White Death (16 page)

It was a short walk to the offices of Casa dei Sogni. The agency was empty but for the girl on the front desk.

‘Is the boss in?’ I asked her.

‘Marina? She’s just gone out.’

‘You know where?’

She pulled a large diary towards her and looked at the right-hand page. She tapped it with her finger. ‘There’s some reception at City Hall.’

‘You know what time it starts?’

She looked at her watch. ‘About now.’

I thanked her and she said ‘prego’ cheerfully like she was surprised by gratitude. I looked at her again, trying to weigh up how much she was a close ally of her employer.

‘Do you ever come across a man called Giulio Moroni?’ I asked.

She frowned, looking sideways to the end of her desk. ‘I know the name.’

‘How?’

‘He calls occasionally for Marina.’

‘You’ve never seen him in here?’

She shook her head slowly, like she was thinking about it.

I walked over to City Hall and up the august steps into the main building. I could hear the sound of an amplified voice as I approached the main hall. There was a wall of backs as I
pushed open the door. On stage there were three or four local dignitaries, including Paolo D’Antoni. They were separated from the public by a thick, twisted red cord held up on metallic supports. The man next to D’Antoni was talking proudly about the beauty of the territorio and the projected growth of the city. His sentences were so long and rambling that they managed to disguise the fact that the growth would destroy the beauty.

I saw Giacomo leaning against one wall on the right and gently pushed my way through the crowd towards him.

‘What’s this all about?’ I whispered.

He leant his head against the wall so that he could whisper in my right ear: ‘The publication of the strategic review of urban planning.’

‘What on earth’s that?’

‘It’s the waffle before the business. Makes it look like they’ve got a philosophy to back up their plundering.’ He looked at me wearily, just in case I was in any doubt as to what he thought about it.

I looked round the room. Giulio Moroni was standing against the wall opposite us, staring at me. I offered him a false smile and he looked away. Marina Vanoli was sitting in the middle of the seats, her neck still looking twice as old as her face.

It all felt a bit like a sermon at Mass. No one was really listening. In fact, quite a few were whispering openly amongst themselves. It was just something that had to be gone through, something to justify what came afterwards: the slicing up of the cake, the division of the spoils.

The man was still talking, droning on about what the city
had been like when he was a child. He described the honest poverty of his youth and quoted one or two local poets I had never heard of. He slipped into dialect occasionally to prove he was a man of the people. He had lost his audience long ago, but he wasn’t going to lose the microphone.

It went on for over an hour. Each local dignitary having their say. Giacomo occasionally made a sarcastic comment to me when the idealism got too much.

Afterwards there was a small reception. Flutes of local wine served with minimalist canapés. There were lots of handshakes and back-slaps and cheek-kisses. I watched Paolo D’Antoni seek out Moroni and chat to him for a few minutes. They were standing close to each other, each looking over the other’s shoulder and they spoke into each other’s ear. As soon as they had finished, Moroni left.

I followed him outside and caught up with him.

‘Enjoy it?’ I said when he was half-way down the stairs.

He turned round slowly and snarled at me. ‘Eh?’

I repeated my question.

‘I never enjoy listening to politicians,’ he said. ‘They talk too much.’

‘Don’t they ever tell you anything interesting?’

He stopped walking and turned to look at me. ‘What is it you want? I’m beginning to get tired of you.’

‘I just wondered what your connection is to Paolo D’Antoni and Marina Vanoli.’

His eyelids looked heavy with contempt. ‘There is no connection.’

‘You’ve never put business each other’s way?’

He tried to lift his heavy jowls into a derisive smile. It just
made him look more intimidating. ‘What’s your problem? You haven’t got enough work?’

‘I’m doing OK.’

He sneered. ‘You’re doing OK?’ He flashed his teeth briefly. ‘So why are you following me around like you’ve got a crush on me?’

‘Maybe I have.’

He gave a single exhalation that could have been a laugh or a grunt. ‘Why don’t you get a proper job?’ He lowered his chin. ‘Being a snoop is no career. You’re not doing anything useful for anyone.’

