The Salati Case (23 page)

‘When?’

‘A few years ago.’

‘What was it called?’

‘Il Mulino.’

I looked at her. She replied so absent-mindedly that she must have thought I was just passing the time of night. She hadn’t put anything together yet, had no idea quite who her husband had been.

Dall’Aglio was still at his desk at 4 a.m. That’s what I liked about him. He worked my hours. I knew what I needed but he wouldn’t like it.

‘Listen,’ I said to him as he finally put down the receiver, ‘there’s been a lot of blood spilt. Two lives lost, maybe three. I still need to resolve the Riccardo Salati case and I’m going to ask you something unusual. I need a dozen men.’

He laughed.

‘Your chance to be a hero,’ I said.

‘Why do I get the impression that’s a role you want for yourself?’

‘That’s bull. Nothing I want less, I assure you. I’m not the one with medals.’

He patted his chest and looked at me with a smile. He liked the idea of being a hero. There aren’t many people who don’t. He wanted to walk halfway down those front steps and tell the doubting media that he had an incredible story from fourteen years ago that all his predecessors had failed to crack.

‘When?’ He looked at me with resignation.

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s morning already.’

He agreed in the end. He took more convincing than a nun in a nightclub, but eventually he sighed and said OK. He said the order would go out as soon as the new shift came on at 8 a.m.

I walked home exhausted. I sat in the flat trying to think things through, but I was too tired. The flat was a mess and I couldn’t even cook something to eat because the pans were full of dried beeswax and oil. A week’s worth of washing-up was balanced in the sink like a cartoon, two columns rising to shoulder height.

I must have been thinking about my bees, because I suddenly realised that families in Italy are just like hives. It’s where the woman rules. She rules because she’s a mother, and she never retires. She fights for her children until the death, and — in Silvia Salati’s case — beyond it.

I slept until mid-morning. When I finally got out of bed I saw something I hadn’t seen for weeks. The sun was out and the sky was a dark blue. It was as if the thick, cloying fog of winter had opened up and decided to allow us one blissful reminder of what it would be like when the spring really arrived. Out of my window I could see the cupolas of the city skyline looking plump and august. It felt like I had rediscovered old friends.

After breakfast I got in the car and drove through the city. It was unrecognisable. People were sitting out and taking their coffees in the bright cold. Instead of selling umbrellas to damp pedestrians, immigrants were now selling sunglasses and pirate CDs on flat cardboard. Cigarette smoke spiralled in the sun. The
trattorie
, which had been eerily quiet all week, now sounded their atonal percussion of cutlery and cork-screws as they got ready for the Sunday trade. The bellowing joviality was back in full swing.

I drove out to Borgotaro. It didn’t take long.

The day seemed even more magnificent up there. People were walking around the bars. Most were wearing dark glasses. You could see the mountains, their peaks only a little higher than where you were standing, their snow glistening like
fior di latte
.

The
pasticcerie
were doing a roaring trade, piling dozens of bite-size puffs on to rectangular trays. I looked around the place and saw fur and ribbons and the glint of wine glasses being refilled. It felt like the typical, affluent Sunday morning in the sun. People were even buying ice-cream. Polystyrene baths were being filled with seedy crimson sorbets and pale, shiny creams.

I found Il Mulino easily enough. The farmer and his wife were standing around. They looked horrified at the number of uniforms crawling all over their land. I watched the cadets with their trowels. They were lined up like toy soldiers and worked north to south, then east to west, micro-ploughing the soil.

The mess, the farmer must have known, would be nothing compared to the publicity. He might already have an idea what they were looking for. The carabinieri don’t normally plough your field to sow corn, he knew that. He could see the value of his land collapsing before his eyes. Human remains don’t normally add much to the value of your pasture.

I spoke to the commanding officer, one of the uniforms who used to make Dall’Aglio’s coffee only a year ago. He was so young I couldn’t help being condescending.

‘Ask the locals about any caves, ravines, rivers, wells, woods.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said, defensively.

‘Ask about any place old Bocchialini might have known, places he used to go to. Clubs he used to belong to.’

