Dead Season Page 7

‘Take a ticket,’ she said. And pointed towards a plastic dispenser on the wall, the tongue of a numbered paper ticket protruding limply from it. Sandro looked around in disbelief, in case there might in fact be a small crowd of customers behind whom he would need to wait in line, but the place was still empty. He cleared his throat and stepped gingerly closer.

  ‘I’d like to see the manager,’ he said, and the teller pursed her lips, as if offence had been given. Her eyes flicked briefly to a spot over Sandro’s shoulder, then back.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said, and Sandro sighed. She was lying.

  ‘You’re here alone?’ he said. She shrugged. Sandro dispensed with respect and walked straight up to her glass screen. He took out his identification and slid it across to her, but she ignored it. ‘I’m a private detective,’ he said wearily. And before he could stop himself, ‘Retired police officer.’

  The look she gave him conveyed only indifference. He could smell cigarette smoke on her clothes, even from behind the glass, and he said, keeping his voice pleasant and even, ‘What happens when you need – a break, then?’ Looked at her name tag. ‘Signorina Fano?’

  ‘We’re not exactly run off our feet,’ she said, eyeing him. ‘And it’s Signora Fano.’ Then finally, abruptly, she relented, nodding over her shoulder and lifting a telephone receiver beside her to punch in three digits. Sandro turned to see a door set with sandblasted glass, with a small plastic nameplate uncertainly attached. G. Viola Direttore.

  ‘Someone to see you,’ said Signora Fano into the phone.

  Not Claudio Josef Brunello, then. There might be an explanation for that; he might be a recent appointment. They might not have got around to changing the sign. But Sandro didn’t think so.

  ‘Come,’ came a voice from behind the door.

  The room he entered was shabby and under-decorated, and Giorgio Viola was not Claudio Josef Brunello; he was not Anna Niescu’s husband by another name, nor had he been recently appointed. He was a fat man of sixty-odd, with a heavy salt-and-pepper beard, and he was sweating under his suit. He sat behind the desk at an uncomfortable distance necessitated by the size of his stomach and, despite the initial Santa Claus impression given by his girth and beard, in his eyes there was a sort of helplessness. How did this happen? they seemed to be beseeching Sandro as he leaned across and shook his hand tentatively. How did I end up like this?

  ‘They’re closing this branch down,’ he volunteered apologetically.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Sandro, acknowledging that this somehow explained everything – Signora Fano, the dirty floor, the chewing gum on the ATM.

  Noting that Giorgio Viola seemed entirely unflustered by his presence, exuding no whiff of guilt or discomfort, he told the man why he’d come. Viola was voluble, eager. Perhaps, thought Sandro, if I only had old mother Fano out there to talk to from one end of the day to the other, I’d be pleased to see me, too.

  No Claudio Brunello had ever worked there, to the current manager’s knowledge.

  ‘But I think,’ he said. ‘I think – hold on.’ He pulled the keyboard of his computer towards him, and looked at Sandro. ‘I’m taking early retirement,’ he said. ‘This branch has never been profitable, too far out of the way. I’ve got a good package.’

  No, thought Sandro absently, I bet it hasn’t been profitable. Station branch, indeed: it’s close to a kilometre in the wrong direction from the station, whatever the bank’s brightly uninformative website said. Anna Niescu’s man might just have been guessing, mightn’t he? Every bank has an azienda near the station, doesn’t it? Except a miserable little outfit like this.

  Giorgio Viola was leaning over his belly and tapping on the keyboard, absorbed now. His hands, Sandro noticed, were surprisingly elegant for a man so fat: long oval nails, well-shaped fingers.

  ‘How many branches are there, then?’ asked Sandro.

  ‘Oh, not many left,’ said Viola, vaguely. ‘They’ve closed Scandicci, and Bagno a Ripoli.’ Reluctantly his eyes flicked back to Sandro’s, and he smiled, apologetic again. ‘Old-fashioned values,’ he said. ‘Local loyalties. Not so important these days.’

