A Beam of Light

by Andrea Camilleri

  He didn’t have the courage, however, to say good-bye to Pasquano, who’d come out of his car and was pacing swiftly back and forth, four strides forward, four strides back, like a bear in a cage.

  Back at the office, having nothing to do, he started signing document after document. There was no end of it.

  Fazio straggled back in just before one o’clock.

  “Have anything to tell me?”

  “Well, Chief, as you were able to see for yourself, before setting the car on fire they took the license plates off. But Mannarino was able to read the serial number on the chassis. I’m expecting an answer at any moment now. We should be able to find out what car it belonged to and who its last owner was. As long as the car wasn’t stolen for the occasion.”

  “Did they find any other shells?”

  “No, just that one. But Mannarino said there were tracks from two different cars.”

  “Naturally. How else would they get back? On foot? And apparently the jerry cans of gasoline for setting fire to the other car were in that one, and once they emptied them out, they took them away, fingerprints and all. Pasquano didn’t say anything?”

  “He said it’ll be hard to identify the body, given the state of the corpse. At any rate, at a glance he said it looked to him that the man had been killed with a single shot at the base of the skull and had his wrists and ankles bound with metal wire.”

  “A Mafia hit, in short?”

  “It certainly looks like one.”

  “And you’re convinced of it?”

  “Bah.”

  Fazio’s cell phone rang.

  “’Scuse me just a second,” he said, bringing the cell phone to his ear.

  He said, “Hello,” and then listened silently.

  “Thanks,” he said in conclusion.

  He looked at the inspector, frowning.

  “They told me the name of the car’s owner.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Carmelo Savastano.”

  Montalbano digested this bit of news without any difficulty. It wasn’t anything that would complicate matters; on the contrary, it might actually simplify them.

  “But what’s Savastano got to do with the Mafia?”

  “Bah,” Fazio repeated.

  “But it’s not certain he’s the corpse.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Does Savastano have any family?”

  “Yes, his father’s name is Giovanni. But they had a falling out and haven’t spoken for years.”

  “You should go and talk to him immediately. Find out whether his son ever broke his leg or has any other distinguishing features that might help to identify the body.”

  “I’ll go right away.”

  But he didn’t move. He looked doubtful.

  “What is it?”

  “If it turns out to be Savastano, then there’s something I found out that I should tell you.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “You know the young guy from this morning, the one who discovered the burnt-up car?”

  “Yes, Salvatore Ingrassia.”

  “Well, he’s the guy who got into a row with Savastano at the fish market, after which the carabinieri hauled him in.”

  “And does Ingrassia seem to you the type who would do something like that?”

  “Nah. But I thought I should tell you.”

  After eating, he took his customary stroll along the jetty. The crab was not there and hadn’t sent a replacement.

  The inspector started thinking.

  If the body was Savastano’s, he would bet the family jewels that Ingrassia had nothing to do with the murder. The young man would never have been so stupid as to kill him and leave his body a few hundred yards away from his house.

  Whoever killed Savastano either knew nothing about his quarrel with Ingrassia, in which case it was all a coincidence; or else he knew everything about it and committed the murder near Ingrassia’s home to throw the police off the track.

  Savastano was not a mafioso, but a small-time hoodlum. So why had a Mafia ritual been enacted?

  Here there were two possible answers: Either he’d offended some mafioso or other, or else the ritual was supposed to lead the investigation astray.

  If, say, Savastano had been found dead on the ground along any old road, shot in the face or the chest—in other words, without any Mafia theatrics—who would have been immediately suspected?

  Di Marta, naturally.

  The only person who could have had a plausible motive, if he’d grasped how the business of the holdup and rape had really gone.

  At the office he found Fazio waiting for him.

  “Savastano’s father couldn’t tell me anything. They hadn’t spoken to each other for a long time. He’s just a poor bastard, an honest man who had the misfortune of having a delinquent son. But I may be on to something just the same.”

  As if a bloodhound like Fazio wouldn’t be on to something.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Looking through our papers, I discovered that some time ago a girl who’d been living with him, named Luigina Castro, reported him for domestic violence.”

  “But wasn’t he with Loredana?”

  “Yes, but when they broke up because Loredana became engaged to di Marta, he—”

  “Got it. Go on.”

  “Well, Luigina reported him after they’d been together barely two months, but then she withdrew the charges.”

  “Have you got her address?”

  “I’ve got everything.”

  “Go and see her right away.”

  Fazio got up and went out, and a moment later Augello came in. Montalbano looked at him with a bit of surprise.

  “But weren’t you supposed to be at La Bonifacio’s place at four?”

  “She called and postponed things till this evening. She invited me to dinner. The prospects are looking good.”

  “Have you heard about the burnt-up car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Apparently the car belonged to Carmelo Savastano, Loredana’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “And was that him in the car?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  He paused a moment, then asked Mimì:

  “If we were to find out that it really is Savastano, who would be your primary suspect?”

  “Di Marta. It’s possible that he beat Savastano’s name out of her.”

  “Actually, since we haven’t been able to discuss it calmly, I’d like to know how you think the whole mugging scene went.”

