Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  “He might,” Talaia replies. “However, it is the time between your meeting with this escurzionista and your return to the Corta that interests me.”

  Ric grins a shade haplessly, “About the same time Candela was shot?”

  “For certain, Ric.”

  “Well, Maggiore and I heard the shots from out in the water, and that was seconds before we were run down. I’d have done well to swim ashore, do for Candela and get down to the Corta in such a short time, but I suppose if Marcello Maggiore vouches for me, you’ll just have to take his word for it or…”

  “Or what?” Talaia asks.

  “I don’t know; that’s up to you, Commissario. If you think Candela gave me this cut when I shot him, you’ve probably no alternative but to view me as a suspect.”

  “I wish it was so simple, Ric. One of our local policemen remembers seeing a man – a man who answers your description – at the bottom of the Maddalena. He recalls the man was soaking wet and that he had an injury to his face.”

  “I told you, I’d just swum ashore. I don’t suppose he noticed the welts from the jellyfish stings on my arms too? They were that painful I’d have traded them for a shot at Candela.” He offers his forearms for the policeman to inspect; the welts, though no longer raised, are still clearly visible.

  Talaia nods and jots this point down, “Yes, I believe they can be very unpleasant.”

  Ric looks up sharply, “It’s that simple, Commissario. That’s the length and breadth of it.”

  “You know this Signor Maggiore well? Do you think you can trust him?” Talaia asks.

  “I don’t know him well enough to trust him, if that’s what you mean? He’s been extremely generous in allowing me to stay in his monolocale and he seems to know what he’s doing when it comes to the Mara. As yet, I see no reason why not to trust him. But as I’ve told you already, I was introduced to him by the lady I met when I first arrived.”

  “Ah, yes,” Talaia looks up, as if seeing the frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for the first time, “I spoke with her, La Signorina Vaccariello. A remarkable actress; so senior in her years and yet still so very beautiful. This lady… I understand some of the people think she is a witch. They call her La Strega; a curious name for one so elegant and refined. There is a film, La Strega in Amore: the Witch in Love,” he says, lifting a finger to his lips and tapping them slowly in thought. “I think the book is by a different name. Ah, yes, I have it. The book is Aura, written by Fuentes. And, if I remember correctly, it is about an old woman with a very beautiful daughter, and at the end of the book they turn out to be the same person; quite alarming, but also strangely erotic.”

  Ric chuckles, “Commissario Talaia, you really are a mine of useless information. Are you suggesting Valeria sheds a few years by the light of the silvery moon?”

  “If only one could have that opportunity,” Talaia suggests, wistfully. But, he remembers he is supposed to be concentrating and frowns. “This woman told me you have your own reasons for coming to Lipari. And please,” Talaia winces, “please don’t give me any of that stronzate – sorry, I mean bullshit – about Aeolus blowing you this way; I have heard this once too often.”

  Ric sighs and chuckles. “I came here to find out about my great-grandfather. His name might have been Sciacchitano. A fellow I met in Corsica told me there was a possibility he came from here.”

  Talaia raises his thin eyebrows. “Ah, I understand; uno che cerca, you are one of those. Yes, we have many who come to Sicily to search.”

  “Search?”

  “Yes, you search for your avi, your ancestors. You are looking for a history; a convenient history, perhaps. There has been much emigration from these islands; so now, it is a common pastime for people to return to search for their avi.”

  “A convenient history?”

  Talaia grins. “Yes, a convenient history. The human race likes to know what it is that makes them the way they are, and understanding their ancestors provides them with an excuse for their often poor behaviour.”

  “You’re quite the sociologist, Maso. And there I was lingering under the misapprehension you were a dinosaur.”

  The little man shrugs and pouts, “Oh, human nature is constructed with many delicate balances. Tell me, Ric, this woman, how do you come to know her?”

  “I was given her name by a friend in Corsica. He provided me with the information about my forebear and suggested I look her up. La Signorina Vaccariello has, like Signor Maggiore, been very helpful.”

