Callara looked at him in admiration. 'Absolutely. What a memory you've got!'
'You, naturally, will have the name, address and telephone number of Mrs Speciale?'
'Of course. Wait a minute while I look for the information on Mrs Gudrun.'
Montalbano wrote it down on a scrap of paper. Callara became curious.
'For what purpose—'
'You'll understand later. I seem also to remember that you gave me the name of the developer who designed the house and oversaw the construction.'
'Yes. His name is Michele Spitaleri. Would you like his phone number?'
'Yes.' Montalbano jotted that down, too.
'Listen, Inspector. Can't you tell me why—'
'I'll tell you on the way there. Here's the key. Keep it with you.'
'Will this take long?'
'I couldn't say.'
Callara gave him an inquisitive look. Montalbano donned an expressionless mask.
'Maybe I'd better tell my secretary,' said Callara.
They set off in Montalbano's car. On the way, the inspector told Callara how little Bruno had disappeared, how hard it had been to find him and, finally, how they'd pulled him out with the help of the firemen.
Callara was worried about one thing only: 'Did they do any damage?' 'Who?'
'The firemen. Did they damage the house in any way?' 'No, not inside.'
'That's a relief. 'Cause once when a fire broke out in the kitchen of a house I'd let, they did more damage than the fire.'
Not a word about the illegal apartment.
'Do you intend to inform Mrs Gudrun?'
'Of course, of course. But she certainly doesn't know anything about this. It must have been an idea of Angelo Speciale's. I'll have to deal with everything myself.'
'Are you going to apply for amnesty?'
'Well, I don't know if—'
'Mr Callara, don't forget that I'm a public official. I can't just look the other way.'
'What if — just supposing, mind you — what if I inform Spitaleri and have everything put back as it—'
'Then I will charge you, Mrs Gudrun and Spitaleri with illegal construction.'
'Well, if that's how it is...'
'Look at that! Look at it!' was Mr Callara's exclamation of wonderment as he entered through the bathroom window and saw it ready for use.
Torch in hand, Montalbano led him into the other rooms.
'Look at that! Look at it!' They arrived in the living room. 'Look at that! Look at it!'
'See?' said Montalbano. 'Even the window frames are ready for installation.'
'Look at that! Look at it!'
As if by chance, the inspector let the torch beam fall upon the trunk.
'And what's that?' asked Callara.
'It looks like a trunk to me.'
'What's inside? Have you opened it?'
'Me? No. Why would I do that?'
'Would you lend me the torch a minute?'
'Here.' Everything was going as planned.
Callara opened the trunk, and when he aimed the beam inside, he did not say, 'Look at that,' but took a great leap backwards. 'Ohmygod! Ohmygod!'
The torch beam trembled in his hand.
'What is it?'
'But... but... there's a ... there's a ... dead person!' 'Really?'
FIVE
Thus, with the dead body's deadness now official, the inspector could look into doing something about it. First, however, he had to do something about Signor Callara, who, having dashed out through the window, was now vomiting even what he had eaten the week before.
Montalbano opened the apartment upstairs, made Mr Callara, who was feeling very dizzy, lie down on the sofa in the living room and went to fetch him a glass of water.
'Can I go home?'
'You must be joking. I can't drive you.'
'I'll call my son and ask him to come and get me.'
'Not on your life! You have to wait for the public prosecutor! It was you who discovered the body, no? Would you like a little more water?'
'No, I feel cold.'
Cold? In this heat?
'I've got a blanket in the car. I'll fetch it.'
His role as Good Samaritan over, he called the station. 'Catarella? Is Fazio there?' 'He'll be coming soon.' 'What does that mean?'
'He phoned just now sayin' zackly, "I'll be there in five minutes." What I mean is, he will be here in five minutes, not me, since I'm already here.'
'Listen, a dead body's been found, and I want him to call me at this number.' He gave him the telephone number of the house.
'Hee, heel' said Catarella.
'Are you laughing or crying?'
'Laughin', Chief
'Why's that?'
