‘Oh yes,’ Pietro said, with just the faintest trace of a smile. ‘I’ll get Matteucci on to it.’
‘Someone saw her. Standing on the doorstep of Brunello’s apartment, at seven that Friday night. After she was supposed to be gone for the weekend. After he was supposed to be gone, too, for that matter.’
Pietro nodded. ‘The traffic wasn’t as bad as usual, you know. That Friday night. I didn’t want-’
‘You didn’t want to mention that to Irene Brunello?’ Sandro said. ‘To suggest that her husband might have been doing something else that night?’
Pietro shrugged. ‘He might have been packing, for all I knew,’ he said. ‘The fact that his car wasn’t logged through the tolls until eight-forty-five, even though he left work early — well. I was going to wait until I had more information. Before telling anybody.’
Even me, thought Sandro. Claudio Brunello wasn’t his client, nor was his wife. Why should Pietro tell him?
‘The two tumblers,’ he said, remembering. ‘On the draining board in Brunello’s flat.’
And then he remembered where he’d seen Galeotti’s letterhead: lying on Marisa Goldman’s desk.
‘You mind if I talk to Marisa Goldman first?’ he asked, knowing this would be a big favour.
Pietro gave him a sharp glance, then sighed. ‘Christ knows, this murder’s tying me up. All right,’ he said. ‘But do it now.’
Sandro exhaled. ‘So,’ he said. ‘The car. You found the car.’
‘Goldman and Brunello?’ Pietro turned to gaze without focusing across the glittering valley, gave a slow nod. ‘Could be right. Maybe.’ He turned back to look at Sandro. ‘The car was dean, or near enough. No violence, no bloodstains, it had obviously just been sitting there since Saturday afternoon, then some helpful vigile ordered it to be towed out of the way of the street cleaners. Clean enough, except for just one thing: a scrap of paper in the passenger footwell. Josef C, and a number written on it.’
‘Ah,’ said Sandro, and felt it loosen, the intractable tangle of this damned case, one thread coming free, at last. ‘So the person who called him was Josef. Josef C is Josef Cynaricz. My Josef, Anna’s Josef. Not Goldman, or Galeotti.’
Sandro thought of Brunello, the scrupulous bank manager, sitting inside his holiday house while his wife prepared the children for the beach. Josef C repeating to him, ‘Take the number, write down the number.’ Even though it would have appeared on the phone, Brunello was old-school, like Sandro. He wanted it written down.
Pietro said nothing, then nodded quickly.
‘He called Brunello out on the first day of his holiday. A young man he knew only as a low-grade customer, who maybe once came in and asked for a loan, no more than that? He must have had something important to say.’
‘Must have.’
They’d reached the bloodstain, and both stopped and looked down.
‘And now Galeotti.’ Pietro looked at Sandro through eyes narrowed against the sky’s glare. ‘You didn’t know about the cutting he had in his pocket. But you thought there was a connection. Between Galeotti and — who? And Brunello?’
‘Not Brunello,’ said Sandro. ‘Josef.’
Pietro took a step back, watching him, and Sandro went on, ‘Galeotti was the agent for the apartment my Josef was “borrowing.” Only I think Josef believed he was going to get to keep the place. Someone let him think that. Maybe Galeotti, or maybe Galeotti was doing it as a favour to someone else. Galeotti’s just the middle man, isn’t he? The agent, doing favours to get favours. Keys to empty apartments are part of his currency.’
Pietro nodded cautiously. ‘Still,’ he said slowly. ‘Murder? Over a borrowed apartment?’
Sandro nodded too. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I can’t help thinking — it’s connected. Perhaps whoever was doing the favour — whoever was trying to keep Josef happy-’ He stopped, unable to follow his train of thought. Was it the heat? He started again. ‘I heard Galeotti was a crook,’ he said. ‘And I heard he had some big deal going down.’
Pietro let out a quick, astonished laugh. ‘How’d you know this stuff?’ he said, shaking his head a little.
Sandro examined his expression. ‘It’s true, then?’ he asked.
Pietro chewed his lip. ‘We went down to his office last night, a place on the Via Romana. We talked to the girl. Secretary-cum-receptionist, more or less the only other employee. He kept her pretty much in the dark, and she didn’t seem too bright to start with, but she said he’d been involved with a big deal for the last couple of months, very secretive about it because it wasn’t in the bag, a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, she said. Some big backhanders involved, you know how it works. The buyer’s in cahoots with the agent, they get the place cheap and slip him some money on the side. In this case who knows — maybe someone else was involved, someone the seller trusts.’
Sandro frowned. The only trustworthy bloke he’d come across in this whole business was Brunello, and he was dead.
Pietro sighed. ‘A month or so back it was all on, then it was all off, then it was back on again. Something kept blocking the sale. And, if I remember right, she said he’d gone off Friday night all keyed up for a big showdown, and he came in on Monday full of something. She was in shock when she heard he was dead. Total shock.’
‘He was the kind of man — I don’t know,’ said Sandro. ‘Cocky. Full of life.’
And there was that nagging regret again. For the loss of even a man like Galeotti, with his gleaming car and his crisp collars.
‘You met him?’ Pietro asked.
‘I told you, didn’t I? This place we were looking to buy, in San Niccolo.’ Pietro looked sympathetic, and Sandro shrugged. ‘Not much chance of that now. What with one thing and another.’
Pietro’s hand came up to Sandro’s shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you, Sandro,’ he said. ‘You know? Sometimes it’s hard to do this without you.’
Sandro said nothing. Instead, he squatted, and Pietro came down beside him. There were chalk marks on the road and the blood had turned black. It would disappear, eventually.
‘Last Friday night. Galeotti was expecting big news last Friday night,’ said Sandro softly, almost to himself. Then he remembered something, took the paper out of his pocket. The sweat had dried on his forehead; he felt almost human again.
‘Says here, you’ve got a suspect,’ he said.
Pietro looked at him, a slow smile spreading across his face at last, running his hand through the grass at the verge. ‘Well, there’s the thing,’ he said, and he pulled out an ear of wheatgrass. ‘We have.’
‘Not my Josef?’
Pietro shook his head. ‘Not your Josef, no.’ Still smiling. ‘You remember that little weasel Gulli? Nasty little dealer from Campo di Marte, prone to violence?’
Sandro nodded. He remembered Gulli as clear as day the last time he’d seen him, being marched into the courts of justice in Piazza San Firenze, between him and Pietro on a charge of aggravated burglary. Twenty-five or so then, but skinny as a kid, hard, thin arms under Sandro’s hand, stonewashed jeans, slicked hair. White trainers.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I remember Gulli.’
‘We’ve got a witness.’
‘Saw him do it?’
‘Good as,’ said Pietro ruminatively. ‘Old woman at the soft drinks stall at the bottom of the hill on the viale, saw him go past about two on a Vespa, saw him turn up the hill; she even says she saw something like a tyre iron strapped to the back of the moped. Recognized him. Must be tricky for him, plenty know Gulli, he’s done enough people enough bad turns, considering he’s still under thirty. It seems he mugged the old girl’s daughter three years back and did only six weeks for it; she held a grudge.’ Pietro spread his hands, dropping the piece of grass. ‘Galeotti’s body was discovered at just before three and he was barely dead then.’
‘All right,’ said Sandro, thinking hard. ‘So where’s Gulli now?’ Pietro stood up with sudden, enviable ease. He was, Sandro couldn’t forget, five years his junior. More creakily, he followed.