White Death (2011)

by Jones, Tobias

  ‘Sounds like you had quite a case against him.’

  ‘We did.’ He stared blankly at his desk. ‘We did. Trouble is, it was a case built on suspicions rather than facts.’

  ‘No evidence?’

  ‘Nothing. We knew he had been threatened a bit, but intimidation is a long way from murder. We never even found the murder weapon.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Probably a hammer. He suffered some kind of blow to the temple. It was a very clean, circular blow. Surprisingly deep.’

  ‘And no eyewitnesses, I assume?’

  ‘None.’

  We stared at each other like we were both in a cul-de-sac.

  ‘Who lent him the money? Wasn’t it some bank?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said rolling his eyes like it was a source of suspicion, ‘some bank. Tosti didn’t have any collateral. Didn’t have any earnings to speak of, and this bank lent him six figures to buy a big warehouse.’

  ‘Which bank?’

  ‘Investimenti Emiliani.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Me neither. We looked into it, but it was all straight. Nothing suspicious.’

  ‘Apart from the fact they lent a loser the money in the first place.’

  ‘Right.’

  We looked at each other briefly.

  ‘Who was behind it?’

  ‘Investimenti Emiliani?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘A guy called,’ he put his chin on chest whilst trying to recall the name, ‘Cesare Carini.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  ‘A banker. Investimenti Emiliani was his little sideline.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Milan somewhere. Hang on.’ He rooted through a large box file on his desk and pulled out a beige file. ‘Via dei Mille, 107.’

  ‘And you spoke to him?’

  ‘Gave him a going over, sure. His explanation was that Tosti was some kind of informal società fiduciaria.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That Carini wasn’t really lending Tosti money at all. In layman’s terms, Tosti was just administering the money on behalf of an unnamed third party.’

  I frowned and Speranza leant closer, as if that would make the explanation more straightforward. ‘People always use a fiduciaria to hide who the real beneficiary of a business is. It’s the way they guarantee anonymity.’

  ‘And you were satisfied with that explanation?’

  ‘It made sense from Carini’s point of view. He wasn’t lending hundreds of thousands to a man whose only collateral was a Fiat Duna. He was lending it to the anonymous third party that Tosti was representing.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose Carini told you who stood behind Tosti?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Nothing to do with Masi?’

  ‘Not that we could work out.’ He looked at his watch and leant forward, putting his palms down on his desk like he was about to stand and see me out.

  ‘Just one last thing,’ I said, staying where I was. ‘The widow. Rosaria. Did she come under suspicion?’

  ‘Sure. She came into Tosti’s money when he died so she had a motive.’

  ‘Did she have an alibi as well?’

  ‘The night he was whacked she was in her flat.’

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘With her baby.’

  ‘Not much of a witness.’

  He shook his head. I stood up and we shook hands. He told me to get in touch if I needed anything.

  I found Via Dei Mille and, at 107, a polished brass rectangle announcing the business called Investimenti Emiliani. I pressed the buzzer and a bored voice came on the line.

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘Cesare Carini?’

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘Mind if I come up?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘Investigating what?’ His voice sounded cautious.

  ‘Arson.’

  ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person. I can’t help you.’

  ‘The name Luciano Tosti mean anything to you?’

  The line went quiet.

  ‘You lent him the money to buy some land a year ago.’

  His voice assumed a formal, defensive tone. ‘I’ve spoken at length with the authorities about the case. I have nothing further to add.’

  ‘The case is being reopened.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said hastily. ‘I hope they find the person responsible.’

  ‘You want to help me with that?’

  ‘I lent him money.’ The voice was losing its cool. ‘That’s all.’

  The line went dead. I buzzed again but nothing happened. I took out one of my cards and posted it through the letter box.

  I phoned a friend who worked in construction. He was one of those all-purpose labourers who’s always doing a dozen jobs at the same time. Until recently he was earning more than a stockbroker.

  ‘Spago? It’s Casta.’

  ‘Ciao grande. Come va?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Still above ground. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Let me take you out to lunch.’

  ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘I need to pick your brains.’

  ‘You got tweezers?’

  ‘Very funny. Bruno’s at one?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I put my phone back in my pocket and started the drive back to Parma. I spent most of it thinking about Spago. He’s an unusual character, one of those people who knows everyone and vice versa. Most people could recognise him just by his silhouette: an afro of grey curly hair that starts nearer the back of his head than the front. He always wears white overalls and drives around the city in a heavily dented pick-up full of bags of cement, bits of hose, random screws and keys and crowbars. He’s an old-fashioned idealist, one of the last hard-core communists of Emilia-Romagna. He’s always slagging off the careerist left-wingers as ‘cashmere communists’. The worst they ever said about him is that he’s naive.

  ‘I’ve heard it’s slow,’ I said to him an hour later when he came into the bar, shouting hellos left and right. He had picked up a couple of flutes of malvasia from the barman on the way.

