by Tobias Jones
I read the rest of the paper. There were the usual stories: left-wing extremists scribbling threatening graffiti under the houses of union leaders and politicians; something about the motor show preparations; an article about the discovery of archaeological remains in the suburbs which would slow up the work on the metro; a visiting academic from Spain was compared to half a dozen people I had never heard of.
This is where all the carabinieri came for refreshment throughout the day. Dall’Aglio was late for our appointment and was immediately dismissive of my insistence on locating Salati’s keys.
‘Even supposing what you say is true,’ he whispered in the crowded bar, ‘why would a person keep the keys? If Salati was pushed, gravity was the only killer. If you haven’t got a murder weapon, the keys are as close as you’ll get. It’s like having a hot gun in your pocket. No one would have kept hold of them.’
‘Unless the murderer was under the impression that Salati’s keys were of importance, that they might lead to evidence which was even more incriminating.’
‘Like what?’ Dall’Aglio said impatiently.
‘Maybe Salati was investigating his younger half-brother’s disappearance when he was murdered. The murderer might have kept the keys in the hope of destroying any discoveries which Salati had committed to paper.’
‘It sounds very far-fetched to me.’
‘Everything’s far-fetched until it becomes fact,’ I said quickly. I knew I was clutching at straws, but Dall’Aglio didn’t seem concerned to clutch at anything. ‘There are other possibilities,’ I went on. ‘They took the keys, for whatever reason, and then realised what you have just said: that they were a smoking gun. So they ditched them.’
‘You want my men to find a bunch of keys which could be anywhere between here and Potenza. How do you expect us to do that?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But until they turn up, you won’t get a conviction in this case.’
‘I don’t mean to be disparaging, Castagnetti,’ Dall’Aglio said, ‘it’s just that I don’t see what, practically, I can do to test your theories. We’re talking about a case in which not only do we not have any leads to the murderer, we honestly don’t even know if there was a murder at all.’
I was impatient. When something needs doing, I like to get it done. I don’t mind Dall’Aglio, he’s a hard-working, honest official, not something there’s exactly a surplus of. But he’s a stubborn, officious official. He has to justify every action to his superiors and that makes him more cautious than a blind dog crossing the motorway.
‘When was the autopsy?’ I changed tack.
‘They did it yesterday.’
‘Who?’
‘Garrone I expect. I’ll check.’
I stood up and bowed sarcastically.
I would have to approach it from the other side. Slip something to the press to put pressure on him, or else hire some staff myself. I could have done with two dozen men to command like Dall’Aglio had. He could comb a field quicker than he could comb his hair.
I walked down the street and asked myself why I bothered. I always say it’s the money, but if that was the case, I would hire staff and we could film every infidelity this side of Reggio. That’s a racket if ever there was one. But like I said, I don’t do infidelity. It’s no different to blackmail in the end and you end up selling your pics to the highest bidder.
So it’s more than just the money. I go through all this dirt because I’m fed up with everyone settling for appearances, fed up with conceitedness and menefreghismo. I’ve had it with the good life, the luxuries and the reputations that no one wants to offend. I don’t think my line of work is anything special. It’s usually grubby and aggressive. It’s fraught and frustrating. But it’s honest. It’s a bit like gardening: you’re never quite sure what’s going to come up, you work hard and keep guessing, just trying to keep things alive. And once in a while you can sit back and think you might have made a tiny corner of the world a better place.
I walked towards the Ponte di Mezzo. The river was a furious torrent now. All the snow in the mountains was melting and the river was surging through the city. The water curled and crashed only a few centimetres below the arches of the bridges, speeding away towards the Po with its cargo of tree trunks and drowned animals. The noise was so loud that you could barely hear anything else. The water was pounding under the bridge, speeding past but keeping exactly the same shape, the same frenetic rolls and whirlpools.
I walked to the other side of the bridge and only there did the roar of the water subside. That sudden change in volume shifted something in my brain. Maybe it was the image of that water, that sense that the real action of a bridge is not above it but below. All that water and talk about the keys had set something off. What happened to Salati, I realised, hadn’t happened upstairs, in the building, up top. It must have happened below.
I pulled out my phone and tried to get through to the pathology department. A sleepy voice came to the phone.
‘Garrone?’
‘Sì.’
‘My name’s Castagnetti. I’m working on a case and I believe you did the autopsy.’
‘I know you. You’re that private dick.’
I made a grunt. ‘You did an autopsy …’
‘I do dozens every day.’
‘Must be fun. The man’s name was Salati.’
‘The guy who used to have a shop on Via Cavour?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I zipped him up yesterday.’
‘And?’
‘The tidiest suicide I’ve ever seen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was over ninety kilos, but his fall was so light he didn’t break a bone in his body.’
‘He didn’t jump?’
‘If he did, he flew down.’
‘So why’s everyone talking about suicide?’
‘Guesswork.’
‘So what killed him?’