A couple of people came down the steps. We had to move to the side of the staircase to let them pass. Once they were gone, he raised his eyebrows at me. ‘We could do with someone like you in the company. Someone smart, tenacious.’ He nodded. ‘Very good wage. Four thousand clean each month. A chance to get involved in investments whenever you’re ready.’

I chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t work for you if I had starving children to feed.’

His face dropped and his eyelids descended again. ‘You think you’re better than the rest of us, is that it?’

I shook my head and smiled slightly. ‘Not at all. I just think the rest of us are better than you.’

He stared at me briefly, apparently stunned that someone had dared to insult him. ‘You should be careful,’ he whispered.

I watched him walk down the steps muttering to himself.

Gaia was standing under the arches. She was leaning with her back against one of the square columns, her coat hanging vertically down from her shoulders so that I could see her figure silhouetted in the evening light. I stopped walking for a second to look at her. She was stunning in an eccentric way. Her blond hair was glowing in the last of the sunlight and it was so chaotic it looked like she had cut it herself in the dark.

She saw me and bounced herself upright. We brushed cheeks and I could smell a hint of perfume.

‘You hungry?’ I asked, holding the door of the restaurant open.

‘Always,’ she said.

A man in a clean, front-of-house apron shouted ‘Good evening’ from behind a bar. The apron was yellow with a vertical black spoon on the side. He was tall and was cultivating a professorial look with his glasses perched theatrically on the very tip of his nose.

We nodded our greetings and walked towards the bar. It was a cavernous sort of place: bare, beige bricks forming curved alcoves full of dark red bottles.

‘We booked for two. Rinaldi,’ I said.

Gaia looked at me, frowning slightly at the use of a false name.

‘Of course. Let me just go and check if it’s ready. Can I get you a drink whilst you’re waiting?’

‘Malvasia please,’ she said.

‘Two.’

He bent down to open a fridge door. He ripped gold foil off the neck and turned the bottle in one hand so that the cork popped into the palm of the other. He filled two flutes and pushed them across the bar to us, his fingers on their bases. ‘Prego.’

We watched him disappear under an archway.

‘Salute,’ Gaia said, holding up her glass.

‘Salute.’ We clinked glasses and took a swig.

‘You’re a good liar,’ she said, looking at me seriously. ‘I thought your name was Castagnetti.’

‘White lies,’ I said to myself. ‘White lies. White death.’ I stared at the candle on the bar, remembering the flames the other night at Bragantini’s place. It was strange how the same thing could be so soothing or so destructive.

‘Do me a favour.’ I leant closer to her and whispered quickly. ‘Go and stand by that archway and cough loudly if he comes back.’

She frowned slightly again but wandered off holding her glass.

I looked around quickly and went over to a sort of lectern by the end of the bar. I looked at the page where it was open and saw the name Rinaldi and the number. I flicked back to the beginning of the year. Every page had a dozen names and phone numbers. Next to each name was a circled number, presumably the number of diners. I looked up at Gaia who was watching me. She looked the other way and shook her head.

I kept flicking through the bookings looking for Bragantini. He said he had eaten here a couple of weeks ago, so I flicked back to the beginning of the month and went forwards. There, on a Wednesday evening, was his name and his number.

Gaia coughed. I put the book back to the right day and moved sideways back towards the bar. I heard Gaia waylaying the man in the apron as he approached. I picked up my glass and walked over.

‘Let me show you your table,’ the man said, walking towards the corner of an adjoining room. There were a few other people eating and talking and the room had that relaxing sound of soft voices and active cutlery. As we sat down, he pulled a lighter out of the pouch of his apron and lit a candle.

‘I told you it would be romantic,’ I said as he moved away.

She looked at me askew, to say she wasn’t fooled. ‘Why are we here?’

‘I wanted to take you out to dinner.’

‘What’s the real reason? Something to do with your case, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘And you can’t tell me about it?’

I shook my head. ‘You already know more than most people.’

We picked up the menus. They had thick leather covers, but inside was just one handwritten sheet of paper. The handwriting was flamboyant and illegible.

‘I can’t read this,’ she said.

