August Heat

by Andrea Camilleri

  SEVEN

  Just to kill some time while he was waiting for Fazio to return, he decided to phone Forensics. I'd like to speak to Dr Arqua. Montalbano here.' 'Please hold.'

  He had enough time to review the multiplication tables of six, seven, eight and nine in leisurely fashion.

  'Inspector Montalbano? I'm sorry, but Dr Arqua is engaged at the moment.'

  'And when will he be disengaged?'

  'Please call back in about ten minutes.'

  Engaged? Yes, to be married to his dog. The fucking idiot was playing hard to get. Getting precious. But how precious could an idiot get? And can an idiot increase in value?

  He got up, left the room and, when passing Catarella, said, 'I'm going for a coffee at the port. I'll be back soon.'

  Once outside, he realized he couldn't. In the car park the heat was similar to what one feels when standing in front of a blazing hearth. He touched the handle on the car door and burned himself. Cursing the saints, he went back inside. Catarella looked bewildered and glanced at his watch. He couldn't imagine how the inspector had managed to go to the port, drink a cup of coffee and get back in such a short time. 'Catarella, go and make me some coffee.'

  'Anutter one, Chief? Din't you jes' have one? 'S not good to drink too much coffee.' 'You're right. Forget it.'

  'I'd like to speak to Dr Arqua, if he's disengaged, that is. Montalbano here, same as before.' 'Please hold.'

  No multiplication tables this time, but a few laborious attempts to sing a tune that must have been by the Rolling Stones, then another that was probably by the Beatles but came out almost the same as the first because he didn't quite have perfect pitch.

  'Inspector Montalbano? Dr Arqua is still engaged. Try calling back —'

  ' — in about ten minutes, I know, I know.'

  But why was he wasting all this time on an imbecile who was surely enjoying making him wait? He rolled two sheets of paper into a ball and stuck this into his mouth. Then he pinched his nostrils shut with a binder clip and redialled the forensic lab's number. He spoke with a slight Tuscan accent.

  'This is Plenipotentiary Minister and Supervisor General Gianfilippo Maradona. Please connect me with Dr Arqua at once.'

  'Straight away, Your Excellency.'

  Montalbano spat out the ball of paper and removed the clamp.

  Half a minute later, Arqua came on the line. 'Good day, Your Excellency, what can I do for you?'

  'Why are you calling me "Your Excellency?" This is Montalbano.'

  'But I was told—'

  'But you can keep calling me that, I rather like it.'

  Arqua let a few moments of silence pass. It was clear that he was tempted to hang up, but then he made up his mind. 'What do you want?'

  'Do you have anything to tell me?'

  'Yes.'

  "Then tell me.'

  'You're supposed to say "please".'

  'Please.'

  'Question.'

  'Where was she killed?' 'Where she was found.' 'In exactly the same place?'

  'Next to what would have been the french windows in the living room.'

  'Are you sure about that?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'Why?'

  'Because a pool of blood had even formed there.' 'Anywhere else?' 'No, nothing.' 'Just that pool?'

  'There were streaks from her having been dragged from the pool to a spot next to the trunk.' 'Did you find the weapon?' 'No.'

  'Fingerprints?' ‘A billion.'

  'Even on the plastic wrapped round the body?'

  'Nothing there.'

  'Did you find anything else?'

  'The roll of packing tape. The same that was used for the window frames.'

  'No fingerprints there either?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Is that all?'

  'That's all.'

  'Fuck you.'

  'Same to you.'

  Nice exchange. Terse and crisp as a dialogue from one of Vittorio Alfieri's tragedies.

  One thing, however, had come out of it: that the killing had to have taken place on the masons' last day of work.

  He couldn't stay in his office any longer. His brain felt reduced to a kind of dense jam in which his thoughts had trouble circulating and sometimes got stuck.

  Was a chief inspector allowed to go bare-chested in his office? Was there a rule prohibiting this? No. One needed only to hope that no outsider came in unannounced.