‘Head injuries, sure, but not from falling to the ground. I would say it was something with a series of small, sharp protrusions … like an athlete’s spikes, or football boots with sharpened studs.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘There’s not much certainty about death but some things seem quite probable.’
‘Like it’s long.’
‘Yeah, right.’ The man laughed. ‘His skull and neck and back were perforated with these little indentations.’
‘How big?’
‘Fairly tiny. There were between eight and fifteen spikes for each blow. On the skin you can just see the outline of the shape holding those spikes. It’s slightly larger than a postage stamp. It wasn’t the spikes that killed him – they’re fairly shallow – it was the force behind them. It was some kind of hammer …’
‘You’ve got photographs of these wounds?’
‘Sure. Sent them up to Dall’Aglio yesterday.’
‘Time of death?’
‘We got the body yesterday morning. He had been dead roughly twelve hours. That puts the time between nine and eleven the evening before.’
I put the phone down. If Salati hadn’t fallen from his balcony, it meant that a woman could have been responsible. There might not have been a fight up there at all. It might have happened on the ground and he might have been hit from behind. Someone had tried to make it look like suicide, gone upstairs to open a window, tried to make it look like a jump. It was an amateur, that was for sure.
It wasn’t surprising that Dall’Aglio wasn’t publicising the news. He had enough media interest around him without them getting even more excitable. But it would come out sooner or later. The giallo would become a murder. It would go national by tonight.
My phone was vibrating.
‘Sì.’
‘Castagnetti?’ It was Dall’Aglio.
‘Why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t a jump? Salati died on the ground.’
‘You’ve spoken to Garrone?’
‘Sure. So much for swapping favour
s.’
‘I’ve told you before, I don’t trade favours. But I’ve got something for you. You’re going to like this. My women in the finance department have traced the Visa record for the Gazzetta payment.’
‘Go on.’
‘Unfortunately it’s not Riccardo. I half hoped we would hear that it was genuine, that it really was your boy. As it is, I really don’t understand it.’
‘Give me the name,’ I said impatiently.
‘Massimo Tonin, the lawyer.’
‘Tonin?’ I laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘It’s not funny, so much as …’ I shook my head. Humans never cease to surprise me, but Tonin was certainly a weird one. ‘I got the impression he really cared for that boy.’
‘Maybe that’s why he paid to put a piece in the paper.’
‘You don’t believe that?’
‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’
‘I reached that point a long time ago.’ I couldn’t understand why old Tonin would want to pretend to be Riccardo in print. Unless he didn’t want people to think he was dead, unless he wanted people to think his boy was alive and well.
‘We’re going to bring him in,’ Dall’Aglio said.
I felt my limbs tense up. Once he was in custody he would be all buttoned up. I would have no element of surprise. I wanted to race round to his now, before they brought him in.
But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t race round there on information Dall’Aglio had just given me. Dall’Aglio would accuse me of interference and favoreggiamento. I would have to come in on Dall’Aglio’s coat-tails.
‘I’ll come,’ I said.
Dall’Aglio didn’t say anything.
‘As an observer. Nothing else.’
Dall’Aglio was still silent. He must know, I thought, that this was my case as well as his. It was my information that gave him the breakthrough.
‘All right,’ said Dall’Aglio. ‘You know the rules. You don’t touch anything, you don’t say anything.’
‘Right. When’s the arrest?’
‘We’re going there now. Wait for us on Via Trento by the cinema.’
I put the phone down and went out. Tonin was a strange one. He had seemed to me one of those astute lawyers. He might sell his soul for a few percentage points, but I couldn’t see him knocking off his own son. But then, you never think that when you first set eyes on someone. There is no dark streak, not until you know someone’s killed another human being and you put that streak on them yourself. They’re just ordinary people who do something irreversible. They’re all different, and Tonin might be just one more specimen for me to study.
Dall’Aglio picked me up in the force’s luxury Alfa Romeo.
‘You armed?’ Dall’Aglio asked as soon as I opened the car door.
‘Sure.’
‘Give it to me.’
I reached inside my jacket and passed him the pistol. It wasn’t because Dall’Aglio didn’t trust me. He knew me well enough not to worry about me getting twitchy if it got tense. It was a power thing. It meant he was in complete control of the operation. I admired the formality, even though I didn’t like going after a suspect with only my bare fists.
Tonin came to the door before Dall’Aglio had even rung the bell. He stood there like a condemned man as Dall’Aglio read him his rights. Two officers then bundled him into the car. That was it.
‘I’m taking him to the station. You coming?’ Dall’Aglio said.
‘I’ll have a look round.’ I replied. There was no point going back to the station. We would hang around for at least two or three hours whilst they searched for evidence to lay on Tonin’s plate. I calculated that I might as well hang around and watch what happened at the house.
I went inside. The cadets were surprisingly efficient. Everything was turned upside down very neatly. I had expected them to send in the heavies, but it was all very deferential.
