Deadly Spritz E-Book

Enrico Palumbo

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Caponnetto investigates
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 218

Beschreibung

Lovers of Italy and la dolce vita will be charmed by this cosy crime novel set on the coast and in the hills of Liguria. We are transported to its bars and restaurants, treated to culinary feasts, regional specialities and mouth-watering cocktails in this story of Giuseppe Caponnetto, a newly retired Capitano from the Carabinieri and his involvement in solving a heinous murder on a helpless old man. There are hints of romance and intrigue, fascinating details of Italian life, hints at Italian politics and history, and references to films (see if you can spot them!). Enrico Palumbo introduces an engaging cast of characters and draws on his own experience of life in Italy and his own Italian heritage to transport us to this fascinating region of Northern Italy and entertain us in a most diverting manner.

Leseprobe

Edition Liguria

Caponnetto investigates – Book 1

About the Author

Enrico Palumbo was born in 1972 in Karlsruhe, Germany, and studied in Munich and Venice. He started his career as a journalist for German and Italian news agencies and media before moving into business. After working in various places, such as Prague, Milan and Zurich, he returned to Karlsruhe with his family, where they have been living since 2019. “Deadly Spritz” is the first novel in the murder mystery series about the retired Carabiniere Giuseppe Caponnetto.

Il talento senza disciplina

è come una macchina senza benzina.

Talent without self-control

is like a car with no petrol.

Italian saying

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

EPILOGUE

I

Caponnetto was running late. ‘Today of all days,’ he thought as he looked out over the Ligurian Sea. A large ship was sailing from the east towards the harbour of Savona and he squinted to try and see its name and where it had come from.

He decided against a wet shave. That would give him at least another five minutes.

It had been six months since the decision had been made. No, since he had made the decision. He didn’t regret it, but it seemed to him that this day today had come round much too quickly.

Going into the bathroom, he glanced at his watch, but he wasn’t looking at the hands. It was the date that he looked at. As if he was hoping that he might be wrong about which day it was. Maybe he would have a bit more time: time to say goodbye, time to make plans, time to prepare.

Caponnetto looked at himself critically in the mirror. While he pushed the electric shaver over his face, he started thinking about the words of the song Genova per noi by Paolo Conte.

‘Con quella faccia un po’ così. Quell’espressione un po’ così

Che abbiamo noi prima d’andare a Genova’

The face staring back at him from the mirror wore a strange expression. And yes, this had to do with his impending trip to Genoa.

‘Don’t start getting all melancholy on me now, old chap,’ he thought.

‘After all, the whole thing has some positive sides to it. In a couple of weeks, the world will look quite different. So, Capitano Caponnetto: get a grip!’

Pleased with the results of his shave, he then decided to do without an espresso too. This would give him another five minutes.

Back in the bedroom, he allowed himself to be moved by the emotion of the moment as he looked out to sea, which was reflected in his wardrobe mirror.

Then he pulled himself together and, for the last time, Caponnetto, Capitano of the Carabinieri, put on his uniform.

*

On the previous evening, about the same time that the Capitano was starting his preparations for the next day, about 20 kilometres north-west of Savona, a dull thudding sound could be heard. And then another, and another, and another.

Thick drops of blood soon trickled onto the armrest of the winged chair. Umberto Serra’s head slumped towards his right shoulder.

The first blow would already have been enough to shatter his skull. The other blows were just the expression of a surge of rage which only slowly abated. Then, finally, it was over.

The figure behind the chair, out of breath from the exertion, put the hammer on the ground, quickly pulled out some of the drawers in the living room, the bedroom and the kitchen, and emptied the contents onto the floor.

The dark shadow moved back to the chair, picked up the hammer, went through the open door of the apartment, down the stairs and left palazzo number 13, disappearing into the twilight of San Giuseppe.

Later, the autopsy report would note that death occurred around 8 pm, about the time the main evening news on RAI Uno was starting. The pathologist would confirm the cause of death in the case of Umberto Serra as ‘Basal skull fracture after a blunt-force trauma to the back of the head’.

The sheer force of the blows and their number indicated an impulsive murderer. However, the perpetrator had probably brought the weapon and taken it away with them. This indicated that the act was premeditated.

Contradictions such as these were exactly what appealed to Commissario Bonfatti, who would be assigned as lead investigator.

*

Every last chair was taken in the auditorium of the diving centre of the Carabinieri in Genoa at Capitano Caponnetto’s farewell party.

The guests could be divided into roughly four groups, each representing an important stage in Caponnetto’s career.

