Tobias Jones - The Salati Case

His son Sandro had seemed plausible, but before I had even got to him, it felt wrong. Dall’Aglio would bring him in anyway, and they might find something in his flat, but Sandro had been more concerned about buying his fix than silencing the past. His mother had phoned him, that I knew. But it might just have been, as Dall’Aglio said, a mother phoning her son.

I thought about that. They were talking when I got there on Wednesday. They had been talking on the phone as soon as Umberto Salati had left. I made a note to ask Infostrada how long that little chat had lasted. The only bit I had heard was the end of their chat, when old Tonin and I went in. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she had said.

I’ll call you back, I said to myself. The woman had said it to her son. But there had been only one call. That’s what Dall’Aglio had told me.

It probably wasn’t anything. We all say stuff we never do. But she hadn’t called him back, and mothers normally do. They do everything for their children, especially if there’s only one. They do everything, I repeated, trying to think of all the absurd things my friends allowed their mothers to do. Their ironing, their cooking, their cleaning.

Someone had told me that the Tonin woman made Sandro’s bed and put food in his fridge. It was that receptionist who had said it. Said that the mother came into town to do all his chores.

That was when the penny dropped. How did the woman get around? I kept imagining her stuck in the Tonin villa all day because that’s where I had always seen her. But she spent half her time in the city by the sound of it. Old Tonin had made out his wife was immobile, but it sounded like she got around just fine.

It was late afternoon by now. It was dull outside, the grey turning black. I called the Studio Tonin, but there was no reply.

I called Crespi’s phone. ‘I need Giovanna Monti’s number.’

‘My assistant? Why?’

‘I just do. Where is she?’

‘She left at lunchtime, always does on a Saturday.’

‘What’s her mobile?’

He gave me her number.

‘Any news on those properties?’ I asked impatiently.

‘I’m engaged in other matters this afternoon. I’ll look into it on Monday. What time are you coming round?’

‘When I’m ready.’

I phoned Monti and asked for Serena’s number. She asked me why and I said it was to do with a murder. That put her straight and she gave me the number just to get shot of me.

I dialled the number.

‘Sì.’

‘Serena? Castagnetti.’

‘What now?’

‘I need to ask you just one or two more questions.’

‘Now?’

I listened to the background noise, hoping that I wouldn’t hear a man in the background. ‘You busy?’

‘I’m about to meet friends.’

‘It will only take two minutes,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Bruno’s.’

‘Stay there. I’ll be round in a minute.’

I gathered my stuff quickly. I opened up my bag and checked the contents. The camera was in there. A bit of cash, eight keys, the notebook, the cuffs. I put the pistol in place under my arm and looked around the flat. I picked up a tub of the balm and put it in a pocket.

She was there waiting for me when I walked up to the bar. Bruno’s is a noisy bar at this time on a Saturday. People were raising glasses, laughing hard, shouting at friends on the street. Serena looked even better than I remembered her. She had changed her clothes since leaving the office, and was dressed to go out for the evening. She was unbuttoned at the front, and it was hard not to admire her.

‘What is it now?’ she said.

‘You said something the other day.’

‘What?’

‘You said Sandro’s mother came in to make his bed, fill his fridge.’

‘Did I?’ she said.

‘I just wondered… are you sure about that?’

She laughed nervously. She looked less innocent then. She must have seen what I was thinking because she blushed.

‘You had a thing with Sandro?’

‘It wasn’t even a thing.’

That’s what I mean when I said this city was small. There’s never more than one degree of separation. ‘It’s irrelevant what it was,’ I said. ‘I just want you to be sure about what you’re telling me. You said Teresa Tonin would go to his flat to make his bed and so on.’

‘Sure.’

‘Certain?’

She nodded like she had been responsible for messing up the bed. It wasn’t an image I wanted to linger on.

‘How did she get into town if she doesn’t drive?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she often come in?’

She shrugged.

‘OK, thanks.’

She looked at me. I thought she was about to give an explanation for something, but she just asked if that was it. I said it was and she walked off.

I called after her, remembering the bee balm. ‘Here, take this.’

She turned round and looked at me and then at the tub.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a kind of balm,’ I said. ‘Cures all ailments known to man. I make it from beeswax.’

She looked at me and didn’t know what to do. She took it out of my hand and unscrewed the lid. She smelt it and ran a finger around the surface and looked at it. She wiped it on to her lips. ‘He let me stay in his flat once or twice, that’s all,’ she said.

‘I don’t need to know,’ I said, unsure why she was trying to prove her innocence to me.

‘It’s just you seemed to think…’

‘I’m thinking about other things right now.’

I went back to Borgo delle Colonne and picked up the car. I drove back to La Bassa one last time. I parked in the main square in Sissa and looked around. You couldn’t see further than your nose the fog was so thick, but it meant that voices carried. I could hear the distant shrieks of teenagers. I could hear the old ladies incanting in the church. I walked around the square and saw a bar with little lights strung from one corner to another. Here and there they were hung too low and people had to duck to get in. There seemed to be a pensioners’ dance going on. The music was oompah liscio , but very gentle and quick, so that some of the smoothies looked snappy and sharp. The bar was three deep with men buying amari and beer.

I wandered around for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of Saturday night in a village in winter. I kept thinking about Teresa Tonin, wondering how she got about. I returned to the car and drove on to the Tonin estate. When I got there all the lights were off and the gate was closed.

I needed to get in unannounced, so I parked further up the road and went in on foot.

As soon as I had landed the other side of the railings a dog started barking. It didn’t sound like it was getting closer, but it was going nuts, gnashing and growling somewhere in the distance.

The Tonin place was all in darkness, but the lodge off to the right had lights on. As I walked towards it I guessed this was where the dog was. It was a small cottage with a tidy pile of logs stacked outside.

I rang the bell. The dog kept up his performance and I heard a gruff voice inside telling him to shut up.

The door opened and I saw an old woman I hadn’t seen before. She had the suspicion of a peasant, and held the dog in front of her to remind me who was in charge.

‘Is this where the gardener lives? I’m a friend of the Tonin family. You might have heard Massimo Tonin is in some trouble, and I need to see… I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten his name.’

‘Giulio. Giulio Bocchialini.’

‘You’re his wife?’

She nodded, pulling the dog back from my groin. She was a large woman with soft hair growing around her jawline.

‘Who is it?’ A voice shouted from inside.

‘Was your husband at home on Wednesday night?’ I asked quickly. She didn’t have time to reply when he appeared at her shoulder. It was the gardener I had seen a few days ago. I didn’t know if he had heard the question, but he looked at me with wide, blue eyes.