Free The Salati Case by Tobias Jones

my office I took out the white phone book. There was only one Massimo Tonin. The address was in a village on the banks of the Po.
    When I got there, the villa looked grand. It was set back from the road by an avenue of poplars. There was a black iron gate and an intercom in a booth off to the right.
    I peered through the iron railings to the side. There was a small lodge behind the main house. I guessed that was where they kept the domestics. It was getting dark and I could just make out a man clearing leaves from a ditch.
    ‘Hey,’ I shouted at the gardener.
    The man looked up.
    ‘I’m looking for Massimo Tonin.’
    He walked towards me, leaning his rake on the fence. He had a good-looking, weathered face with deep-blue eyes. He must have been in his fifties, but his bare arms looked strong and muscular. He had the rugged appearance of someone who spent most of his life outdoors.
    ‘Who are you, Mister?’
    ‘Castagnetti.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘A chat with Massimo Tonin.’
    The gardener came back a few minutes later.
    ‘Ring the buzzer, Mister,’ he said, ‘Mr Tonin will speak to you there.’ He pointed at the glass cage.
    I stepped back and held the buzzer for long enough to appear rude. Eventually there was a click as someone picked up the phone from inside.
    ‘Who is it?’ said a lazy, disinterested voice.
    ‘Castagnetti, private investigator. You Massimo Tonin?’
    ‘I am. What do you want?’
    ‘A chat with you.’
    ‘We’re talking aren’t we?’
    ‘This isn’t how I talk,’ I said, staring at the eyeball behind the glass.
    ‘Why don’t you tell me what you want to talk about.’ The voice sounded distant.
    ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Riccardo Salati’, I said, ‘and I have a funny notion he was your son.’
    The man didn’t say anything.
    ‘I spoke to your granddaughter this afternoon.’
    Tonin again didn’t say anything. I wanted to see his face, to see what his reactions were at the mention of Riccardo’s daughter. He hadn’t denied anything yet, which was a start.
    Eventually he spoke very softly. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘this isn’t the way to talk about this. This is a delicate matter. Can I suggest we meet in my office at eight tomorrow morning? It’s in Via Farini.’
    I grunted my assent and the line went dead. ‘Delicate’ was good. I assumed he was talking about the sex, not the disappearance.
    I stared at the grill pondering whether to push the buzzer again. I watched the gardener who had gone back to his ditch. I wandered over towards him, as close as I could get, and shouted through the railings.
    ‘What’s Mr Tonin’s job?’
    ‘What’s that?’ the gardener said.
    ‘What does the big man do?’
    ‘He’s a lawyer. Retired now. Says he’s retired, but still goes in most days from what I can see.’
    ‘And you’ve worked with him long?’
    ‘Thirty years.’
    ‘Shouldn’t you be retiring soon?’
    ‘You saying I look old?’ The man smiled with a boyish glint in his eye. He dropped the smile suddenly and looked at me closely. ‘What’s this about?’
    ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of a boy from way back. You ever heard of Riccardo Salati?’
    ‘Means nothing to me. Was he one of Tonin’s clients?’
    ‘You could say that.’
    It was dark now and the fog was like the inside of a damp duvet. I walked back to the car and flicked on the lights. They only made everything murkier. I could barely see the ditches either side of the road and drove slowly, only glimpsing the bends by the sudden disappearance of the roads.
     
     
    Back in the office I phoned Dall’Aglio to get a bit of background on Lo Bue.
    ‘Lo Bue?’ Dall’Aglio said when I gave him the name.
    ‘Yeah, he owns a hotel out in Rimini. You ever heard of him?’
    ‘No. But I can run some checks.’
    ‘Do it.’ I said. ‘He owns a hotel called Hotel Palace. No guests for most of the year, so what he does with the space is anyone’s