Tobias Jones - The Salati Case

‘He always knew where to get money,’ he was muttering to himself.

‘You all right?’ I said.

He just stared at me: ‘Get out,’ he said slowly, ‘get out.’

I stood in an empty doorway and watched the shop for a few minutes. Umberto seemed alarmed by the news. If, that is, it really was news to him. It would call into question the character of his mother, just as he was mourning her. It was a hard hit to take, and Salati was the sort to hit back.

I decided to tail him. I went inside the bank opposite the shop. I punched a button for a ticket and sat down in the chairs with the other customers waiting for their number to come up. Through the window I could see Salati Fashions. Laura was in the shop folding shirts and putting them inside open boxes.

Within minutes Umberto marched out pulling on his jacket. I watched him head towards the piazza and followed him up Via Farini. He walked up as far as Solferino and turned left into Via Pestalozzi. Salati held his keys towards a black jeep and both indicators flashed.

I ran towards the cittadella and whistled for one of the taxis by the entrance. One of the white cars drove up and I jumped in.

‘You see the black jeep, follow it.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘This could be expensive.’

‘I’ve got the money. Just don’t lose the jeep.’

The taxi nestled into the traffic a couple of cars behind Salati. He pulled into Passo Buole and on to the Stradone. The four-laner was blocked by impatient, pushy traffic and we were already a few cars behind him by the time we passed the Petitot and the football stadium.

We followed him on to Via Mantova at the next big roundabout. By now the taxi was far behind, struggling to keep up as Salati’s car disappeared. This was the road to Tonin’s house, I thought to myself as my back was pressed into the cushioned seat.

The taxi got stuck behind some Austrian HGV and lost his chance to overtake. He pulled out to try and see Salati, but the on-coming traffic forced him back.

By now Salati must have been far ahead. I knew the left turn to the Tonin place was coming up in a kilometre or two, and took a gamble. I told the taxi to turn left by the bridge. We were outside the Tonin estate within a few minutes. I told him to slow down just beyond the gates and got out. I walked back to the gate and peered through the railings. I could see Salati’s black beast parked under the central cedar that formed an umbrella over the circular drive.

I moved away and waited. I assumed Salati was in there, spitting blood. It was strange he had chosen to come here rather than Tonin’s office in the middle of the city. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see the old man, I thought. It was possible that he was here to see someone else.

I saw Salati come out five minutes later. He was shouting something as the door closed behind him. He got into his car and revved the engine aggressively as he sped off. As the gates opened, I headed back to the taxi but by the time the driver had put out his cigarette, Salati would have been on the tangenziale .

‘Forget it,’ I said to the driver. ‘We’ll stay here.’ I walked back towards the gate. I wasn’t holding many cards, but surprise was always useful. I rang the buzzer.

A woman’s voice: ‘I told you, you’re getting nothing from us.’

‘Was Umberto Salati after money?’

There was silence.

‘Who is this?’

‘Castagnetti.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m an investigator.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I wouldn’t mind coming in.’

There was silence again.

‘What do you want?’ she said again.

‘I was wondering why Umberto Salati just paid you a flying visit.’

There was a crackle and the line went dead. I buzzed again but there was no reply. I stared at the grey gate. It was simultaneously ornate and brutal. Wealth’s lack of taste always surprises me.

The air seemed solid with its freezing fog. It was thickening as the air got colder. I heard the rattle of the delivery vans back on the main road. It was an isolated, melancholy place.

I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the date and the times that Salati had arrived at and left the Tonin estate.

I was looking at the notes when I heard a car slowing down. I looked up and could see the no-nonsense rectangles of Volvo headlights.

Tonin got out. ‘What are you doing hanging around outside my house?’

‘Still looking for answers.’

The man stared at me with veiled anger.

‘I’m interested as to why Umberto Salati should be visiting your house whilst you’re away.’

The man growled, but I could tell he was surprised.

‘You got any ideas?’

‘What do you want from me? I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘Have you?’

The old man just stared at me. He was wearing a black overcoat with a fur trim on the collar. He looked tired and tense. The situation was out of his control and he seemed to know it.

‘What happened to your face?’ he asked.

I ignored him. ‘What did Salati want with your wife?’

Tonin shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I told him that you and his mother were lovers. He didn’t take it well.’

Tonin was shaking his head vigorously. ‘That wasn’t wise.’

‘Why not?’

‘Have you no mercy? Silvia was buried yesterday and already today you’re telling her son…’

He had a point, but I didn’t have time for sensitive types.

‘I just spoke to your wife.’

‘When?’

‘Just now, on the intercom. Not a talkative type is she?’

Tonin looked confused, as if he couldn’t work it out himself. He looked like he was thinking deeply himself and couldn’t find an answer.

He pointed at his car, indicating to me that I should get in. I held up a finger to my taxi driver, suggesting I would only be a minute.

Tonin opened the gate with a remote and revved angrily as it swung open. As he got to the front of the house he braked hard and I heard the gravel smacking the underneath of the car.

The woman was on the phone when we went in. The hall was all marble and terracotta and her voice echoed off all the walls. She was short and slim with hair halfway between blonde and grey. She was wearing a skirt that was shorter than you would expect from someone her age, and it made her look much younger than her husband. From her appearance I guessed she read the fashion magazines, like she still wanted to look good for someone.

She turned round on hearing us and put a palm over the phone: ‘Who’s this?’ She glanced at her husband.

‘A private detective.’

‘You’ve been hanging around outside my house all this time?’ She took her palm away from the phone. ‘I’ll call you back.’

She looked me up and down. ‘You look like a boxer who lost every round. What do you want?’

‘Would you prefer to talk in private?’ I asked gently.

She laughed at the question and its tone.

‘I’ve been commissioned’, I said slowly, ‘by the estate of Silvia Salati to classify the legal status of her son, Riccardo.’

She shot her husband a look that he avoided.

‘I believe you knew Riccardo Salati was your husband’s son?’

She was still staring at her husband. ‘Is that right?’ There were years of resentment in her voice.

‘Why did Umberto Salati come here just now?’

She didn’t have a quick reply and both Tonin and I could see it.

‘He said he wanted to know if it was true. Said how we were to blame for what had happened to his family.’

‘What did he mean?’

‘That he knew our little secret. He kept saying it.’

‘Meaning?’ I looked at Tonin. His eyes were closed.