  “Bene, it all fits very well then. And yesterday afternoon, when we searched the bay at Portinente, both Il Velaccino and La Strega were present, as were you also. Do you have a nickname, Ric?”

  “Haven’t been here long enough to earn that kind of respect and don’t intend to be here much longer. That is, once you’ve released the Mara. Why?”

  Talaia shrugs, “I don’t know. Il Velaccino, La Strega, it would make more poetic sense if you were known by a stage name. Perhaps you are Leporello, who does Don Giovanni’s bidding. But then, no: Il Velaccino is not what one would imagine for Don Giovanni, he is not so suave perhaps. And as for La Strega…? Although I think Mozart intended for us to view his opera more as buffa than seria…”

  Ric grins, “Talking of opera buffa; that was a pretty good show you put on yesterday afternoon.”

  Talaia sucks his teeth and moans, “Mm, I agree, it was. But this was, I think, more buffa than we need if the Liparoti are to take us seriously, which brings me on to why I am here.”

  “Which is?”

  “This gun. Or, more accurately, this Beretta which has been recovered from the shallow waters of the bay at Portinente.” Talaia waits and watches.

  Ric has to think quickly: playing first one to blink will condemn him, as Talaia will reason by his lack of response that he has something to hide. Leaping without looking, though, is equally dangerous.

  “What about it?” he asks.

  Commissario Tommaso Talaia smiles, “Yes indeed, what about this gun. Tell me, Ric, have you seen this Beretta before?”

  “Maso,” Ric leans forward and rests his forearms on the table, “look, I’m sure you’ve checked out my passport, so you will know that what I’ve told you is true; namely that I was in the Royal Marines. I am also sure that by now you will have found out that I completed tours of Iraq and Afghanistan. I’ve seen enough guns to last me a lifetime.”

  This time, Talaia doesn’t smile, he grins in appreciation, “That is an excellent answer, Ric. But I am not talking about guns in general; I am talking about this particular pistol, this Beretta.”

  “But, that’s precisely what I am saying, Maso. I watch a man in a monkey suit pull a gun out of the water at thirty yards and you ask me if I’ve seen it before?” Ric tries not to overplay his incredulity; he doesn’t want Talaia to mistake his sarcasm for cynicism.

  The little cockerel sighs, suggesting he has heard it all before. “Okay, okay! Ric, let me ask you if you own a Beretta?”

  “No, Maso, I don’t.” Strictly speaking the Beretta still belongs to the Corsican, although Ric is aware that the rule of possession being nine-tenths of the law is likely to be just as valid in Sicily as it is anywhere else.

  “You are not going to make this easy for me, are you, Ric?” He takes another sip of his coffee.

  “Come on, Maso, work it out,” Ric fixes the policeman with a deadpan expression, “if I found I was missing a pistol, I’d go directly to the police station to report it, like every other solid citizen.”

  Talaia chokes, coughs and a spray of coffee issues from his nostrils. “Excuse me; I think, perhaps, you are joking.” He wipes his nose and blows it very loudly for one so small.

  Ric grins, “I am.”

  “So British,” Talaia mumbles through blowing his nose once more, “to joke when the outlook is so gloomy.”

  “Bleak,” Ric corrects.

  At this, Talaia rests his pen and pauses. His eyes seem almost black, like t
he obsidian Ric has seen for sale outside the diver’s shop, and his face is pale and lined from a lifetime of taking notes. “Okay, bleak. I thank you for correcting my poor English.”

  “Strangely enough, Maso, I was thinking your English is unusually good. Where did you learn it?”

  “Oh, in school, watching movies, listening to music, like everyone. I have found it pays to speak other languages; most people like to communicate and I have found other police forces provide information more willingly if you remove the barrier of language.” He pauses, thinking.

  “I speak French also,” Talaia adds. “In fact I spoke it yesterday to an acquaintance of mine in the Gendarmerie in Ajaccio. You know where this is?”

  “Sure, Corsica. If you remember, I told you it’s where I bought the Mara.”

