Death Brings Gold

He felt his eyes growing heavy and exhaustion was getting the better of his body. And the alcohol had already got the better of his mind.

When he realised that he was only a few metres away from home, he felt revived. He could already feel the mattress under his back. He wasn’t even going to undress. The most he was going to take off – and only if he felt like it-would be his shoes. Not because of the bender, but to spite that Martina bitch. Her-who every time, even before coming in, would obligate him to remove his shoes, put his slippers on and sometimes even those disposable guest slippers, like a hotel guest. And god help him if he’d even think of sitting on the bed with his clothes on.

“The bed is made for sleeping.” He could still hear that snake like voice. “You should only go to bed in your pyjamas”.

Go fuck yourself, bitch! He thought. Yes, he was going to sleep with his clothes on. And with his shoes.

When he was a few steps away from his front gate, he took his mobile phone from his pocket. He wrote a text message to a work colleague and sent it. He then pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. It took him a minute to find the right one, and another minute to insert it in the keyhole and unlock it.

The gate opened with a terrible squealing noise that would make anyone’s skin crawl, but it had no effect on Raffaele Ghezzi. He felt good, invincible, happy. Like a drunk who - evidence at hand- is about to nail his cheating slut wife.

He reached the stairs and, grabbing the handrail, he realised that he had an amused smile fixed on his lips.

Maybe he had over indulged with the whisky, but it had been worth it. He spent a pleasant evening at the pub, in his own company, to enjoy his moment of triumph. And to make a toast to his new life that would begin as soon as he was out of that ball-breaking situation with Martina. Obviously the following day he was going to wake up with a massive headache, but that was the price you paid when you got smashed and were not in your twenties anymore.

He covered with difficulty the first two flights of stairs. He faced the next ones with more confidence and the last two with a shortness of breath that was worse than he would have liked it to be.

When he found himself at his landing, he rummaged in the front pocket of his trousers looking for his bunch of keys. He pulled them out and moved closer to his front door. In the exact moment in which he inserted the key in the hole, he noticed that it was already open.

He knew he was totally wasted but he had locked that fucking door before he went to work.

Who knows? It’s also likely that he had forgotten to do it. It can happen, he said to himself.

He smiled again and pushed the door knocker of the house. Of his house.

He left the door open, allowing the light from outside to illuminate the hall of his flat, so he could find the lamp that sat on the small writing desk. An opaque, almost timid light lit up that corner of the living room.

Raffaele closed the door behind him and locked it with two turns. He took a deep breath. Finally at home.

He caught a glimpse of something in the semi-darkness of the living room area, which made him jump, and hit the wall behind him. Suddenly his hangover seemed to have disappeared. It happened in a fraction of a second and now he felt as if he hadn’t drunk any whiskey at all.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Ghezzi,” said the dark figure sitting in the armchair.

Raffaele felt like he was going to faint, his legs were shaking. He tried to overcome his terror.

“Who are you?”

He realised he’d used an “I’m-crapping-my-pants” tone of voice. Whoever that person sitting in his armchair was, he could read on Ghezzi’s face all the fear that a man can feel in that situation.

The silhouette moved, causing a light swish. The voice seemed to reach out from the darkness.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that I’m back”.

Raffaele didn’t know why that person was there, sitting in an armchair in his house. But one thing was clear. Certainly this person didn’t have good intentions. And had come for him.

CHAPTER 4

He couldn’t remember the last time there’d been such a cold day.

After starting the car, he’d spent almost ten minutes scraping the layer of ice from the windscreen. He had done it with his bare hands, because he couldn’t remember where the hell he had put the ice scraper. It had lived in the glove box the whole summer and every time he’d opened the compartment to retrieve something, the ice scraper had always been in the way. Then one day, tired of having to toss it around from side to side, he’d removed and put it…

Nothing, he couldn’t remember where in hell he’d stuck it.

And now, even after driving for fifteen minutes, he was still feeling a shooting pain in his hands caused by the ice. He was driving slightly bent forward, so he could breathe on his hands as they clutched the wheel. From time to time, he tried to drive with one hand, vigorously rubbing the other hand on his trousers in an attempt to warm it.

