Death in Sardinia (21 page)

‘So?’ said Ettore, seeing that Piras’s thoughts were elsewhere.

‘Wait, I just want to have a quick look behind the house,’ said Piras.

‘
Arrazze ‘e segamentu
,’
¹⁴
Angelo muttered between clenched teeth. The other two followed Piras behind the house. The fold was empty, the sheep out to pasture along with the dog. The pigs had plenty to eat, and the sty had been cleaned that morning. The donkey was placid. Everything seemed in order. Barraccu was doing a good job looking after everything. Piras checked the windows of the house and made sure the back door was locked tight.

‘
All right, we can go,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir, General, sir,’ said Ettore.

They circled back to the front of the house, got into the car, and drove to the main road. The little Fiat’s motor whirred like a fine watch. Piras sat in silence, rehashing the question of the missing shell in his mind, while his two friends chatted about the upcoming Christmas dinner, discussing which relatives would or wouldn’t be coming.

‘Don’t tell anyone what we went to do there,’ Piras said when they were within sight of Bonarcado. Angelo and Ettore swore to keep their mouths shut, though from the way they said it, it was clear that they thought that all this mystery was a bit overdone.

Ettore dropped Piras off in front of his house, then continued on his way with Angelo. Piras glanced at his watch. He looked over at the Setzus’ house, hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind and went and knocked on the door. When Pina appeared, he returned the keys to her and asked her whether he could please have a look at the clothes Benigno was wearing when he died. Pina was so tired she didn’t even ask him why. She let him in and led him upstairs to the room where they had changed Benigno’s clothes. She opened a wardrobe and took out some clothes.

‘Here they are,’ she said.

Piras asked her please to lay them out on the bed, then propped a crutch against the wall and with his free hand began to squeeze the sweater and trousers. He then held them up in the air and shook them. There was no shell.

‘All right, I’m done. Thanks,’ he said.

‘What were you looking for?’ asked Pina without much interest.

‘Nothing. I’m going to go and eat. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. Come whenever you like.’

‘I’m going to lie down for a while,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you come over tonight and watch some television with us?’

‘No, not tonight,’ said Pina, her eyes lifeless.

‘Then tomorrow. There’s going to be a film on Channel Two.’

‘All right, maybe …’ she said.

They descended the stairs in silence, gestured goodbye at the door, and Piras went home. His parents had waited for him to start eating. The pasta water had been boiling for a long time over a low flame, but in the end Maria had turned off the gas.

‘It’s almost two o’clock,’ said Gavino. The television was turned off.

‘Go ahead and put the pasta in,’ said Piras,

‘I’ll be right there.’

‘What are you doing, Pietrino?’ his mother asked, lighting the flame under the pot.

‘I have to make a telephone call.’

‘A girl called about an hour ago, asking for you,’ Maria said in a neutral tone.

‘Oh, really?’ said Piras, studying his mother’s face. Normally Sonia never called at that hour.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Gavino, but nobody paid any attention.

‘She said her name … but I’ve already forgotten it …’ said Maria, trying to remember.

‘Francesca?’ asked Piras.

‘Yes, Francesca,’ Maria said, smiling.

‘And what did she say?’

‘It’s not true, nobody called. I just wanted to know what her name was,’ she said with satisfaction.

‘Well, now you know,’ Pietrino said curtly, having already guessed his mother’s game.

‘The water’s boiling,’ said Gavino.

‘But why won’t you tell us anything about this girl? Is she really so ugly?’ Maria asked, finally getting it off her chest.

‘She’s a monster,’ said Piras, thinking of Sonia’s face. He could hardly wait to hold her in his arms.

‘Maria, put the pasta in,’ said Gavino, getting tired of their banter.

At last the spaghetti were lowered into the pot. Pietrino limped to the hall and closed the door behind him. He phoned the
carabinieri
in Milis and asked whether anyone had perhaps picked up the shell of the bullet that had killed Benigno, but nobody knew anything.

‘It must still be in the dead man’s house. But I don’t think it really matters,’ said Amedeo Nazzari.

Piras thanked him and hung up. He stood there staring at the closed kitchen door, wondering about the missing shell. Nobody can kill himself and then make the shell disappear.

‘It’s almost ready, Nino,’ Gavino shouted.