  ‘Slow’s not the word. It’s static. I’ve got a couple of jobs to finish off and then nothing. No one’s got any cash, or if they have they’re keeping hold of it. The developers haven’t sold even half the flats from last year and don’t have the cashflow to invest in building new ones. So they’re laying off hundreds of workers who are spending less money, cutting back on expensive restaurants and chic clothes. When the cranes aren’t swinging the whole city suffers. People are struggling to buy a packet of cigarettes, let alone a new bilocale on the top floor of a swanky new block. Times are tight, and when times are tight the competition gets nasty.’

  ‘You going to retire?’

  ‘I’ve got two teenage daughters. They spend a hundred euros a week just on tights.’

  ‘And only wear them once?’

  ‘How did you know?’ He laughed.

  I looked at him laughing and smiled. Spago had always grumbled in the good times and was now laughing in the lean ones.

  ‘You’ve heard the latest solution to the crisis?’ He started chuckling again and shaking his head. ‘They want to build an underground railway.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. In this little city. You could throw a stone from one end to the other, but they want to build a metro.’ He said it with scorn.

  ‘Sounds like a decent idea,’ I said, trying to wind him up. I shut the menu and passed it over to him.

  ‘You are joking? Have you any idea how much money and time it will take to complete? Billions and billions of euros. Years and years of stop-start bullshit. The budget will go up every year as every politician dips their bread. And you know this used to be a Roman city? Every time they start drilling they’ll find bones and pots and swords and mosaics, and everything will grind to a halt wh
ilst archaeologists from all over the world pile in to examine the finds. It won’t be finished until you and I are underground ourselves. And why do they want to build it anyway? To get from the railway station to the campus that little bit quicker? It’s crazy.’

  ‘Sounds sensible to me,’ I said again.

  He looked at me, about to rant once more, but saw me smiling and shook his head. ‘Billions of euros. Billions and billions of euros of our taxes just so a few students can save three minutes of travelling time. Cazzo, why don’t they just get out of bed a couple of minutes earlier?’ He looked at me and shook his head again.

  I smiled back and held up my glass. He picked up his and we clinked.

  ‘To the underground,’ I said.

  ‘Cazzo,’ he was still shaking his head, ‘this city needs an underground like a fish needs fresh air.’

  A waitress came to our table.

  ‘For me the tortelli,’ Spago said.

  She looked at me.

  ‘Risotto al limone please.’

  ‘To drink?’

  ‘Water. And something red. A gutturnio. As long as it’s still. Or sangiovese.’

  She nodded and went away and Spago continued his rant.

  ‘They keep trying to improve this city and every time they try they lose something of the soul of the place. Look at la ghiaia. For centuries it’s been a sort of trading pit. You know, you descended from the grandeur of the boulevards with their marble urns and pillars and pediments, and you walked down the steps into a democratic marketplace, our bustling souk where farmers and artisans could trade gossip and goods with the bourgeoisie and aristocrats. It was the one place in this city where everyone mixed, where the poorest immigrant rubbed shoulders with the fur-coated casalinga. It was where the poor went to buy their socks and where the rich went to buy their artichokes. So what have they done with it?’

  My head bounced as I exhaled in derision.

  ‘It’s now going to become a car park and a shopping mall.’ Spago shook his head in disbelief. ‘And they had only just finished a car park and shopping mall the other side of town. How many car parks and malls do we need?’

  Spago was one of the few people in the world who got better when he was self-righteous. Because although he was earnest he would also smile, like some people’s stupidity amused him, and he wanted to amuse you too by showing what daft things they had done.

  ‘I’m not against innovation,’ he went on. ‘I know we need investment, new enterprises and so on. But we can’t just pour concrete everywhere. You remember that fiasco with Piazzale della Pace? For ages they had it fenced off whilst they debated who would get the contract to build a car park. And then some genius – I wish I knew who it was – simply said “no, let’s just throw around some grass seed”. And look at it now. It’s one of the most beautiful squares in Italy. People go there to eat their sandwiches. Students sit around and sing songs at dusk. Couples court. Mothers take their children there to run around. There’s our beautiful, bombed Palazzo della Pilotta, the statue of the partisan, there are those lights on the path that cuts from Via Garibaldi to the Palazzo, there are those clear pools of water. That’s what attracts tourists, not somewhere to park their hire car, where a lift takes them to yet another expensive boutique. Cazzo!’

  I nodded, smiling in agreement.

  ‘Anyway,’ he looked at me, ‘you didn’t ask me out to lunch to hear my philosophy of urban development.’

  ‘No.’ I looked at him apologetically. ‘Although that’s sort of what it’s about.’

  ‘Allora?’

  ‘I’m on a case.’

  ‘Always on a case, eh?’

  I nodded and looked at him. ‘Masi Costruzioni,’ I said slowly.