  He looked back at the screen, grew intent, then poised, clicked on the touchpad. He beamed, briefly triumphant, and for a moment Sandro could see he might have made a convincing Santa Claus after all, given the right incentives. On the desk was a little plastic holder for business cards: Giorgio Viola, Direttore. Sandro picked one up absently: they were dog-eared with age.

  ‘Ha,’ he said, and turned the screen a little so Sandro could see it. ‘Brunello. Via dei Saponai branch.’ He glanced from the screen to Sandro. ‘Down by the Via dei Neri.’

  ‘I know that,’ Sandro snapped. I know this city: how many times would that come back to haunt him? Maybe he should just get himself a magic phone and be done with it. He relented. ‘Sorry.’

  The man gave him that small smile again that said, And you think I’m a sad case?

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sandro once more, and concentrated on the screen.

  ‘Shouldn’t really be showing you this,’ said Viola, cheerfully. ‘Staff records, you know. But actually – well, there’s hardly anything to see.’

  Claudio Brunello – no sign of the Josef, but perhaps he’d kept that little ethnic detail quiet – born 1958, handsome in a dark, hollow-cheeked sort of way, although you couldn’t tell much from the faintly smiling photobooth shot, glasses, suit, smoothed hair. Joined the bank in 1982, straight out of university.

  Could it be him? The dark, nervous man pulling slightly away from Anna Niescu on the fuzzy screen of her mobile phone? It could, just about.

  Most people had never heard of the Banca di Toscana Provinciale. Anna’s boyfriend had to have some connection with it. But there was something not right.

  Sandro continued to gaze, scanning the flat, dull details for something, anything.

  Married, two children.

  He could hear Giuli’s sigh. Same old story. Maybe he did love her, maybe it was some kind of midlife crisis, maybe Brunello saw that sweet little face and thought, why not start all over again?

  The image of him and Luisa, going to ask the bank manager for a loan, jumped unbidden into Sandro’s head. What are we thinking of?

  Maybe he really thought he’d leave his wife. When did the dream end? When did he wake up and smell the coffee and think, no, it’ll never work? Was it when she got to the eighth month, those eyes gazing trustfully up at him, that belly a daily reproach? And he thought he could just disappear; he stopped calling. Stopped answering his phone. How did he think he would get away with it?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said to Viola. And with an odd gracefulness the fat man inclined his head in acknowledgement as he tilted the screen out of Sandro’s line of vision once more, and Brunello was gone.

  But he wasn’t going to get away with it.

  *

  ‘Who was it, then, who called yesterday?’ said Roxana.

  So far she and Val had been at work for three hours and had only served two customers, both foreigners wanting small amounts exchanged. An American man and a Swedish woman, they’d both had the same look, of helpless, exhausted dismay. Get us out of here, they seemed to plead.

  Val had been out for a long coffee, on the understanding that he’d give her the same privilege in the steaming, dead hours of the afternoon, and now he was back, leaning against her desk. An hour till they closed for lunch.

  ‘Yesterday?’

  God almighty, thought Roxana, searching the comical blank of Val’s handsome face. Give me strength. ‘You answered it. To Brunello’s office.’

  He frowned in a parody of deep thought. ‘Oh,’ he said eventually, ‘a woman, I think.’

  ‘You think?’ At least Ma had an excuse for not being able to keep anything in her head.

  Valentino nodded earnestly, apparently deaf to Roxana’s tone. ‘Yeah, definitely a woman.’ And looked up. ‘Why? Does it matter?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Roxana said, losin
g patience. ‘It just seemed – oh, I don’t know. Out of the ordinary. God knows, there’s little enough going on round here. Didn’t it seem funny to you? No one ever phones in August, not on that line. His private line.’

  ‘Would you go out with me, some time?’ said Val, without blinking.

  Roxana stared at him, and to her fury felt a blush rise. ‘Have you even been listening to me?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘You wear those glasses the whole time?’ he asked. ‘Like, if you go out dancing, or anything?’

  The blush refused to subside: she thought of last night, at the bar. She’d worked with Val two years. Was he just bored, or what was it?

  ‘I don’t go out dancing,’ said Roxana bluntly. ‘Or anything.’

  ‘Not that I don’t like them,’ he said, holding her gaze steadily. ‘They’re nice glasses. Only I wondered what you’d look like without them.’