Giovanni Belmondo turned left and drove until he found a parking space right in front of the block of flats where his work colleague lived. He parked his Passat between two small, old cars and felt like a middle-class Italian. That thought managed to get a smile out of him, in spite of the terrible throbbing in his fingertips. He put his hands together in a prayer position. Then he began rubbing them vigorously against each other. The heat the exercise produced was minor, but enough to give him the relief he needed. He recovered his iPhone from the glove box and skimmed through his Contacts List.

When he saw the name Raffaele Ghezzi Cell, he swiped the screen with his index finger and made the call. He waited until he heard it ring, then he hung up. As he did every time that, for one reason or another, he’d go pick his friend up to give him a lift to work or go to a pub and watch Champions League matches together.

That morning, five minutes had already passed but Ghezzi still had not appeared.

“Dickhead,” he said, looking at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was 8:32 am.

According to workplace rules, at five to nine they should all be sitting in front of their PC’s. Mazzucotelli, their boss, was very strict. He said that you can tell a good employee by their punctuality.

Pffft… by their punctuality…

Due to a kind of superstitious bent-, he waited the full minute until the clock showed the thirty-third minute before calling Ghezzi again.

This time he let it ring twice, three time, four times, five, six …

“You’ve reached the voicemail of 338…”

He hung up, grumbling.

“I’ll bet this idiot is going to make us both late.”

For a moment he regretted having offered the lift. He cursed his colleague, his car that was with the mechanic and the mechanic himself. With all the money mechanics charge for a simple vehicle inspection, he mused, the price should include the risk of being insulted without reason.

He tried making yet another call, but after six rings, it went to voicemail again.

“Fuck,” he cursed, realising that his annoyance had even made him forget about his throbbing hands.

He browsed through his Contacts again until he found his colleague’s landline number. He pressed the Call button.

After it rang and rang endlessly, hearing at last the click of a receiver being picked up suggested to him that someone had answered.

“Hi…”

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.

They shook hands.

“Giovanni Belmondo,” he replied.

Walker didn’t waste any time.

“You told detective Bassani that you came to pick the victim up to give him a lift to work, right?”

Belmondo nodded, allowing himself some time before speaking. Then his voice came out trembling and feeble.

“Yes, that’s right. We’re… eh… We were colleagues. Great colleagues.”

Walker signalled for Bassani to take notes, before carrying on with his questions.

“And where was it that you worked?”

“Mazzucotelli Chemical,” answered Giovanni. “It’s here, less than ten kilometres away. In the area…”

“Yes,” the Chief Inspector interrupted. “I know where it is. And please tell me, Mr …”

“Belmondo” prompted Giovanni.

“Yes, Belmondo. Do you know if your colleague had any problems with anyone?”

Silence.

Giovanni stared at the Chief Inspector without answering, he wasn’t sure what to tell him and what to conceal. As everyone should know, one never interferes between a husband and wife… “Mister Belmondo,” Walker prompted him, “did you hear my question?”

Giovanni tried to get his thoughts straight.

“Raffaele and I were very close. We were more than just colleagues. We often went out together for a beer, for a drink or to watch football games. And we also told each other secrets …” Belmondo looked like he was searching the bottom of the ocean for a missing word “personal ones, I guess you’d say.”

The Chief Inspector nodded, wondering if Belmondo was really answering his question or going off on a tangent.

Giovanni continued with his statement.

“Some months ago he confessed that he suspected his wife was having an affair…”

Walker gave Bassani a knowing glance.

“… but he wasn’t sure. He told me that he was devising a plan so that he could follow her every move.”

Giovanni stopped and Walker fired another question at him.

“And did you have the feeling that Mrs. Ghezzi was unfaithful to her husband?”

The question seemed to hit like a punch.

Giovanni looked at Raffaele Ghezzi’s body. Then, he tried to offer an answer that would please Walker and at the same time keep him out of this mess. Even though he was already feeling like he was up to his neck in it.

“I believe there was some truth to it. You know, Chief Inspector, suspicions in these situations are nearly always well founded. Nevertheless, I am sure that Martina could have never…”

He left the sentence unfinished, certain the Chief Inspector would have interpreted it as intended.

Bassani stared at the witness as if he had just talked a load of bollocks.

“And who would Martina be?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

“Raffaele’s wife, Chief Inspector. Apart from the affair Raffaele was telling me about – and I don’t know if it’s true – she wasn’t a bad person.”