There were a few young Carabinieri who remembered Caponnetto as a strict but highly knowledgeable teacher at the training centre in Rome.

The second group comprised those who were about the same age as Caponnetto, all wearing the elegant uniform designed by Giorgio Armani in the eighties for the Carabinieri.

Some of them had done their training alongside Caponnetto but had not gone onto higher grades, either because they lacked self-control or talent, or both.

But the majority of this little group comprised colleagues who had been to the officers’ academy with Caponnetto or had served with him in the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale, the ROS, in Palermo or Rome.

The third group was made up of a mixture of representatives from other uniformed units and civilians.

Stefania Barone was also among the guests. Caponnetto hadn’t seen her since they had parted in Palermo. But he immediately saw her profile in the crowd.

Among the men and women in uniform were people from the fire brigade as well as the finance police. And there were some ‘blues’ present too, officers from the Polizia di Stato. There was a long history between the Carabinieri and the members of the Polizia, characterised by rivalry and a lack of cooperation. But Caponnetto was largely known as a servant of the state for whom the success of the actual cause was more important than any agendas of the different parties. This had earned him a measure of criticism from some ambitious brigadier generals who didn’t want to share investigative success. But it did earn him the respect of many colleagues of various ranks.

Caponnetto was particularly pleased to see Bonfatti among the guests in the front row. He had asked that the seat to his left be reserved for this colleague and was delighted to see his wish had been fulfilled.

The Commissario was not only a reliable colleague but a friend. Their paths had crossed many times in the later years of their careers: first in Sicily, then on the mainland. They had coordinated joint investigations and celebrated successes. Both had been exposed to hostilities from within their respective organisations, as well as the local press. And for a few months, they had shared a flat in Rome in Via Tuscolana.

After the death of his Aunt Antonella, Caponnetto had no other relatives, so there was no one else in the family who could come to the farewell. For this reason, the group of civilians comprised representatives from the province, the local press or members of foreign services.

His mentor, Generale Carlo Marini, had planned a special surprise. He had invited a select group of international officials to a conference in Genoa, deliberately scheduled to coincide with Caponnetto’s farewell. And he deliberately chose the diving centre just outside Genoa as the conference location.

The plain office building was located on Strada Statale 1 and, therefore, easy to reach, no matter whether the attendees were coming from the airport in Genoa or by train. And the topic of the conference was intentional too: “The role of organised crime in the counterfeiting of foodstuffs”.

The Agromafia had been one of the main focusses of Caponnetto’s work in later years.

Largely unknown to the public, criminal organisations make fortunes from subsidy fraud, moonlighting and food counterfeiting. The mafia makes tens of millions every year just from the adulteration and relabelling of olive oil.

Caponnetto was delighted to see colleagues from his time in the Tirana liaison office in the audience, as well as some familiar faces from London and Berlin. He couldn’t see his colleague Hering from Bavaria in the crowd. Either he was still on his way from Munich or he had a contratempo.

‘I’m sure that a case or some important private matter has come up,’ thought Caponnetto.

Of all the men and women he had worked with, Hering had been the one who had impressed him the most. The man from the Bavarian State Criminal Police Office was just as creative in developing new investigative approaches as he was determined to establish international channels of cooperation to combat organised crime.

Caponnetto listened to the speeches, which were delivered according to protocol and the ranks of the laudators. During the first speech, Caponnetto turned and whispered to Bonfatti, “Pinch me, so I know I’m still alive!”

“Yes,” smiled his neighbour, “everything’s OK, Peppino. You’re still alive. Now be quiet and listen.”

Antonio Bonfatti was one of the few people who were allowed to call Giuseppe Caponnetto ‘Peppino’. The nickname was otherwise reserved for family members only.

A few years back, Caponnetto had taken Bonfatti to visit his Aunt Antonella. The aunt had called him ‘Peppino’ and Bonfatti had adopted the name, which Caponnetto permitted as a sign of their friendship.

There was a buzzing sound. And a few seconds later another ‘buzz, buzz’. Bonfatti reached into his pocket, read the message and turned to Caponnetto.

“Merda, a violent death, today of all days. I have to go.”

Caponnetto whispered, “No need to apologise, Antò. It’s not my funeral. Will you come back later – to the beach?”

“As soon as I can. I promise!”

Bonfatti left and went to his car. His guilty conscience about leaving his friend alone with the other guests would stay with him throughout his journey to San Giuseppe.