‘You can probably guess.’ The food round here was
wonderful but, because of that, very predictable. No one ever seemed to get bored of the usual classics and each restaurant had identical menus, if not identical results. I tried to interpret the handwriting: ‘Tortelli, cappelletti, stinco, punta di vitello, bolliti vari …’

We ordered and ate and chatted. She didn’t drink much, but she became more open, telling me about how her father had remarried a few years ago and how she got on with the new woman and their new child.

‘She’s only four. I read her all these fairy tales and you realise after a while how many of them are similar. There’s always something forbidden – a door you shouldn’t open, a box you shouldn’t unlock.’

‘A fruit you shouldn’t eat?’

‘Exactly. Only they always do, and that sets off the story and its morality: the separation from innocence, the dangerous consequences of disobedience, the quest to return home. Either that, or there’s something that is allowed from the outset but only with the promise of repossession, or payment, in the future. There are all these stories of kings being granted their wish, but only if something is given in return a year to the day in the future: their daughter, or wife, or kingdom, or whatever. So they enjoy their wish for a year, and forget about the promise that was extracted, and live blithely and happily. Only the reader knows what’s coming: the troll, or fairy, or mysterious stranger will return and expect the promise to be honoured.’

She was smiling at me with bright, wide eyes, as if I were a child she was reading to. Then she became more serious. ‘In a way, both types of story are fairly similar. They’re about the
price of our curiosity or our desires. They’re about honesty and contracts and conditions.’

She shrugged like she had said enough and didn’t want to bore me. I was watching her closely: the enthusiasm of her hands, the intensity of her eyes. There was something exhilarating about her. She had a combination of childlike simplicity and adult intelligence.

‘You know my ambition?’ she said.

‘Go on.’

‘I want to be a children’s writer.’ She was looking down at her hands like she had said something that might be embarrassing.

‘Seriously?’

She looked up at me and smiled bashfully.

‘You should do it then,’ I said. ‘Write a few stories.’

She shrugged, like she wasn’t sure she would ever get round to it. I leant closer so no one else could hear. ‘This case I’m working on is a bit similar to one of those stories. It’s about someone who was given something if he promised to return it a few months later, only he got used to his new possession and didn’t want to give it back.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Not a happy ending, I’m afraid. I met his widow a day or two ago and promised I would find out who was responsible.’

She looked at me with what I vainly hoped was admiration.

‘Why does everyone call you Casta?’ she asked.

‘Because it’s shorter than Castagnetti.’

‘And what’s your Christian name?’

I laughed. It wasn’t that uncommon round these parts but it still amused people. ‘Yuri,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘Your parents were Communists?’

I nodded wearily.

‘We had two Yuris in our class at school,’ she said.

‘We had a few in school too. It’s like being branded for life: you’re the son of lefties. That’s why I just introduce myself as Casta. It’s less of a logo.’

‘Digestif?’ The owner looked more relaxed now that the restaurant was almost empty.

Gaia asked for a coffee. I didn’t want another drink, but I wanted to get the man sitting down with us, preferably with a bottle in between.

‘Have you got mirto?’

‘Certainly.’

He came back with a purple bottle and poured a generous shot. He left the bottle on the table like it was ours for the evening.

‘Will you join us?’ I asked him.

He smiled graciously like he couldn’t refuse a client’s invitation. He pulled up a chair and twisted it as he picked it up, so that he sat with its back between his thighs.

‘How was your dinner?’ he asked.

‘Buonissima, grazie.’

‘What did you have?’

We spoke idly about food and recipes and about which was the authentic shape of cappelletti: serrated or smooth. I’m fond of food but I get bored talking about it. I poured the man a glass of his own mirto, topped myself up and interrupted.

‘You’re the proprietor, right?’

‘Sure. Have been for thirty-two years.’

I nodded with a slow blink to show respect. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Giulio Morandi.’

I nodded again and pushed him my card.

‘What’s this?’ he said, picking it up. I watched his face drop. He looked from me to Gaia and back at me again. ‘What’s this about?’

‘A client of mine is being threatened. He’s been the victim of arson attacks, threats, that sort of thing.’

He brought his eyebrows down in disapproving sympathy. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

I took out my snap of Davide Pace. ‘You ever seen this lad?’

He looked at it for a second and then passed it back to me. He was shaking his head.

