Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  The diver wades to the beach and hands the net to the soaking poliziotto, who, now that there is something of significance in the net, is far more enthusiastic about his part in what was, until a few moments before, a gentle comedy.

  A man whistles and a collective groan is thrown up by the crowd; it is as if the balloon of their tensions has burst and the air is escaping in one long, relieving breath. Most turn away to discuss the find, the hubbub of their analysis growing with each added opinion; others press forward wanting a closer look at the gun which is, beyond any reasonable doubt as far as they are concerned, the weapon used to kill Candela.

  Marcello folds his arms over his chest as though his mind, too, is made up. “So, now all they have to do is find who this gun belongs to.”

  “Looks that way,” Ric replies, focusing his attention on the gun and in so doing avoiding Talaia’s gaze.

  “Everyone likes the circus; the adults more than the children, eh?” Marcello mutters.

  Valeria is no longer standing on top of the wall which overlooks the beach and the crowd begins to drift away as the evening shade draws a curtain on the spectacle.

  “Now,” Marcello produces a stubby cigar from his shirt pocket, lights it and puffs away until he produces a cloud of smoke sufficiently noxious to disperse the crowd around them, “what were we discussing before these clowns began their very entertaining performance? Ah, yes, you were asking after the Mara and at the same time telling me Old Nino provided you with some information about this ancestor of yours. Well, my friend, there is good news and bad news.”

  “Marcello, you said the Mara isn’t going anywhere for the moment. With the engine out and stripped back, that’s pretty obvious. So, what’s the bad news? Are the parts a problem?”

  Marcello puffs and removes the cigar from his mouth. “No, it is not parts; these I have managed to get from suppliers in Milazzo. This is good news.”

  “Then there is another problem?”

  “Yes, a bigger problem than putting the Mara’s engine back together.”

  Ric tears his eyes away from the blue shirts inspecting the Beretta and turns to face Marcello. “Okay, let’s have it?” he asks, wracking his brain for some other malady the Mara is suffering from that could be worse than a broken engine.

  Marcello puffs, removes the cigar and picks a flake of tobacco from his tongue. “You see this little cockerel on the beach. The one wearing the suit and hat,” he waves his cigar in the general direction of Commissario Talaia who, curiously, shows little interest in the stir created by the appearance of the gun.

  “He comes to my place this afternoon. He introduces himself: his name is Talaia, Commissario Talaia. He is calm and polite, but dangerous, like the tracina fish; you call them weevers. They look harmless until you tread on them and then…” He winces and waggles his foot. “He is not like normal policemen, who one can often persuade to see a certain point of view, if you get what I mean by this? No, this man works for everyone and yet for no one; Guardia Finanza, Polizia di Stato, Direzione Nazionale Anti-Mafia. But he is accountable to only one politician, the Ministero dell’Interno, which means that he has great powers. His kind do not have to ask permission before they act and sometimes they act in ways that are questionable.”

  “Large brief for such a small man.”

  “Yes,” Marcello smiles a hapless, slightly envious smile, “he will have a judge in his pocket; a judge who will provide him with a warrant for whatever he needs, whenever he asks.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Bene, because when he speaks, a wise man listens. The Commissario comes to my place. He searches the Mara. He finds a little locker beneath your bed. In this locker, he finds a plastic bag with money and two passports. He tells me that he expects to find something else, but he is not surprised to find the passports. Next, he tells me he would prefer to eliminate you from his enquiries, but he can no longer believe what I have told him about you and me fishing when Candela was shot.”

  “So now I’m the chief suspect in Candela’s murder.”

  He shakes his head, “I did not say this. I said he tells me he would prefer to eliminate you from his enquiries; I did not say he thinks you are the chief suspect. Finally, he tells me the Mara will not be put back in the sea without his permission; completa autorizzazione was what he said. And that, my friend, means he has not yet eliminated you from his enquiries.”

  Ric is hardly surprised at the news and doesn’t feel the need to show it either. He tries to summon a smile, but it will not come to him. “Well, Marcello, if I’m a suspect and I can’t account for my whereabouts at the time Candela was shot because I was out fishing with you, then neither can you account for your whereabouts because you were out fishing with me. So that makes you a suspect as much as me, even though the only people who we know for sure can’t have shot Candela are the two of us.”

  Marcello grunts, “Yes, this thought has occurred to the little cockerel. It would appear we are both in the same boat, so to speak.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Ric replies, frowning. “The only difference is that I don’t have a motive for shooting Candela, where as you may.”

  The cigar twitches in his mouth. “And what could I gain from Candela’s death, eh? Tell me this, if you are so intelligent.” Marcello’s tone is heavily laced with menace.

  Ric grins, “It’s hard to imagine, him being a politician from Palermo and you being a… well, I guess you are the best yacht repairer in the islands.”

  Marcello bristles at Ric’s rather oblique compliment.

  “But I understand, from what I’ve been told of his speech in the Mazzini, Candela promised the people of Lipari increasing prosperity: free electricity, improved schooling, free transport and other benefits. I gather he even promised to build a colossal hotel up at Porticello; a thousand rooms – he said.”

