Former reporter for the press, Claudio Giacchino has followed all the most sensational Turin cases of “black”, terrorism and the mafia from the seventies to the nineties. A member of the Torinoir collective of writers, he is the author of numerous novels. From today on newsstands with La Stampa his latest noir, “The meal of the jackals”, of which we publish an excerpt. In the seventies and eighties, the elegant and rich area of the Crocetta villas, in the evening, became the kingdom of transvestites, an authentic brothel under the stars. Here, one night, a gun fires, cuts three lives. For the killer begins the anxious race to save himself: from the police, from life imprisonment and from the blackmail concocted by those who know that it was he who killed.
The flashlight blinded her again. “So, Mr. Client, the documents?”
He staggered into the cockpit, lifted his coat from the back seat, grabbed the bag. He yelled at himself that he had to try something, beg that they let him go, we must appease these two, bribe them, I will pay any amount, without arguing. A croak. It was the steering wheel radio. The agent was no longer leaning against the hood of the car, he was sitting in the driver’s seat, he said into the microphone “Volante 18, Volante 18”.
In the silence the voice of the radio room operator exploded: “Say, 18.”
“Chosen agent Mion online.”
“Hello, Mion.”
«With the correspondent Murru I am behind the Polytechnic, in the usual street, that of the hustlers. We pinched one with its dirty, they were so busy they didn’t notice anything. What do we do with the dirty car? Do you send the tow truck or do we tell the customer to take it down and we follow him? ‘
“No, no, it’s late for the tow truck at this time, let him come with his carriage. In the meantime, communicate the data ».
“One moment, I’ll take them.” Agent Mion turned on the high beams, lit up the license plate.
Murru said, “Did you hear, sir?” You will precede us, the police station is in via Grattoni, a side street of corso Vinzaglio, beyond corso Matteotti. We follow it, we tell you when to turn left ». He smiled sourly. “Give me your license, this time you can drive without it, no one will fine it.”
He was on the verge of tears, a howl echoing in his brain. Ruined. Ruined because of these two suckers.
Anger, helplessness, despair. Anger again.
He rummaged in the bag, the fingertips of the right encountered a metal object.
The Sardinian accent blurted out: ‘In the early hours, Miss, you’ve made up your mind to come out. We’ll give you a ride. Go there ». The flashlight pointed to the steering wheel.
The gun, holy Christ, the gun.
The cold contact with the barrel of the Beretta lashed despair.
He grabbed the weapon, slid the safety.
Constable Murru was one step away, his flashlight pointed at the ground. He sensed that the license was not coming out of the bag, he swerved to the side.
Too late. The first bullet hit him in the chest. The second slashed her throat.
Agent Mion, microphone in hand: “18 to central”.
“Come on, 18.”
“The plate is, TO …”
The shots that killed the constable drowned out the policeman’s voice. Mion thought she was hallucinating. Those sharp, deafening noises, the colleague falling, a shadow piercing the steering wheel headlights, disappeared.
No, here it is again. Front. At one meter.
Mion’s mouth dropped open. “No, fuck no.”
He died like that. Electrocuted by a bullet in the forehead. He slipped on his side, his fingers tight around the microphone knob pressed the button, communication with the police station remained open. –
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