"Cause normalwise iss always me tellin' you when summon finds a dead body an' now iss you tellin' me!'
Five minutes later, the telephone rang.
'What is it, Chief ? You find a dead body?'
'The head of the agency that let the apartment to my friends found it. Luckily they'd already left before this wonderful discovery was made.'
'Recently killed?'
'I don't think so. In fact, I'd rule that out. But I didn't get a good look at it, because I had to give a hand to Mr Callara, poor man.'
'So, it's the same house where I sent the firemen?'
'Exactly. Marina di Montereale, Pizzo district, the house at the end of the unmade road. Bring some back-up. And inform the prosecutor, Forensics, and Dr Pasquano. I don't feel like doing it myself.'
'I'll be with you as soon as I can, Chief.'
As he was putting on his gloves, Fazio, who'd come with Galluzzo, asked Montalbano, 'Can I go down and have a look?'
The inspector was reclining in a deck-chair on the terrace, enjoying the sunset. 'Of course. Be careful not to leave any fingerprints’
'You're not coming?'
'What for?'
Half an hour later, the usual pandemonium broke out.
First the Forensics team arrived, but since they couldn't see a damn thing in the underground living room, they lost another half-hour setting up a temporary electrical connection.
Then Pasquano arrived, with the ambulance and his team of undertakers. Realizing immediately that he would have to wait his turn, he pulled up a deck-chair, sat down beside the inspector and dozed off.
An hour or so later, by which time the sun had almost set, someone from Forensics came and woke him.
'Doctor’ he said, 'the body's wrapped up. What should we do?'
'Unwrap it,' was the laconic reply.
'Yes, but who should do the unwrapping? Us or you?'
'I suppose I'd better unwrap it myself’ said Pasquano, with a sigh.
'Fazio!' Montalbano called.
'Chief?'
'Has Prosecutor Tommaseo arrived yet?' 'No, Chief. He rang to say it would take him at least an hour to get here.'
'You know what I'm going to do?' 'No, sir.'
I'm going out to eat. It looks to me as if things are going to take a long time’ Passing through the living room, he noticed that Callara hadn't moved from the sofa. He took pity on him. 'Come with me, I'll give you a lift to Vigata. I'll tell the prosecutor how things went.'
'Oh, thank you, thank you’ said Callara, and handed him the blanket.
He dropped Callara off in front of his agency, which was now closed.
'Don't forget. Not a word to anyone about the corpse you found.'
'My dear inspector, I think I'm running a fever of a hundred and two. I don't even feel like breathing, let alone talking.'
Since going to Enzo's would take too long, he drove back to Marinella instead.
In the fridge he found a rather sizeable platter of caponata and a big piece of Ragusan caciocavallo cheese. Adelina had even bought him some fresh bread. He was so hungry, his eyes were burning.
It took him a good hour to polish it all off, to the accompaniment of half a litre of wine. Then he washed his face, got into his car and drove back
to Pizzo.
The moment the inspector arrived Tommaseo, the public prosecutor, who'd been standing in the parking area in front of the house getting a breath of air, came running up to him. 'It looks like a sex-related crime!'
His eyes were sparkling, his tone almost festive. That was how Prosecutor Tommaseo was: any crime of passion, any killing related to infidelity or sex, was pure bliss to him. Montalbano was convinced he was a maniac, but only in his mind.
Tommaseo would drool over every woman he interrogated, yet nobody knew of any female friends or lovers in his life.
'Is Dr Pasquano still here?' asked Montalbano. 'Yes.'
It was stifling in the illegal apartment. Too many people going in and out, too much heat given off by the two floodlights the Forensics team had turned on. The already close atmosphere was a lot more so, with the difference that now it stank of men's sweat and also the stench of death.
The corpse had been taken out of the trunk and unwrapped as far as possible: pieces of the plastic were still sticking to the skin, perhaps having fused with it over time. The men had placed the body on the stretcher as naked as they'd found it, and Dr Pasquano, cursing under his breath, was finishing his examination. Montalbano realized it wasn't a good time to ask him anything.
