I watched for another hour, hearing the same bulletins repeated every few minutes.
I wondered how much the carabinieri knew about Riccardo Salati, Umberto’s missing brother. Dall’Aglio would be contacting me, that was for sure. I would almost be their first lead. That was something I didn’t need: being leaned on by resentful uniforms who had nothing else to go on. The only advantage was that the information would have to go two ways. I would spill the little I knew about what had happened in 1995, and Dall’Aglio would let slip some forensic detail or anomalous alibi they had turned up.
I slugged the dregs of my wine and said goodbye to Mauro.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, hurt.
I didn’t say anything. I just slapped his shoulders and left the hardened drinkers of the Circolo to their favourite poisons.
I wandered aimlessly and listened to people’s conversations. There’s a saying that the city is so quiet that people whisper. That’s what it seemed like this morning. There were small groups gathered together in the corner of bars, leaning close together so that no one else could hear. I could guess what they were saying. I had heard all the old men at the Circolo. I had heard people in the bus-stops. They were all asking about the Salati suicide and saying it sounded wrong. It was a mess which had been served up too neatly.
There was too much I didn’t know. And even when I knew the facts, there might only be one pointer hidden amongst them all. Like the time Umberto Salati had returned home. Where had he been? Who he had spoken to? Who was in the block of flats? What had they heard?
My phone was ringing. I slid it open and before I even got it to my ear I heard a man’s voice: ‘Castagnetti?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Mazzuli from
La Gazzetta
. We met the other day. We’re running a story tomorrow about Umberto Salati’s death.’
He hadn’t said suicide and I felt on edge.
The journalist kept talking. ‘Is it true you were investigating the disappearance of Riccardo, Umberto Salati’s younger brother?’
I paused. I could hear the hack tapping his keyboard impatiently.
‘What are you writing?’
‘Just taking notes.’
‘I haven’t even said anything yet.’ I couldn’t be sure what he already knew.
La Gazzetta
was the official mouthpiece of the city’s wealthy industrialists, and it didn’t go out on a limb for a story like this without being very sure of its facts. If this man was being given space to write about the Salati death they must have had some information.
‘I wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Is it true there’s evidence Riccardo Salati is alive?’
So much for them knowing their facts. ‘Absolutely none at all.’
‘Didn’t he publish a mourning notice in our newspaper on the occasion of his mother’s death?’
‘That was someone else,’ I said disdainfully.
‘Have you got any proof of that?’
‘You know the answer to that.’ I remembered the Visa slip that this same journalist had passed me only two days ago.
‘You’ve traced the payment?’
‘Sure,’ I lied.
‘Who made the payment?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘I thought we had a deal?’
‘That doesn’t include passing information to a journalist before it’s passed to the appropriate authorities.’ When I lie I become more self-righteous than an altar boy.
‘Is it true Riccardo Salati is a suspect in his older brother’s murder?’
I laughed. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man. I don’t know who’s a suspect any more than you or your chickens.’
‘Do you believe the suicide story?’
Mazzuli was waiting for a reply. I didn’t say anything and eventually I heard him fingertipping a keyboard.
‘This is all off the record,’ I said. ‘You put my name in print and I’ll never speak to you again. You with me?’
‘Fair enough,’ he said like he hadn’t heard. ‘So?’
‘Put it this way: I would be amazed if it were suicide.’
‘Let me ask you another question. Is it true Umberto was investigating Riccardo’s death?’
‘That’s a more intelligent question.’ I scratched a sideburn. It sounded loud inside my head.
‘And?’
‘He was probably doing something similar to yourself. Asking the wrong questions and getting the wrong answers.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Listen, you want a scoop on the Salati story, I’ll give it to you the minute I find it, believe me. I’ll call you. We had a deal and I’m a man of my word. But for now I know nothing about it other than what I’ve heard on TV.’
‘Had you already interviewed Salati about his brother’s disappearance?’