  He got up and closed the shutter to the window, through which no air was passing, only heat. He half shut the inside blinds, turned on the light, and removed his shirt. 'Catarella!'

  'Coming!'

  When Catarella saw him, he said, 'Lucky youse that can do it!'

  'Listen, don't let anyone in without telling me first. I mean it. And another thing. Call a shop that sells fans and have a rather big one delivered here.'

  Since there was still no sign of Fazio, he dialled another number. 'Dr Pasquano? Montalbano here.'

  'Would you believe it? I was actually just now regretting that no one was on my back.'

  'See? I sensed it and took immediate action.' 'What the fuck do you want?'

  The usual refined, aristocratic courtesy from Pasquano. 'Don't you know?'

  'I'm going to work on that girl this afternoon. Ring me tomorrow morning.'

  'Not tonight?'

  'Tonight I'm going to the club. I've got a serious poker game to attend, and I don't want any—'

  'I understand. So, you didn't give the body even a superficial glance?'

  'Very superficial.'

  From the way he had said it, the inspector gathered that the doctor had arrived at some sort of conclusion. The problem was handling him the right way.

  'You're going to the club around nine, right?'

  'Yes. Why?'

  'Because around ten I'm going to turn up at the club with a couple of uniformed men and raise such a stink that I'll fuck up your poker game.' Montalbano heard him chuckle. 'So, what do you say?'

  'I can confirm that she wasn't more than sixteen.'

  'And?'

  'The killer slit her throat.' 'With what?'

  'With one of those knives you carry around in your pocket, but which are sharp as razors. Like the Opinel brand.'

  'Could you tell if he was left-handed?'

  'Yes, if I look into a crystal ball.'

  'Is that so hard to establish?'

  'Hard enough. And I don't feel like bullshitting.'

  'I do it all the time! Let me have the satisfaction of hearing you bullshit just once.'

  'Look, it's just a hypothesis, mind, but in my opinion the murderer was not left-handed.'

  'On what do you base that statement?'

  'I got a certain sense of the position.'

  'What position?'

  'Haven't you ever happened to leaf through the Kama Sutra?

  'Explain what you mean.'

  'Look, let me repeat my disclaimer that this is just a theory. The man persuades the girl to follow him into the part of the house that is now almost entirely covered with sandy soil. Once he's got her inside, he has only two thoughts in his head. The first is to fuck her, the second is to find the right moment for killing her.'

  'So, you think it was premeditated murder, not temporary insanity or something similar?'

  'I'm merely explaining my own conjecture.'

  'But why did he want to kill her?'

  'Maybe they'd already had sex, and the girl had asked him for a lot of money to keep quiet. You have to bear in mind that she was a minor, and it's quite possible the man was married. Don't you think that's a good motive?'

  'Yes, in fact.'

  'Can I go on?'

  'Of course.'

  'The man tells her to take all her clothes off, which he does, too, and then to bend down in front of him, bracing herself with her hands against the wall, as he fucks her from behind. When the time is right—'

  'Will the post-mortem be able to establish if she had had sex?'

 
; 'Six years later? Are you mad? Anyway, I was saying, when the time is right—'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'As the girl is reaching orgasm and is therefore not in a position to react promptly.' 'Go on.'

  ' — he grabs the knife.'

  'Stop. Where does he grab it from, if he's naked?'

  'How the fuck should I know where he gets it from? Look, if you keep interrupting me, I'm going to change the story and tell you Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs instead.'

  'Sorry. Please continue.'

  'He grabs the knife — you can figure out yourself where from — cuts her throat and, shoving her forward, he jumps backwards. He waits for her to bleed to death, then spreads a big sheet of plastic across the floor. After all, there are so many lying about—'

  'Wait a second. Before grabbing the sheet of plastic, he puts on latex gloves.'

  'Why?'

  'Because there are no fingerprints on that plastic. Arqua told me. Or on the adhesive tape.'

  'You see? It was all premeditated. He even had the gloves in his pocket! Shall I go on?'

  'Yes.'

  'He wraps up the body and puts it into the trunk. When he's finished, he gets dressed. He probably hasn't got a single drop of blood on his skin.'

