrian right of way, and caused injuries to three people. Do you have any explanation for your actions?’

  ‘I didn’t see the crossing, the paint is all faded, look at it. And nobody stops like that, not unless people are already out in the road. It’s the fault of the foreigner, the straniero. They shouldn’t be driving on our roads.’

  ‘I see you live in Ortona,’ said D’Angelo.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So, Signore Valini, this is what you’re going to do. You will take these documents to the comune in Ortona tomorrow between the hours of eight and eighteen hundred. They will by then have received my report, which will recommend a substantial fine and confiscation of your driving licence. I will further be recommending that you re-take a driving test before being issued once again with your licence. Do you understand?’

  Aldo Valini just stared at the major.

  ‘I said, do you understand me, Signore Valini?’

  The young man tilted his head back and muttered ‘yes.’
/>
  ‘Good, you may go, and kindly drive with greater care.’

  Major D’Angelo indicated to Jim Fenwick that he was about to set off for the hospital, and led the way up to the car park outside A&E. They parked alongside one another and entered the building, where D’Angelo asked the paramedic on reception duty the name of the doctor in charge of the recently-arrived RTA victims.

  ‘Dottoressa Cristina Rosello,’ he replied.

  ‘And they’ll be in trauma suite – room number …?’

  ‘Number fourteen, Signore.’

  ‘Thank you. Follow me, Mister Fenique.’

  They ascended a single flight of stairs to the fourth floor. Jim realised that much of the hospital was built at a lower level, so the entrance to A&E was actually on the third floor. They found Nadia Fenwick sitting alone in the corridor outside room fourteen, relieved that her husband had managed to find her.

  ‘This is Major D’Angelo,’ explained Jim. ‘He wants to check the status of the victims before writing his report.’

  ‘The doctor promised me she would give an update as soon as she could,’ said Nadia, greeting Major D’Angelo with a smile and a handshake.

  Jim and Nadia both started to recount events since the accident to one another, but within less than a minute, the door of the trauma suite opened, and a lady doctor hurried out.

  ‘Oh, Antonio, hi,’ she said, seeing Major D’Angelo.

  ‘Hello Cristina. I need to know if there are any serious injuries to the victims, just in general terms of course, no personal details.’

  ‘They were lucky. Nothing life-changing. We haven’t got all the X-rays yet, but almost certainly a couple of fractures, dislocated hip, probable cracked rib, and quite bad lacerations and bruising. We’ll need to keep them all in for a day or two, but nothing too serious.’

  ‘Do we need to contact anyone? Partner, family?’

  ‘It’s alright, Antonio. Social Department have been contacted, they’ll take care of all that side of things. We’re grateful to Nadia here for looking after the children until they got here.’

  A buzzing from his inside pocket alerted Major D’Angelo to a new call. Lazzaro again.