‘What’s the hard way?’
‘That you say you know nothing about any of this.’
‘About any of what?’ Malfatti asked.
Brunetti pressed his lips together and glanced up at the window for a moment, then back at Malfatti.
‘What’s the easy way?’ Malfatti asked after a long time.
‘That you tell me what happened.’ Before Malfatti said a word, Brunetti explained, ‘Not about the rents. That’s not important now, and it will all come out. But about the murders. All of them. All four.’
Malfatti shifted minimally on the mattress, and Brunetti had the impression that he was going to question that number, but then Malfatti thought better of it.
‘He’s a respected man,’ Brunetti continued, not bothering to explain whom he meant. ‘It’s going to come down to his word against yours, unless you’ve got something to link him to you and to the murders.’ He paused here, but Malfatti said nothing. ‘You’ve got a long criminal record,’ Brunetti continued. ‘Attempted murder and now murder.’ Before Malfatti could say a word, Brunetti continued in an entirely conversational voice, ‘There’s not going to be any trouble proving that you killed Ravanello.’ In answer to Malfatti’s surprised glance, he explained, ‘The old woman saw you.’ Malfatti looked away.
‘And judges hate people who kill police, especially policewomen. So I don’t see it any other way but a conviction. The judges are bound to ask me what I think,’ he said, pausing to be sure he had Malfatti’s complete attention. ‘When they do, I’ll suggest Porto Azzurro.’
All criminals knew the name of the prison, the worst in Italy and one from which no one had ever escaped; even a man as hardened as Malfatti could not disguise his shock. Brunetti waited a moment, but when Malfatti said nothing, he added, ‘They say no one knows which are bigger, the cats or the rats.’ Again, he paused.
‘And if I do talk to you?’ Malfatti finally asked.
‘Then I’ll suggest to the judges that they take that into consideration.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’ Brunetti hated people who killed police, too.
Malfatti took only a moment to decide. ‘Va bene,’ he said, ‘but I want it in the record that I volunteered this. I want it put down that, as soon as you arrested me, I was willing to give you everything.’
Brunetti got to his feet. ‘I’ll get a secretary,’ he said and went to the door of the cell. He signalled to a young man who sat at a desk at the end of the hall, who came into the room with a tape recorder and a pad.
When they were ready, Brunetti said, ‘Please give your name, place of birth, and present residence.’
‘Malfatti, Pietro. Twenty-eight September, 1962. Castello 2316.’
It went on like this for an hour, Malfatti’s voice never displaying any greater involvement than it did when answering that original question, though the story that emerged was one of mounting horror.
The original idea could have been Ravanello’s or Santomauro’s: Malfatti had never cared enough to ask. They had got his name from the men on Via Cappuccina and had contacted him to ask if he would be willing to make the collections for them every month in return for a percentage of the profit. He had never been in doubt as to whether he would accept their offer, only about the percentage he would get. They had settled at twelve, though it had taken Malfatti almost an hour of hard bargaining to get them to go that high.
It was his hopes of increasing his own take that had led Malfatti to suggest that some of the legitimate earnings of the Lega be paid out in cheques to people whose names he would supply. Brunetti cut off Malfatti’s grotesque pride in this scheme by asking, ‘When did Mascari find out about this?’
‘Three weeks ago. He went to Ravanello and told him something was wrong with the accounts. He had no idea that Ravanello knew about it, thought that it was Santomauro. Fool,’ Malfatti spat in contempt. ‘If he had wanted, he could have got a third out of them, an easy third.’ He looked back and forth between Brunetti and the secretary, asking them to share his disgust.
‘And then?’ Brunetti asked, keeping his own disgust to himself.
‘Santomauro and Ravanello came to my place about a week before it happened. They wanted me to get rid of him, but I knew what they were like, so I told them I wouldn’t do it unless they helped. I’m no fool.’ Again, he looked at the other men for approval. ‘You know what it’s like with people like that. You do a job for them, you’re never free of them. The only way to be safe is to make them get their hands dirty, too.’
‘Is that what you told them?’ Brunetti asked.
‘In a way. I told them I’d do it but that they’d have to help me set it up.’
‘How did they do that?’
‘They had Crespo call Mascari and say he’d heard he was looking for information about the apartments the Lega rented and that he lived in one of them. Mascari had the list, so he could check. When Mascari told him he was leaving for Sicily that evening – we knew that -Crespo told him he had other information to give him, that he could stop on the way to the airport.’
‘And?’
‘He agreed.’
‘Was Crespo there?’
‘Oh, no,’ Malfatti said with a snort of contempt. ‘He was a delicate little bastard. Didn’t want to have anything to do with it. So he took off – probably went and hit the pavements early. And we waited for Mascari. He showed up at about seven.’
‘What happened?’
‘I let him in. He thought I was Crespo, didn’t have any reason not to. I told him to sit down and offered him a drink, but he said he had a plane to catch and was in a hurry. I asked him again if he wanted a drink, and when he said no, I said I wanted one and walked behind him to the table where the drinks were. That’s when I did it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I hit him.’
‘With what?’
‘An iron bar. The same one I had today. It’s very good.’
‘How many times did you hit him?’
‘Only once. I didn’t want to get blood on Crespo’s furniture. And I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted them to do that.’
‘And did they?’
‘I don’t know. That is, I don’t know which one of them did it. They were in the bedroom. I called them and we carried him into the bathroom. He was still alive then; I heard him groan.’
‘Why the bathroom?’
Malfatti’s glance showed that he was thinking he’d overestimated Brunetti’s intelligence. ‘The blood.’ There was a long pause, and when Brunetti didn’t say anything, Malfatti continued, ‘We laid him down on the floor, and then I went back and got the iron bar. Santomauro had been saying that we needed to destroy his face – we’d planned it all, put it together like a puzzle, and he had to be unrecognizable so there would be enough time to change the records in the bank. Anyway, he kept saying that we had to destroy his face, so I gave him the bar and told him to do it himself. Then I went back into the living-room and had a cigarette. When I came back, it was done.’
‘He was dead?’
Malfatti shrugged.
‘Ravanello and Santomauro killed him?’
‘I’d already done my share.’
‘Then what?’
‘We stripped him and shaved his legs. Jesus, what a job that was.’
‘Yes, I imagine so,’ Brunetti permitted himself. ‘And then what?’
‘We put the make-up on him.’ Malfatti paused a moment in thought. ‘No, that’s wrong. They did that before they hit his face. One of them said it would be easier. Then we put his clothes back on him and carried him out, like he was drunk. But we didn’t have to bother; no one saw us. Ravanello and I took him down to Santomauro’s car and drove him out to the field. I knew about what goes on out there, and I thought it would be a good place to dump him.’
‘What about the clothes? Where did you change them?’
‘When we got there, out in Marghera. We pulled him out of the back seat and stripped him. Then we put those clothes on him, that red dress and everything, and I carried him over to a place at the other side of the field and left him there. I stuffed him under a bush so it would take longer for him to be found.’ Malfatti paused for a moment, summoning memory. ‘Ravanello stuffed the shoes into my pockets. I dropped one beside him. They were Ravanello’s idea, the shoes, I think.’