  He blinked slowly and stared at me. ‘You really pick your cases.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Masi?’ He started shaking his head, keeping his eyes on me. ‘Amedeo Masi?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put it this way: that guy’s connected.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  He grunted. ‘A few years ago traffic police stopped that senator from Italia Fiera, what’s his name? Biondani, Biondelli or something. This guy’s just about the most powerful person in the province. The leaves don’t even fall from the trees unless he says so. Anyway, they stopped him for speeding and ran all the usual checks. You can imagine what he was like: spitting fire, threatening to sack all those honest, hard-working vigili because they had had the temerity to waylay their overlord. One of them takes objection and does his job properly. You know what they found? This senator is driving a car, a Mercedes convertible, registered to a company called Masi Costruzioni.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘Nothing came of it because there was nothing illegal going on. Masi came out and said the senator was an old friend of his, and that he often lends spare company cars to his closest friends. But it makes you wonder. What was Masi getting in return? He’s a guy who’s got his hands, as they say, in pasta.’ Spago put his hand out palm down and rotated his fingers underneath his palm.

  The waitress brought along a bottle, showed us the label and pulled off the cork. Spago tasted it and nodded.

  ‘Go on,’ I said as she walked away.

  ‘Have a look online, I’m sure you’ll find loads. Masi’s not exactly been out of the news. There was a thing a few years ago when the Guardia di Finanza did some investigation into tax evasion. I can’t remember what they called the operation. Pandora or Pegasus or something. Basically there are tax incentives for home-owners who do restoration work on historical properties. They get 36 per cent reduction on Irpef, something like that. So the Finanza could work out what companies were charging for restoration work from the tax incentives their clients were claiming, and could compare those charges to the earnings the companies were declaring on their tax returns. Guess what? Masi’s company wasn’t declaring the earnings. There was something like three million euros in unpaid taxes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you think? He spent a night in prison, was bailed, and within a few months there was a general amnesty passed. A useful condono for all those thieving constructors.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Which party passed the amnesty, you mean? Italia Fiera, who else?’ He smiled, shrugging and shaking his head at the same time. ‘Cazzo, if they gave me a three-million-euro rebate, I would happily spend a night in prison. From what I hear, prison in this country is like the golf course in America. It’s where you make contacts and cut deals. If they give you three million for a night, I would stay for a month.’ He was laughing now, raising his wine and talking loudly so that other people could hear. A couple turned round to look at him, smiling at his infectious chuckle.

  ‘This guy,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘this Masi. He’s now building flats on land that someone was forced out of.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘A car has been burnt. Late-night calls. General intimidation.’

  Spago was spinning the wine in his glass, making it fly up the sides so it almost came over the top. He watched it carefully and then let the liquid slow and settle. He took a sip and then leant towards me. ‘They’re building flats, eh? What was there before?’

  ‘A prosciuttificio.’

  ‘So the land has been reclassified?’

  I nodded wearily.

  ‘That’s the way to make money.’ He shook his head. ‘If you know in advance what land is going to be reclassified you can make a mint.’ He prodded an index finger on different parts of the table, like he was pointing out parts of the city where you could strike lucky. Then he looked up at me, nodding meaningfully. ‘Say you’ve got ten biolche of agricultural land, it might be worth a few tonnes of wheat a year, a few thousand gallons of milk, whatever. But if it’s residential, well, it could suddenly be worth millions. That’s when the alchemy happens, when raw soil turns into gold. That’s when the value of land jumps ten-fold. It’s cal
led cambio di destinazione d’uso.’ He clicked the fingers of both hands and then fanned them through the air, thumbs leading the way, like he was a magician.

  ‘Yeah, I heard. The guy who sold the prosciuttificio told me all about it. He’s pretty sore about the whole thing.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. If he hadn’t been forced to sell he would have been sitting on a pot of gold. Who did he sell to?’

  ‘A guy called Luciano Tosti.’

  ‘Who sold to Masi?’

  ‘Right. So I went to pay a visit to Tosti. I got an address for him out in Milan. Only when I get there I find he was killed a year ago.’

  Spago whistled. The food arrived and we just stared at each other as the waitress put the plates in front of us.

  Once she had retreated Spago leant closer. ‘You know the difference between what Tosti bought it for and what he sold it for?’

  I shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. When I went to the Ufficio del Catasto I was only after a name.’

  ‘The difference could be six figures. More. No doubt about it. Not bad money just for writing a cheque and biding your time. And he was working for Masi?’

  I shrugged because I still didn’t have proof. ‘How would Masi know where to buy?’ I asked. ‘How would he know in advance which land was about to be declared residential?’

  Spago rocked his head from side to side as if thinking about it. ‘The most obvious candidate would be the city councillor for urban planning. What do they call that role? The assessore all’urbanistica, something like that. He’s the guy who decides about the piano regolatore, the guy who decides about land usage.’

  ‘I thought there was a commission …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sure, there’s a commission, and it does what the politicians tell it to. They’re all political appointments anyway. How else do you think you get to sit on a commission?’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively and put a large rectangular tortello in his mouth.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes, each thinking about the tangled world of construction. The risotto was good, smooth and creamy but with a hint of grit in the rice and parmesan. Spago refilled our glasses.

  ‘Knowing what land is going to be redesignated’, he said, looking at me through the raised glass, ‘is like knowing which numbers are going to come up in a lottery. I wouldn’t mind knowing myself.’