‘But they won’t be open,’ Luisa had said, giving him a hard stare. He wasn’t lying either: he just wasn’t going to his bank, to ask his manager if they’d consider him for a loan, but to Claudio Brunello’s bank. If he couldn’t rely on Pietro to give him the inside track on the sudden appearance of the Guardia di Finanza, then he’d better do some detecting on his own.
‘I’ve got an appointment,’ he had said defiantly, although Luisa had clearly not believed him.
The Banca di Toscana Provinciale looked very shut indeed. Sandro’s heart sank. He took out his mobile and looked at it, pointlessly; he’d tried Pietro on the way down but no answer. All it told him now was that it was almost three o’clock. He peered through the window, a hand shielding his eyes against the smoked glass. He could see two people in there, a tall woman, a man. He moved to the door: opening time was four. He peered in again, and saw the two heads turn to look at him. The taller of the two held up a finger, no.
There was no sign of the woman he’d spoken to yesterday, and his heart dipped. Because she was his only in; and because he’d liked her. She’d been straight, which was rare, in Sandro’s experience. Wary, but honest; she’d trusted him.
What was he going to do in there? In his briefcase — which was beginning to make him feel stupid, carrying it around like a man who’s lost his job and needs to convince the wife he’s still got something important to do — he had the out-of-focus picture of Anna Niescu’s fiance.
Fiance: an untrustworthy word. Engagement wasn’t marriage; it was a promise worth no more than air. Every girl coming gossiping out of senior school for her lunch break was engaged, but not many of them were actually going to get married any time soon.
And now Giuli had a fiance too.
Not that he and Luisa had needed to say it out loud to know what they were thinking. Surely she’s not. But why else did people get engaged? Why had Anna Niescu got engaged? Because they wanted to set up home. Make a family.
Isn’t Giuli too old — for all that?
Inside the bank it looked dead. The three figures had gone further into the interior somewhere. He straightened. On the corner an overweight man in a security guard’s uniform was leaning against a small, cheaply armoured van, lighting up a cigarette in leisurely fashion. Illegally parked. They obviously didn’t go for the premium service at the Banca di Toscana Provinciale.
In his pocket the phone rang. He held the screen up to his face and saw that the call was from Pietro. Slowly he raised it to his ear: since when had his heart sunk at the prospect of talking to his oldest friend?
‘Sorry, mate,’ came the familiar voice down the crackling line. Cheerful, straightforward. Traffic noise in the background. ‘I had to have the phone off, I was getting the preliminary findings. On Brunello’s body.’
‘And?’
‘Well, one or two things.’ Now Pietro’s voice was wary. ‘Look, we need to talk, don’t we?’
‘And his apartment? Been there?’ He was aware of being pushy, but somehow could do nothing about it.
A whistling sigh. ‘Clean.’ Sandro detected a lowering of his old friend’s voice. ‘Unless you count two tumblers washed and upside down on the draining board.’
‘Two. His wife away at the seaside.’ A silence. Could be anything, or nothing: a neighbour round, an old friend, or they could have been there a week, no wife around to put them away.
‘Matteucci there?’ A grunt. ‘Hold on a second.’ Muffled talking as at the other end Pietro, his hand over the receiver, told someone — Matteucci — to go get himself a coffee, something to eat. And then he was back, loud and clear.
‘Jesus,’ said Pietro cheerfully, ‘sticks like glue, that guy. Sometimes I wonder if he’s been sent down here with a mission.’
‘A mission?’ That little prick of anxiety again: he mustn’t get Pietro into trouble. ‘What mission?’
‘A mission to wind me up,’ said Pietro cheerfully. ‘It’s OK. He’ll learn. I guess it’s just that he wants to know everything about everything, and he wants to know it now. He’s young.’
‘You were saying,’ said Sandro. ‘We need to talk.’
Pietro sighed. ‘Impossible to say anything with the girl there,’ he said. ‘Poor kid. Didn’t realize she was so far gone. So pregnant, I mean.’
Sandro grunted. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when Anna Niescu’s time came.
‘At least it wasn’t him on the slab,’ he said. ‘That’s all she was thinking. Could have been worse.’
‘Well,’ said Pietro, hesitating.
‘I know,’ said Sandro. ‘You’re thinking, can’t be just a coincidence, right?’ He turned and peered into the bank’s gloomy interior: a strip light blinked on. They must be close to opening.
‘No,’ said Pietro with finality. ‘Why did he choose that name, of all names?’
‘And this dozy little bank,’ added Sandro. ‘It’s hardly a household name.’ He hesitated. ‘He’s got to have some connection with the bank. A customer? A — a neighbour? And perhaps with Brunello himself.’
‘With Brunello himself,’ repeated Pietro. ‘With — his death too. Perhaps.’
‘All Anna can think is that he’s in danger,’ said Sandro thoughtfully. ‘It hasn’t occurred to her that he might have-’
‘Might have had something to do with Brunello’s death.’
‘Yes,’ said Sandro, without thinking. But there was something in Pietro’s voice. ‘What? Hold on. Preliminary findings, you said?’
Pietro sighed. ‘Looks like some of the injuries were postmortem. Plus there’s the angle of trajectory-’ He broke off, irritable. ‘Injuries not consistent with being struck by a car, after all. There’d have had to be a lot more force than is consistent with the trauma, particularly if a car managed to propel him over the crash barrier. There’d have been more in the way of scratching — I don’t know. The geeks presumably know what they’re talking about.’
Sandro said nothing: he knew what it was like, to have a theory demolished. ‘You’ve talked to his wife,’ he said.
‘Up to a point,’ said Pietro wearily. ‘I told her we’re still not sure, about whether it was an accident after all or — or something else. She’s staying with the woman, his colleague from the bank.’ Pietro sounded thoughtful.
‘Really?’ said Sandro. He could almost hear Pietro’s shrug.
‘She wants to keep the children — out of it, for the moment.’
‘Yes,’ said Sandro, trying not to think of the children. ‘So he — ah — he died somewhere else. Anything on time of death?’
‘He hadn’t eaten in four hours at least, and probably died in the afternoon or early evening of Saturday.’ Pietro cleared his throat. ‘They can work it out from the insect activity.’
Sandro felt his stomach clench even at the memory of the pathology lab. He had grown soft, that was for sure, away from the smell of formaldehyde and carbolic and latex, the bonesaw, the tilted slab and the ceramic trough for bodily fluids draining from the body.
‘Any sign of the car yet?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Pietro. ‘But we’ll find it.’ They would, too, even if it was burnt-out or sunk in a reservoir. ‘I’ll let you know.’
Catching the resignation in his old friend’s voice, Sandro had his shoulder against the hot wall in the shade, feeling his cheeks and forehead bathed in sweat. He loosened his tie. Jesus, he thought. To be out of here.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.
‘No,’ said Pietro. ‘It’s all right. It’s — well. Complicated enough already. The wife, the kids — I just don’t want to be the one tells her he was on the make.’
‘Is that what the Guardia think?’
‘Who knows what they think?’ For a moment Pietro sounded angry, then he sighed. ‘They’re being tight-lipped bastards just now. But it’s obvious. When a bank manager dies in unexplained circumstances — well. He might have been on the make — or someone wanted information out of him. That’s what I’d look for first.’