‘Commissario?’
He came back. ‘Yes, Vianello?’
‘I’ve got a probable identification from those people.’
‘When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t know until this morning. Yesterday afternoon, they looked at a number of pictures, but they said they weren’t sure. I think they were but wanted to talk to their lawyer. In any case, they were back in this morning, at nine, and they identified Pietro Malfatti.’
Brunetti gave a silent whistle. Malfatti had been in and out of their hands for years; he had a record for violent crimes, among them rape and attempted murder, but the accusations seemed always to dissipate before Malfatti came to trial, when witnesses changed their minds or said that they had been wrong in their original identification. He had been sent away twice, once for living off the earnings of a prostitute, and once for attempting to extort protection money from the owner of a bar. The bar had burned down during the two years Malfatti was in jail.
‘Did they identify him positively?’
‘Both of them were pretty sure.’
‘Do we have an address for him?’
‘The last address we had was an apartment in Mestre, but he hasn’t lived there for more than a year.’
‘Friends? Women?’
‘We’re checking.’
‘What about relatives?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. It ought to be in his file.’
‘See who he’s got. If it’s someone close, a mother or a brother, get someone into an apartment near them and watch for him. No,’ he said, remembering what little he knew of Malfatti’s history, ‘get two.’
‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’
‘The papers from the bank and from the Lega?’
‘Both of them are supposed to give us their records today.’
‘I want them. I don’t care if you have to go in there and take them. I want all the records that have to do with the payments of money for these apartments, and I want everyone in that bank interviewed to see if Mascari said anything to them about the Lega. At any time. If you have to ask the judge to go with you to get them, then do it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When you go to the bank, try to find out whose job it was to oversee the accounts of the Lega.’
‘Ravanello?’ Vianello asked.
‘Probably.’
‘We’ll see what we can find out. What about Santomauro, sir?’
‘I’m going to speak to him today.’
‘Is that…’ Vianello stopped himself before asking if that was wise and asked, instead, ‘Is that possible, without an appointment?’
‘I think Avvocato Santomauro will be very interested in talking to me, Sergeant.’
And so it was. The Avvocato’s office was in Campo San Luca, on the second floor of a building that was within twenty metres of three different banks. How fitting that proximity was, Brunetti thought, as Santomauro’s secretary showed him into the lawyer’s office, only a few minutes after his arrival.
Santomauro sat at his desk, behind him a large window that looked out on the campo. The window, however, was tightly sealed, and the office cooled to an almost uncomfortable degree, especially in view of what could be seen below: naked shoulders, legs, backs, arms all passed across the campo, yet here it was cool enough for a jacket and tie.
The lawyer looked up when Brunetti was shown in but didn’t bother to smile or stand. He wore a conservative grey suit, dark tie, and gleaming white shirt. His eyes were wide-spaced and blue and looked out on the world with candour. He was pale, as pale as if it were midwinter: no vacations for those who labour in the vineyards of the law.
‘Have a seat, Commissario,’ he said. ‘What is it you want to see me about?’ He reached out and moved a photo in a silver frame slightly to the right so as to provide himself with a clear view of Brunetti and Brunetti with a clear view of the photo. In it stood a woman about Santomauro’s age and two young men, both of whom resembled Santomauro.
‘Any one of a number of things, Avvocato Santomauro,’ Brunetti replied, sitting opposite him, ‘but I’ll begin with La Lega della Moralità.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask my secretary to give you information about that, Commissario. My involvement is almost entirely ceremonial.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean by that, Avvocato.’
‘The Lega always needs a figurehead, someone to serve as president. But as I’m sure you’ve already ascertained, we members of the board have no say in the day-to-day running of the affairs of the Lega. The real work is done by the bank director who handles the accounts.’
‘Then what is your precise function?’
‘As I explained,’ Santomauro said, giving a minimal smile, ‘I serve as a figurehead. I have a certain – a certain, shall I say stature? – in the community, and so I was asked to become president, a purely titular post.’
‘Who asked you?’
‘The authorities at the bank which handles the accounts of the Lega.’
‘If the bank director attends to the business of the Lega, then what are your duties, Avvocato?’
‘I speak for the Lega in those cases when a question is put to us by the press or when the Lega’s view is sought on some issue.’
‘I see. And what else?’
‘Twice a year, I meet with the bank official charged with the Lega’s account to discuss the financial status of the Lega.’
‘And what is that status? If I might ask.’
Santomauro laid both palms on the desk in front of him. ‘As you know, we are a non-profit organization, so it is enough to us that we manage, as it were, to keep our head above water. In the financial sense.’
‘And what does that mean? In the financial sense, that is.’
Santomauro’s voice grew even calmer, his patience even more audible. ‘That we manage to collect enough money to allow us to continue to bestow our charitable bequests upon those who have been selected to receive them.’
‘And who, if I might ask, decides who will receive them?’
‘The official at the bank, of course.’
‘And the apartments which the Lega has in its care, who is it that decides to whom they will be given?’
‘The same person,’ Santomauro said, permitting himself a small smile, then added, ‘The board routinely approves his suggestions.’
‘And do you, as president, have any say in this, any decision-making power?’
‘If I were to choose to use it, I suppose I might have. But, as I’ve already told you, Commissario, our positions are entirely honorary.’
‘What does that mean, Avvocato?’
Before he answered, Santomauro placed the very tip of his finger on his desk and picked up a small speck of dust. He moved his hand to his side and shook it, removing the speck. ‘As I said, my position is merely titular. I do not feel that it would be correct, knowing so many people in the city as I do, for me to attempt to select those who might profit in any way from the charity of the Lega. Nor, I am sure and if I might take the liberty of speaking for them, would my fellow members of the board.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, making no attempt to disguise his scepticism.
‘You find that hard to believe, Commissario?’
‘It would be unwise of me to tell you what I find hard to believe, Avvocato,’ Brunetti said and then asked, ‘And Signor Crespo. Are you handling his estate?’
It had been years since Brunetti had seen a man purse his lips, but that is precisely what Santomauro did before he answered. ‘I am Signor Crespo’s lawyer, so of course I am handling his estate.’