I found the photo of Santagata. I zoomed in on his face and passed him the snap. ‘And this one? Seen him?’

‘Sure.’ He looked up at me and then back at the camera. He tapped the small screen lightly with his finger. ‘He was in here a couple of weeks ago.’

‘For a meal?’

‘No. He came in saying friends of his had booked a table. I did the usual thing and let him wander around to find them. But they weren’t here. We looked in the book and couldn’t find them and that was that. He went out again.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

‘Did he look through your bookings too?’

‘Sure. He didn’t know which of his friends had booked, so I showed him. He looked down the list, didn’t see them, and
that was that. Never saw him again. Never thought any more about it until now.’

‘Could you remember what day it was?’

He jutted his chin out and looked up at the ceiling. ‘No, not really. I suppose I might recognise the names from the book.’ He looked at the table as if trying to work out whether he really would. ‘Hang on.’ He got up and went through to the bar and picked up the book. He laid it on the table and flicked back through the days, shaking his head at each one. ‘Ecco,’ he said eventually. ‘This was the day, I remember these names.’ He chuckled, shaking his head. ‘It’s not every day you have diners next to each other called “Lunghi” and “Corti”.’

He passed the book over to me. It was the same page with Bragantini’s name and home phone number. I must have smiled slightly because he asked me if any of it made sense.

‘Plenty,’ I said.

It made a whole lot of sense. Santagata must have been stalking Bragantini, watching him at home and at work. He must have followed him to this restaurant a week or two ago and realised it was the perfect opportunity to get his number. He came in, made up some story in order to have a look at the book, got the number and wandered off. Until now I only had some loose connections, but now it was beginning to stack up.

‘You’re absolutely sure?’ I asked.

He nodded quickly. I thanked him and told him he might have to testify. He kept nodding like it was no big deal. I thanked him and passed him a couple of notes for the meal.

We wandered out into the cold evening air. I was feeling elated. Gaia put her hand in my arm and we wandered around
the city. There were groups of people still window-shopping late at night, discussing the cut and colour of the clothing on display. It felt like I was on the verge of wrapping up the case: I had the connections, even though they were threadbare: a restaurateur had seen Santagata scamming Bragantini’s number. He didn’t know that’s what was going on, but he had described the scene. Santagata had called Pace and asked for petrol. All I needed was the link between Santagata and Moroni and the whole thing would fall into place. The entire chain of events would become clear.

‘Where are we going?’ Gaia asked.

‘Nowhere in particular. Just wandering.’

‘Where do you live?’

I stopped to look at her. It was one of those innocent questions that had an array of implications. She was staring up at me like she expected me to pick her up and carry her there.

‘I live in the smallest monolocale in the city.’

‘There space for two of us?’

‘We’ll have to squeeze.’

We walked towards my apartment. It felt like there was a bond between us now. All I could think about was what we would do when we got there. It felt as if our leisurely stroll had turned into a sprint.

I opened the door to the apartment block and, out of habit, looked at the thin vertical strip of glass that was my personal postbox. There was something in there so I opened up, pulling out a small envelope. Nothing was written on the outside. The envelope wasn’t flat but slightly bulging like those envelopes that contain a birthday card with a badge on
them. I shook it from one corner and the small bulge moved easily inside the envelope like it wasn’t attached to anything.

I ripped it open, knowing instinctively what I would find. The slug of metal looked innocent enough on its own. It was still and harmless. But the message was clear. The next bullet wouldn’t come in an envelope. I could feel my heart beating, I could hear the pulse in my ears. I knew it was the kind of warning they only give once. There wouldn’t be any more communication. I either dropped the case or they dropped me.

‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I heard her cheerful voice from what seemed like a hundred metres away.

I put the envelope back in my slot and turned around. I took her roughly by the arm and led her back out.

‘What’s going on?’ she said.

I didn’t even want to explain. I wanted her as far away from me as possible. I wanted her in another city, another country. I didn’t want her soiled by the sleazy world I was mixed up in. I looked left and right as we walked back onto the road, checking to see if there were any parked cars with snooping drivers inside. Couldn’t see anything unusual. I still had my hand on her upper arm as I marched her towards a taxi stand.