White Death (2011)

by Jones, Tobias

  He told me to be at the l’Oca d’Oro in half an hour. I had been there once before. It was a smart restaurant in the middle of the city: starched cream tablecloths, beautiful waitresses wearing maroon aprons that were longer than their skirts. It was spacious and relaxed, the kind of place that has only one small table per room.

  I got there before him and gave his name to the woman by the door. She went and looked in her book and led me into a quiet, cool room. They had left some of the old beige bricks unplastered. It looked odd, these snakes of wall left bare just so that you could admire some masonry. I heard other people coming in, giving their names and being led to other rooms.

  By the time Bragantini rolled up, I was half-way through a bottle and had reduced the basket of bread to a few crumbs. He sat down looking tired and defeated. The halo of white hair around his bald head was unbrushed and his eyes had dark rings around them. He didn’t even say hello, just nodded at me and reached for the bottle. He raised his glass and threw it back.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘They’re trying to put everything on me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There was an inspection at the factory yesterday. What’s left of it. They wanted to run checks on the employment records. They seemed more concerned about the fact that Tommy wasn’t regularised than the fact that he’s dead.’

  ‘He was an illegal?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he said defensively. ‘I didn’t ask. He was just someone to keep an eye on the place.’ He looked at me as if expecting a reproach. ‘There’s hardly a company in the country that doesn’t employ illegals. They’re cheaper, more reliable.’

  ‘Slaves normally are,’ I said.

  He bristled and raised his voice. ‘They get the job done. To me they’re human beings like any other. I don’t care whether they’re legal, illegal, whether they’ve got two wives or three balls. As long as they get the job done I’m happy.’

  ‘Tommy didn’t exactly get the job done.’

  ‘No,’ he said, staring at his glass. He took another gulp. ‘But normally they do, that’s the irony. Illegals work harder than any of the regulars. Work day and night if you want them to. Never make any trouble.’

  That’s why companies hire illegals, I thought to myself. Employers can pay them a pittance and treat them like dogs. They have no rights and the threat of turning them over to immigration is better than any whip or chain.

  ‘Did they find other illegals on your books?’

  ‘There aren’t any books left,’ he said bitterly. He leant forward and rubbed his temples with the balls of his hands. ‘Listen, I’m very grateful for what you’ve done.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’ I had a bad feeling that he was about to cut me loose. ‘I’ve only just started.’

  ‘I’m grateful. You’ve put in a lot of work. I thank you for that.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But any further investigation on your part would be a waste of your time and, if I may say so, a waste of my money.’

  I looked at him. He was different: no longer the self-made man at war with the world. He seemed to be hiding behind the formality of his new-found pomposity. Someone must have got to him and struck a deal.

  ‘As soon as you issue an invoice for your fee and expenses, your bill will be settled.’

  I looked at him with disdain. ‘That’s it then?’

  He stared at the table and nodded.

  ‘A day or two ago you were imploring me to go after the mob that torched your car. And then to stop at nothing to find out who lit the match under Tommy’s bed. And now you’re telling me there’s no point.’ He was looking at the menu, pretending to be concentrating on something else. ‘Who got to you?’

  He was too embarrassed even to look me in the eyes. Until then I had assumed he was scared, that someone had been threatening his family again, or whispering in his ear about how dark and cold a prison cell could be. But he looked embarrassed. ‘This case is closed,’ he whispered.

  ‘Not for me it’s not.’

  He looked up at that. ‘You’re no longer employed by me.’

  ‘You’re worried about your family?’ I wanted to hear his excuses.

  ‘It’s not just that.’ He was still whispering, looking over his shoulder as he spoke. ‘I’ve lost my business, lost the factory I built up over decades. I’ve lost my reputation. And now I’m likely to lose my freedom as well.’

  ‘I get it,’ I said.

  ‘No. No you don’t. You don’t know who these people are.’

  ‘I’m beginning to get an idea.’ I looked at him, sitting there eating his lower lip. ‘You’re going to be prosecuted for criminal negligence or something. They’re going to pin a white death on you.’

  ‘There’s a chance they might not.’

  ‘If what?’

  He closed his eyes like he was ashamed to admit he was contemplating a cop-out.

  ‘If you sell up? I didn’t think that it was so easy to cut deals with justice.’

  ‘They’ll still go through with the preliminary investigations and all that. There will be interrogations and interviews, but it will get buried.’

  ‘Who told you all this?’

  He stared at the bottle like he hadn’t heard. I asked him again.

  ‘There’s someone who’s put in an offer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I told you it’s finished. I don’t want you interfering any more.’

  ‘Someone’s offered to buy your place? Who? We agreed you would let me know if anyone approached you.’

  He sighed heavily, like I had reminded him of some youthful idealism that now seemed pointless. ‘I just’, he juddered, ‘have to sell. Otherwise, I’ll be dragged through the courts for decades.’

  I could hardly blame him. Most people fold when confronted with the Italian justice system. The thought of being taken through the courts and the cronache for years and years was horrifying. It might never end. Each time you tried to clear your name it would be out there again, the allegations and accusation reprinted and rehashed. Even just the thought of it had broken Bragantini’s resolve.