‘No comment.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘You can take that as goodbye.’ I hung up and stared at the phone. So much for trying to swap favours with a journalist. This was exactly what I had dreaded from the start. I was at the centre of a media storm.
Crespi was already waiting under the hooves of Garibaldi’s horse when I arrived.
‘You will obviously’, the notary said first up, ‘have to make a statement to the police about your own investigations.’
That angered me. Crespi was condescendingly telling me my own moral duty as if I didn’t know what it was. I already knew that my poking around would have to be made public and I didn’t need Crespi reminding me of it.
‘My commission’, I said slowly, ‘was merely to verify the legal status of the subject Salati, Riccardo.’
‘And had you already contacted the now deceased older brother?’
‘Of course I had contacted him,’ I spat. ‘I interviewed him briefly in his shop, nothing more.’
My words sounded aggressive, and it shocked me how quickly I was brushing myself clean of a man who had only just died.
‘Dear Castagnetti, they were brothers. You surely realise that their fates were in all probability linked? What happened to one is almost certainly related to what happened to the other.’
I didn’t know what to say. It was undeniable. Crespi knew it. Riccardo might have been killed by Umberto, or — if you were imaginative — the other way round. Somewhere there was the crime of fratricide, that was likely. My problem was that if one of the brothers had murdered the other, that still left one dead body unaccounted for.
‘What you tell the police is your business,’ Crespi carried on. ‘All I ask is that you provide me with a report regarding the legal status of my client’s younger son, Riccardo.’ He spoke as if he were dictating a letter.
‘Coglione,’ I said to myself as I walked away.
I walked back to my place in Borgo delle Colonne. I picked up the phone and dialled the number of the di Pietro woman in Rimini.
‘You’ve heard then?’ I said when she came to the phone.
‘I heard.’
‘Do you believe it?’
‘What?’
‘The suicide.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where were you last night?’
She laughed. I repeated the sentence a little more slowly.
‘I was here, with the family.’
‘Giovanni and the children?’
‘Right.’
‘And they can confirm that can they?’
‘Come and ask them. Where else would I be?’
I nodded to myself. It was far-fetched to see her wrestling Salati out of a window, but I had to ask. It was another fact that would need checking.
‘You need to get a guard on Elisabetta,’ I said.
‘She’s very safe here,’ Anna said. ‘What she needs is rest, not all this anxiety around her.’
‘There’s no point looking after her well-being if she’s dead, you with me? Her uncle has been murdered, and her father has been missing for more than a dozen years. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s next.’
The woman didn’t say anything but was breathing heavily. I could hear little coughs like she was trying to get a fishbone out of her throat. It’s strange listening to someone you don’t know crying on the phone. Almost like listening to them have a shower through a bathroom door.
‘I want to hire you,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘If she really is in danger, I need someone to look after her.’
‘I’m already hired,’ I said sadly. Working freelance is like waiting for a bus. Nothing turns up for ages, then everything comes at once.
‘Couldn’t you do both?’
‘Conflict of interests, sweetness.’
‘But you just said, she’s in danger.’
‘She might be. Call the police, let them know. Or call a private. There are enough in Rimini from what I remember. You could always call in the heavies from the Hotel Palace. Another thing, you’re going to get a herd of hacks coming your way. They’re probably on the Via Emilia as we speak.’
She didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to labour the point, but I had seen clients of mine in the past who had been in the blizzard of publicity and it was a cold and frightening place. It felt like the world was staring at you, sneering and pointing. ‘Your number’s in the book, isn’t it? You might want to take the phone off the hook.’
By the time I got back to my office there was a small gathering of the city’s worst journalists. I recognised Mazzuli there as well.
There was no point trying to blank them. We would have to come to some sort of deal.
They recognised me long before I even got to my front door. About half a dozen thrust microphones under my chin and asked me questions simultaneously so that I couldn’t understand any of them.
‘I’m only talking if that camera is switched off.’
The cameraman pointed it at the pavement and opened a grey plastic gate on the side of the machine to shut it down.
All journalists were like predators, but the TV crowd were the worst.