“What? You didn’t trust your friend?” Walker asked, frowning.

The witness looked at his colleague’s lifeless shell. He felt cornered. He had taken the time he’d needed to give an answer that would not drag him into this and instead had involved himself deeper. He may as well tell them whatever was on his mind and, if he was lucky, with all his irrational talk, he might say something that would convince the investigators to let him go.

After all, even though he had nothing to do with his friend’s death, when there’s a dead body involved and you’re the one who found it, being questioned by the police puts so much pressure on you that it makes you lose control.

Belmondo forced himself to stay calm.

“It’s not a question of trust, Chief Inspector,” he replied. “Maybe there was some truth in it. The point is that… even if Martina was unfaithful to him, I’m almost sure that she never would have gone this far… I mean… you know. I think it must be something else.”

“Something else, eh…” repeated the Chief Inspector, letting the words hang and slowly dissipate in a room that now carried the air of betrayal, as well as of death. “And do you know where this Martina is now?”

“She’s not here,” said Giovanni. And immediately felt stupid.

“I can see that too, Belmondo,” the Chief Inspector interrupted sarcastically. “So, where is she?”

Giovanni spilt the rest.

“Raffaele told me that some time ago his wife moved in with her mother. You know, their relationship wasn’t great, so I think that they decided to take a break. With him staying here and her staying there.”

“And do you have this woman’s phone number?”

“No, I don’t have it.”

“And do you know where her mother lives?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know that either.”

“But you know the wife’s maiden name, right?”

The man nodded.

“The surname is Pilenga. Martina Pilenga.”

“Martina Pilenga” repeated Walker. Then, to Bassani. “Track this woman down. I want to talk to her as soon as possible.”

“OK, Chief,” the other man replied.

Then Walker turned back to Belmondo.

“Take this,” he said, handing him a business card. “If something else comes to mind – anything that might be useful to us, or that you think could be – don’t hesitate to contact me.”

“I will,” said the man, feeling the tightness in his stomach had gone.

“You can go now,” continued Walker, “but don’t disappear. I might still need you. And remember to come by Headquarters for a formal witness declaration,”

“I live just a few kilometres from here, Chief Inspector, and I have no intention of disappearing” the other said, with a forced smile.

“Better for everyone. Now try to recover, pull yourself together. You look distraught, Belmondo.”

Belmondo said thanks and bid farewell, before turning his back and leaving the flat.

“Chief Inspector Walker?” a voice asked.

David turned.

“Yes?”

“We’re done. We need your authorisation to remove the body.”

“These decisions can only be made by the Public Prosecutor.” He glanced at his watch. “ Fini will be here shortly.”

When Antonio Fini entered the flat, he greeted everyone with a general nod of his head. Then he moved closer to Carrobbio, who was at a short distance from the body.

“Have you taken all the photos we need?” he asked, walking around the body.

“All of them,” the other hurried to reply. “The body, from different angles. From far and near. The room and most of all …”

He stopped talking: the coup de theatre that, he was sure, would have guaranteed him Fini’s complete attention.

“Most of all?” Fini urged him.

Carobbio moved closer.

“Most of all we have recovered three sets of fingerprints. One set certainly belongs to the victim. After all, this is his house. But the other two could tell us something more about his death.”

Fini noticed that the Forensic Inspector had grimaced when he’d mentioned the victim’s fingerprints, but consigned this detail to the compartment in his mind labelled “Bullshit”.

“So, you will let me have a detailed account after receiving the results from the fingerprints.”

“Of course,” Carrobbio answered, although the Public Prosecutor’s question did not require an answer.

“Good” Fini added. “I’d say we can proceed with the removal of the body.”

Carobbio signalled his men who gathered around the body to lift it.

Fini moved over a few metres. He wanted to leave room for the specialists, but he needed breathing space to gather his thoughts. What was the motive that required the killer to dress up the victim with a gold necktie? And to arrange the victim’s arms in that strange position?

The world is changing , he thought. The crazies get even crazier.

The chattering of the personnel authorised to remove the body took his mind away from his thoughts.

“… a strange sound.”

“Yes, I heard it too. Something must have fallen.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

Fini approached the four men. Chief Inspector Walker did the same.

“What happened?” Fini asked.

The Forensic men exchanged a series of conspiratorial glances. Then, the senior among them answered the question.