*

Caponnetto had reserved a table for his closest friends at a trattoria on the Piazza Nicolo da Voltri beach. The beach, named after the Genoese painter, was certainly not the most attractive on the Ligurian coast, but it was within walking distance of the diving school.

In this trattoria, Caponnetto had enjoyed quite a few plates of pasta: spaghetti allo scoglio or pasta alla genovese. But his favourite dish was the pennette with drunken octopus – polpo ubriaco.

For as long as he could remember, Caponnetto had been passionate about good food. Recipes, however, had only started to interest him in recent months.

The pennette con polpo ubriaco was one of the first recipes he had ever looked at. The octopus has to be tenderised and cut into small pieces. Then you put half an onion and some pepperoncino, both finely chopped, together with a clove of garlic and a bay leaf into a heated pan with olive oil. Once the onions are golden brown, the polpo is added and then it needs to simmer for a while in its juices. The recipe owes its interesting name to the two glasses of red wine that are gradually poured into the broth. It takes about an hour until the red wine is almost reduced and the polpo is nice and soft. Usually, ‘drunken octopus’ is served with spaghetti. But Caponnetto preferred it with pennette and he had pre-ordered a few portions of it from the chef of the trattoria.

*

After leaving the auditorium, Bonfatti hurried to his car and started the engine. He knew it would take him over an hour to reach the crime scene. At that time, the Aurelia road would be very busy. Even the coast road would not get him to his destination faster.

‘So, I’ll take the E80 road to Savona, then the E717 to Altare and then the SP29 to San Giuseppe.’

Bonfatti pressed the speed dial on his mobile.

“Ciao Cristina, what have you got for me?” Cristina Donati, the pathologist in charge, had been waiting for the Commissario’s call.

“Ciao Antonio. The deceased is male, believed to be between 70 and 80 years old. Yesterday evening he …”

Bonfatti drove into one of the numerous tunnels that connected the stretches of the coast. He would have to be patient.

Meanwhile, Cristina Donati, who hadn’t realised that Bonfatti could no longer hear her, continued with her report, “ … I would think that it was between 7 and 9 pm that his skull was shattered. But I’ll have to wait until after the autopsy to be more precise.”

Then she heard the ‘beep, beep’ down the line and realised the connection had been interrupted.

*

Meanwhile, in Genoa, the official part of the farewell party was coming to an end for the Capitano.

A small buffet had been set up in a room adjacent to the auditorium, and he had positioned himself so that he could keep an eye on it.

But then, he had been called to go on stage and had lost sight of Stefania.

At first, he had been blinded by the stage lights. Then, towards the end, while the guests were already moving towards the buffet, he walked straight into the arms of the Prefect.

The good man repeated the same dry speech he’d made earlier, pretty much verbatim. Caponnetto, who was aware of the good intentions behind it, patiently endured the eulogy. He thanked the Prefect and invited him to help himself at the buffet.

When the Capitano finally got down from the stage, Stefania had already left her seat.

He hoped to see her at the buffet now but thought that she might have left already.

‘Leaving without speaking with me. I simply can’t imagine she’d do that.’ Caponnetto composed himself and kept on looking over to the buffet.

“Are you looking for someone?”

He recognised her perfume even before he heard her voice and he turned round immediately. The tips of their noses almost touched.

‘Marvellous,’ thought Caponnetto ‘she still wears the same perfume!’

“Is it true what I’m hearing, Giuseppe … You’ve become a restaurateur? Is that why you keep looking at the buffet?”

It was meant to be a joke, but Caponnetto couldn’t laugh about it. Not today.

“How about we go outside and get a bit of fresh air, Steff?”

Once outside, he outlined to Stefania what changes there had been in his life in the past few months.

“Momento, Giuseppe, piano! That was all a bit too fast.” Stefania looked at him questioningly.

The apparent indifference with which Caponnetto spoke of his accident that had occurred during an investigation, the months in the hospital and his decision to resign, shocked her.

“It almost sounds like it’s not about your life but about a film you saw on Netflix yesterday.”

“What should I say? After the accident, my ability to work in the field became limited. And that wouldn’t be changing either: li …mi …ted.”

The Capitano spoke the word in separate syllables as if it were otherwise incomprehensible.

“I had the choice of becoming a desk jockey – one of the Robinson Crusoes – or starting over.”

Stefania had to grin. ‘Robinson Crusoes’ was the name Caponnetto always gave to colleagues who went about their work without any enthusiasm, who hadn’t joined the Carabinieri out of conviction. Those who just wanted a safe position with a guaranteed pension at the end. Those who spent their years before retirement waiting on Mondays for Fridays to come around – ergo, the Robinson Crusoes.