‘Right, I’m not making any comment until I’ve spoken to the relevant authorities.’ There was a groan of disappointment from the journalists. ‘I will happily talk to you as soon as I have arranged to share with my uniformed colleagues any information I might have regarding this case.’
They stared at me in silence, and then all started throwing questions. I walked inside and shut the door on them. I dropped the
tapparelle
, allowing the cord to run through my fingers just fast enough to warm them.
I sat down and dialled Dall’Aglio. As soon as I gave my name I was put through.
‘Castagnetti,’ said Dall’Aglio, ‘just the man.’
‘Did you give my name to the press?’
‘Of course I didn’t. If it’s any consolation, we’ve probably got more journalists out here than Palazzo Chigi. There have been fifteen of them on my tail all morning.’
‘Understandable. It is a murder.’ I said it pointedly, trying to trip Dall’Aglio into an indiscretion.
‘Listen, it’s far too early to know what it is. My instinct says you’re probably right, but I’m not going to go public until I’m very sure of the facts.’
‘Which are?’
‘You tell me.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Had you spoken to Salati about your investigations?’
‘Sure.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday. In his shop. His assistant was there. I’ve been in regular contact with him ever since Monday.’
‘No sign he had something like this in mind?’
‘None at all. He was a man in mourning, he looked tired, but he wasn’t broken. There’s no way this was suicide. I feel, somehow, like I caused his death …’ I let the sentence hang there, hoping Dall’Aglio would agree to cooperate.
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ll reciprocate?’
‘Don’t I always? Go on, tell me …’
‘It turns out Riccardo, the younger brother, wasn’t quite what he seemed. He was the son of Massimo Tonin, the lawyer. Tonin had an affair with the Salati woman back in the 1970s. I told Salati as much yesterday and he was round there in a shot.’
‘Where?’
‘The Tonin estate.’
‘You tailed him?’
‘Sure.’
‘And you saw him come back?’
‘I saw him get back in his car, the black jeep, and leave the Tonin place. That was the last I saw of him until this morning.’
‘What time did he leave their place?’
I looked at my notebook. ‘Seven thirty-nine. If he went straight home, he would have been there by eight.’
Dall’Aglio was silent. It was probably the best lead they had and I thought I might as well pass on everything. ‘There’s something else. I’ve got a Visa slip for a payment that interests me.’ I read the six numbers out of my notebook. ‘Six Two Two Zero Four Nine. Put a trace on that and let me know.’
‘What is it?’
‘Someone appears to have been impersonating the younger brother. Published a notice of mourning in Monday’s
Gazzetta
.’
‘You’re sure of this?’
I didn’t reply because there wasn’t any certainty about anything.
‘You’re sure it’s not Riccardo himself?’
‘I would be very surprised. But yeah, it’s just about possible. Trace it.’
‘OK. What else?’
‘That’s it so far.’
Dall’Aglio sighed.
‘You?’ I asked expectantly.
‘Not much yet. The autopsy is due back this afternoon. That’ll tell us more.’
‘Who’s doing it?’
‘I don’t know. One of the regulars. There’s just one thing that worries me at the moment. We haven’t found his keys.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We haven’t got Umberto Salati’s keys. It’s a minor detail and I’m sure they’ll turn up, but for the moment we haven’t found any. Not on his person, and not in his flat.’
I frowned. That was something and Dall’Aglio knew it. He was pretending it was a minor irritant, but they would already have been through the flat with a toothcomb and if they hadn’t found the keys it meant they weren’t there.
‘The keys weren’t on him?’
‘Nothing in his pockets except cigarettes and a lighter.’
I suddenly had something to go on and felt restless. As always, it wasn’t something so much as the absence of something. It didn’t make sense that no keys had been found. It made the whole official narrative of the suicide seem implausible. If Salati had let himself into his flat, where were the keys? If they were in his pocket when he jumped, why weren’t they on him when he was found? If Salati didn’t have his keys, how had he let himself into the flat?
‘It’s definitely murder isn’t it?’