Free White Death by Tobias Jones

connected.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    He grunted. ‘A few years ago traffic police stopped that senator from Italia Fiera, what’s his name? Biondani, Biondelli or something. This guy’s just about the most powerful person in the province. The leaves don’t even fall from the trees unless he says so. Anyway, they stopped him for speeding and ran all the usual checks. You can imagine what he was like: spitting fire, threatening to sack all those honest, hard-working vigili because they had had the temerity to waylay their overlord. One of them takes objection and does his job properly. You know what they found? This senator is driving a car, a Mercedes convertible, registered to a company called Masi Costruzioni.’
    ‘Huh.’
    ‘Nothing came of it because there was nothing illegal going on. Masi came out and said the senator was an old friend of his, and that he often lends spare company cars to his closest friends. But it makes you wonder. What was Masi getting in return? He’s a guy who’s got his hands, as they say, in pasta.’ Spago put his hand out palm down and rotated his fingers underneath his palm.
    The waitress brought along a bottle, showed us the label and pulled off the cork. Spago tasted it and nodded.
    ‘Go on,’ I said as she walked away.
    ‘Have a look online, I’m sure you’ll find loads. Masi’s not exactly been out of the news. There was a thing a few years ago when the Guardia di Finanza did some investigation into tax evasion. I can’t remember what they called the operation. Pandora or Pegasus or something. Basically there are tax incentives for home-owners who do restoration work onhistorical properties. They get 36 per cent reduction on Irpef, something like that. So the Finanza could work out what companies were charging for restoration work from the tax incentives their clients were claiming, and could compare those charges to the earnings the companies were declaring on their tax returns. Guess what? Masi’s company wasn’t declaring the earnings. There was something like three million euros in unpaid taxes.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘What do you think? He spent a night in prison, was bailed, and within a few months there was a general amnesty passed. A useful condono for all those thieving constructors.’
    ‘By who?’
    ‘Which party passed the amnesty, you mean? Italia Fiera, who else?’ He smiled, shrugging and shaking his head at the same time. ‘Cazzo, if they gave me a three-million-euro rebate, I would happily spend a night in prison. From what I hear, prison in this country is like the golf course in America. It’s where you make contacts and cut deals. If they give you three million for a night, I would stay for a month.’ He was laughing now, raising his wine and talking loudly so that other people could hear. A couple turned round to look at him, smiling at his infectious chuckle.
    ‘This guy,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘this Masi. He’s now building flats on land that someone was forced out of.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘A car has been burnt. Late-night calls. General intimidation .’
    Spago was spinning the wine in his glass, making it fly up the sides so it almost came over the top. He watched itcarefully and then let the liquid slow and settle. He took a sip and then leant towards me. ‘They’re building flats, eh? What was there before?’
    ‘A prosciuttificio.’
    ‘So the land has been reclassified?’
    I nodded wearily.
    ‘That’s the way to make money.’ He shook his head. ‘If you know in advance what land is going to be reclassified you can make a mint.’ He prodded an index finger on different parts of the table, like he was pointing out parts of the city where you could strike lucky. Then he looked up at me, nodding meaningfully. ‘Say you’ve got ten biolche of agricultural land, it might be worth a few tonnes of wheat a year, a few thousand gallons of milk, whatever. But if it’s residential, well, it could suddenly be worth