  ‘What makes you think that selling your place will help you avoid prosecution?’

  He raised his shoulders slowly. ‘They haven’t got much of a case anyway. There’s no evidence I even employed the boy,’ he said, avoiding my stare. ‘It’s quite likely he was the one that actually lit the fire.’

  I smashed my palm on the table. ‘I don’t care what deal you cut with who, but don’t try and put that poor boy on it in your place. Pretend you didn’t employ him if you must, but don’t make out he was responsible for all this.’

  ‘I’m just trying to see it from a prosecutor’s point of view.’

  ‘Try to see it from Tommy’s point of view.’

  ‘He doesn’t have one any more,’ he said quickly. He looked down at his hands. I could hear his nails clicking nervously one against the other like the sound of a radiator warming up.

  ‘Just tell me who made you an offer. That’s all I need to break this case wide open.’

  ‘It wasn’t even an offer. It was just an informal chat.’

  ‘Who?’

  He stared at me. A waitress came and stood at his elbow, but he raised an index finger without looking at her and she walked away.

  ‘Allora?’ I said. I felt like he was almost off-balance, ready to fall. I just needed to nudge him in the right place.

  His head was hung low, his chin resting on his chest now. All I could see was the top of his head, but his voice was quiet and clear. ‘Somebody came to see me the other day. Said they could help me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He was called Bruno. Young man. You know, dressed smartly. Wore a suit like it was the first one he had ever bought. Left me a number and told me to think about it.’

  ‘Give me the number.’

  He sighed and didn’t move. Eventually he pulle
d open his jacket and took a sheet of paper from the inside pocket. He let it drop on the table like he was chucking losing cards back to the dealer. I picked it up and saw the name ‘Bruno Santagata’ written next to a mobile number.

  ‘I’ll keep this,’ I said. I took out my pen and notebook and wrote the name and number for him. I ripped it out and passed it over. I put the original in my pocket.

  ‘Have you called him yet?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘And I don’t want you interfering any more.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what all this is about?’

  ‘It seems fairly obvious. Someone wanted to buy my factory, so they started playing with matches. If that young man hadn’t been killed I could have told them where to go, but I can’t. I’m facing an interminable investigation. If I hadn’t listened to you …’

  ‘You didn’t,’ I interrupted. ‘I told you to hire a security guard, not the latest person off the boat.’

  He sighed heavily. The waitress came to our table again, standing at a distance as if she could feel the tension. ‘Una tagliata,’ he said to her. ‘And another of these,’ he lifted up the bottle by its neck.

  She looked at me, but I told her I wasn’t eating. I had all I needed from the encounter.

  ‘Do you even know why they want to buy the factory?’ I asked him.

  He didn’t reply but just stared at me sorrowfully. I thought I could at least tell him what was happening and why.

  ‘There’s another businessman in the city whose car was burnt a year or two back. Then the threatening phone calls, just like you. He decided to sell. And within a few months he discovered his factory was within the new development belt of the city and that the people he had sold to had doubled their investment. You know what the piano regolatore is?’

  He nodded wearily.

  ‘The new piano is going to be published this autumn. This Bruno, whoever he is, will be given a green light to develop your factory. And at that point he will probably sell to Masi Costruzioni and make a mint.’

  He was still staring at me, his bottom lip protruding in disdain. ‘I can’t stay there, I just can’t. They’ll drag me through the courts for years.’

  ‘And you think they won’t just because you sell up?’

  ‘That’s what this Bruno said. He seemed sure it would all go quiet.’

  ‘Sounds like I should have a chat with him. Buon appetito.’ I stood up and walked out.

  By the entrance to the restaurant I saw a woman at the door welcoming a couple into the establishment. She smiled, asked their names and went to find their booking in her wide diary. She walked them to their table and then came back to her station, smiling at me. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said slowly, still trying to work out what to do. ‘I was expecting to see friends here,’ I tried to look lost, ‘and it doesn’t look like they’ve turned up.’

  ‘Let me check if they’ve got a booking.’ She picked up her bible and brought it over to me. ‘What was their name?’

  ‘Ferrari,’ I said, picking the most common.

  She looked down the page, flicked it forwards and backwards. ‘Nothing here.’

  ‘Could I just …?’ I motioned to take the book from her. ‘They sometimes book under his wife’s name, they might have used …’

  She passed it over to me. ‘Prego.’

  I saw the name Bragantini in capital letters, with a number next to it. A landline number judging by the familiar prefix.

  ‘Nope,’ I said, ‘I must have the day wrong.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Can I ask something I’ve always wondered about restaurants? When you take a booking, do you always take the person’s phone number?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just in case. It normally stops people failing to honour their booking if they know we’ve got their number.’

  ‘And every restaurant does that?’

  ‘Every place I’ve ever worked in, sure.’

  I smiled at her. ‘I’ll just have one last look, if I may.’ I gestured towards the tables. ‘I might have missed them.’

  ‘Prego,’ she said.

  I walked back to where Bragantini was sitting. ‘Who booked the table?’

  ‘Eh?’ He turned round.

