Read Online White Death by Tobias Jones - Free Book Online Page A

cautious.
    ‘Arson.’
    ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person. I can’t help you.’
    ‘The name Luciano Tosti mean anything to you?’
    The line went quiet.
    ‘You lent him the money to buy some land a year ago.’
    His voice assumed a formal, defensive tone. ‘I’ve spoken at length with the authorities about the case. I have nothing further to add.’
    ‘The case is being reopened.’
    ‘I’m glad,’ he said hastily. ‘I hope they find the person responsible.’
    ‘You want to help me with that?’
    ‘I lent him money.’ The voice was losing its cool. ‘That’s all.’
    The line went dead. I buzzed again but nothing happened. I took out one of my cards and posted it through the letter box.

I phoned a friend who worked in construction
    I phoned a friend who worked in construction. He was one of those all-purpose labourers who’s always doing a dozen jobs at the same time. Until recently he was earning more than a stockbroker.
    ‘Spago? It’s Casta.’
    ‘Ciao grande. Come va?’
    ‘Fine. You?’
    ‘Still above ground. What can I do for you?’
    ‘Let me take you out to lunch.’
    ‘What’s the catch?’
    ‘I need to pick your brains.’
    ‘You got tweezers?’
    ‘Very funny. Bruno’s at one?’
    ‘Sure.’
    I put my phone back in my pocket and started the drive back to Parma. I spent most of it thinking about Spago. He’s an unusual character, one of those people who knows everyone and vice versa. Most people could recognise him just by his silhouette: an afro of grey curly hair that starts nearer the back of his head than the front. He always wears white overalls and drives around the city in a heavily dented pick-up full of bags of cement, bits of hose, random screws and keys and crowbars. He’s an old-fashioned idealist, one of the last hard-core communists of Emilia-Romagna. He’s always slaggingoff the careerist left-wingers as ‘cashmere communists’. The worst they ever said about him is that he’s naive.
    ‘I’ve heard it’s slow,’ I said to him an hour later when he came into the bar, shouting hellos left and right. He had picked up a couple of flutes of malvasia from the barman on the way.
    ‘Slow’s not the word. It’s static. I’ve got a couple of jobs to finish off and then nothing. No one’s got any cash, or if they have they’re keeping hold of it. The developers haven’t sold even half the flats from last year and don’t have the cashflow to invest in building new ones. So they’re laying off hundreds of workers who are spending less money, cutting back on expensive restaurants and chic clothes. When the cranes aren’t swinging the whole city suffers. People are struggling to buy a packet of cigarettes, let alone a new bilocale on the top floor of a swanky new block. Times are tight, and when times are tight the competition gets nasty.’
    ‘You going to retire?’
    ‘I’ve got two teenage daughters. They spend a hundred euros a week just on tights.’
    ‘And only wear them once?’
    ‘How did you know?’ He laughed.
    I looked at him laughing and smiled. Spago had always grumbled in the good times and was now laughing in the lean ones.
    ‘You’ve heard the latest solution to the crisis?’ He started chuckling again and shaking his head. ‘They want to build an underground railway.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Here. In this little city. You could throw a stone from oneend to the other, but they want to build a metro.’ He said it with scorn.
    ‘Sounds like a decent idea,’ I said, trying to wind him up. I shut the menu and passed it over to him.
    ‘You are joking? Have you any idea how much money and time it will take to complete? Billions and billions of euros. Years and years of stop-start bullshit. The budget will go up every year as every politician dips their bread. And you know this used to be a Roman city? Every time they start drilling they’ll find bones and pots and swords and mosaics, and everything will grind to a halt whilst