The Salati Case (12 page)

‘He always knew where to get money,’ he was muttering to himself.

‘You all right?’ I said.

He just stared at me: ‘Get out,’ he said slowly, ‘get out.’

I stood in an empty doorway and watched the shop for a few minutes. Umberto seemed alarmed by the news. If, that is, it really was news to him. It would call into question the character of his mother, just as he was mourning her. It was a hard hit to take, and Salati was the sort to hit back.

I decided to tail him. I went inside the bank opposite the shop. I punched a button for a ticket and sat down in the chairs with the other customers waiting for their number to come up. Through the window I could see Salati Fashions. Laura was in the shop folding shirts and putting them inside open boxes.

Within minutes Umberto marched out pulling on his jacket. I watched him head towards the piazza and followed him up Via Farini. He walked up as far as Solferino and turned left into Via Pestalozzi. Salati held his keys towards a black jeep and both indicators flashed.

I ran towards the
cittadella
and whistled for one of the taxis by the entrance. One of the white cars drove up and I jumped in.

‘You see the black jeep, follow it.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘This could be expensive.’

‘I’ve got the money. Just don’t lose the jeep.’

The taxi nestled into the traffic a couple of cars behind Salati. He pulled into Passo Buole and on to the Stradone. The four-laner was blocked by impatient, pushy traffic and we were already a few cars behind him by the time we passed the Petitot and the football stadium.

We followed him on to Via Mantova at the next big roundabout. By now the taxi was far behind, struggling to keep up as Salati’s car disappeared. This was the road to Tonin’s house, I thought to myself as my back was pressed into the cushioned seat.

The taxi got stuck behind some Austrian HGV and lost his chance to overtake. He pulled out to try and see Salati, but the on-coming traffic forced him back.

By now Salati must have been far ahead. I knew the left turn to the Tonin place was coming up in a kilometre or two, and took a gamble. I told the taxi to turn left by the bridge. We were outside the Tonin estate within a few minutes. I told him to slow down just beyond the gates and got out. I walked back to the gate and peered through the railings. I could see Salati’s black beast parked under the central cedar that formed an umbrella over the circular drive.

I moved away and waited. I assumed Salati was in there, spitting blood. It was strange he had chosen to come here rather than Tonin’s office in the middle of the city. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see the old man, I thought. It was possible that he was here to see someone else.

I saw Salati come out five minutes later. He was shouting something as the door closed behind him. He got into his car and revved the engine aggressively as he sped off. As the gates opened, I headed back to the taxi but by the time the driver had put out his cigarette, Salati would have been on the
tangenziale
.

‘Forget it,’ I said to the driver. ‘We’ll stay here.’ I walked back towards the gate. I wasn’t holding many cards, but surprise was always useful. I rang the buzzer.

A woman’s voice: ‘I told you, you’re getting nothing from us.’

‘Was Umberto Salati after money?’

There was silence.

‘Who is this?’

‘Castagnetti.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m an investigator.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I wouldn’t mind coming in.’

There was silence again.

‘What do you want?’ she said again.

‘I was wondering why Umberto Salati just paid you a flying visit.’

There was a crackle and the line went dead. I buzzed again but there was no reply. I stared at the grey gate. It was simultaneously ornate and brutal. Wealth’s lack of taste always surprises me.

The air seemed solid with its freezing fog. It was thickening as the air got colder. I heard the rattle of the delivery vans back on the main road. It was an isolated, melancholy place.

I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the date and the times that Salati had arrived at and left the Tonin estate.

I was looking at the notes when I heard a car slowing down. I looked up and could see the no-nonsense rectangles of Volvo headlights.

Tonin got out. ‘What are you doing hanging around outside my house?’

‘Still looking for answers.’

The man stared at me with veiled anger.

‘I’m interested as to why Umberto Salati should be visiting your house whilst you’re away.’

The man growled, but I could tell he was surprised.

‘You got any ideas?’

‘What do you want from me? I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘Have you?’

