White Death by Tobias Jones Page A

politicians. Not one. I’ve never been someone who moves in the right salons. But Moroni did. Knew everyone. He used to say that you can’t build a sandcastle in this city unless you contribute to politicians.’
    ‘In return for what?’
    ‘For goodwill, a kindly disposition,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know how it is. We neededwork, planning permission, building permits. They needed funds to fight elections. We helped each other out. That’s democracy.’
    ‘Sort of.’
    ‘That’s how it works in this country. Always has and always will.’
    I shrugged, like I wasn’t sure.
    ‘That’s how it is, believe me.’
    ‘I thought all that stopped with Tangentopoli.’
    He snorted. ‘That’s the biggest charade this country has ever seen. Contagious self-righteousness, an acute case of the indignations. It happens every two or three decades or so, makes people feel better about themselves. Then it goes back to how it was before. Maybe different methods, but basically just the same. If you want a contract you’ve got to grease it, believe me.’
    ‘And how did Moroni grease it?’
    ‘The usual. Asked a politician if they knew any electricians. So we employed the person they recommended. Asked them to recommend an architect, and they had someone in mind. Always the same story. Overpriced and incompetent. We were employing people who barely knew their left from their right. Half the time we had to employ a second workman to correct what they had done wrong. But that’s the way it worked. We just kept employing their friends and family and they kept giving us the permits. Mutual back-scratching, that’s all.’
    ‘Is that what happened to Luciano Tosti as well?’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Luciano Tosti.’
    He frowned and looked cross, like he didn’t enjoy wasting time on incomprehension. ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘He’s the person who bought the prosciuttificio on Via Pordenone. You bought the place from him a few months later.’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘He was murdered.’
    I watched him closely. For all his faults, Masi was an honest man. He didn’t fake shock and horror, but nodded slowly with his eyes closed.
    ‘I heard,’ he said.
    ‘You knew about it?’
    ‘Of course I did. The Carabinieri were round here within days. They were investigating his finances and that led them here. Sure, I knew about it.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And what?’
    ‘You thought Moroni was responsible?’
    He stared at me. ‘Tosti was stupid.’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘He was supposed to sit on that land for six months. Nothing else. He was given the money to buy it and was then supposed to sell it on. But once he realised what was up, that the land was reclassified as residential, he saw his chance. He didn’t sell it on. Started demanding this and that, offering it round to other constructors.’
    ‘And Moroni wasn’t happy?’
    ‘That’s an understatement. He said people like Tosti were only good for foundations.’
    ‘Nice.’
    ‘He meant it.’ He looked at me to check I understood how serious he was.
    ‘You think Moroni was involved in his death?’
    ‘Wouldn’t you?’ he said sharply.
    ‘Did the Carabinieri question him?’
    ‘I don’t think so. They didn’t even know who he was. Even if they had come across him, they would have thought he was just some foreman.’
    I heard the front door click open and the man’s daughter came in. Her father asked where she had been as if she were a teenager and she smiled and kissed him on the cheek. As she walked past me we shook hands briefly and she surreptitiously gave me my car keys.
    ‘Where does he live?’ I asked Masi.
    ‘Who? Moroni?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Just round the corner. That’s the rub. I even see him when I go out for a walk.’
    ‘Which street?’
    ‘Duca Alessandro. It’s number 57. One of those beautiful old villas.’ He looked at me with a weary expression. ‘Mind if I go back to bed