He shouted something to one of his men to make sure that I knew he wasn’t listening any more.

‘Who have you interviewed?’ I asked.

He didn’t say anything, which I took to mean he hadn’t spoken to anyone. I walked away, heading towards the farmhouse where I could see the farmer with his hands on his hips.

The officer called me back. ‘This is being treated as a crime scene,’ he shouted.

‘No entry?’

‘None.’

I walked back towards him and tried to keep calm. ‘I’m practically in charge of this investigation. I wouldn’t say Dall’Aglio’s taking orders from me, but he’s taking advice, you with me?’

The man looked at me like I had urinated on his shoes.

I set off towards the farmer again and the officer ignored me.

‘You know anything about this?’ I said to the farmer.

He shook his head.

‘They haven’t told you what they’re looking for?’

He shook his head again.

‘You don’t know what this is about?’

He didn’t like that many questions, and spat something out of his mouth on to the path.

We watched the men coming and going, bringing samples of this or that to the commanding officer. ‘They’ll leave this place tidier than when they arrived,’ I joked to the farmer, who only grimaced unhappily.

I told him what they were looking for and he just nodded with his eyes closed.

‘Looks like good land,’ I started, trying to engage him. I gave him my card and told him to give me a call if he ever needed help of any kind.

‘This you?’ he said, reading the card.

I walked back to the car. There wasn’t anything I could do but watch. I tried to talk to some of the combers, but no one would say anything.

I phoned Lo Bue.

‘Lo Bue?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Castagnetti, I had an enjoyable stay at your hotel a few days ago if you remember.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I might have your man.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Or woman. We think we know what happened to Riccardo Salati.’

‘And?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘And his purse?’

Lo Bue would have ripped pearls out of a woman’s ears if they were worth it.

‘We don’t know yet. We don’t even have the body. But we think we know what happened.’

‘Who did it?’

‘One’s dead, the other’s inside.’

‘So?’

‘You were right. Riccardo had money on him at the time. Eighty-five million. He really was about to pay his debts.’

‘Who took it?’

‘My bet would be with the guy that’s dead.’

‘What are you talking about? Who took his money?’

‘Like I said, the guy who’s dead might have pocketed it, might have been the woman.’

I laughed. Trying his patience was my only revenge for the kicking he had served up. I would rather have kicked him back but you couldn’t do that to a Calabrian hotel manager.

‘I’ll give you the number of the notary dealing with the case. I’m sure he’ll be helpful. His name’s Crespi.’

I hung up. I didn’t like dealing with him but you couldn’t get anything done here unless you cut deals. It was as if you had to ask permission from the underworld to go after the loose cannon criminals. Lo Bue might be useful to me in the future and I was sure Crespi was man enough to know how to deal with his sort. He probably was his sort, for all I knew.

I tried to call Tonin on his phone but it was permanently off. He had probably had journalists and friends calling him all morning, and he had given up answering.

It took under an hour to get to his house. The gate was as foreboding as ever. There were a couple of photographers hanging around outside. They said they had been ringing the intercom all morning with no joy.

I walked up to the thing and held the buzzer for long enough to appear rude again. No answer. I rang again, holding the buzzer for a good ten seconds.

‘Who is it?’

‘Castagnetti.’

‘Haven’t you had enough?’

‘Not quite. There are a few loose ends, and you’re one of them.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I thought it only polite to tell Elisabetta of her father’s fate in person. Before she reads it in my report or, more probably, in the papers. I’m driving there now.’

‘So?’

‘I wondered if you wanted to come.’

The line went quiet. It would have sounded like he was laughing, but the pauses between breaths were too long. It sounded like he was shuddering plenty of tears. I felt almost sorry for the man. The carabinieri had arrested his wife and were searching for his son’s body. His other son, the man he thought was his son, was probably another man’s. The girl in Rimini was the last thing he had left in the world.

We didn’t talk until we were past Bologna. After an hour of silence I started making small talk, asking about his favourite food. He replied almost absent-mindedly, telling me about how he loved seafood, how his parents were from near Venice and used to cook anything they pulled out of the sea.