  The policeman sits back and stares at the ceiling for a second. “Yes, of course. Ah, I remember this now. Thank you for reminding me. Interesting place Corsica; another island, like Lipari but not so small.

  “You know I searched the Mara? I am sure Signor Maggiore will have told you.”

  “He did. He said you’d found two passports and some money. As to knowing them…”

  “Yes,” Talaia waves Ric’s objection aside, “quite a significant amount of money. Well, it happens that both of these passports belong to men, Englishmen, who were on holiday in the same departement of Corsica. It was where they lost them; near Porto Vecchio. Are you familiar with this part of Corsica, Ric?”

  “You know I am, Maso. You would have checked out the papers for the boat when you searched it at Maggiore’s yard yesterday morning.”

  The policeman’s dark eyes light up. “And here, if you will excuse me for reintroducing my theory of coincidence, I have found that you bought your boat at approximately the same time as these two passports went missing.”

  “What can I say, Maso? Buy one boat, get two passports?”

  Talaia frowns and purses his lips, “Now is not the time to be joking, Ric. You have told me that the evening Girolamo Candela was shot you were first fishing, then swimming in the sea off Portinente where this Beretta was found. If I find your fingerprints on this Beretta or, come to think of it, these passports, you will be in grave trouble. Our government, with its sensitivity to terrorism, has granted me great powers. If I feel it is necessary, I can speak with a magistrato and he will immediately give me permission to have you locked up for a long time, even before you come to trial. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Loud and clear, Maso.”

  “Bene! I was hoping you would be an intelligent man.” The little inspector appears to have grown taller in his chair. “Also, if you are sufficiently intelligent to understand, this Beretta which has been found, it has been sent to Messina, where it will be examined for fingerprints and, if possible, matched for the casings and the bullets which have been removed from Signor Candela’s corpse.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs, Maso.”

  Commissario Talaia glowers at him; his eyes almost disappearing beneath his furrowed brow. “But, Ric, the way things are going, I think it is highly probable that one or more of these coincidences will tell me who shot Girolamo Candela.”

  The silence perches on the table like a bird of prey.

  “More coffee, Maso?” Ric asks, as much to drive the bird away as to divert the policeman’s stare.

  “No, but thank you.” Talaia stands; he is almost as tall standing as he was sitting. He slides his notebook and pen into the breast pocket of his jacket and then puts the jacket on. “I am waiting for the forensic information about this pistol and I should have it by tomorrow morning. Please come to the police station. You know where it is?”

  “On the Via Marconi?”

  “Exactly. On the Via Marconi. Please be present at the police station at ten o’clock. If you do not come, I will immediately issue a warrant for your arrest. In the time between, do not even consider leaving the island,” he glares across the table at Ric, “no matter who tells you it would be better for you. Do I again make myself clear?”

  “Sure.”

  Commissario Tommaso Talaia sighs, picks up his briefcase and turns for the door. But in true detective style, he pauses as he pushes the door open and glances back, “Oh, by the way, Ric, you really should fix that tap.” He steps out into the shady vico.

  49

  Ric is inclined to take the policeman’s advice. He’s tried needling Marcello, but that hasn’t worked. And he can see no alternative other than to sit and wait until Talaia has the reports he’s waiting on, by which time it will probably be too late to avoid arrest. As far as he can see, he might as well fix the bloody tap; that way, at least he will have gained some small sense of achievement for his labours.

  Fortunately, there is a turn valve under the sink to stop the water supply to the tap, but unfortunately the headgear nut is seized solid and he skins his knuckles when the wrench slips off it.

  “That’s why everyone else has given up on trying to fix it,” he mutters as he wraps a cloth around his bleeding hand.

  The rest of the afternoon threatens to pass as slowly as the tap drips, so rather than suffer the torture of it, Ric decides to walk down to the Corso Vittorio.

  Just as he is closing the door, he is distracted by a noise behind him. He whirls round expecting to be set upon.

  An old lady steps out of the monolocale opposite and they bump into each other.

  “Scusi,” he offers.