'Get me the prosecutor!' the doctor ordered.
Tommaseo came in.
'Listen, Judge, I can't go on working in here. It's too hot, the thing's liquefying before my eyes. Can I take it away?'
Tommaseo looked enquiringly at the head of Forensics, Vanni Arqua.
'If you're asking me, yes,' said Arqua.
Arqua and Montalbano got on each other's nerves. They didn't say hello when they met, and only spoke to one another when strictly necessary.
'Okay, take the body out and put seals over the window,' Tommaseo ordered.
Pasquano glanced at Montalbano. Without saying anything to anyone, the inspector went back upstairs, took a bottle of beer from the fridge — Guido had restocked it
— and returned to the terrace where he settled into the same deck-chair. He heard cars leaving.
A few minutes later Dr Pasquano appeared, and sat down as before. 'I see you know the house well. Could I have a beer too?'
When the inspector was on his way to the kitchen, Fazio and Galluzzo came in.
'Chief, can we go now?'
'Sure. Take this piece of paper. It's the phone number of a developer named Michele Spitaleri. I want you to track him down immediately. You absolutely must find him and tell him I'll be waiting for him at the station tomorrow morning, nine o'clock sharp. Good night.'
He took the cold beer out to Pasquano and told him how and why he knew the house so well. Then he said, 'Doctor, it's too beautiful an evening for me to piss you off. Tell me if you want to answer a few of my questions or not.'
'No more than four or five.'
'Did you manage to determine her age?'
'Yes. She was probably fifteen or sixteen. That's one.'
'Tommaseo told me it was a sex-related crime.'
'Tommaseo is a perverted idiot. That's two.'
'What do you mean? You can't count that as a question! Don't cheat! We're still on the first!'
'Oh, all right.'
'Second question: was she raped?' 'I'm not in a position to say. Maybe not even after the post-mortem. Although I would assume she was.'
'Third: how was she killed?' 'They cut her throat.' 'Four: how long ago?'
'Five or six years. She was well preserved because they'd wrapped her up well.'
'Five: in your opinion, was she killed down there or somewhere else?'
'You should ask Forensics. Whatever the case, Arqua found plenty of traces of blood on the floor.'
'Six—'
'No, no, no! Time's up and the beer's finished. Good night.'
He got up and left. Montalbano also stood up, but only to fetch himself another beer from the kitchen.
He couldn't bear to leave the terrace on a night like this. All of a sudden he missed Livia. Just the previous evening they'd been sitting in exactly the same place, in harmony and in love.
Suddenly the night felt cold.
Fazio was at the station by eight o'clock the next morning. Montalbano arrived half an hour later.
'Chief, you've got to forgive me, but I just don't believe it.'
'You just don't believe what?'
'The story of how the body was discovered.'
'How else was it supposed to have been discovered,
Fazio? Callara happened to see the trunk, he lifted the lid and—'
'Chief, if you ask me, you arranged things so that Callara would be the one to open it.' 'Why would I do that?'
'Because you'd already found the body the day before, when you went to get the child. You've got a nose like a hunting dog's, Chief. As if you weren't going to open that trunk! And you didn't say anything so your friends could leave in peace.'
He'd understood everything. It wasn't exactly how things had gone but, by and large, Fazio had hit the mark.
'You can believe whatever you like. Did you find Spitaleri?'
'I tried him at home and his wife gave me his mobile number. At first there was no answer because it was turned off; then, an hour later, he picked up. He'll be here at nine sharp.'
'Find anything out?'
'Of course, Chief.' He pulled a little piece of paper out of his pocket and started to read. 'Michele Spitaleri, son of Bartolomeo Spitaleri and Maria Finocchiaro, born in Vigata on the sixth of November 1960, currently residing in said city on via Lincoln 44, married to—'
'That's enough,' said Montalbano. 'I let you get some of it out of your system because I'm being nice today.'
'Thanks for that’ said Fazio.
