Death in Sardinia (28 page)

He was still asleep when the phone rang at his bedside … but he did not wake up in a pleasure garden. He picked up the receiver without turning on the light.

‘Yes …?’

‘Inspector … am I disturbing you?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Don’t you recognise me? It’s me.’

‘Ennio … but what time is it?’

‘Seven o’clock, Inspector. I just got out of the hotel.’

‘That’s excellent news.’

‘You told me yourself to call as soon as I got out … for that little job.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need you any more for that. The guy I wanted to nab was killed.’ Botta huffed into the receiver.

‘Too bad, I was really keen on doing you a favour,’ he said, disappointed.

‘Next time, Botta.’

‘Who was the guy that got killed?’

‘A loan shark.’

‘Fantastic. Don’t tell me you’re desperately looking for the killer, Inspector.’

‘It’s my job, Botta. But it’s true I’m not really so desperate, when you come down to it.’

‘Will you dump the body in the Arno or feed it to the pigs?’ Botta asked in all seriousness.

‘Let’s talk about something else, Ennio. Are you hard up?’

‘What do you think, Inspector? Have you ever seen Botta rolling in dough?’

‘Well, if you hadn’t pissed away all that money from Greece at the races …’

‘I’ve sworn off the horses for ever …’ said Ennio, sighing into the receiver.

‘If you feel like dropping by, we can have coffee together,’ said Bordelli, already thinking of the Christmas dinner.

‘Sure, I’d be glad to come by. Need anything?’

‘I’d like to ask you to get me a carton of cigarettes, but I’m trying to quit.’

‘A nice little watch?’

‘Just come and we’ll see.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Botta hung up, and the inspector got out of bed. From the chair he picked up the trousers he had carefully folded just a few hours before and slid his legs into them. He went into the bathroom barefooted, braces dangling. Leaning over the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror. He grabbed the flesh on one arm. It didn’t seem so old, really; the skin was still rather smooth. At fifty-five and counting, it could be a lot worse. It seemed like the start of a rather positive day. He barely had time to splash some water on his face when the doorbell rang. Drying himself in haste, he went and opened the door, waiting on the threshold. Botta arrived out of breath and dripping with rain. He gave the inspector a sad smile. He’d lost a lot of weight, cheeks looking hollower than usual.

‘Hello, Inspector. As you can see, they let me out for Christmas.’

‘You didn’t take very long to get here. Were you close by?’

‘No, I was in Bologna, but I told the chauffeur I was in a hurry.’

‘You look well,’ Bordelli lied, shaking his hand.

‘Cut the shit, Inspector, I’ve lost fifteen pounds. They don’t know how to cook in that fucking prison.’

‘I’ll send a memo to the ministry and demand that they hire a French chef for the Murate.’

‘Shall I make the coffee, Inspector?’

‘Good idea.’ Botta then took two false Bulova watches out of his pocket.

‘First get a load of this stuff. Only six thousand lire. There’s even the little window with the date.’

‘You’re barely out of prison and already loaded with rubbish?’

‘I could make a lot more money with cocaine, Inspector, but I don’t like that sector …’

‘I know, I know.’

‘You like this one?’ said Ennio, holding up another watch.

‘Put that shit away, Botta.’

‘Forget I ever mentioned it.’

‘Let me finish shaving and I’m all yours,’ said Bordelli, slapping him on the back.

‘I’ll go and make the coffee.’

‘Everything’s out on the counter, there’s nothing to break open.’

‘Too bad,’ Botta said, chuckling, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

He prepared the moka in strict accordance with the rules, and while the inspector was shaving, he started milling about the flat. Nothing had changed. Along the wall in the entrance were the same stacks of newspapers and dusty boxes he’d always seen there. It looked like the home of someone who’d just moved in and hadn’t yet decided where to put things.

‘What are you doing for Christmas, Botta?’ Bordelli asked loudly from the bathroom. Ennio appeared in the doorway.

‘What was that, Inspector?’ They looked at each other through the mirror.

‘I was asking what you’re doing for Christmas.’

‘Didn’t you know? I’m going to my house in Monte Carlo,’ Botta said with a wry face. Having finished shaving, Bordelli splashed some aftershave on his face. It burned like fire, and he liked the feeling.