  “So? It’s like you said, Ric, it is none of my business.”

  Ric sniggers, impolitely, “Oh, pull the other one, Marcello. A thousand bed hotel would mean heavy money and heavy money brings with it heavy characters, more than a few of whom would be unable to resist flexing their muscles around the island. Why would you want a load of new kids on the block when you and your cronies have got the whole place wrapped up tight?” Ric is goading Marcello, and judging by the glacial hardening of the shorter man’s expression, his strategy is bearing fruit.

  “Even an uneducated soul like me knows you and your brother are on the planning committee. If Candela was half the politician I think he needed to be to get to where he was, I’m sure he would have figured to pay you both off in order to get planning consent.”

  At this, Marcello rounds on him. “What do you know of this?” he spits. “How do you know about our business? And what gives you the right to interfere in what we do? You are nothing but a piece of driftwood washed up on our beach. Your kind washes through these islands every week. I tell you this, Ric, I like you and, because I like La Strega, I let you have the monolocale. But don’t put a price on our friendship, eh?” Marcello’s mask of loathing leaves Ric under no illusion he has overstepped the mark.

  “Listen, my friend,” Ric soothes, “please don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done for me and what you are doing for the Mara. I meant no disrespect, but–”

  “Then this is a strange type of respect coming from an Englishman.”

  “I’m Welsh, but that’s by the bye. What I was trying to tell you is that you’ve got motive for wanting Candela out of the way and I haven’t. And if I can figure that out, it’s a racing certainty the little cockerel can too.”

  “Perhaps someone has paid you to shoot Candela?” Marcello spits in return.

  “Don’t be an arse, Marcello. If I’d wanted to do away with Candela, I’d have seen to it and been off the island before you could have said Christopher Columbus.”

  “He was from Genoa,” Marcello grunts, but his temper is cooling.

  “You know what I mean,�
�� Ric replies, swallowing his frustration. “Anyway, if the Mafia wanted him dead, why waste him here, in this island; why not in Sicily or on one of his trips to Rome or Brussels?”

  Marcello chews his cigar and exhales a stream of smoke at a bystander who is trying his best to listen in on their conversation.

  The man moves away, sharply.

  “Okay, you have a point. But it is interesting that you talk of Brussels and business trips. We are to understand that this little cockerel has the two passports – British passports – he has found on the Mara.” He grins once more and raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I hope you have yours safe.”

  “Sure,” Ric lies.

  “It is only that I was intending to ask you,” he pauses to assemble his words, “what it is that you were looking for when you came to the yard yesterday? Was it these passports, or was it something else?”

  Ric smiles, “The passports were part of what I was looking for.”

  “Then I am sure whatever else it is that you have lost will turn up. Everything is somewhere, eh?” He nudges Ric gently in his ribs and winks at him. “Now, what did that old fool Nino tell you?”

  “Oh,” he drags his reply out, “he spun me a yarn about Vincenzo Maggiore, your grandfather, trying to help some deportees escape from Devil’s Island in the 1930s.”

  Marcello nods. “This is possible. The Maggiore family has never been Fascist.”

  “It turns out that on this occasion the deportees were betrayed to the Carabinieri. He went on to tell me that your grandfather sent my great-grandfather, Antonio Sciacchitano, to warn the deportees, but that he got to them too late. Unfortunately they were ambushed and killed by the Carabinieri. Sciacchitano was picked up by a patrol later that night and Old Nino’s father had to spirit him off the island. He told me Vincenzo organised a mock funeral to convince the authorities my great-grandfather was dead. Old Nino reckons there is no corpse in Sciacchitano’s grave.”

  “Mm,” Marcello mutters, “I told you he was mad. That old fool has nothing better to do with his time than picture the sailboats in the Canale di Salina and make up ridiculous stories. It is all that is left to him, his imagination.”

  “So you think it’s likely to be a shade fanciful?”

  Marcello coughs, clears his throat and spits, “It is a nice story. Believe it if you will. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go. I would say we will meet for a beer in the Corta at passeggio, but maybe it would be better if the little cockerel does not see us together.”

  But as Ric is reminded of Talaia, he turns his attention to the beach only to see the diminutive Commissario watching them.

  “It might be a bit late for that, Marcello.”

  44

  By the time Ric arrives at La Casa dei Sconosciuti, Valeria is sitting out on her patio, gazing out to sea. She doesn’t turn towards him when he walks over; instead she sips from her glass and says, “You make enough noise for an army, Ric. Why don’t you make yourself a drink and freshen mine while you are there?”

  He mixes them both Aperol Spritz, careful to pour it the way she likes it: Aperol over ice before adding the Prosecco and soda.

  “I saw you talking to Il Velaccino,” she remarks, casually. “Did you ask him if he has taken what you have lost?”

  “No, I didn’t need to.”

  “You have found it?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  At this, she turns and studies him. “You have no need to speak in riddles, Ric. If you do not want to tell me who has found it, I am not bothered to know.” Her tone is a shade offhand, as if he has annoyed her by refusing to confirm something she has no doubt already guessed. She stubs out her cigarette, sips her Spritz and puts down her glass. “Ric, you should know that the police have been here asking questions about you.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” he replies.