The old man just stared at me. He was wearing a black overcoat with a fur trim on the collar. He looked tired and tense. The situation was out of his control and he seemed to know it.

‘What happened to your face?’ he asked.

I ignored him. ‘What did Salati want with your wife?’

Tonin shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I told him that you and his mother were lovers. He didn’t take it well.’

Tonin was shaking his head vigorously. ‘That wasn’t wise.’

‘Why not?’

‘Have you no mercy? Silvia was buried yesterday and already today you’re telling her son …’

He had a point, but I didn’t have time for sensitive types.

‘I just spoke to your wife.’

‘When?’

‘Just now, on the intercom. Not a talkative type is she?’

Tonin looked confused, as if he couldn’t work it out himself. He looked like he was thinking deeply himself and couldn’t find an answer.

He pointed at his car, indicating to me that I should get in. I held up a finger to my taxi driver, suggesting I would only be a minute.

Tonin opened the gate with a remote and revved angrily as it swung open. As he got to the front of the house he braked hard and I heard the gravel smacking the underneath of the car.

The woman was on the phone when we went in. The hall was all marble and terracotta and her voice echoed off all the walls. She was short and slim with hair halfway between blonde and grey. She was wearing a skirt that was shorter than you would expect from someone her age, and it made her look much younger than her husband. From her appearance I guessed she read the fashion magazines, like she still wanted to look good for someone.

She turned round on hearing us and put a palm over the phone: ‘Who’s this?’ She glanced at her husband.

‘A private detective.’

‘You’ve been hanging around outside my house all this time?’ She took her palm away from the phone. ‘I’ll call you back.’

She looked me up and down. ‘You look like a boxer who lost every round. What do you want?’

‘Would you prefer to talk in private?’ I asked gently.

She laughed at the question and its tone.

‘I’ve been commissioned’, I said slowly, ‘by the estate of Silvia Salati to classify the legal status of her son, Riccardo.’

She shot her husband a look that he avoided.

‘I believe you knew Riccardo Salati was your husband’s son?’

She was still staring at her husband. ‘Is that right?’ There were years of resentment in her voice.

‘Why did Umberto Salati come here just now?’

She didn’t have a quick reply and both Tonin and I could see it.

‘He said he wanted to know if it was true. Said how we were to blame for what had happened to his family.’

‘What did he mean?’

‘That he knew our little secret. He kept saying it.’

‘Meaning?’ I looked at Tonin. His eyes were closed.

‘He had only just found out about,’ she paused, ‘about his brother. He seemed to blame my family for what had happened to the boy.’

She had recovered her composure and was talking fluently again. I had lost my chance to catch whatever it was that she was being evasive about. I looked at her face. She had a small, tight mouth which made her look mean.

‘Who do you think killed Riccardo?’ I asked her.

‘How should I know? All I knew about him was that he was a bad one. The kind that ran up debts and couldn’t stay still. It happens to some people. Especially those without a stable family life.’ She looked at her husband archly.

‘You didn’t like him much, did you?’

‘I didn’t dislike him. I wanted nothing to do with him. I’m sure you can understand why.’

‘Did Umberto ask you for money?’

‘He said he was owed, and he was going to get what was owing to him. That’s what he said.’

‘And what did he mean by that?’

‘That his father’s fortune shouldn’t be wasted on illegitimate ghosts. He said he needed proof that the boy was dead.’

‘And he thought he could get it from you?’

She stopped to draw breath, exhaled dismissively through her nostrils, and sneered. ‘I don’t know anything about his disappearance, let alone his death. I don’t know anything about his life. All I know about him is …’

‘How he was conceived.’ I finished her sentence for her.

‘I’ll open the gate for you on your way out.’ She said walking towards the door and holding it open.

I looked at her again. Her nails were painted a dark red, the same colour as her thin lips.

I bowed towards Tonin, feeling cowardly for leaving the poor man alone with such a woman.