‘Feel like putting together a dinner here with me?’ he asked. He could still remember the dinner of two years before, in the middle of the summer, when Botta had outdone himself by making a multilingual meal.

‘Who else is coming?’ Ennio asked, frowning.

‘Diotivede, Fabiani, Dante … all people you already know.’

‘What about the Sardinian kid? Has he recovered?’

‘He’s still in Sardinia. He’s doing all right, says he’ll be back in January.’

‘If you hear from him, give him my best.’

‘Will do,’ said Bordelli, trying to tame some overgrown hairs in his eyebrows. Hair is weird, Rosa had said to him one evening … The older you get, the more you’ve got on strange parts of your body.

‘I’ve already got something in mind for your dinner,’ said Botta, looking thoughtful. Bordelli looked at him through the mirror.

‘I like people with a sense of initiative. The only thing …’

‘The only thing?’ Ennio asked, concerned.

‘Diotivede would like some French onion soup. Do you know how to make it?’

‘Are you kidding, Inspector? Right after the war I spent a year in a Marseille prison. I know all about French cuisine.’

‘Then you’ll make the pickiest corpse-cutter in Italy a happy man,’ said Bordelli. Realising he hadn’t shaved properly, he lathered his face up again. Ennio was already at the organisational stage.

‘It would probably be a good idea to start doing some shopping today.’

‘I’ll give you the cash straight away.’

‘Now if only I can manage to find what I need …’ The inspector was taking his time with his face, and in the end Botta went and sat down on the toilet lid.

‘How much do you need?’ Bordelli asked.

‘Ten thousand should be enough.’

‘When will you need the kitchen?’

‘I need to start today, Inspector, and I should probably hurry.’

‘All right, then, I’ll leave you the house keys so you can come and go as you please.’ Bordelli thought about what he’d just said and started laughing. Botta looked at him as if he felt slightly offended.

‘Why are you laughing, Inspector?’

‘Do you even know how to use keys any more, Botta? Do you remember how you do it? You stick them in and turn …’

‘Look, I’m not just a burglar, you know. In my day I even went to school …’ Bordelli at last finished shaving and put the fiery aftershave on his face again.

‘How’s the coffee coming along?’ he asked. Ennio leapt to his feet and ran into the kitchen. Bordelli heard him yelling and, drying his hands, went to see what he was doing.

‘Who you yelling at, Botta?’

‘You know what they say in France, Inspector.
Café boilé café fouté
. I’ll make a fresh pot.’

‘I haven’t got the time, Botta. I’ll get one outside.’

‘It’ll only take a minute.’ Botta immediately got busy. The inspector went to look for a shirt and was putting it on as he returned to the kitchen. The coffee pot was already on the fire.

‘You were saying you went to school …’ said Bordelli.

‘I even did a year of university.’

‘And how did you pay for your studies?’ Ennio had rinsed off two espresso cups and was looking for something to dry them with.

‘My father was still around. I don’t know how he did it, but we almost always had money for food and study. And when we didn’t …’

‘It was your job to find some.’

‘What else was I supposed to do? To learn a profession you have to study, Inspector, and to study you need a lot of money. Do you think it’s right for the poor to remain ignorant?’

‘I agree with you, my dear Botta, but apparently someone else likes things this way.’

‘Anyway, I’m not ashamed to be a thief, because I’ve never robbed anyone who had less than me. I go and take from the rich what I haven’t got but am entitled to. What’s wrong with that?’

‘You talk like a Sardinian bandit.’

‘Even Don Bencini says that whoever robs because he’s hungry goes to heaven.’

‘Who’s Don Bencini?’

‘A priest with bollocks, and a man who doesn’t talk much but takes action.’

‘The one who goes around to prisons talking to crooks like you?’

‘That’s the one … One time he told me that if Jesus Christ could see the way Italy is today, he’d ring his daddy and tell him to drown the place.’

‘I think he’s right.’

‘We could use a lot more priests like that … instead of those fat puppets with double chins in gold vestments …’ Ennio was standing with the two wet cups in his hands, waving them around in the air as he spoke. Bordelli buttoned his shirt sleeves.

‘So, what exactly did you study?’ he asked.

‘I did nearly a year of Letters.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘My father wanted me to become a teacher or something like that.’ They both smiled. The inspector pulled up his braces and took out his wallet.

