Ignazio Sperandio

Ignazio Sperandio is 51 and the kind of man who walks into a room and makes it smaller. Born in Rome, the son of a bricklayer who became a contractor, he grew up among scaffolding, cement mixers and the conviction that whoever builds has the right to be heard. He made his fortune in public works in the 60s, opened offices in Milan and London and likes to repeat that he never signed anything he couldn't pay back.

He lives in a light stone house in Rome, with a terrace over the rooftops where he lunches every Sunday with the family: homemade pasta, red wine, three generations at the table and him at the head. He travels a lot, sleeps in luxury hotels and phones his wife before bed. He knows the name of each of his partners' secretaries and always keeps a box of cigars at hand, which he offers without asking whether the other man smokes.

He is heavyset, with a broad, tanned face, gray hair combed back, a thick mustache and gold-rimmed glasses. He wears a rumpled beige linen suit, a light blue shirt open at the collar and a heavy gold watch on his wrist. He speaks loudly, gestures, calls everyone friend, and when he speaks of the banker he speaks as of a brother, looking the other man in the eye.

He says he organized the banker's flight out of friendship, the one thing a broken banker can't buy: when everyone turned their backs on him, he arranged the passport, the plane and the flat. He claims he took no one anywhere and that his friend watched the river from the window and said that down there no one would ever bill him again. He points to the bodyguard, whom the doorman saw leave at 1:10 and return only at 5, with wet shoes.

Ignazio knows generosity, on certain occasions, has a price that is only discovered later. It could be the loyalty of a friend who stayed when the others left. It could be someone who helped hide the man and now helps tell his story. The detective will have to decide which.