Tobias Jones - The Salati Case

‘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 match 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.