‘Let’s get to more serious matters, Ennio,’ he said, putting a ten-thousand lira note in Botta’s pocket.

‘Oh, shit … I forgot the wine, Inspector.’

‘In what sense?’

‘To do things properly, we should have French wine, which costs a lot of money … But if you like, I could get something from the Piedmont.’

‘You’re the chef, and if you’ve decided on French wine, there must be a reason. Here’s another five thousand.’ The coffee started bubbling up, and Botta still hadn’t found anything with which to dry the cups. He waved them around in the air another couple of times, with gusto, then set them down on the table. Using the sleeve of his sweater as a pot-holder, he picked up the coffee pot and filled the little cups.

‘Not to brag, but get a whiff of this coffee,’ he said. The inspector opened a cupboard, took out a sugar bowl, set this down on the table, then took a teaspoon out of a drawer … Ennio followed his movements with a look of concern. When he saw the inspector about to put the sugar in his cup, he jumped.

‘What are you doing, Inspector?!’ he yelled.

‘Shit, Ennio, you scared me.’

‘Just tell me one thing: do you want to drink coffee or slop?’ Bordelli was still holding the teaspoon in midair. He emptied it back in the sugar bowl.

‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘I thought you took it bitter, Inspector, otherwise I would have sweetened it myself.’

‘What, do you want to be my mother now?’

‘So you refuse to understand! The sugar must be put in the cup
before
, not
after
… And no spoons, either. If you move the sugar, it can do damage. At the most you can make a little circling motion … like so.’ And he started gently swirling the coffee in the little cup. Ending the demostration, he grabbed the inspector’s coffee and dumped it back into the pot. Bordelli was watching him with curiosity.

‘And what difference does it make?’

‘The same difference there is between beer and cow piss,’ said Ennio. He put half a teaspoon of sugar in Bordelli’s empty cup, then poured the steaming coffee on top of it.

‘Here, Inspector. This is probably the first proper cup of coffee you’ve ever had in your life.’

‘And where did you learn that?’

‘I spent a couple of months in Naples as a kid.’

‘Inside or outside?’

‘Inside. Circulation of false banknotes.’ Bordelli took a sip of coffee.

‘Not bad,’ he said. Ennio seemed satisfied.

‘You see, Inspector, putting the sugar in
first
doesn’t get rid of the bitterness, and what kind of bloody coffee is it if it’s not bitter? But it does get rid of the really bitter part that tastes like … I dunno … I mean … it leaves the good bitterness and gets rid of the bad.’ The inspector drank the last of his coffee and went to put his cup in the sink.

‘You’re right, it gets rid of the nasty bitterness, the one that tastes burnt,’ he said, heading out of the kitchen. Ennio followed him to the front door.

‘One of these days I’m going to teach you how to make pasta with butter and Parmesan, Inspector. It sounds like a piece of piss but it’s actually one of the hardest. It’s all a question of timing.’

‘One is never done learning … Ciao, Botta. We’re in your hands for Christmas dinner.’

‘Just leave it to me.’

‘But don’t forget the onion soup.’

‘It’s pronounced
onyònh
, Inspector,
onyònh
.’ The sky was purple and looked as if it were about to fall down on to the city at any moment. The needle on the barometer was practically horizontal, and Bordelli had the impression that he could feel the air weighing down on his shoulders. The moment he entered the office he grabbed the telephone and dialled a number. He let it ring at least ten times, and at last he heard someone pick up.

‘Yes?’

‘Good morning, Odoardo. Were you asleep?’

‘Who the hell is this?’

‘It’s Bordelli. Did I wake you?’ He heard a sigh at the other end, then silence.

‘You still there, Odoardo?’

‘What do you want this time, Inspector?’ asked Odoardo, thick-tongued with sleep.

‘I’ve got something to show you.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll have to do me the favour of coming here.’

‘Where’s
here
?’

‘Police headquarters. Ask for me at the guardhouse.’

‘I really don’t understand why,’ said Odoardo, annoyed.

‘It’ll only take a minute. But don’t go back to sleep. I’ll be waiting for you.’ Bordelli hung up, confident he would see him soon. He rang Mugnai on the internal line and asked him if a parcel had arrived from the courthouse. The inspector had phoned De Marchi the previous day and asked him please to send him the scissors used in the Badalamenti murder the following morning.