  ‘Who booked the table?’

  ‘Valentina. Why?’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘The housekeeper. Why?’

  ‘Just an idea,’ I said, walking away.

  Outside the restaurant I phoned the number I had memorised.

  A woman answered. ‘Bragantini household,’ she said.

  ‘Valentina?’

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘My name’s Castagnetti, I’m a private detective hired by Bragantini.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said more cautiously.

  ‘You booked a table at the l’Oca d’Oro restaurant for this lunchtime, right?’

  ‘I did.’ She had the usual defensive formality of domestic staff.

  ‘And you left this number, Bragantini’s home number, with them?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I just need to know one thing. Which other restaurants have you booked for him in the last year?’

  ‘Only the Oca and the Cucchiaio.’ She paused. ‘That’s it really. He doesn’t normally eat anywhere else.’

  ‘And they always ask you to leave a number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you always leave the house number?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want Dottor Bragantini to be disturbed at work for something social.’

  ‘Rightly so.’ I said. ‘Thank you, signora.’

  I looked at the piece of paper Bragantini had given me. I looked at the number and the unfamiliar name: Bruno Santagata. I took out my phone and dialled.

  The person who answered had a young man’s voice. I gave him the usual story: that I was a courier trying to deliver a package but couldn’t read the address. I asked him to give me a location where I could deliver. He gave me a street and number, said it was near the hospital.

  A few minutes later I was round there. I rang the buzzer and he eagerly buzzed me into the building as if I were Father Christmas. ‘Fourth floor,’ he said. I took the lift.

  He was standing in front of his door as the lift doors pulled apart. He looked me over quickly. ‘Where’s the package?’ he said.

  ‘No package.’

  He half smiled like it was a joke he didn’t understand. He stood there waiting for me to deliver the punchline if not the parcel. He must have been mid-twenties and was dressed like a student: baggy trousers, a T-shirt with some slogan on it. He hadn’t shaved for a week and it didn’t look like his hair had seen shampoo this side of Christmas.

  ‘You’re Bruno, right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Mind if I come in.’ I brushed past him into his flat. It was small and untidy. There was a computer console in front of a huge television. The curtains were drawn and the only light in the room was coming from some imaginary racing track on the screen. The air smelt thick, like the windows hadn’t been opened for months.

  ‘What are you doing?’ His voice sounded weak and nervous behind me.

  I turned round to face him. ‘I hear you’ve made an offer to buy Bragantini’s factory.’

  He shrugged like it was nothing to do with him. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘What are you doing in my flat?’ He sounded out of his depth already.

  ‘I’m asking you a question. Are you putting an offer on Bragantini’s place?’

  ‘It’s one of the investment opportunities I’m investigating.’

  He sounded so full of himself I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Why would you want to buy a burnt-out factory?’

  He stared at me as if he was weighing up whether to raise an alarm. But the opportunity of boasting to a stranger was too great and he took the chance to big himself up. ‘It’s an opportunity. I figure
d the owner would get a good insurance pay-out and might be ready to cash in the rest of his chips.’

  ‘And how does someone like you’, I looked around the room to underline my disdain, ‘find the sort of money needed to buy those chips?’

  ‘I’ve got investors on board.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Moroni?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  I repeated the name but he looked dumber than normal.

  ‘Who gave you Bragantini’s number?’

  ‘One of my investors.’

  ‘What are you intending to do with the land?’

  ‘Make money.’ He smiled at his little joke.

  ‘Doing what exactly?’

  ‘Renovating the place, rebuilding it.’

  ‘Reselling it?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s an investment and investments are sold as well as bought.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said with sarcasm.

  ‘Land is the foundation of our portfolio,’ he went on, not having heard the sarcasm. ‘The yields might not be staggering, but they’re solid and reliable. In this market, anything solid is worth building on.’ His little lecture over, he looked at me with a patronising raise of the eyebrows, as if asking if I had understood. He seemed like a little schoolboy who had learnt all the right words, but didn’t have an ounce of experience to back them up.

  ‘And what gives you the power to call off a judicial investigation?’

  He frowned again, like he didn’t understand the question.

  ‘You told Bragantini that if he sold to you he wouldn’t have the Carabinieri and magistrates on his back.’

  He laughed nervously. ‘Listen,’ he said, still talking down to me, ‘when one is trying to buy a parcel of land, one is obliged to pull all sorts of rhetorical stunts. That was just one of mine. I wanted to make him think I had important backers, the kind of people who could wield that kind of power.’

  ‘And do you?’

  He wasn’t the kind of person to talk himself down. He smiled like a cardinal with a secret. ‘I know people.’

  The poor boy didn’t realise he was just a puppet. Masi or Moroni couldn’t buy the place openly because it still had the stench of arson attached to it. It was still a crime scene and people like that stayed away from police cordons and Carabinieri. But they needed that deal and had sent in a boy to do a man’s job. They had given him a cheque book and told him to go and talk to Bragantini, to soften him up, to whisper about how all the unpleasant investigations could be swept away if only he would sell up. And once the deal had gone through, they would take it off his hands, buy him out and start building some serious profits.