As I walked back along the gravel, my footsteps sounded loud. I turned to look at the house, but the front lights had been switched off and it was in darkness. Someone must have been watching though because the gates swung open as I approached them.

As they closed behind me I stopped. I looked at the buzzer and walked towards it one last time. I pushed the button and held it. No one answered. I had wanted to know how many children they had, how many children of their own. I made a mental note to find out.

The taxi driver was impatient when I returned. We headed back to the city in silence. I was thinking about what I had heard. The woman seemed to know all about Riccardo. She had the weary, sarcastic tone of the wronged woman who didn’t want to be reminded of a past humiliation or slight. She must have been able to see what was coming. Umberto Salati had felt so indignant that he decided to confront the Tonin family, to insist that they compensate him for anything they had done wrong. I wondered what that was. What, other than dishonouring his father, did he blame them for?

I looked at the fields in the dark.

‘You been in this business long?’ I asked the driver.

‘Twenty-odd years. Since I left school.’

‘Always hanging around the station?’

‘Station, stadium, schools. You never know where you’re going to end up. That’s why I like it.’

The car was speeding back towards the
tangenziale
.

‘You the longest serving in that line-up?’

‘Just about. There’s a couple been there longer than me. But apart from them, I’m the veteran.’ He laughed.

Within a minute or two, we were approaching the outskirts of the city. There were static cranes and unfinished housing blocks amidst the frozen mud.

‘What’s the furthest anyone’s ever gone with you?’ I asked.

The man chuckled to himself. ‘I used to have a good number driving an Austrian girl to Vienna and back. Lovely girl, an Erasmus student.’

‘Ever take anyone to Rimini?’

‘Couple of times, sure. In the summer.’

‘In 1995?’

The driver put his brakes on gently and the car slowed down into the darkness.

‘What is this?’ he said quietly, catching my eye in his mirror. ‘If someone wants to ask me a question, I prefer they do it straight, if I explain myself.’

‘Try this: you ever heard of a boy called Riccardo Salati?’

‘Yeah, sounds familiar. Who is he?’

‘Was he. He went missing in 1995 whilst waiting for a train to Rimini.’

The man was nodding slowly like it was all coming back to him. I looked at his ID on the dashboard and memorised the number just for luck.

‘Yeah, I remember. I read about it.’

‘No one ever ask you about it?’

‘Not until now.’

‘You mind asking your colleagues if they know anything?’

The man nodded without saying anything.

‘No one’s under any suspicion. I’m just starting from scratch and trying to put the pieces together.’

The man nodded again, his suspicion and curiosity aroused.

He dropped me off at Borgo delle Colonne and asked for a small fortune. He stared at me closely as I handed over the cash. I realised that my face was bound to arouse interest for the next few days.

‘Here, take this,’ I said, slipping him a card. ‘There’s a reward for any information,’ I lied.

I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I was shocked at what I saw. Only my cropped hair looked normal. My right eye had swollen mauve and my ear lobe was caked in dark red crusts. The lower lip of my mouth looked bloated. I tried to roll my shoulders, but each millimetre of movement hurt in different ways. I was surprised how the pain shot to my back or fingertips as I tried to move my arms. I swallowed some painkillers and crawled into bed. I fell asleep to the hypnotic sound of the rain lashing against the windows.

Thursday morning. I had been getting dressed when the phone went. It was Mauro. I found the news more confusing than surprising.

‘Salati’, I heard him say, ‘committed suicide.’

I thought it was him telling me his take on the Riccardo case. It sounded like a statement about what had happened to the young boy. But his voice was urgent and it was barely morning.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Umberto Salati. He’s committed suicide.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I heard it from a friend.’ Mauro told me the news. They had found Umberto outside his condominium early this morning. He had sky-dived from the top floor.

I kept hearing myself say I couldn’t believe it.

‘I heard this morning’, Mauro said, ‘when I was out buying the paper. Someone at the edicola told me.’

‘Is it public yet? Is it on the news?’