“Yes, I quite understand. It must have been difficult for you. I’m so sorry. I should have called.”

Caponnetto clasped her left hand. “Stefania, you don’t have to be sorry. You were very busy at the time, your investigations were important.”

Then Caponnetto went on with his report. Again, he spoke in a tone as if he were summing up an investigation. “And then Aunt Antonella died suddenly in June. She had a heart attack on the way to the Infiorata. She was already dead when the ambulanza arrived.”

The Infiorata in Pietra Ligure is a flower festival with a long tradition. Every year, the streets and squares of the coastal town are transformed into a sea of blooms made up of colourful and artistically designed pictures and tableaux. Countless flowers line the pavements in the most imaginative way, allowing residents and visitors alike to immerse themselves in a world of colour and scent.

Caponnetto’s aunt had loved this festival. She had been a lover of plants and flowers and had carefully designed her own garden. Next to the table on her terrace, there were olive and citrus trees in light terracotta pots. Red, pink, white, yellow, and salmon- and apricot-coloured oleanders provided a screen of privacy from the street and the neighbouring houses. Bougainvillea scrambled up the wall of the house next to and above the door.

Lavender and of course thyme, rosemary, marjoram, and oregano framed the lounge chair in such a way that, on some days, Aunt Antonella could tell which way the wind was blowing just by the scent. If it smelled of lavender or rosemary – these plants were at the head end of the lounger – she knew the wind was blowing from the north or north-west. On such days the sky could be cloudless, while the next moment there would be fresh gusts, making the air appear significantly colder. This wind is the Tramontana and is typical of Liguria, especially in the winter months.

After his aunt’s death, Caponnetto inherited her magnificent garden along with the house, which he had known well since childhood. Antonella had named him as her sole heir in her will.

On the one hand, this wasn’t a big surprise. After all, he was her only living relative. On the other hand, he hadn’t been expecting it because the local animal protection society and the Catholic Church had regularly received generous donations from her and were probably also hoping for a share of the inheritance.

His aunt’s estate also included two other houses in Pietra Ligure, which Antonella bought during the building boom of the 1980s. One housed a restaurant that had been rented out to a family for decades. Stefania had alluded to this property with her comment that Caponnetto had now become a restaurateur.

Aunt Antonella’s inheritance had made Caponnetto’s decision to resign easier. But he had, in fact, already decided to do so while he was in hospital. However, the inheritance made him financially independent and allowed him to retire from the police service without having a concrete plan for his life afterwards.

“I had no idea, Giuseppe,” Stefania lamented.

“I had heard about your accident and your decision to retire, but I had no idea what the restaurant was all about.”

She had assumed Caponnetto had bought into a restaurant to stave off the boredom that would crush him as an early retiree. Only now did she realise that the restaurant belonged to the aunt’s estate and therefore she knew which restaurant he was talking about. Caponnetto had regularly taken his Aunt Antonella out to dinner there when he was visiting Pietra Ligure. Once, on her birthday, Stefania had been invited along too.

Antonella had rented out the restaurant to the Pavese/ Meloni family in 1985. When Signor Pavese died unexpectedly just a few months later, Aunt Antonella waived the rent for six months, enabling his widow to continue running the restaurant, Osteria Il Golfo.

Caponnetto’s aunt and Signora Meloni weren’t friends. They only spoke to each other when necessary. Their characters were just too different. But Antonella’s kind gesture after the husband’s death had forged a strong bond between the two women.

Two years previously, Signora Meloni had approached Aunt Antonella because she wanted to tell her about her plan to pass Il Golfo on to her niece Giulia Lenti.

“I’m not as good on my feet as I used to be, and what’s more, my sense of taste seems to be getting worse with age. I don’t want people to eat at my place out of pity: what if I put too much salt in the minestra?” She laughed at the thought, but her eyes looked sad.

“Giulia wants to return to Italy, to Liguria. She has the necessary talent and she has self-control.” Signora Meloni had solemnly addressed Aunt Antonella and said, “Please allow my niece to continue running the osteria in your house.”

Aunt Antonella didn’t speak but just squeezed Signora Meloni’s hand. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, the two women embraced.

With that, the connection was re-established. From that moment on, Aunt Antonella had also been associated with Meloni’s niece Giulia. And that connection had now passed from his aunt to Caponnetto as part of his inheritance – whether he liked it or not.