  The old woman is garbed in trademark black. Her ankles are thick; her grey hair tied back in a bun.

  “Permesso,” she says, trying to squeeze past him in the narrow alley.

  Ric breathes in and flattens himself against the wall.

  Once she is past, the old woman turns and eyes him suspiciously. “Ora mi scusi ma…” she says.

  “Sure, grandma. Excuse me too?”

  With no particular place to go and to avoid having to wait behind the old lady until she gets to the end of the alley, Ric takes the opposite direction up towards the Garibaldi.

  At each corner he pauses and looks back to see if he is being followed. It would make sense for the little inspector to have him watched in case he decided to get off the island. But then, Talaia has his passport and the Mara is going nowhere, so what would be the point? Unless of course he is the hired gun Talaia suspects him to be, in which case common sense dictates he would have run by now.

  The African women greet him politely as he emerges from the shade of the vico and the patron of the trattoria on the corner of the Maurolico seems intent on monitoring his every step as he pauses at the breach in the fortress walls. Ric starts up the broad steps of the Concordato which lead to the citadel.

  Walking with purpose, he is warm and short of breath by the time he reaches the top. Ric halts before the cathedral and pretends to take an interest in the archaeological excavations below the apron. He glances back down the way he has come and sees a man making his way up towards him. The man wears sunglasses, blue chinos and a white short-sleeved shirt. He might be a tourist – he is consulting a map and talking on his cellphone – but he might not be. When he realises Ric is watching him, he stops and turns away.

  Whilst the man is turned, Ric jogs up the last of the steep steps and strides over to the tall grey doors which lead into the Cattedrale San Bartolomeo.

  The Baroque façade is almost South American in style, with a tall bell-tower at one corner and a statue of San Bartolo presiding over the entrance. The air inside is almost cold. Two lines of dark-wood pews grace the chequered-tile floor of the nave and tall marble and granite arches support a rib-vaulted ceiling, decorated with frescoes of San Bartolo, Saint Francis and The Immaculate Conception. Tourists stand and point and refer to their guides, and widows sit alone to censure the past and contemplate the future.

  Ric slips to his right and waits.

  The man he has seen outside steps into the cathedral. He crosses himself, nods towards the apse and looks round. He is middle-aged and
olive-skinned, and when he notices Ric lingering, he looks away again and wanders off down the far aisle towards the silver effigy of San Bartolo.

  In front of Ric is a portal, in the centre of which stands an alabaster baptismal font filled with small fragments of obsidian; a note beside it asks for one euro to contribute towards the cathedral’s upkeep. Behind the font stands an arched, heavy wooden door.

  He lifts the latch and pulls the door open. When he steps through, he finds himself in an L-shaped Norman Cloister, the vaulted ceiling of which is bland and much lower than that of the cathedral.

  Too late, he realises there is no way out of the cloister other than the way he had come in. He turns to walk out, but as he does so the door opens towards him.

  Ric squares up ready to confront the man who is following him–

  But it is Marcello who appears. He glances behind him and closes the door.

  “Hey, Ric, you are taking in a little culture, eh?” Out of respect for his surroundings, Marcello has dispensed with his cigar and in consequence appears almost naked.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Ric replies.

  The bullish Liparotan has lost the harassed look of earlier and smiles and, also unusually, offers his hand for Ric to shake. There is no doubting Marcello’s strength; his grip is unyielding.

  When they turn to begin walking along the cloister, Ric says, “Popped up for confession or did your man tell you I was here?”

  Marcello pouts and raises an eyebrow in conciliation, “Oh, he told me.”

  Ric is oddly reassured that Marcello does not feel the need to lie.

  “You like our cathedral?”

  “Sure,” Ric replies, “though I’m not much of a one for architecture. It seems a bit of a jumble.”

  “Yes, for sure it is. You know, of course, that San Bartolo was one of the twelve apostles? In the book of John, Jesus recognised him as being a man in whom he saw no deceit.”

  “Integerrimo?” Ric interrupts.