  “It suggests they think you have some involvement in Candela’s murder.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “Oh, the usual: how long have I known you, how do I know you and what sort of person are you? That kind of thing.”

  “What did you tell them?” he asks, watching for the slightest change in her expression which might suggest she is not being straight with him.

  “I told them the truth. I said you are a friend of Camille’s and that you are searching for your family history; that is all. But, this Commissario Talaia is no fool. He is not the kind to ask questions he does not already know the answers to.” Valeria pauses. “He asked me if I knew of any reason why you would want Candela dead or if it was possible that you were the kind of man who would be hired to commit a murder.”

  “And?”

  “And I told him that, as far as I was concerned, I could see no reason why you would want any part in this business. I hope you don’t mind, but I told him about your wife and what happened to her while you were in Afghanistan. I hoped by doing so, he would see that you have no motive.”

  “What was his reaction to that?”

  “He said, “Every man has motive; to find it is simply a question of understanding the man”. As I have just said, this kind of policeman is not a fool.”

  “Thank you for being so direct with him. Let’s hope he’s got the message.”

  “But,” Valeria replies sharply, “he also told me he has found the passports you told me about; the passports that are not yours…”

  “Yes, I know. They are a bit difficult to explain away. The Commissario came to see me yesterday morning. And last night he was hanging around the Maddalena. I guess he was waiting to see if anyone was going to return to the scene of the crime. We had quite a talk, apostolic conundrums mostly. He likes to talk around the houses, does the Commissario.”

  “So what do you think will happen?”

  “Well, I would imagine he’ll find who the passports belong to and where the owners lost them; then, he’ll check where and when I became the owner of the Mara and put two and two together.” He thinks for a moment, before pointing out, “I’m beginning to get the most unpleasant feeling I’m being fitted up for Candela’s murder.”

  “Forgive me for saying, Ric, the next thing you know the police will be saying it is your gun they have found.”

  And again Ric struggles to remember whether or not he wiped the gun clean after that morning at Porticello.

  Noticing his discomfort, she attempts to pour oil on his troubled water, “Oh, Ric, why would anyone want to drag you into this mess? There must be a queue of suspects as long as the Aqua Claudia Viaduct for that particular crime. Girolamo Candela may have promised Lipari much, but most people disliked him enough not to concern themselves with who killed him. We should be grateful some public spirited citizen has done us this kindness.”

  “I didn’t realise he was that unpopular.”

  “He was a politician. As I have told you, they are all unpopular.”

  “Sure, I remember you saying. But just how unpopular was he? I understand some people believe he was in on the attempts to assassinate the President of Sicily.”

  Valeria drags on her cigarette and thinks in silence for a few seconds. “He may have been; who knows? All I know is he was once a good communist and now he is no longer.”

  “What about Candela promising this brave new dawn, this great hotel and the free power, doesn’t that count in his favour? Or do you think he’s ruffled enough local feathers for someone to want to shoot him?”

  “Yes, why not?” she replies, as though it would be a perfectly natural event. “People have been killed for far less. But to get this hotel built, whoever is behind it would need very deep pockets. There would be many mouths to feed along the way.”

  “How many?”

  Valeria chuckles, a long, hopeless, inevitable chuckle, as though Ric is a child who, having just walked in through the school gate, has asked how long it will be before he can go home.

  “To begin with, there is a succession of governing committees, all of whom t
hink they should have a louder voice than the next. They cast their watchful eyes over the Aeolian Islands like Aeolus himself. There are the Ministries of Environment, Cultural Heritage and Foreign Affairs. Below these last two sits the UNESCO Commission for Italy and, after that, the regional committees, provincial committees, and even the consortium for ecological development. Of course, this is before you have climbed your way past the President of Sicily and the office for small islands, which answers directly to him.”

  “Sounds like quite an extended family.”

  She laughs, “Yes, it would be a long and very costly meal. These professori, ingenieri, avvocati and dottori are known for their appetites, and the only thing they like more than their food is the sound of their own voices. In Italy, nothing is simple; everything must be discussed. You are more likely to die of old age before a judge will sentence you to death. And obtaining planning permission can take even longer.

  “But first, you would have to eat breakfast with the urban committee here in Lipari and most of the members of the urban committee have too much invested in this island to want to see someone else move in on their… what do the American gangsters call it? Their turf? The last time planning permission was requested was 2007, when some developers asked to build seven hotels on Lipari and one on Vulcano. They were laughed off the island.”

  “Is Marcello on the urban committee?”

  She glances at him again, clearly puzzled by where he is taking their conversation, “Yes.”

  “And his brother?”

  “Yes, his brother too.”

  “What’s his brother’s name?”

  “Claudio. Why?”

  “No great reason,” Ric shrugs. “It’s just that I see Marcello about the town all the time, but I’ve never seen or met his brother.”

  Valeria frowns and replies, “There is no reason why you should see Claudio; he is the little brother. He is not capable in the same way as Marcello. Claudio has a negozio di ferramenta in Canneto.”