They went through all the drawers, pulled them out and looked underneath and behind. They took pictures off the walls, leafed through the books and magazines. The bathroom was pulled apart. They lifted up the shower tray and dismantled the bath. They listened to the plumbing and examined the surface of the soil in the garden. They went through the cypress and poplar trees with sticks. Still looking for those keys, I thought.
I wandered upstairs. It was a house like you used to see in American movies: a staircase wide enough for large plants where it turned a corner. The corridor upstairs was long and all lit up. Beings covered in white overalls kept coming out of rooms to the left and right.
I pushed into a room that looked like an old man’s place. There were suits in the wardrobe, a single toothbrush and razor in the bathroom. I took the top off a rectangular bottle of aftershave and sniffed it. It smelt like Tonin.
The couple obviously slept apart because the next room along was feminine. The wardrobe was full of designer outfits in garish colours. On the reproduction chest of drawers were photographs of the same man. He was good-looking in an overdone sort of way. He had long curling hair and facial hair which changed in each photo: a goatee in one, long, narrow sideburns in another. He must have spent half an hour shaving every day. There was a large photo where the man was wearing yellow corduroys. His brogues looked like the narrow nib of a fountain pen and they had fat, external stitching as if to pretend they were done by hand instead of by a machine. It looked like the same guy from the photo in Tonin’s office.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked one of the cadets taking tape samples from the carpet.
‘No idea.’
I looked at the photographs again. I assumed it was their son Sandro because he was everywhere. There wasn’t anyone else, no sibling to rival his place on his mother’s chest of drawers. He must have thought he was an only child until poor Riccardo came along.
I went back downstairs and saw the huge hall. It was cold and unloved. Even the sofa against the far wall looked austere, like it had never been sat in. The cushions were placed at deliberate angles. I remembered when I had come in here two days ago how the woman’s voice had bounced off the walls. I closed my eyes and tried to recall that atmosphere when we had first walked in. She had been on the phone.
I got to the bottom of the stairs and saw the handset. She had been speaking to someone. I got out my mobile and called Dall’Aglio. He was still in the car by the sound of it.
‘I’ve got something else for you. Find out who their phone operator is and get an itemised breakdown of the calls from the Tonin house on Wednesday night.’
Dall’Aglio said nothing. He wasn’t happy taking dictation from a rival.
‘Has Tonin said anything?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. Says he will reply to questions in the presence of his lawyer.’
I laughed and hung up. Why a lawyer needed another lawyer to defend himself I couldn’t understand. It made it look like the truth wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to find a way out, and that meant calling in a colleague to help.
I went outside on to the drive and walked slowly towards the gate. I dialled the switchboard sweetheart.
‘Studio Tonin.’
‘That Serena?’
‘Sì.’
‘Castagnetti here.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘How you doing?’ I asked.
‘Fine. Can I help you?’ She sounded distant, as if there were someone listening to her talking.
‘Sure you can. In the next hour or two a call is going to come in from jail. It will be Massimo Tonin, asking to speak to one of his colleagues.’
‘Massimo’s been arrested?’ She sounded indignant.
‘He has.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. Here’s what I need you to do. As soon as you’ve put the call through, phone me and let me know who he asked to speak to.’
‘I can’t do that.’ You would have thought I had asked her to show me her thighs.
‘It’s very simple,’ I
repeated. ‘I’ll give you my number.’ I
started giving her the numbers and she didn’t interrupt. ‘You got that? And you call me. Just one name. It’s for Massimo’s benefit. Take my word.’
‘I don’t know what your word’s worth. I don’t know you.’
‘I know a really good way to get to know someone,’ I said.
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Call me.’ I hung up before she could protest.
I had wandered back into the house and into the kitchen as we had been speaking. It was a large room with a central island of speckled granite. Above it hung huge pans and ladles. In one recess to the right was a large cooker where a pan was bubbling away.
Teresa Tonin came in from a far corner just as I was about to go out. She had an apron on which was smeared with flour. She suddenly saw me and jumped slightly with the surprise.
‘You,’ she said.
‘You heard your husband’s been arrested?’
‘Of course I have. I’ve had men crawling all over my house for the last hour.’ She looked at me bitterly, her lips pursed in anger. ‘It’s not enough that he publicly humiliated me by having that boy. To think that he could have done something even worse, so much worse. Not just give life to him, but …’
‘But what?’
She didn’t say anything.
‘What did Umberto Salati want with you two days ago?’ I asked.
She sighed heavily and then seemed to snap out of her reverie. ‘Sorry?’
‘Was Umberto Salati after money? The first words you said to me were over the intercom. “You’re not getting anything from us,” you said, or something similar.’
She stared at me. ‘He was after money, sure.’
‘Why?’
‘He was threatening to tell the authorities about Massimo.’
‘What about Massimo?’
‘About Massimo’s affair with that Salati woman.’
‘Why would you pay him not to talk?’
‘I wouldn’t. That’s what you heard me say, wasn’t it? Everyone seems to know about it now anyway. I’ve no idea why that Umberto Salati thought he could get money from us. The innocent can’t be blackmailed, isn’t that right?’