‘Signor Sadestatt,’ he said, adjusting his glasses and holding out his hand.
That was clearly how his name was going to be pronounced. If nothing else, it was at least consistent.
Signor Sadestatt held out his hand and nodded mutely; he had already been introduced, after all. The other man obviously had no intention of introducing himself. He probably thought of himself as a function rather than a person.
‘Signor di Spinelli will see you in a few minutes,’ the man said. ‘You will have a quarter of an hour. After that, I’m afraid Signor di Spinelli must leave for New York. He is already taking a later flight in order to entertain you at such short notice.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Signor Sadestatt, suddenly feeling like he was in deep water. Literally. He was treading water and couldn’t see land no matter which way he looked.
Time seemed to be taking a siesta. It was moving as slowly as treacle. He was treading water, trying to keep afloat. His movements were slow. After an indescribable amount of time, a boat suddenly appeared, plucking him up out of the water. Everything was back to normal.
With the exception that he was now talking to an Italian Mafia boss.
The pictures hadn’t lied. Marco di Spinelli was wearing a sporty black polo neck beneath a thoroughly modern black suit. Söderstedt guessed it was Armani. His face was furrowed, but his eyes didn’t look like a ninety-two-year-old’s. They were clear, pale and brown, a perfect match for the grey-haired man. Silver fox was an adequate description after all.
Could this man really still have all his own hair at the age of ninety-two? Was that physiologically possible?
His office was unrivalled. Söderstedt had never seen anything like it. Three of the walls were clad in colourful sixteenth-century tapestries depicting a broad paradise landscape of shepherds, shepherdesses, sheep and fountains. Above a huge open fireplace on the fourth and final wall, Söderstedt could see two paintings. The style of both was immediately familiar. The first of them, a beautiful woman sitting on a wall, must have been a genuine da Vinci. The other, a perfect double portrait, looked like a Piero della Francesca. Above these figures, over six hundred years old and seemingly alive, the ceiling, lined with what was, in all probability, genuine gold leaf, arched up and away. An enormous chandelier covered with thousands of crystals looping across one another to create an exquisite glittering net hung in the centre. The whole thing seemed to be moving upwards, towards the ceiling. And beneath this golden net, right beneath the moving, dazzling chandelier, the first Perduto must have sat, gazing out at sixteenth-century Milan, his quill hovering above the inkwell. Then he must have continued, his hand light and his handwriting elegant, writing his polished sonnets.
The pictures belonged to di Spinelli.
He was standing next to one of the tapestry-clad walls, his hand somewhere behind the cloth. A gap appeared between tapestries, and in that gap Söderstedt caught sight of the bare stone wall. On it, an ugly red button. Marco di Spinelli was pressing it. The crystal chandelier’s movement up towards the ceiling was nearing its end. The old man let go of the button and held his hand out to Söderstedt in silent greeting. Instead of any introduction or welcoming phrase, Marco di Spinelli’s first words to Söderstedt were:
‘Are you aware, Signor Sadestatt, that it was at this very desk that the Marquis of Perduto sat writing his famous sonnets to little Amelia, whom he met aged eight and never forgot?’
His voice was dry and his English flawless. An upper-class British accent.
‘The concept seems familiar,’ Söderstedt replied, sitting down in an armchair next to the fireplace.
Marco di Spinelli chuckled gently, poured two glasses of Calvados and placed them on the little table between the armchairs. He sat down.
‘It was that kind of time,’ he said. ‘Petrarchism was all the rage across Europe. Everyone was writing love poetry to a young girl they believed they had met in their childhood, someone they could never forget. A time of mass psychosis. Rather like now. Don’t you agree?’
‘In a way,’ Söderstedt replied, taking the glass of Calvados being held out to him. He sniffed it with the air of a connoisseur and said: ‘Grand Solage Boulard, if I’m not mistaken.’
Marco di Spinelli raised an eyebrow and said: ‘Are you a connoisseur, Signor Sadestatt?’
‘I saw the bottle,’ said Signor Sadestatt.
‘I know,’ said di Spinelli.
‘I realised that,’ said Söderstedt.
‘I realised that you realised,’ said di Spinelli.
Their exchange could have gone on for a long time.
The ice had, at least, been broken, and Söderstedt had managed to work out roughly where he had di Spinelli. He was exactly where he had expected him to be.
‘I must admit,’ the old silver fox said, ‘it was something of a shock when you walked into the room, Signor Sadestatt.’
‘It didn’t show,’ said Söderstedt.
‘You truly do remind me of someone I knew an eternity ago, back in the beginning of time.’
‘During the war? Did you have much contact with blond men during the war?’
Marco di Spinelli smiled grimly and said: ‘Let’s return to the present, since I do unfortunately have other pressing matters to attend to. It’s funny, isn’t it, that we never do learn to wind down.’
‘I’ll be concise, then,’ said Söderstedt. ‘A Greek by the name of Nikos Voultsos somehow managed to get himself eaten by the wolverines in a zoo in Stockholm. Were you aware of this?’
‘I heard about it,’ di Spinelli nodded. ‘A peculiar fate.’
‘I have a photograph of the two of you together. The two of you are shaking hands and you, Signor di Spinelli, have your other hand on Voultsos’s shoulder. It all looks very friendly. But Nikos Voultsos was far from a friendly individual.’
Marco di Spinelli threw his hands out in a resigned gesture.
‘Did you come here to repeat things the Italian police have said to me hundreds of times before? I had hoped you would be slightly more… original.’
‘I just want to hear you explain away the fact that you – an honourable banker and politician – knew that multiple murderer and violent criminal.’
‘It was deeply unpleasant when I found out he was a criminal. We happened to meet in a cafe one morning and simply started talking. My relationship with that man went no further than that. What was his name? Valtors?’
‘Exactly,’ Söderstedt replied.
The old man looked at him, one eyebrow raised. Söderstedt continued.
‘How would you interpret the fact that Nikos Voultsos was driven straight towards the wolverines – the ghiottoni, if you will – by unknown criminals, and that, once there, he was executed in a very particular way?’
‘Oh,’ di Spinelli said, looking surprised. ‘The Swedish press said it was an accident. You surely didn’t come here to let that slip, did you? This wouldn’t happen to involve confidential matters, would it?’
‘It’s nice to hear you’re so well read on the Swedish press’s coverage of your brief acquaintance’s death. You can read Swedish, can you? Perhaps we can speak Swedish, then?’
‘Marconi told me. You must know the good commissioner and his disproportionate moustache? He is a good friend of mine. A very good friend.’
‘But don’t the people who did this seem awful? We have to ask just who might have put that nasty Nikos Voultsos to death. Nema problema. Snip, snap, and he was broken up into very small pieces. And of the prostitutes, not even one stayed behind. They simply disappeared. Poof.’
‘You’re starting to become vulgar, Signor Sadestatt. And time is getting on.’
‘What did you do during the war?’
‘You’ve already read that in my folder. Don’t act dumb.’