taken Malfatti almost an hour of hard bargaining to get them to go that high.
It was his hopes of increasing his own take that had led Malfatti to suggest that some of the legitimate earnings of the Lega be paid out in cheques to people whose names he would supply. Brunetti cut off Malfatti’s grotesque pride in this scheme by asking, ‘When did Mascari find out about this?’
‘Three weeks ago. He went to Ravanello and told him something was wrong with the accounts. He had no idea that Ravanello knew about it, thought that it was Santomauro. Fool,’ Malfatti spat in contempt. ‘If he had wanted, he could have got a third out of them, an easy third.’ He looked back and forth between Brunetti and the secretary, asking them to share his disgust.
‘And then?’ Brunetti asked, keeping his own disgust to himself.
‘Santomauro and Ravanello came to my place about a week before it happened. They wanted me to get rid of him, but I knew what they were like, so I told them I wouldn’t do it unless they helped. I’m no fool.’ Again, he looked at the other men for approval. ‘You know what it’s like with people like that. You do a job for them, you’re never free of them. The only way to be safe is to make them get their hands dirty, too.’
‘Is that what you told them?’ Brunetti asked.
‘In a way. I told them I’d do it but that they’d have to help me set it up.’
‘How did they do that?’
‘They had Crespo call Mascari and say he’d heard he was looking for information about the apartments the Lega rented and that he lived in one of them. Mascari had the list, so he could check. When Mascari told him he was leaving for Sicily that evening – we knew that -Crespo told him he had other information to give him, that he could stop on the way to the airport.’
‘And?’
‘He agreed.’
‘Was Crespo there?’
‘Oh, no,’ Malfatti said with a snort of contempt. ‘He was a delicate little bastard. Didn’t want to have anything to do with it. So he took off – probably went and hit the pavements early. And we waited for Mascari. He showed up at about seven.’
‘What happened?’
‘I let him in. He thought I was Crespo, didn’t have any reason not to. I told him to sit down and offered him a drink, but he said he had a plane to catch and was in a hurry. I asked him again if he wanted a drink, and when he said no, I said I wanted one and walked behind him to the table where the drinks were. That’s when I did it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I hit him.’
‘With what?’
‘An iron bar. The same one I had today. It’s very good.’
‘How many times did you hit him?’
‘Only once. I didn’t want to get blood on Crespo’s furniture. And I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted them to do that.’
‘And did they?’
‘I don’t know. That is, I don’t know which one of them did it. They were in the bedroom. I called them and we carried him into the bathroom. He was still alive then; I heard him groan.’
‘Why the bathroom?’
Malfatti’s glance showed that he was thinking he’d overestimated Brunetti’s intelligence. ‘The blood.’ There was a long pause, and when Brunetti didn’t say anything, Malfatti continued, ‘We laid him down on the floor, and then I went back and got the iron bar. Santomauro had been saying that we needed to destroy his face – we’d planned it all, put it together like a puzzle, and he had to be unrecognizable so there would be enough time to change the records in the bank. Anyway, he kept saying that we had to destroy his face, so I gave him the bar and told him to do it himself. Then I went back into the living-room and had a cigarette. When I came back, it was done.’
‘He was dead?’
Malfatti shrugged.
‘Ravanello and Santomauro killed him?’
‘I’d already done my share.’
‘Then what?’
‘We stripped him and shaved his legs. Jesus, what a job that was.’
‘Yes, I imagine so,’ Brunetti permitted himself. ‘And then what?’
‘We put the make-up on him.’ Malfatti paused a moment in thought. ‘No, that’s wrong. They did that before they hit his face. One of them said it would be easier. Then we put his clothes back on him and carried him out, like he was drunk. But we didn’t have to bother; no one saw us. Ravanello and I took him down to Santomauro’s car and drove him out to the field. I knew about what goes on out there, and I thought it would be a good place to dump him.’
‘What about the clothes? Where did you change them?’
‘When we got there, out in Marghera. We pulled him out of the back seat and stripped him. Then we put those clothes on him, that red dress and everything, and I carried him over to a place at the other side of the field and left him there. I stuffed him under a bush so it would take longer for him to be found.’ Malfatti paused for a moment, summoning memory. ‘Ravanello stuffed the shoes into my pockets. I dropped one beside him. They were Ravanello’s idea, the shoes, I think.’
‘What did you do with his clothes?’
‘I stopped on the way back to Crespo’s place and put them in a garbage can. It was all right; there was no blood on them. We were very careful. We wrapped his head in a plastic bag.’
The young officer coughed but turned his head away so the sound wouldn’t register on the tape.
‘And afterwards?’ Brunetti asked.
‘We went back to the apartment. Santomauro had cleaned it up. That was the last I heard of them until the night you came out to Mestre.’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Not mine. Ravanello called me and explained things to me. I think they hoped the investigation would stop if we could get rid of you.’ Malfatti sighed. ‘I tried to tell them things don’t work that way, that it wouldn’t make any difference, killing you, but they didn’t want to listen. They insisted that I help them.’
‘So you agreed?’
Malfatti nodded.
‘You have to give an answer, Signor Malfatti, or the tape doesn’t register it,’ Brunetti explained coolly.
‘Yes, I agreed.’
‘What made you change your mind and agree to do it?’
‘They paid enough.’
Because the young officer was there, Brunetti didn’t ask how much his life was worth. It would come out in time.
‘Did you drive the car that tried to push us off the road?’
‘Yes.’ Malfatti paused for a long time and then added, ‘You know, I don’t think I would have done it if I’d known there was a woman in the car with you. It’s bad luck to kill a woman. She was my first.’ It hit him then and he looked up. ‘See, it is bad luck, isn’t it?’
‘Probably more for the woman than for you, Signor Malfatti,’ Brunetti answered, but before Malfatti could react, Brunetti asked, ‘What about Crespo? Did you kill him?’
‘No, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was in the car with Ravanello. We left Santomauro with Crespo. When we got back there, it was finished.’
‘What did Santomauro tell you?’
‘Nothing. Not about that. He just told us it had happened, and then he told me to stay out of sight, if possible to get out of Venice. I was going to, but now I guess I won’t get the chance to.’
‘And Ravanello?’
‘I went there this morning, after you came to my place.’ Malfatti stopped here, and Brunetti wondered what he he was preparing.