  And in a split-second of weakness Roxana did wonder, what if, what if he means it, before she was saved by the sound of the mechanical voice at the security door.

  Please remove metallic objects from your pockets. Please remove your headgear. Please exit and try again.

  Hastily Val slid off her desk and returned to his own; the new customer, only visible in silhouette, seemed to be completely stuck. Roxana pressed the button under the desk that would open the doors. She turned her head sideways, determined to show Val she hadn’t been taken in. ‘So she didn’t say who she was,’ she asked. ‘This woman? On the phone?’

  Val’s smile held a trace of disappointment. He shook his head. ‘She wanted the boss.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose it’s funny she didn’t give me her name, but she was pretty worked up. Asked over and over if he was here. Had he been in since Saturday.’

  Roxana frowned. That seemed quite specific.

  The customer stood at the machine that dispensed tickets, clearly an idiot if he couldn’t see there was no queue and so no need to take a ticket. Jesus wept.

  ‘She was upset?’ That was what Ma had said too. A woman had phoned, upset. ‘You didn’t ask her name?’

  Val shrugged uneasily. ‘Hysterical women,’ he said. ‘You can’t talk to them. Might have been anything, might have been her overdraught.’ He fished in his pocket for a toothpick and began working at a molar.

  It didn’t sound like a routine enquiry to Roxana. It sounded like someone trying to track Claudio down. Had Val no curiosity?

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the customer, keeping his distance: a stocky man in a crumpled jacket and an ancient hat, quietly polite. Val, typically, turned his head the other way, still busy with his toothpick.

  Roxana examined the man. He had not, after all, taken a ticket from the machine, so perhaps he wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t look like one; what he looked like to Roxana was her father, or at least her father a few years back, before he became ill and tetchy.

  ‘Please,’ she said politely, beckoning him, and pressed the button that lit up her desk number, for extra emphasis. The man stepped forward.

  ‘I’m not a customer,’ he said, immediately, and slid something under the screen. It was a small plastic card that identified the holder as Sandro Cellini, member of the AIIP or Associazione Italiana Investigatori Privati.

  A private detective. Roxana looked at him, not quite surprised, knowing that there was something wrong, after all, that she’d been expecting – something. She felt him scrutinize her: felt him register that shade of hesitation, that part of her that was not in fact surprised to find a private detective at her desk. No, he was not an idiot at all.

  ‘I’m looking for Claudio Brunello,’ he said, gruff but respectful. ‘He’s the manager here, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roxana from behind the glass, knowing she should, if she wanted to show her mettle, somehow be more guarded with this man, or perhaps even send him packing. Private detectives, after all, were dubious types. What if he was after – money? Or serving some kind of court notice? She felt Val’s eyes on them, expectantly – and then the mechanical voice at the door announced the arrival of another customer. Over Sandro Cellini’s shoulder she saw the knock-kneed profile of a skinny woman in shorts. Another foreigner.

  She rose. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, nodding towards the boss’s empty office. ‘In here.’

  Because whatever this business was, it was best conducted out of earshot of customers, even if they were foreign. She saw the man gaze around as they walked through the space, registering the sign on Marisa’s door, M. Goldman, Gestore Business e Family, Vice-Direttore.

  Gingerly seating herself in the boss’s chair, Roxana gestured to the detective to sit down.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Sandro with resignation, sitting also. His gaze travelled around the office: taking in the expensive leather desk set, the moulded chairs, the designer filing cabinet. Pausing at the family photograph on the shelf.

  ‘No,’ said Roxana, spreading her hands apologetically. ‘It’s August: he’s on holiday.’

  ‘With his family?’ Nodding towards the photograph.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Roxana, uncomprehending. Because there could be no harm, could there, in confirming that piece of information?

  ‘And would you mind telling me,’ Sandro asked mildly, ‘when he left?’

  ‘On Friday afternoon,’ said Roxana, the man’s diffidence disarming her. It was not privileged information, was it?

  ‘Friday.’ Sandro Cellini looked glum.

