The Nosferatu Scroll

14

‘Officer down! Officer down!’

‘Get an ambulance! Right now!’

The cries of shock and alarm rang through the Campo Santa Maria Formosa and the neighbouring streets. The officers who’d been deployed on the stake-out at the cafe were at the scene in seconds. But by then, the well-dressed assassin had vanished into the crowds, leaving behind his grisly handiwork.

Within minutes the area was swamped by police officers and paramedics, and two ambulance launches were moored in the canals closest to the scene of the shooting, their engines rumbling quietly. But the reality was that they were too late. They were all a lifetime too late.

Inspector Filippo Bianchi approached the scene at a run, his identity card held in his left hand for all to see.

‘Who in God’s name is it?’ he shouted.

The uniformed carabinieri officer stationed some distance from the scene swung round as the senior officer approached. He recognized him immediately, and shook his head. ‘It’s the chief inspector, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s Lombardi.’

When he heard that name, Bianchi stopped in dismay. Around him, uniformed police officers, paramedics, technicians in civilian clothes and others wearing white coveralls milled about the scene. The obvious focus of their attention was the area right beside the edge of the canal. Temporary screens had already been erected in a rough square to protect the crime scene, and to hide the body from the curious glances of the Venetians and tourists who were passing down the opposite side of the canal, and looking over at the scene from boats and gondolas.

Inspector Bianchi was a solidly built man in his fifties, his fine aquiline features now darkly suffused with anger and disgust. As he walked closer to the body, several of the men nodded greetings, but none spoke to him. Their mood was clearly both subdued and very angry.

Carabinieri officers, like policemen everywhere, accept the inherent dangers of their job. They are on the frontline, the thin blue line that separates the criminal elements from the law-abiding citizens in their country. And in Italy there has always been the added menace and complication of the Cosa Nostra, the Mafia – the criminal organization that many maintain still holds the real power in the country. As many prominent officials have found to their cost over the years, Mafia godfathers are always prepared to remove – permanently – anyone who they believe is getting in their way. Judges, politicians, and, of course, police officers, have all paid the ultimate price for their desire to uphold the rule of law.

But Carlo Lombardi had not been involved, as far as Bianchi knew, in any anti-Mafia operations, at least not in the five years he had known him. Lombardi was Venetian born and bred, had spent all his working life in the city, rising to become one of the most senior officers employed there. And most of this time, all he and his men had had to deal with was the usual spate of bag-snatching and pick-pocketing, as criminal elements at the very bottom of the ladder preyed upon Venice’s annual influx of tourists. ‘Bottom feeders’ was the way Lombardi had usually referred to these criminals. They were an irritation, not a threat, and rarely targeted any of the local people.

And never, in Bianchi’s experience, had any one of these ‘bottom feeders’ carried a firearm. But now, Chief Inspector Carlo Lombardi lay dead in the centre of the screened-off area, three bullet holes in his body, and his dark blood staining the old stones on which he lay.

A plain-clothes officer looked up as Bianchi came to a stop beside the feet of the dead man.

‘A bad business, Filippo,’ the officer said.

Bianchi nodded. ‘What happened, Piero? Any witnesses?’

‘He was executed, that’s what happened,’ Inspector Piero Spadaccino replied angrily. ‘He was shot down in cold blood, right here in the middle of Venice. It looks like the first bullet hit his stomach, because of the position of his hands. And either of the second two in his chest would have been enough to kill him. The doctor thinks both those bullets probably went through his heart. I tell you, Filippo, this looks to me like a gangland killing.’

‘Any witnesses?’ Bianchi asked again.

Spadaccino nodded. ‘Several,’ he replied shortly. ‘None of them saw the first shot, though they all heard it. A medium-calibre pistol, probably nine millimetre. That took Lombardi down, and they all turned to look. Then the killer walked over to him, lying here on the ground, said something to him, and then fired the other two shots. An execution; nothing more, nothing less.

‘All the witnesses describe a man in a dark suit with black hair, dark eyes and a tanned complexion, no distinguishing features. About the only point of interest in the descriptions is that a couple of people said the man was very casual – no hurry, no sign of stress. He just walked over, shot the chief inspector and then walked away. One man told me he actually thought it was part of a film, and he spent a few seconds looking around to see where the cameras were. I’ve got my men taking full written statements from the witnesses now, and obviously we’ll do follow-up questioning as well, but I don’t think any of them will be able to give us a photofit for this guy, or pick him out of a line-up.’

Spadaccino paused, and he and Bianchi both looked down at the crumpled figure lying on the stones between them.

‘You worked with him, Filippo,’ Spadaccino said softly. ‘What the hell could he have got himself involved with that could lead to this? I mean, was he investigating organized crime?’

Bianchi shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

In fact, Inspector Bianchi had a very good idea who had ordered the assassination of his superior officer. The trouble was, if he said anything, the plan he was working on would probably come to nothing. And now the end-game was so close, he couldn’t take that chance.

For the moment, all he could do was wait.