Death Brings Gold. Nicola Rocca
him with inquisitive looks.
Once they heard the door of the upstairs apartment closing, the two women said goodbye to each other, arranging to meet the next day. And with that they each took refuge inside their own homes, which were old and shabby, just like them.
***
Giuliani was there, on the wrecked couch, his gaze remaining, since who knows when, on the arm and leg. An incomplete man, thatâs what he was.
He repeated to himself for the hundredth time that at least the disability had allowed him to skip the housing waiting list to be given the miserable abode. Otherwise he would have been forced to sleep in a cardboard box under some bridge. Having to compete for a spot, maybe even fight for it, with other homeless people.
Those were the thoughts that took hold of him every night; the thoughts that made him believe he might have been better off dead than reduced to this.
Knock, knock, knock.
Was he mistaken or had somebody just knocked on the door?
He said to himself that the first hypothesis was more likely, because nobody ever visited him. Only Mrs Pina, the one who offered him breakfast in the morning ,and in the evening, unbeknownst to her husband, brought him an ashtray full of cigarette butts, so that he could finish them, smoking the small amount of tobacco that was left. The gossipers in the building were even saying that they were having an affair.
Please! Although he was in a really bad state, he was not desperate to the point of having it sucked by an old hag.
Giuliano looked at the cheap wall clock. Almost 11pm.
Pina had already come at 9pm. It couldnât be her again. He must have been mistaken, he must have misheard.
In that moment he heard another knock on the door and realised that it was not a mistake.
âCome in,â he said without much confidence. After all he wasnât accustomed to receiving guests. âItâs open!â
He stood for a long minute staring at a door that had no intention of being opened. Then, exactly when he was taking the last sip from his cut-price supermarket beer â a present from the same Pina â three knocks, stronger and clearer than the previous ones, were heard.
He put the beer can on the coffee table. Supporting himself with his good arm, he stood up on his leg. He didnât feel like bending to pick up his crutches, so, bracing himself against anything he could find, he started hopping on one foot until he reached the door.
âI said itâs open!â he said sharply, opening the door wide.
The landing was dark and empty. He frowned. It was obvious that the alcohol and his melancholy had played a trick on him.
He shook his head and closed the door. Then, hopping on one foot he turned around and leaned against a small cabinet to regain his balance.
The man in the raincoat was a lot faster than him and attacked, banging him against the wall. Blind with pain caused by his arm bent violently behind his back, Giuliani almost didnât feel the light sting, as if a needle were entering his forearm.
His sight became blurred and he was forced to shut his eyes. He felt his leg collapsing and a sense of torpor took hold of him.
Then, at once, everything became dark.
CHAPTER 17
Thatâs all he needed that morning: a flat tyre.
Lucky for him, there was a garage a couple of hundred metres away. He walked almost half a kilometre to get there. To him, walking was a bit like smoking: it helped him to relax and think. He was a born walker. Even his surname confirmed that. Walker, the one who walks.
David congratulated himself because he was still in the mood for making jokes even during times as unlucky as this one was.
When he saw the bald man in the mechanicâs overall, he explained the situation to him. The man didnât waste time. He retrieved his breakdown van and headed towards the Inspectorâs Audi.
While waiting for him to come back, Walker lit a cigarette. It had been a pleasant walk, but it hadnât helped with the fact that he was pissed off. It was going to cost him a fat one hundred euro note, apart from all the wasted time.
Bloody tyre.
He had just caught sight of his Audi on top of the breakdown van, when he felt his pocket vibrating.
âFuck!â he exclaimed seeing the extension of a Police Headquarters number. âYou canât have something unexpected happen to you, because they canât get by without you.â
He swiped the screen with his finger and accepted the call.
âWalker,â he answered.
Bassaniâs voice was on the other end of the phone.
Davidâs face froze in surprise. The phone call was brief. But as painful as a punch in the teeth. He hung up and stood staring at the mechanic without seeing him. His mind was processing images of men laying on the ground, dead, with gold coloured neckties wrapped around their necks as a decoration.
Shortly after, his Audi A3 was ready to go again.
The mechanic had done him a big favour by helping him immediately. Well, truth be told, he did charge him, and quite a lot. But Walker didnât feel like arguing about it, he had other priorities. Bassani had been succinct, but clear.
âThe killer has struck again.â
Then he had given him just enough time to write the new victimâs address down.
Absorbed in the vortex of his own thoughts, Walker almost didnât notice the traffic light was red. He jammed on the brakes, causing the tyres to squeal.
âFuck!â
He lit a Marlboro and waited for the traffic light to change; then, he engaged first gear and flattened the accelerator. His A3 took off like a flash, becoming a white dot lost in the traffic of Milan.
The entrance of the building was blocked with the usual red and white tape.
Inspector Walker marched in resolutely, until a man in a uniform signalled him to stop.
âPolice,â Walker said, showing his Police ID.
The police officer apologised with a movement of his arms and lifted the tape, inviting him to cross it.
David climbed the stairs, two steps at a time. He had no difficulty identifying the flat, with two policemen guarding the entrance.
Even before heâd pulled out his Police ID for them, the policemen stepped aside, clearing the way for him. He thanked them ,nodding, and pushed the door open.
The sound of the door creaking open caused another uniformed man to turn.
âChief, welcome!,â he said.
âGood morning, Bassani.â
âSomething wrong?â
âNext question, please! Iâve had an awful start to the dayâ admitted Walker.
âWell, I donât think youâll find anything relaxing here, Chief.â
Walker immediately understood what his subordinate meant.
Not far from them, on a filthy floor , was a man lying in an arranged position.
The Inspector moved closer and stood staring at the dead man. It wasnât the necktie that was troubling him. Heâd expected to find that. The dead man had two body parts missing: a hand and a foot.
Of course, the amputations were not the work of the killer. They were covered with two identical socks. Therefore,