  'What about the girl's clothes, underwear and shoes?'

  'Nowadays girls go around very lightly dressed. All the man would have needed was a plastic bag to make off with them.'

  'Okay, but why did he make off with them instead of putting them inside the trunk?'

  'I don't know. It could have been an irrational move. Murderers don't always behave rationally. You know that better than I do. Is that enough for you?'

  'Yes and no.'

  'Or else he might be a fetishist who, every now and then, pulls out the girl's clothes, sniffs them to smell her scent and wanks to his heart's content.'

  'But how did you arrive at this conclusion?'

  'About the wanking, you mean?'

  Pasquano was in a playful mood. 'I was referring to your reconstruction of the murder.'

  'Oh, that. By looking closely at how and where the tip of the knife went in, and by considering the line of the cut. Among other things, the girl kept her head down, with her chin touching her chest, and this helped me work out the way things went, given that the murderer also slashed her right cheek as he was pulling the knife out of her throat.'

  'Any distinguishing marks?'

  'For identification? She had an appendectomy scar and a rare congenital malformation on her right foot.' 'Namely?'

  'Varus in the big toe.'

  'In plain words?'

  'It was bent inwards.'

  All of a sudden he remembered something he should have done at once but had forgotten. It was certainly not old age that had made him forget it, he reassured himself, but the heat, which had the same effect as three sleeping pills.

  'Catarella? Come into my office.'

  A quarter of a second later he materialized. 'Your orders, sir.'

  'I need you to do a search on the computer.'

  ' 'Ass what I'm here for, Chief.'

  'Find out if anyone ever reported the disappearance of a sixteen-year-old girl around the thirteenth or fourteenth of October 1999.'

  'I'll get on it straight aways.'

  'And what about that fan?'

  'Chief, I called four differin shops. The fans're all sold out. One guy told me all he had was balls.' 'What kind of balls?'

  'The kind you attach to the ceiling. I'll try a few more.'

  The inspector waited half an hour, and since there was still no sign of Fazio, he went out to eat. Merely getting into his car and driving the short stretch of road to the trattoria was enough to drench his shirt.

  'Inspector,' said Enzo, 'it's too hot for hot food.'

  'So what have you got?'

  'How about a few big platters of antipasto di mare with shrimps, prawns, baby octopus, anchovies, sardines, mussels and clams?'

  'Sounds good. And for the second course?'

  'Mullet in onions: served cold, a delight. Then, at the end, to cleanse the palate, my wife made some lemon sorbet.'

  Either because of the heat or because of his stomach, which felt very heavy, he skipped his customary walk along the jetty and went straight home.

  Opening all the windows and doors in the vain hope of creating even the slightest draught, he lay down naked on the bed, on top of the sheets, for an hour's nap. Then, when he awoke, he put on his swimming trunks and went for a swim, risking heart failure.

  He had cooled himself off nicely and, once back in the house, felt like hearing Livia's voice. What to do? He decided to set aside his pride and telephone her.

  'Oh, it's you,' said Livia, sounding neither surprised nor glad. Actually, let's admit it: she was downright Antarctic.

  'How was the drive back?'

  'Horrendous. Hot as hell. The car's air-conditioning broke. Then, when we stopped at an Autogrill after Grosseto, Bruno disappeared.'

  'That child has a gift for it.'

  'Please, don't start.'

  'I was merely stating a fact. Where did he end up?' 'We lost two hours looking for him. He'd hidden inside a tractor cab.'

  'What about the driver?'

  'He hadn't noticed. He was asleep. Now, I have to go.' 'Where to?'

  'My cousin Massimiliano is waiting for me downstairs. You caught me purely by chance — I'd come up to get some clothes.'

  'Where have you been?'

  'With Guido and Laura, at their villa.'

  'And now you're leaving?'

  'Yes, with Massimiliano. We're going on a little cruise in his boat.'

  'How many of you are there?' 'Just him and me. 'Bye.' "Bye.'

