Tobias Jones - The Salati Case

I was walking towards the Tonin office when the phone started ringing.

‘Sì.’

‘Your friend Lo Bue’s a nice piece of work,’ Dall’Aglio said.

‘Meaning?’

‘He opened up his wife with a carving knife when she said she was leaving him. He did four months for battery.’

‘Four months?’ I sighed. The court case usually lasts longer than the sentence in Italy.

‘He’s done time before that for the usual: fencing stolen goods, importing Albania’s finest tobacco, that sort of thing. He’s certainly been through the university of life.’

‘Only problem with that university is the graduation.’

Dall’Aglio laughed.

‘Who’s he with?’ I said, serious again.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Has he got a big family?’

Dall’Aglio caught the inference. ‘He’s from Calabria, but that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Means enough,’ I said, and hung up. I’m not one of those people who pretend they’re not prejudiced. I think everyone is

prejudiced, I reckon it’s impossible not to be. All our wisdom is received rather than invented. I’m willing to be proved wrong, but when a tough nut and his crew are from Calabria, I assume he’s only a phone call away from the ’Ndrangheta.

When I got to the law offices, there was a girl on the front desk. She was so beautiful that I looked for longer than I needed to. She had round cheeks, big eyes and thick hair in loose curls. She wasn’t wearing any jewellery or make-up, and it didn’t look like she needed to.

‘Can I help?’ she asked as I walked up to the desk.

‘Already have.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Never mind. Tonin not in?’

‘No.’

‘You Serena?’

She nodded.

‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Castagnetti. I’m an investigator. I had a little chat with old Tonin this afternoon. He said it would be OK if I asked you a couple of things.’

She looked around at the shut doors of the adjoining offices.

‘The name Riccardo Salati mean anything to you?’

She looked at me and shook her head.

‘How about Giovanna Monti, know her?’

‘Sure, she’s a friend.’

‘You talk to her on Saturday?’

‘I expect so, I don’t remember.’ She was smiling like she was more amused than worried.

‘She tell you they were reopening a case from way back?’

She closed her eyes. ‘Yes, I remember. She might have said something.’

‘And did you tell anyone else in this office?’

‘I don’t talk to anyone in this office about anything other than work.’

‘You don’t like them?’

‘It’s not that. It’s just that our relationship is professional.’

I wondered just how professional she was. She looked it all right, her blouse all buttoned up like an ice-cool receptionist. But she might have let something slip, or someone might have overheard her conversation. Either way, the arrows were pointing towards Tonin.

‘What’s old Tonin like?’ I asked.

She looked at me like I was asking her to be unprofessional. ‘He’s an old-fashioned gentleman.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He’s courteous and kind.’

‘That a professional judgement?’

‘It was my mother’s judgement if you really want to know. She worked here for thirty years before I started. She died suddenly last year, and Massimo looked after me, offered me this job whilst I was getting myself back on my feet.’

‘What about Tonin’s family?’

She looked at me with suspicion, as if I was asking too many questions.

‘Is he married?’

‘Sure.’

‘Kids?’

She nodded. ‘Just one. Sandro. He’s,’ she paused, ‘he’s had his problems with stuff.’

‘What sort of problems?’

‘Substance abuse. He’s crossed the line from can’t get enough to had too much.’

‘It’s a short step,’ I said. ‘Where does he work?’

‘Here often. Not that I would call it work. He’s not even a qualified lawyer. He comes in to call his friends and download films and music as far as I can work out. Uses me as a secretary.’

‘I can see the attraction.’

She blushed slightly, but held my stare like she wanted to play the game.

‘How old is he?’

‘About your age. Mid-thirties.’

‘Which office does he sit in when he comes in?’ I asked.

She thumbed over her shoulder behind her. I wandered over into what looked more like a box room. There was a modern computer set up there though. I began shutting the door as I was asking her questions.

‘This Sandro got a woman?’

‘His shirts are ironed,’ she said, turning round towards me.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘What I said. His folds are straight. I guess it’s his mother. I’ve heard she goes into his flat every day just to make the bed. She fills up his fridge with stuff she’s cooked.’

‘You don’t like this Sandro?’

I watched her through the half-shut door. She shrugged like she was too honest to deny it, but too kind to say it.

I shut the door of Sandro’s office and kept asking her questions. ‘And who was in the office on Saturday?’

‘Sandro was in,’ I heard her faintly now, but clearly enough. ‘He normally comes in on a Saturday.’

‘Just Sandro and you?’

‘I think so. There would have been a few clients coming through, dropping off documents or picking them up.’

‘And when this Giovanna Monti friend was telling you about this case they were reopening, who was in the room?’

‘I can’t remember. But I didn’t even know what Giovanna was talking about, I was just listening to her chat. That’s what we do on Saturday mornings because it’s always quiet. We call each other and make plans for the evening. I can’t even remember this Riccardo you were talking about.’

I came out of Sandro’s pseudo-office having heard every word. The box room wasn’t exactly soundproof. Whether it was Sandro or not, someone in the Tonin office had heard that Silvia Salati had died and that she had hired a private detective. Someone had decided to reach for some sand, as they say. Decided to throw some sand in our eyes. Sand up the joints and cogs and connections. Insabbiatura , they called it.

I walked out. I didn’t understand anything any more. Meeting that Serena girl in Tonin’s office had thrown me. I had a small breakthrough, but all I could think about were those cheeks and those dark, innocent eyes. She seemed pure, and you don’t come across a lot of purity in my line. The fact that she had lost her mother made me think we might even have something in common.

I tried to get my mind back on the job. That mourning notice. There was no way it was genuine, but it intrigued me. It might just have been someone playing a prank, but it was more likely that someone was trying to pretend Riccardo was alive and well, and the only people who usually do that know the opposite is true. It was a lead and it had led me, a second time, to Tonin.

The sound of my phone invaded a dream. It was ringing and rattling the wood of the table beside my bed. I looked at the number but didn’t recognise it.

As soon as I answered, a slurred, female voice was screeching: ‘Why did you have to tell her?’

‘What?’ The lime-green numbers on my alarm clock said 5:53. ‘Who is this?’

‘I don’t know why you had to tell her.’

I walked into the kitchen and listened to her voice. It must have been the woman from Rimini. ‘Tell her what? That her grandmother had died?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Business is all it is to me.’

‘You make money out of grief, that it?’