'Tell me who this Spitaleri is’
'Well, seeing as his sister married Pasquale Alessandro, and seeing as Alessandro has been Mayor of Vigata for the last eight years, this Spitaleri happens to be the mayor's brother-in-law.'
'Elementary, my dear Watson.'
'Having, in that capacity, three construction companies and being a surveyor by trade, he gets ninety per cent of the municipality's contracts.'
'And they let him do that?'
'Yes, they do, because he pays his dues in equal part to the Cuffaros and the Sinagras. And, naturally, he kicks back a cut to his brother-in-law.'
And, therefore, since the Cuffaros and the Sinagras were the two dominant Mafia families in the area, the developer could consider himself safe.
'So the final cost of every contract ends up as double the amount established at the outset.'
'Dear Inspector, poor Spitaleri can't do it any differently or he'd be operating at a loss.'
'Anything else?'
Fazio looked vague. 'Rumours.' 'Meaning?'
'He really likes youngsters.' 'A paedophile?'
'Chief, I don't know what you'd call it, but the fact is, he likes young girls of around fourteen or fifteen.' 'But not sixteen?'
'No, he thinks they're past their prime.'
'He must be one of those who goes abroad, a "sex tourist".'
'Yessir, but he finds 'em here too. And he's not short of money. In town they say that once when a girl's mother and father wanted to report him, he paid out millions of lire and dodged the bullet. Another time, when he deflowered a virgin, he paid for it with an apartment.'
'And does he find people willing to sell him their daughters?'
'Chief, don't we live in a free-market economy, these days? And isn't the free market the sign of democracy, liberty and progress?'
Montalbano gawped at him, open-mouthed.
'Why are you looking at me like that?'
'Because you just said something I should have said...'
The telephone rang.
'Chief, there's a Mr Spitaleri here, says he gots—'
'Yes, send him in.' He turned to Fazio. 'Did you tell him why he was summoned?'
'Are you joking? Of course not.'
&nb
sp; Spitaleri, tanned brown, dressed in a green jacket as light as onion skin and sporting a Rolex, shoulder-length hair, a gold bracelet, a gold crucifix that one could barely see amid the chest hair sticking out of his unbuttoned shirt, yellow moccasin loafers and no socks, was visibly nervous about being called in. The way he sat on the edge of the chair said it all. He spoke first. 'I came as you asked but, believe me, I have no idea—'
'You will.'
Why did the guy provoke such a violent aversion in him? Montalbano decided to put on the usual act to waste time.
'Fazio, have you finished over there with Franceschini?'
There was no Franceschini over there, but Fazio had a lot of experience playing the straight man. 'Not yet, sir.'
'I'll be right with you. Then we can finish this business in five minutes.'
Turning to Spitaleri, he stood up. 'Just sit tight a minute and then I'm all yours.'
'Look, Inspector, I have an engagement that—'
'I understand.'
They went into Fazio's office.
'Ask Catarella to make me some coffee in my pot. Would you like some?' 'No thanks, Chief.'
He took his time sipping his coffee, then went out to the car park to smoke a cigarette. Spitaleri had come in a black Ferrari. Which increased the inspector's dislike for the developer. Having a Ferrari in a small town was like keeping a lion in your apartment's bathroom.
When he returned to his office with Fazio, they found Spitaleri with his mobile phone to his ear, talking. '... to Filiberto. Listen, I'll get back to you later,' said Spitaleri, seeing them enter. He put his phone into his pocket.
'I see you were calling from here,' Montalbano said severely, beginning an improvisation worthy of the commedia dell'arte.
'Why? Am I not allowed to?' Spitaleri asked belligerently.
'You should have asked me.'
Spitaleri turned red with rage. 'I don't have to tell you anything.' Until proven to the contrary, I'm a free citizen! If you have something to—'
'Calm down, Mr Spitaleri. You're making a mistake.'
'There's no mistake! You're treating me like someone under arrest!'
'Under arrest? Who said anything about arrest?'
'I want my lawyer!'
'Mr Spitaleri, please listen to what I have to tell you. Then you can decide whether or not to call your lawyer.'
'All right. Speak.'
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