*

The traffic was even heavier than Bonfatti had feared, and it took him nearly 90 minutes to get to San Giuseppe.

When he got there, the first thing he noticed was the disgruntled faces of the undertakers. He had asked Cristina Donati by text message to keep the body at the scene of the crime until he arrived, even if, from her point of view, the forensic investigation had been completed and the crime scene had been documented. For the undertakers, who are paid on a case-by-case basis, this meant additional time that no one would be paying them for.

Bonfatti could just imagine how the gentlemen would vent their displeasure at this delay when the corpse was being transported in the hearse later on.

‘Not a very dignified trip for the deceased,’ he thought. ‘An old gentleman should be given a little respect on his last journey.’ Bonfatti shrugged.

The Commissario made it a point to visit every crime scene himself. The grim faces of the undertakers wouldn’t change that either. This time, however, it seemed as if the trouble had been in vain.

The circumstances seemed clear. The dead man was Umberto Serra: 68 years old, a widower. He had lived alone for many years and was probably hard of hearing. That much was clear by the volume of the television, which was still on. Nobody had dared touch the remote control before Bonfatti arrived.

The door of the apartment had been forced open and the old man had been beaten to death in front of the blaring television. It could almost be ruled out that the perpetrator had been noticed as no witnesses had come forward.

The neighbours were either just as hard of hearing as Serra, or they were not at home. It was most likely that the neighbouring apartments belonged to families from Turin or Milan, who also liked to have a seconda casa in this part of Liguria to escape the smog and noise of the big city at the weekends.

The police had been alerted by Livia Auci. The young woman sat in the kitchen, her face still pale, clutching a cup of chamomile tea.

“Signora Auci”, Bonfatti spoke to her softly at first and glanced over towards the paramedic. When he nodded, he continued.

“Signora Auci, please excuse me. I can imagine you aren’t feeling very well. But would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The young woman took a sip from the cup and Bonfatti could see that she was trying to compose herself. Finally, she was ready to speak to the Commissario.

She had been in the service of Umberto Serra for about three years. She cleaned, shopped and cooked three times a week. Always on Monday and Friday mornings and Wednesday afternoons. Sometimes, if she had time, she would go for a walk with the old man on Wednesdays.

This wasn’t part of her duties and she didn’t get paid for it. Nevertheless, she regularly took time for 30 minutes. Old Serra couldn’t walk for much longer anyway. Sometimes he asked her to mix him an Aperol spritz on those Wednesdays.

Bonfatti didn’t write anything down on the notepad he was holding. He looked at the young woman and listened to her attentively. He would write the report later and let Livia Auci sign it the next day.

The morning after the crime, Livia Auci arrived at palazzo number 13 at around 10 am, as she did every Monday. While she was walking up the stairs, she could hear the television and thought it was strange. She knew that old Signore Serra always turned the volume up to the maximum, but she had never heard it so loud in the stairwell.

When she got to the second floor, she saw that the door was open and thought it might have been the wind. Then she went in and shouted, “Buon giorno, Signore Serra! Hello Signore Serra? It’s me, Livia!” Then she walked into the living room.

When she saw the pool of blood on the floor, she wanted to scream, but only a whimper escaped her throat. Her hands were shaking and she had a cold sweat on her forehead; then she collapsed.

“I don’t know how long I sat there, I was very dizzy and I felt awful. I thought I should check whether he was still alive, but there was so much blood … and his head …,” her voice caught.

“You have nothing to blame yourself for, Signora,” said the Commissario.

“Signore Serra had been dead since last night. You couldn’t have done anything for him except call the police. And that’s what you did.”

Livia Auci looked Bonfatti in the eye and asked furiously:

“Tell me, Commissario: what makes a person do something like that?”

Bonfatti thought of the number of blows the perpetrator had dealt the old man and of the empty drawers. Then he shook his head.

“I don’t know, Signora Auci. But I’m here to find out,” and after a few seconds he added:

“You should go home and rest now. But before that, I would like to ask you to do one thing for me, if you feel up to it?”

“Go ahead, Commissario, how can I help?” asked Livia Auci.

Bonfatti asked the housekeeper to go through the rooms of the apartment, accompanied by a young policewoman. “If something is missing, especially any valuables, but also if you notice that anything is out of place, then please tell my colleague and she’ll make a note of it.” Livia Auci nodded.

Bonfatti made an appointment with her for the next day at 10 am in the police headquarters, the Questura, and said goodbye.

The Commissario