At three o’clock Bordelli went into his office and opened the window. It was cold outside, but the room was warm and stank of smoke. He sat down without taking his trench coat off. As usual, he’d eaten too much in Totò’s kitchen. Every time he went through that door, he would swear to himself not to overdo it, and every time he forgot his solemn vow. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and was about to light it, but then he decided to wait and set it down on the desk. He thought again of Marisa, her dark eyes that looked like living stones, and all at once Milena’s face came back to him … She had black hair like Marisa, and the same colour skin …

Enough of this crap. He’d best get down to work. He had to ring Marisa’s brother, who was the first left-hander he’d come across in the investigation. The prospect excited him a little. Marisa had said her brother was always at his friend’s house, and Bordelli grabbed the phone book and looked for the number of Gustavo Fontana the barrister. While searching he thought that if he could go back in time, he would throw caution to the winds and put a tap on Badalamenti’s phone, without authorisation … Had he done so, he might now have a better lead to follow to get to the bottom of this affair. Well, let that be a lesson. Whatever the case, somehow or other he would find the person who had killed the loan shark. He was absolutely sure of this. And he said it so often to himself that he started to doubt his own certainty. At last he found Fontana’s home phone number.

‘Hello?’ said a young man’s voice. In the background Bordelli could hear music being played at high volume, but he didn’t recognise it.

‘Good afternoon, I’d like to speak with Raffaele Montigiani,’ he said.

‘I’m Raffaele, who’s this?’

‘Inspector Bordelli, police. I need to talk to you. When could we meet?’

‘What’s this about?’ asked the young man, but the inspector could tell from his tone that Marisa had already told him everything.

‘I just want to ask you a few questions,’ said Bordelli.

‘Is tomorrow all right?’

‘I’d prefer we did it straight away.’ Raffaele was silent for a moment. Somebody turned the music down.

‘Would five o’clock be okay?’ asked Raffaele.

‘Where?’

‘In Piazze delle Cure, in front of Cavini’s
gelateria
.’

‘All right. Don’t be late.’

They hung up. Playing around with his unlit cigarette, Bordelli tried to picture Raffaele’s face based on his voice, and he imagined a boxer. He liked to amuse himself with such speculations, and often he was close to the mark. A moribund fly was flying slowly from one end of the room to the other before landing on the wall and staying there without moving. With realising it, the inspector lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke upwards while thinking again of Odoardo. The sensation that the kid was hiding something was still strong, and he felt that he needed to talk to him a little more. Actually, he liked Odoardo. The boy had a beautiful face and clear eyes. Except that, perhaps … he wasn’t telling the truth.

When he looked outside and saw the sky darkening, he glanced at his watch and stood up. He slapped his paunch and screwed up his mouth. He had to lose a few pounds, he thought, but with Totò in the neighbourhood it wasn’t easy.

He left the station, taking his time, then drove slowly to Piazza delle Cure. It was already dark outside. There were a lot of people in the streets. He parked near Cavini’s, in front of a bunch of cut fir trees stacked against the wall. It was cold and rather windy, and he decided to wait in the car. Children passed with their woollen caps pulled down over their ears, and some of them stopped to look at the trees. Their mothers dragged them away, walking fast, hand on their collars and eyes closed against the wind.

A few minutes later a young man on a big motorcycle came round the corner of Viale Volta. The bike looked like a BSA. He slowed down and drove on to the pavement, then parked the motorbike against the wall and went and stood in front of the ice-cream shop. He had on a close-fitting black leather jacket, zipped up to his neck, and looked around impatiently. He wasn’t very tall but had broad shoulders. His long chestnut hair covered his ears. He didn’t look at all like Marisa, but it was definitely him. Bordelli got out of the Beetle and went up to him. The young man took off his gloves, and they shook hands.

‘Nice bike,’ said the inspector.

‘It’s not mine,’ the youth said, working his chewing gum. Bordelli had been wrong. He had nothing of the boxer about him. He looked more like a medieval knight. He had a rather singular face, quite virile but also a bit feminine, and the contrast worked well. The wind was cold, and the inspector invited him to come inside the car. They got into the Beetle. Raffaele, needing space, pushed the seat all the way back.

‘I already know what you want to ask me,’ he said. He didn’t move, but Bordelli could sense his nerves rustling under his skin.

