‘I don’t know,’ he said, aware how lame this sounded. Then sat upright. ‘At least, I believe he only passed himself off as Claudio Brunello to one person. A limited deception.’
So far that was true, but then again he had not so far tracked down another human being who had been introduced formally to Anna Niescu’s fiance. His spirits sagged further: so what if he was only thirty-six hours into this investigation? He’d got nowhere.
The young — well, youngish — man put his head around the door. Sandro had glimpsed him on the way in. The male version of Miss Goldman, perhaps, glossy hair, crisp collar.
They’d been in the middle of something when he’d knocked at the window, no doubt prompted by the Guardia di Finanza’s disappearance for lunch, and after reluctantly allowing him in, Marisa Goldman had concluded their talk without reference to Sandro, who was standing there like a fool. It had turned out to be nothing to do with officialdom, as far as he could tell — more like the usual office bitching.
‘It’s too much,’ Marisa Goldman had been saying. ‘If her mother needs — care, well, she should organize that. If she wants to be a professional. Calling her at work, God knows how many times a day, saying her mobile’s engaged and where is she? Rabbiting on to me about God knows what. Intruders? Delivery men?’
This woman, this Marisa Goldman, obviously had no time for mothers. Had she not had one of her own? Sandro had stayed silent, trying not to think about what would happen to his country if old women, old mothers, were no longer given respect.
The young man, retreating behind his cash desk, had looked pained, to his credit: had tried to defend whoever it was needed defending. Sandro saw a photograph of a motorbike pinned up behind the boy’s workstation. That was what they called them, workstations. The word made Sandro feel ill. He was beyond it now, wasn’t he? He’d never be able to knuckle down to office life again.
‘We’ve got ten minutes,’ the young man said now, looking earnestly at his boss. ‘Then I’ll open up, right? Do you — um — need me in here?’
And the penny dropped: Sandro remembered. This was the guy he was going to talk to when he got back from his lunch break, the one Roxana Delfino said spoke to a woman calling for Claudio Brunello. What was his name?
‘No, Valentino,’ said Marisa Goldman impatiently. Val, Roxana Delfino had called him. That would be him. Sandro eyed him covertly. ‘We don’t need you.’
‘Well, I-’
Sandro interrupted diffidently. ‘There was a phone call, wasn’t there? Miss, ah, Miss Delfino said you took a call.’
‘A call?’
Slowly something dawned in Valentino’s eyes. Could this boy be as dozy as he looked? Sadly, Sandro suspected that he could. Pampered kid: if you rated witnesses on a scale of one to ten, well-bred young men would be about a one and a half. They could hardly see further than the shine on their own shoes. Mean old ladies: now, they’d be up in the nines.
‘A call,’ he repeated patiently. ‘On Monday? From a woman?’
‘Yeah, that was stupid,’ Valentino said, almost but not quite shamefaced. You could say that, thought Sandro. How come this guy has a job? It occurred to Sandro that there might be circumstances in which you would need your employees not to notice stuff.
‘I guess it was his wife, trying to track him down,’ Valentino faltered. ‘Poor lady.’ He grimaced.
‘You guess?’ Marisa Goldman looked at the limits of her patience, staring at Valentino.
‘Well, she was pretty over the top. Is Claudio there? Just tell me if Claudio’s there, she kept saying. She didn’t actually say who she was before she hung up. I suppose maybe she thought I knew.’
Sandro looked at him. Trying to decide whether anyone could really be so dumb, or so uninterested. And found that the thing he didn’t want to think about was that calm and dignified woman, screaming down the phone.
Marisa Goldman turned to Sandro. ‘It was his wife. Irene Brunello is staying with me, now. She told me that she was phoning all over the place to try to track him down.’ She spoke stiffly.
‘She’s staying with you?’ Sandro could not stop himself raising his eyebrows at that. But Marisa Goldman was frowning as if already regretting saying anything at all, turning away from Sandro to the door.
‘Valentino, go and find Roxana, will you? We can’t open like this. Where on earth has she got to?’
The head withdrew, the door closing smartly behind him. And there was the poster again: Look ahead! Get in line! Sandro remembered with a sinking heart that he had still to ask his own bank manager about a mortgage.
‘Perhaps I could talk to him when he gets back,’ said Sandro, almost to himself.
‘Perhaps,’ said Marisa Goldman. ‘But perhaps he will be otherwise engaged.’
‘Miss Delfino was exceptionally helpful,’ said Sandro and immediately regretted it when Marisa Goldman’s eyes narrowed. Was she wondering how many of the bank’s secrets her colleague might have given away? ‘Look,’ he heard himself pleading now. ‘I understand this is a difficult time. Of course I am acting in my client’s interests but — ’ and he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest ‘-but it is possible there may be a connection. With your boss’s death. It may help the police if we can trace this man. Don’t you see?’
‘You think he has something to do with Claudio’s death?’ Marisa Goldman’s whole stance had changed, become stilled, intent. Arms on the desk, she leaned forwards, closer to him. ‘Who is your client?’
‘I–I don’t think-’
‘Look,’ said Marisa Goldman, speaking carefully. ‘If you want me to respond to your questions — ’ and she darted a glance at the office next door ‘-now of all the moments to choose, you must at least answer mine.’
Sandro regarded her, thinking furiously. ‘There is such a thing as client confidentiality,’ he said.
‘Like with doctors?’ Marisa Goldman replied, raising her eyebrows sardonically. This was better than her coldness, but Sandro still couldn’t bring himself to like her.
‘That kind of thing,’ he said. Then sighed. ‘Look, I can’t tell you her name. But I can tell you that it’s to do with a personal situation. She’s trying to find this man for private reasons. It is not a financial investigation.’
Marisa Goldman sat back in her chair, and he didn’t like her expression at all. Something like satisfaction, something like disdain. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said.
‘Did your boss have affairs?’ he asked, before he could stop himself, ask himself where he was going with this. Just wanted to wipe that look off her face, probably.
‘My boss has nothing to do with you,’ she said levelly.
Yes, thought Sandro, and just from the look she gave him, a whole history unfolded. Yes: he improvised. You and Brunello had a small thing, a few years back, no doubt you engineered it while his wife was pregnant or something, and he regretted it, he wasn’t that kind of man, and you bullied him into giving you this job out of guilt. That’s how it was. Sandro couldn’t have said how he knew it just from the cold flash in her eye, but he did. Sometimes a small gesture told a big story.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ And when she turned her gaze away he knew that she knew that he knew.
And Irene Brunello probably had a pretty good idea too: that woman wasn’t a fool. Did Marisa Goldman offer to take her in after her husband’s body was found, or was she asked? When men died, wives and mistresses often got together, to mourn or to scream at each other, or both. Not these two, though; he could picture them circling, dropping hints, evading, coldly polite. Irene Brunello would get to the truth in the end, he was fairly sure of that; he was also sure he didn’t want to come between them.
Marisa Goldman was watching him; she wasn’t telling him to get out. ‘Show me the piece of paper again,’ she said.
The bank settled into silence around them as she gave the picture another, closer look. She even went so far as to switch on a small anglepoise on her desk and hold the paper under it. Sandro shifted on his chair: he didn’t like it in here. The air seemed thick and sluggish in the heat, the gloom was oppressive, and the outside world, dimly visible through the smoked glass and security doors, far off and inaccessible. It was like being locked in a cave. He pulled at his tie to loosen it.