‘What happened?’ Brunetti prodded him.
‘I told him that the police were after me. I said I needed money to get out of the city and go somewhere. But he panicked. He started shouting that I had ruined everything. That’s when he pulled the knife.’
Brunetti had seen the knife. A switchblade seemed a strange thing for a banker to carry on his person, but he said nothing.
‘He came at me with it. He was completely wild. We fought over it, and I think he fell on it.’ He did, Brunetti remarked to himself. Twice. In the chest.
‘And then?’
‘Then I went to my mother’s. That’s where your men found me.’ Malfatti stopped speaking, and the only sound in the room was the soft humming of the tape recorder.
‘What happened to the money?’ Brunetti asked.
‘What?’ Malfatti said, surprised by this sudden change of pace.
‘The money. That was made from all the rents.’
‘I spent mine, spent it every month. But it was nothing compared to what they got.’
‘How much was it you got?’
‘Between nine and ten million.’
‘Do you know what they did with theirs?’
Malfatti paused for a moment, as though he had never speculated about this. ‘I’d guess Santomauro spent a large part of his on boys. Ravanello, I don’t know. He looked like one of those people who invested money.’ Malfatti’s tone turned this into an obscenity.
‘Have you anything else to say about this or your involvement with these men?’
‘Only that the idea to kill Mascari was theirs, not mine. I went along with it, but it was their idea. I didn’t have much to lose if anyone found out about the rents, so I didn’t see any reason to kill him.’ It was clear that, had he believed he had anything to lose, he would have had no hesitation to kill Mascari, but Brunetti said nothing.
‘That’s all,’ Malfatti said.
Brunetti rose and signalled to the young officer to come with him. ‘I’ll have this typed up and you can sign it.’
‘Take your time,’ Malfatti said and laughed. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
An hour later, Brunetti took three copies of the typed statement down to Malfatti, who signed them without bothering to read it. ‘Don’t you want to know what you’re signing?’ Brunetti asked him.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Malfatti replied, still not bothering to raise himself from the cot. He waved the pen Brunetti had given him at the paper. ‘Besides, there’s no reason to think anyone’s going to believe that.’
Since the same thing had occurred to Brunetti, he didn’t argue the point.
‘What happens now?’ Malfatti asked.
‘There’ll be a hearing within the next few days, and the magistrate will decide if you should be offered the chance of bail.’
‘Will he ask your opinion?’
‘Probably.’
‘And?’
‘I’ll argue against it.’
Malfatti moved his hand along the barrel of the pen and then reversed his hold on it and offered it to Brunetti.
‘Will someone tell my mother?’ Malfatti asked.
‘I’ll see that someone calls her.’
Malfatti shrugged his acknowledgement, moved himself lower on the pillow, and closed his eyes.
Brunetti left the cell and went up two flights of stairs to Signorina Elettra’s alcove. Today she was dressed in a shade of red seldom seen beyond the confines of the Vatican, but Brunetti found it strident and out of tune with his mood. She smiled, and his mood lightened a bit.
‘Is he in?’ Brunetti asked.
He got here about an hour ago, but he’s on the phone and he told me not to interrupt him, not for anything.’
Brunetti preferred it this way, didn’t want to be with Patta when he read Malfatti’s confession. He placed a copy of the confession on her desk and said, ‘Would you give him this as soon as he’s finished with the call?’
‘Malfatti?’ she asked, looking at it with open curiosity.
‘Yes.’
‘Where will you be?’
When she asked that, Brunetti suddenly realized that he was completely displaced, had no idea what time it was. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was five, but the hour meant nothing to him. He didn’t feel hungry, only thirsty and miserably tired. He began to consider how Patta was likely to respond; that increased his thirst.
‘I’ll go and get something to drink and then I’ll be in my office.’
He turned and left; he didn’t care if she read the confession or not, found that he didn’t care about anything except his thirst and the heat and the faint grainy texture of his skin, where salt had been evaporating all day. He raised the back of his hand to his mouth and licked it, almost glad to taste the bitterness.
An hour later, he went into Patta’s office in response to his summons, and at the desk Brunetti found the old Patta: he looked like he had shed five years and gained five kilos overnight.
‘Have a seat, Brunetti,’ Patta said. Patta picked up the confession and tapped the six pages on his desk, aligning them neatly.
‘I’ve just read this,’ Patta said. He glanced across at Brunetti and laid the papers flat on his desk. ‘I believe him.’
Brunetti concentrated on demonstrating no emotion. Patta’s wife was somehow involved with the Lega. Santomauro was a figure of some political importance in a city where Patta hoped to rise to power. Brunetti realized that justice and the law were not going to play any part in whatever conversation he was about to have with Patta. He said nothing.
‘But I doubt that anyone else will,’ Patta added, beginning to lead Brunetti towards illumination. When it became clear that Brunetti was going to say nothing, Patta continued, ‘I’ve had a number of phone calls this afternoon.’
It was too cheap a shot to ask if one of them had been from Santomauro, and so Brunetti did not ask.
‘Not only did Avvocato Santomauro call me, but I also had long conversations with two members of the city council, both of whom are friends and political associates of the Avvocato.’ Patta pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his legs. Brunetti could see the tip of one gleaming shoe and a narrow expanse of thin blue sock. He looked up at Patta’s face. ‘As I said, no one is going to believe this man.’
‘Even if he is telling the truth?’ Brunetti finally asked.
‘Especially if he’s telling the truth. No one in this city is going to believe that Santomauro is capable of what this man accuses him of doing.’
‘You seem to have no trouble believing it, Vice-Questore.’
‘I am hardly to be considered an objective witness when it comes to Signor Santomauro,’ Patta said, dropping in front of Brunetti, as casually as he had placed the papers on his desk, the first bit of self-knowledge he had ever demonstrated.
‘What did Santomauro tell you?’ Brunetti asked, though he had already worked out what that would have to be.
‘I’m sure you’ve realized what he would say,’ Patta said, again surprising Brunetti. ‘That this is merely an attempt on Malfatti’s part to divide the blame and minimize his responsibility in all of this. That a close examination of the records at the bank will surely show that it was all Ravanello’s doing. That there is no evidence whatsoever that he, Santomauro, was involved in any of this, not the double rents and not the death of Mascari.’