  Roxana felt her insides shift: she knew she shouldn’t confide in this man, she had no reason to trust him. But she did; she thought of last night in her own garden, remembered the prickle of fear she had felt. She needed someone she could trust.

  ‘His mother-in-law has a place up in Liguria somewhere,’ she said quickly. ‘At Monterosso, Le Glicine, the house is called. Overlooking the sea.’

  He inclined his head a little, to indicate his gratitude, waiting.

  ‘Are you—?’ She stopped, then began again. ‘Someone phoned for him. A woman phoned, yesterday, asking if we’d seen him since Saturday.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the detective, suddenly quite still, like an animal alerted to a predator – or prey. ‘Did she say who she was?’

  ‘You need to talk to Valentino,’ said Roxana, pushing back in the wheeled chair to get a look at him through the window. He was counting out notes for the elderly backpacker, frowning with concentration, and Roxana sighed involuntarily. ‘Val was the one who talked to her.’

  Leaning a little further back to get a better view of the bank floor, she was startled to see the outline of another customer.

  ‘I’d better get back to work,’ she said, sliding towards the desk again. As she did so, she noticed that although the screen of Brunello’s computer was dark, it was only sleeping: a tiny blinking light on her side of it indicated that it had not been fully shut down when he left on Friday. It was against protocol. All electronic desk equipment had to be shut down every night, for security. Well, he’d been in a hurry.

  ‘Can I talk to him, then?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, hesitating. Deciding against warning him Val wasn’t exactly the memory man: that would be mean. ‘It’s a free country.’ She glanced up at the clock; Val wouldn’t appreciate her arranging his lunch hour for him. ‘We close at six, if you want to come back. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sandro Cellini, but didn’t move, frowning as if he was trying to make sense of something.

  ‘Why are you here, Mr Cellini?’ said Roxana, knowing she should have asked this straight away. ‘Is someone looking for him? For Brunello?’

  Sandro Cellini returned her gaze warily, and Roxana felt indignation rise. Did he think he couldn’t trust her?

  ‘Are you the vice-direttore?’ he asked. ‘Are you, ah, Miss Goldman?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Roxana, tight-lipped, glancing back out through the door. Val seemed to have everything under control. ‘I’m just a teller. A sportellista. That’s all. Everyone else i
s on holiday.’

  He leaned back in the chair, and smiled wryly. ‘Not much fun, is it?’ he said. ‘The city in August. I didn’t need the vice-direttore, I just thought – well. You seem to know what you’re doing, I thought you might be the second-in-command.’ Roxana frowned at him, but he appeared to be sincere.

  ‘So someone is looking for him.’

  Sandro sighed. ‘Yes. Someone’s looking for him. I suppose I could wait until he’s back from the seaside.’ His brow creased, he looked genuinely anxious. ‘But it’s sort of urgent.’

  ‘A woman?’

  The private detective stared at his hands. ‘I really can’t tell you that, Signorina, ah—’

  ‘Roxana Delfino.’ But from his expression she could tell. It was a woman. Roxana got to her feet.

  As they passed through the banking hall, Val was still occupied with the backpacker; the other customer must have lost patience and gone. Roxana sighed, unable to summon up a great deal of professional guilt: it wasn’t as if that one customer had been coming in with his lottery win to be invested, was it? Not in August.

  She bypassed the security door to the staff entrance, to let Cellini out, trying to stay coolly polite and maintain the slender authority she had scraped together. But as she shook his hand – warm and dry, despite the humidity that barrelled inside before the door was open more than a crack – she felt suddenly reluctant to let him go.

  ‘D’you have a number or anything?’ she said. ‘In case I – we need to contact you?’

  With a grimace the detective patted himself down, eventually locating a worn card with his contact details in a breast pocket. He handed it to her.

  ‘In case you remember anything?’ he supplied. And then Sandro Cellini smiled, a sad, crinkled, kindly smile. ‘Thanks, Signorina Delfino,’ he said. ‘It’s been nice talking to you.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AT THE RECEPTION DESK of the Women’s Centre, Giulietta Sarto – Giuli to her friends, but not here – was fifteen minutes from the end of her shift and taking a risk. She sneaked the mobile out of her bag under the counter and peeped at the screen. She smiled.