  And where the hell did her dear cousin Massimiliano find the money to maintain a cruiser, considering that he didn't work and spent his days counting flies? Montalbano would have done better not to have made the call.

  He was about to leave the house when the telephone rang.

  'Hello?'

  'Most of all, you're a man who doesn't keep his word!'

  It was Livia, apparently spoiling for a fight.

  'Me?'

  'Yes, you!'

  'Would you mind telling me when I didn't keep my word?'

  'You swore to me that there were no murders in Vigata during the summer.'

  'How can you make such a statement? I swore? At the most, I probably said that, with the summer heat, the people planning to kill someone decide to postpone it till autumn.'

  'So how is it that Guido and Laura ended up sharing their bed with a murder victim in the middle of August?' 'Livia, stop exaggerating! Sharing their bed!' 'Well, practically.'

  'Listen carefully. That murder dates from the month of October six years ago. October, did you get that? Which means, among other things, that my theory was not just hot air.'

  'What matters to me is that all because of you—'

  'All because of me? If that little imp Bruno hadn't given in to the temptation to emulate Houdini—'

  'Houdi-who?'

  'Houdini, a famous magician. If Bruno hadn't gone and disappeared underground, nobody would have known there was a corpse downstairs, and your friends could have gone on sleeping soundly.'

  'Your cynicism is repugnant.' She hung up.

  When he got back to the station, it was almost six o'clock.

  He had wanted to go in earlier, but when he stepped outside his house, he was assailed by a blast of heat so intense that he went back in. Taking his clothes off, he filled the tub with cold water and lay in it for an hour.

  'Aaah Chief, Chief! I found 'er. I idinnificated the girl!' Arms extended away from his body, fingers stretched and spread out, he was strutting like a peacock. 'Come into my office.'

  Catarella followed him with a sheet of paper in hand and an attitude so exultant that one could almost hear, in the background, the triumphal march of Aida.

  EIGHT

  Montalbano glanced
at the file that Catarella had printed out for him.

  MORREALE, Caterina, known as 'Rina'

  daughter of Giuseppe Morreale and Francesca Dibetta

  born in Vigata on 7 March 1983

  residing in Vigata, at via Roma 42

  disappeared 12 October 1999

  reported missing by father on 13 October 1999 Height: 5 ft. 9 in. Hair blonde Eyes: blue Build: slender

  Distinguishing marks: small scar from appendectomy and varus of right big toe

  NOTE: Bulletin issued by Fiacca Central Police

  He pushed away the sheet of paper, buried his face in his hands. Throat slashed worse than if she'd been a sheep, or any kind of animal at all. Now that he'd seen, from the accompanying photo, what she had looked like, he felt sure, for no apparent reason, that Dr Pasquano was simultaneously right and wrong.

  He was right when he told him how she'd been killed, but wrong about why she'd been killed. Pasquano had advanced the hypothesis of blackmail, but Rina Morreale, with her serene blue eyes, would never have been capable of blackmail.

  Even if she had consented to making love with the man who would later kill her, how could she ever have followed him underground of her own accord, into an illegal apartment that one entered through a narrow, even dangerous opening? Above all, it must have been pitch-dark down there. Had the murderer perhaps brought a torch with him?

  But hadn't there been a better place? Couldn't they have done it in a car? Pizzo was a secluded spot; it wouldn't have been a problem.

  No, Rina Morreale was definitely forced by the killer to enter what was to become her tomb.

  Catarella had come up beside him to look at the photograph of the girl. Maybe he hadn't paid much attention to it before.

  'She was so beauty-full!' he said softly, moved.

  The photo was consistent with the description and showed a girl of rare beauty. Her neck looked as if it had been painted by Botticelli.

  There was no need to do any more searches. He had only to inform the family so that somebody could go to Montelusa to identify the body. Montalbano's heart ached.

  'She was so beauty-full!' Catarella repeated in a low voice.

  Looking up, the inspector caught him turned three-quarters away, drying his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. Better change the subject at once. 'Is Fazio back?' 'Yessir.'