by Tobias Jones
‘You didn’t want to go to the funeral?’
‘Whatever else I am, I’m not a hypocrite,’ she said.
‘And what about Elisabetta? Doesn’t she have a right to go to her own grandmother’s funeral?’
The woman looked at me and, for the first time, looked guilty. It was clear she hadn’t even told her daughter yet.
I took the camera back and sped through the photographs. ‘Tell me if you see Tonin.’
‘Go slower.’
My thumb kept clicking the shift. People got larger on the screen as they got closer.
‘That’s him.’
It wasn’t what I had expected. He was a tall, thin man with white hair. He had an overcoat with large shoulders, which only made his legs look thinner. The photograph showed him walking on his own. His face was a long way off, but it looked set against the world. A hard, marble face with a long, thin nose.
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Family?’
‘Don’t know.’
I nodded. I had to talk to Tonin. I could make an educated guess about what had been going on, but it was no more than a guess. Silvia Salati’s husband had died in 1995 and suddenly another man was getting close to young Riccardo. Someone was setting him straight financially.
‘How old is Elisabetta now?’
She shot a defensive stare at me, as if she wanted her daughter kept out of it. ‘Fifteen.’
‘And you’ve got other children?’
‘A boy. I married a few years ago.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, sounding insincere. ‘When exactly?’
‘A year or two after all that.’ She shrugged.
‘I heard it was just a year.’ It might have come out more mean than I intended, because she pointed a finger at me and sneered.
‘There was no overlap.’
I leaned across her to open the door. ‘I’ll be in touch. If you think of anything, call me.’ I held out one of my cards. She took the card but didn’t move. She sat there for a few seconds, thinking. She looked at me as if sizing me up. ‘If you’re going to drag us through all this again I implore you, for the sake of my family, do it quickly.’
I nodded and started up the engine.
The Hotel Palace was dead in winter. In the foyer two boys were playing football with a screwed-up piece of paper. Their uniforms were unbuttoned and they looked like schoolchildren in a playground. They stopped when they saw me and one of them went behind the front desk.
‘Any grown-ups around?’ I asked.
The boy pointed through a doorway. It led through to a windowless box of a room. A man was pulling glasses out of a cardboard box and lining them up behind the bar.
‘Can I get a drink?’
The man grunted. ‘What do you want?’ The accent was Calabrese.
‘Give me a malvasia.’
The barman grunted again as he bent down to the fridge and pulled out a bottle. As he uncorked it, he spilt some on to his knuckles. He wiped his fingers on his oily apron, then picked up the bottle again and poured the yellow fizz into a flute.
‘Three euros.’
I passed him a twenty. ‘Keep the change.’
The man looked at me with tired eyes. ‘What are you after, Mister?’
‘Call it research. I’m trying to track down a character who used to live in Rimini in the early 1990s.’ I pulled out the photo. ‘He used to work here. Name’s Riccardo Salati. Had a woman from around here called Anna. Anna di Pietro.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Castagnetti. I’m an investigator.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to the manager. Or preferably someone who worked here in the early 1990s.’
‘The manager’s not around.’
‘What’s his name?’
The barman made a tutting sound with his tongue as if even this much was confidential. I looked over his shoulder and read the licence granting the bar permission to sell alcohol. The name said Lo Bue.
‘Is the manager Lo Bue by any chance?’
‘Rings a bell.’
‘How long has he been here?’
‘Longer than me.’
‘Far back as ’95?’
‘How would I know?’
‘And where is he?’
‘He’s not around. He doesn’t show much during winter.’
‘And if you’ve got to phone him, where do you call?’
‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed.’
‘Say someone tells you to call him,’ I pulled out my pistol and placed it gently on the bar. ‘What number do you dial?’
The man opened his palms and put his hands upwards. He was staring at me with scorn. I kept one hand on the gun and pulled out my phone with the other. As the man said the numbers, I punched them in. I listened to the silence of connecting satellites.
‘Sì.’ A voice came on.
‘Lo Bue?’
‘Who is this?’ He was even thicker Calabrese than his heavy.
‘Castagnetti. I’m a private investigator.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you about Riccardo Salati.’
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds and then: ‘Who gave you my number?’
‘Father Christmas. So how about it? I hear he used to work for you back in the early 90s? Him and his woman, Anna di Pietro.’
‘I remember him. He was the lad that went missing.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Come to the hotel tomorrow. Come for lunch.’
‘Sure.’ I snapped the phone shut and looked at the barman.
‘What time’s lunch in your part of the world?’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind.’ I put the ironmongery back in its holster. ‘Sorry about that. I get impatient sometimes.’
The drive back was dull and I started thinking about my bees. A few months ago I had had to burn three of my hives. They were all infested with varroa. Dirty little parasitic mites. It took a couple of minutes to burn years of hard work. Theirs, not mine.
