Free White Death by Tobias Jones Page A

millions. That’s when the alchemy happens, when raw soil turns into gold. That’s when the value of land jumps ten-fold. It’s called cambio di destinazione d’uso.’ He clicked the fingers of both hands and then fanned them through the air, thumbs leading the way, like he was a magician.
    ‘Yeah, I heard. The guy who sold the prosciuttificio told me all about it. He’s pretty sore about the whole thing.’
    ‘I’m not surprised. If he hadn’t been forced to sell he would have been sitting on a pot of gold. Who did he sell to?’
    ‘A guy called Luciano Tosti.’
    ‘Who sold to Masi?’
    ‘Right. So I went to pay a visit to Tosti. I got an address for him out in Milan. Only when I get there I find he was killed a year ago.’
    Spago whistled. The food arrived and we just stared at each other as the waitress put the plates in front of us.
    Once she had retreated Spago leant closer. ‘You know the difference between what Tosti bought it for and what he sold it for?’
    I shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. When I went to the Ufficio del Catasto I was only after a name.’
    ‘The difference could be six figures. More. No doubt about it. Not bad money just for writing a cheque and biding your time. And he was working for Masi?’
    I shrugged because I still didn’t have proof. ‘How would Masi know where to buy?’ I asked. ‘How would he know in advance which land was about to be declared residential?’
    Spago rocked his head from side to side as if thinking about it. ‘The most obvious candidate would be the city councillor for urban planning. What do they call that role? The assessore all’urbanistica, something like that. He’s the guy who decides about the piano regolatore, the guy who decides about land usage.’
    ‘I thought there was a commission …’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, sure, there’s a commission, and it does what the politicians tell it to. They’re all political appointments anyway. How else do you think you get to sit on a commission?’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively and put a large rectangular tortello in his mouth.
    We ate in silence for a few minutes, each thinking about the tangled world of construction. The risotto was good, smooth and creamy but with a hint of grit in the rice and parmesan. Spago refilled our glasses.
    ‘Knowing what land is going to be redesignated’, he said, looking at me through the raised glass, ‘is like knowing whichnumbers are going to come up in a lottery. I wouldn’t mind knowing myself.’
    ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘The difference is you can’t always buy that kind of lottery ticket. Sometimes people just don’t want to sell the land you need, which is why cars get burnt and so on. They need a little bit of persuasion.’
    ‘Do you know much about Masi’s operation?’ Spago asked.
    I pulled out my phone and showed him the snapshot of the construction board: all the names of the architects and contractors and so on.
    ‘You want to work through those,’ Spago said, pointing at the phone screen with his fork. ‘Because someone did Masi a favour when they tipped him off about the redesignated land, and you can be sure that he’s repaying favours, putting work their way. Check out who got the big contracts, who the subcontractors are. That’s the way it’s always done in this business.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Completely legitimately. It’s all above board, out in the open.’
    ‘Sounds either honest or shameless.’
    He smiled wearily. ‘It’s both. Who’s the vending agent, by the way?’
    ‘Some place called Casa dei Sogni.’
    ‘Start there. That’s the biggest racket there is. An agent takes 3 per cent on sale price, a bit from both ends. For doing what? Showing people around once or twice a day.’ He was mopping up the butter with a bit of bread. ‘Say they’ve got twenty-five flats to sell at 300 grand each.’ He jabbed the wet bread in my direction. ‘That agency’s going to make a quarterof a million just for getting the contract.