‘My favourite’, I said, watching the road disappear underneath us, ‘is cotolette. When I was growing up I spent some time with my aunt and uncle, and she used to make the most incredible cotolette.’

‘Veal or pork?’ he asked

‘Veal,’ I said, as if it were obvious. ‘Do you like cotolette?’ I turned to look at him but he was staring ahead, narrowing his eyes.

He must have realised where I was going because he sighed as if I were forcing him to betray his wife one last time.

‘Did your wife ever make cotolette?’ I asked gently.

‘She did,’ he said formally, like he was already in court.

‘Traditional way?’ I asked. ‘Flour, egg and breadcrumbs?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And a bit of lemon.’

‘And how did she thin out the fillets?’

I turned to look at him quickly. He had closed his eyes. ‘The usual way,’ he whispered. ‘She uses a batticarne.’

‘OK,’ I said, trying to make it easier. ‘It might be nothing.’

The
batticarne
was the size of an auctioneer’s gavel. It was the little metallic hammer used to thin out meat. One side was usually smooth and the other slightly spiked.

We didn’t speak again until we got to Via dei Caduti. I left Tonin in the car and walked up to the palazzo.

‘Who is it?’ said a young voice when I had rung the buzzer.

‘Elisabetta? It’s Castagnetti.’

‘No one’s in,’ she said.

‘I came to see you.’

‘About what?’

‘Can I come in?’

The gate clicked open and I walked up to the flat. The sun was coming through the windows and bouncing off the light walls.

‘It’s about your father.’

She nodded.

‘They’re searching a farm up in the mountains. It’s possible something might turn up. I thought you should know.’

She smiled.

‘Are you on something?’ I asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You look spaced.’

‘I’m fine. I just, I just want to know, you know? I’ve always had this terrible thought that, that he had, sort of, left me here on purpose.’ She wiped away a tear with the back of her thumb. ‘I’m glad it might not be true.’

‘It’s probably not true,’ I said gently. ‘Something else came up.’

‘Like?’

‘Your father’s father. He wants to meet you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Ricky, your father, was what they used to call a love child.’

She frowned. She started shaking her head but was smiling like she didn’t get it. I explained it all, about Tonin and the Salati woman. About Riccardo and his half-brothers, Umberto and Sandro. I told it all to her straight.

‘So this Tonin man is my grandfather?’

‘He says he is.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He might be your grandfather. But if I were you I would do the tests.’

She looked at me with a face I’ve seen before: disappointment that the world might be so mean. I had to disappoint her further.

‘There’s something else you should know. This man, Massimo Tonin, is a lawyer. He might be able to look after you, but he might not. His wife and son are in custody.’

It was too much for the teenager and she broke down again. I realised I was breaking everything to a girl who needed her family around her and a branch of it was sitting in my car.

‘He’s outside if you want me to bring him in.’

‘Who is?’

‘Your grandfather.’ I went out on to her balcony and pointed out my car. Tonin was sat there like a dog on a summer’s day, his forlorn eyes longing for someone to let him out. I motioned with my head and he was at the buzzer in a flash.

When he came in, she didn’t say anything but just looked at him.

‘Elisabetta,’ I said, ‘this is Massimo Tonin.’

She laughed nervously.

‘I’m so, so sorry I haven’t …’ he stammered.

‘What?’ she said.

Tonin was stumbling over lines he must have rehearsed in his head for years. ‘I’m sorry all this is my fault. Your father — I didn’t even know him as a son, not until the end of his life, and all I did was try to help him. But your grandmother, she insisted I never see you. She thought I was responsible, my family was responsible, for your father’s disappearance.’

She looked at me for confirmation of what he was saying.

‘Silvia’, Tonin said, looking at me, ‘knew that my family were involved in Ricky’s disappearance. She said so to me. She had nothing to prove it, and I didn’t believe her until you, Castagnetti, came along this week. She said that if I ever went near her family again, Elisabetta included, she would denounce us.’