I like them because there’s never any risk of me getting attached to one in particular. There are no names and no emotions. I said as much to Mauro a while back, and he laughed, and said that was why I had problems with women. But I like the bees because they are so different to humans. They believe in hard work and hierarchy, for one.
I had got into bees way back. When I was a boy and my parents had died, I went to live for a while with my uncle somewhere in the mountains outside Turin. He had a farm. One summer there was a swarm, a nasty blob of noisy bees like a furry tear-drop just able to cling to the branch. It was throbbing like a hairy heart.
A few hours later an old man arrived and dropped the swarm into a basket. There was something about the way he did it that impressed me. Maybe it was because he was French and the exoticism of the foreigner excited me. But I wanted to have that skill, to show a child that something terrifying could actually be beautiful and productive.
I forgot all about it until I found another swarm a few years back in a hollow tree up near Fornovo. I built a hive out of some old planks Mauro had and mail-ordered the rest. I had beginner’s luck for a while. The first year I got twenty-eight kilos of wonderful honey. I almost doubled it the next. I was hooked. I didn’t mind getting stung. No worse than a few nettles on a country walk. It cost next to nothing. You didn’t need more than half a dozen tools and a box of matches.
There was something peaceful to it. Maybe because they could so punitively defend themselves, there was a pact of gentility. If they had to sting, they died. If they stung, you were sore. So you were careful and respectful. You took their honey, but you fed them in winter, you kept them free of diseases. Or I did, until last summer.
The mites were everywhere. I tried being soft and hard. I used sucrocide and then chemicals, but nothing worked. In the end, I dug a hole in the ground, chucked the lot in there, and threw a m
atch on top.
My phone started dancing on the dashboard. I put it to my ear and heard a young girl’s voice. ‘This the detective?’ The voice sounded soft and uncertain.
‘Sure, who’s this?’
‘My name’s Elisabetta di Pietro. You were with my mother this afternoon.’
I couldn’t work out how she had my number and then remembered. ‘And you found my card in her handbag?’
‘Her coat pocket actually.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Why is my mother hiring a private detective?’
‘She’s not.’
‘So who are you?’
‘I’m looking into your,’ I wasn’t sure how to say it tactfully, ‘into your father’s disappearance.’
‘You going to find my father?’
I made a non-committal noise.
‘I almost hope you don’t find him alive.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because the thought that he’s still out there and, I don’t know, never wanted to see me …’
It made sense. If Riccardo was alive, he clearly didn’t care about her. When children are treated that way, they learn to reciprocate.
‘There’s no evidence that he’s dead,’ I said.
‘You mean you think he’s still alive?’
‘I doubt that very much. I think it’s very unlikely your father is still alive. But it is possible.’
‘And is my mother a suspect?’
‘Everyone’s a suspect.’
‘Except me.’ It sounded like she was smiling and I tried to imagine what she looked like.
‘You were two, right?’
‘Two and a bit.’ She laughed at herself. ‘I still say it like I’m proud of that extra bit.’
‘And when did your mother meet Giovanni?’
‘I don’t know. They’ve been together as long as I can remember. 1997 I think.’
‘And your uncle, Umberto. Do you see him much?’
‘Hardly at all. He calls occasionally. If he’s in the area he’ll drop in.’
‘He and your mother don’t see eye to eye?’
‘Umberto doesn’t see eye to eye with anyone.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He only sees his own reflection.’
‘Says who?’
‘I do. He’s so vain he looks in the shop windows to check himself out. I’ve seen him do it.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help myself being sharp with people. I’m, it’s like, I don’t know whether my father’s alive, whether my mother or my uncle were …’
‘What?’
‘Responsible.’ There was silence down the line.
‘You don’t know about your grandmother, do you?’
‘What?’
I waited, wondering whether the truth was a kindness or cruelty. ‘She died.’
‘Is that what all this is about? Nonna Silvia died? Is that it?’ She sounded as if she were losing control.
‘I’m sorry it’s me having to tell you this. She was buried this morning.’
There was a gasp and then the line went quiet. It sounded as if the girl was beginning to cry.
‘Listen, I’m driving. I shouldn’t even be talking on the phone. I’m going to do what I can to find out about your father. Just let me ask you one question. Have you ever been contacted by someone out of the blue?’
‘How do you mean?’ I could hear her sniffing.
‘Have you ever had any phone calls from a man wanting to talk to you out of the blue? Anyone ever hang around outside your school or write you letters? That sort of thing?’
‘No.’
‘All right, never mind.’
*
Back in my office I took out the white phone book. There was only one Massimo Tonin. The address was in a village on the banks of the Po.
When I got there, the villa looked grand. It was set back from the road by an avenue of poplars. There was a black iron gate and an intercom in a booth off to the right.
I peered through the iron railings to the side. There was a small lodge behind the main house. I guessed that was where they kept the domestics. It was getting dark and I could just make out a man clearing leaves from a ditch.
‘Hey,’ I shouted at the gardener.
The man looked up.
‘I’m looking for Massimo Tonin.’
