Tobias Jones - The Salati Case

‘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.