‘Your sister told me—’

‘My sister has the brains of a chicken,’ said Raffaele.

‘I think she’s only a little naïve.’

‘Nobody else would ever have believed that bullshit.’

‘Tell me about the time you paid a courtesy call on Badalamenti. When was that?’ Bordelli asked.

‘A couple of weeks ago, maybe less.’

‘You don’t remember the exact day?’

‘I remember that it was a holiday.’

‘The Immaculate Conception?’

‘Bah, perhaps …’

‘What time of day did you go there?

‘I feel like I’m back at school,’ said Raffaele.

‘It’s not a difficult question.’

‘It was night, round about ten o’clock, I’d say.’

‘Did you go alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you never went back?’

Raffaele shook his head.

‘I was sure that if I ever went back, something bad would happen. The guy had lard in his head instead of brains. I really don’t understand how Marisa could have trusted such a piece of shit.’

‘Apparently he could be polite and persuasive.’

‘With a face like that, it’s hard to believe. I would have reported him except for the fact that my sister didn’t want me to,’ said Raffaele, shrugging.

‘Exactly what happened when you went to his place?’

‘Let’s get straight to the point, Inspector … I didn’t kill him.’

‘I think I’ve heard that statement before.’

‘You’re like my father. You never say things openly.’

‘What does your father do?’ asked Bordelli, ignoring the provocation.

‘He has a car dealership, earns tons of money but lives a shitty life. I’d rather clean cesspools than work for him.’

‘And what do you do?’

‘I make music.’

‘What sort of music?’

‘Nothing that you’re familiar with, and at any rate you wouldn’t like it,’ said Raffaele, avoiding the subject. He was playing tough, and succeeding, in part. The inspector dropped the musical discussion and came to the point.

‘How did you spend the day of the tenth of September?’ he asked. Raffaele started laughing.

‘I really don’t know. I didn’t know I would have to remember,’ he said.

‘Try.’

‘Listen, Inspector, that bastard deserved to die, and if I had rid the world of him myself I certainly wouldn’t feel guilty about it. But the fact is, I didn’t kill him. It’s as simple as that,’ said Raffaele, looking him in the eye. They were more or less the same words Benito Muggio had used.

‘Did you come to blows?’ Bordelli asked.

‘Almost.’

‘Did you threaten him?’

‘When he said I had to pay him to get back those pictures of my
whore
of a sister, I flew off the handle and told him that if he didn’t give them back to me … Well, anyway, I wanted to scare him.’

‘But he didn’t get scared.’

‘I haven’t told this to Marisa, but her little friend pulled out a switchblade and started counting to ten, and not very quickly, either. I realised he was just a little prick who made up lies so he could fuck young girls. He seemed much more relaxed with that knife in his hand.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, I didn’t feel like getting my belly cut open over my fool of a sister … So when the guy reached the count of ten, I spat a nice big gob on his floor, wished him an early death, and left.’

‘You were prophetic.’

‘Maybe I have magical powers,’ Raffaele said with a cold smile.

‘So you gave up on the photos?

‘I would have had to kill him to get them back, and, as I said, I didn’t kill him.’

‘But you can’t remember what you did that Friday.’

‘No, I can’t. Do you remember what you did that Friday?’ the young man countered. Bordelli smiled … He couldn’t remember.

‘What was that music I heard over the telephone?’ he asked, offering him a cigarette.

‘I don’t smoke that stuff,’ said Raffaele.

‘Only marijuana?’

‘Give me a break. Marijuana. I obey the law … I drink a bottle of grappa a day and smoke three packs of cigarettes with the government’s seal on them, all healthy, legal stuff,’ Raffaele said with the sneer of a gangster.

‘So what was that music?’ Bordelli asked again.

‘It’s not for you.’

‘I used to say the same thing to my father when I listened to Duke Ellington.’

‘The difference is that I know the Duke better than you do,’ said Raffaele. The inspector lit a cigarette, rolling the window down an inch or two. He was getting a little tired of being treated like an old codger incapable of understanding new things. He thought about what he’d gone through in the war and wondered whether this kid had any idea what had actually happened … Whether he knew who Mussolini and Hitler were, whether the name Buchenwald meant anything to him. Bordelli didn’t want to play the part of the old pain in the arse trying to give lessons in life, but the question slipped out of him anyway.