He walked towards me, leaning his rake on the fence. He had a good-looking, weathered face with deep-blue eyes. He must have been in his fifties, but his bare arms looked strong and muscular. He had the rugged appearance of someone who spent most of his life outdoors.
‘Who are you, Mister?’
‘Castagnetti.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A chat with Massimo Tonin.’
The gardener came back a few minutes later.
‘Ring the buzzer, Mister,’ he said, ‘Mr Tonin will speak to you there.’ He pointed at the glass cage.
I stepped back and held the buzzer for long enough to appear rude. Eventually there was a click as someone picked up the phone from inside.
‘Who is it?’ said a lazy, disinterested voice.
‘Castagnetti, private investigator. You Massimo Tonin?’
‘I am. What do you want?’
‘A chat with you.’
‘We’re talking aren’t we?’
‘This isn’t how I talk,’ I said, staring at the eyeball behind the glass.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you want to talk about.’ The voice sounded distant.
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Riccardo Salati’, I said, ‘and I have a funny notion he was your son.’
The man didn’t say anything.
‘I spoke to your granddaughter this afternoon.’
Tonin again didn’t say anything. I wanted to see his face, to see what his reactions were at the mention of Riccardo’s daughter. He hadn’t denied anything yet, which was a start.
Eventually he spoke very softly. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘this isn’t the way to talk about this. This is a delicate matter. Can I suggest we meet in my office at eight tomorrow morning? It’s in Via Farini.’
I grunted my assent and the line went dead. ‘Delicate’ was good. I assumed he was talking about the sex, not the disappearance.
I stared at the grill pondering whether to push the buzzer again. I watched the gardener who had gone back to his ditch. I wandered over towards him, as close as I could get, and shouted through the railings.
‘What’s Mr Tonin’s job?’
‘What’s that?’ the gardener said.
‘What does the big man do?’
‘He’s a lawyer. Retired now. Says he’s retired, but still goes in most days from what I can see.’
‘And you’ve worked with him long?’
‘Thirty years.’
‘Shouldn’t you be retiring soon?’
‘You saying I look old?’ The man smiled with a boyish glint in his eye. He dropped the smile suddenly and looked at me closely. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of a boy from way back. You ever heard of Riccardo Salati?’
‘Means nothing to me. Was he one of Tonin’s clients?’
‘You could say that.’
It was dark now and the fog was like the inside of a damp duvet. I walked back to the car and flicked on the lights. They only made everything murkier. I could barely see the ditches either side of the road and drove slowly, only glimpsing the bends by the sudden disappearance of the roads.
Back in the office I phoned Dall’Aglio to get a bit of background on Lo Bue.
‘Lo Bue?’ Dall’Aglio said when I gave him the name.
‘Yeah, he owns a hotel out in Rimini. You ever heard of him?’
‘No. But I can run some checks.’
‘Do it.’ I said. ‘He owns a hotel called Hotel Palace. No guests for most of the year, so what he does with the space is anyone’s guess.’
‘Could be anything,’ Dall’Aglio said wearily. ‘Bro
thel, immigrant dive. Have you been there?’
‘Went round this afternoon. No one about but a bruiser and his boys.’
‘And Lo Bue’s the owner?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll find out.’ Dall’Aglio hung up.
I looked at the phone and wondered why Dall’Aglio was being so helpful. He usually lent a hand if he could, but he pleaded busy nine times out of ten.
I got up and looked out of the window of my office. I could see the entrance to the deli. Even in this cold, the door was open and coloured plastic ribbons acted as a threshold. I guess it saved on their refrigeration costs. I could see all the tortelli and cappelletti displayed on cardboard trays in the window.
Food is the fuel of this city. It’s not just the cheeses and hams, it’s all the sophisticated engineering that goes with them: the bottling machines, the slicing machines, the percolating machines – all are beautifully designed in those drab buildings along the Via Emilia.
Something had been bothering me all day and I couldn’t work out what it was. It’s worse not knowing why, because then I start going through all the things that might be bothering me and I’m there all afternoon: staring out of the window, unable to get out of my seat because there’s so much to do. I get like that sometimes. I speed around like a maniac for a few days, and then one comes along and I can’t even swing my feet out of bed.
I was still worried about that mourning notice. Assuming it wasn’t genuine, it meant someone was wanting to impersonate Riccardo. That seemed a pretty strange thing to do. At best it was tasteless. It sounded to me like someone wanting to muddy the waters. But it wasn’t only that that bothered me. It was the fact that the notice had gone into the paper on Monday, so it must have been paid for on the Sunday, a day before the case was reopened. If someone was trying to muddy the waters, they must have known there were waters to muddy.
Whoever placed the mourning notice must have known the case was about to be reopened before I was even hired.
I managed to haul myself out of my chair and went over to Crespi’s office.
‘Tell me something,’ I said to him when I was finally ushered into his regal presence. ‘Did Umberto bring you his mother’s will last weekend, when his mother was still warm?’