  “In my opinion, after her marriage, Loredana and Savastano remained lovers. Apparently that evening, when he found out, maybe from Loredana herself, that her husband had given her sixteen thousand euros to deposit, he made an arrangement with her, saying he needed the money. They met, Loredana gave him the money, and then they had rough sex, to make it look like a rape.”

  “And where does Valeria Bonifacio come in?”

  “She comes in to cover for Loredana—who, in my opinion, did go to her friend’s house that evening, but left immediately to go meet Savastano. And now Valeria’s worried that if you discover the truth, you’ll have proof of her complicity. I’m convinced that’s why she needs a dishonest lawyer like yours truly.”

  In a general sense, the inspector saw things the same way as Mimì. But there were a few details, by no means minor, about which he had a very different opinion.

  Around six, Fazio returned.

  “I’ve got something big, Chief. The girl who broke up with Savastano after reporting him for abuse told me he’s missing two toes on his left foot. Apparently an iron coffer fell on them, crushing them to smithereens, and he had to have them cut off.”

  “Excellent. Well done, Fazio!”

  Montalbano didn’t wa
ste a single minute and immediately rang Dr. Pasquano, turning on the speakerphone.

  “Excuse me for disturbing you, Doctor, but—”

  “The disturbance you create is of such magnitude and depth that there can be no excusing it.”

  “My, how well you can speak when you put your mind to it!”

  “Thanks. It’s you who have this effect on me. Elegant speech comes instinctively to me as a way to put some distance between us. Naturally you’d like to know something about the charred corpse.”

  “If you would be so kind.”

  “You are incapable of imitating my eloquence. Or anything else about me, for that matter. So you might as well not even try. I can only confirm what I told Fazio. A single shot at the base of the skull, ankles and wrists bound with metal wire. A textbook Mafia execution.”

  “Nothing that might help us identify him?”

  “Yes. Two—”

  “—amputated toes on the left foot,” Montalbano finished his sentence.

  Pasquano remained speechless for a moment, then exploded.

  “But if you already knew, then why the fuck did you have to bust my balls?”

  Montalbano hung up and dialed another number.

  “Dr. Tommaseo? Montalbano here. I urgently need to talk to you. Can I come by in half an hour? Yes? Thank you.”

  “What do you want from Tommaseo?” asked Fazio.

  “Authorization to put a tap on Bonifacio’s and di Marta’s phones. Have we got all their numbers?”

  “Yessir. Even the cell phones.”

  “Gimme all of them, including the addresses, and then go and give Savastano’s father the bad news.”

  He was expecting to have to battle with the prosecutor to get permission for the phone taps, but as soon as Tommaseo heard there were two attractive young women involved, he gave in, hoping he’d have a chance to meet them sooner or later.

  His eyes began to glisten, and he licked his lips. He wanted to know the whole story of Loredana’s rape, down to the last detail.

  Just to have Tommaseo on his side, the inspector invented a few details worthy of a porno flick.

  Tommaseo wasn’t known to have a woman in his life. Interrogating them was perhaps his way of letting off a little steam.

  With Tommaseo’s authorization in his pocket, the inspector went to Montelusa Central, to the basement facility from which all telephone intercepts were conducted. It took him a good fifteen minutes to pass through all the checkpoints, and over an hour to set the whole operation in motion without delay.

  As he was coming out of the building he suddenly thought of a way to verify that Savastano had no business at all with the Mafia. He walked around for five minutes reviewing and examining every aspect of his plan.

  In the end, he convinced himself that it was the right move and, on top of that, the only one he had available.

  He got into his car and headed for the studios of the Free Channel, the local television station under the direction of a very good friend of his, Nicolò Zito. It was almost nine o’clock.

  “Inspector! What a pleasure to see you!” exclaimed the receptionist. “Do you want Nicolò?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the moment he’s finishing his news broadcast. You can go and wait in his office.”

  Zito came in less than five minutes later. They embraced. Montalbano asked after his family and then said:

  “I need something from you.”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “Have you already broadcast the news of the charred body found in a burnt-up car?”

  “Of course. I went there in person this morning to cover the story, but you weren’t around, you’d already left. I had to keep to generalities because no one could tell me anything.”

  “Would you like an exclusive interview?”

  “Are you kidding?!”

  “Then let’s get right down to it. Could you include it in your next news broadcast?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But first we have to agree on certain questions.”

  “Inspector Montalbano, thank you for agreeing to meet with us and answer our questions. What can you tell us about this horrific crime, which has upset so many people?”

  “Well, for starters, I can tell you the name of the victim. He was a young man from Vigàta, Carmelo Savastano.”

  “Did he have any sort of criminal record?”

  “Yes, but just things like petty scams, illegal appropriation, threatening a public official . . .”

  “How was he killed?”

  “He was kidnapped somewhere unknown to us, probably as he was going home, and then taken to the place of his execution in his own car, which was driven by one of the killers. Savastano’s wrists and ankles were bound with metal wire and he was sitting in the passenger’s seat. He was shot once at the base of the skull, and then the killers set the car on fire.”

  “So, at a glance, everything would point to Mafia-style execution.”

  “It certainly would, in my opinion. And I intend in fact to conduct my investigation accordingly.”

  “But do you really think Savastano was a Mafia punk?”

  “Don’t take it the wrong way, but I’m not at liberty to answer that question.”

  “Might he have been killed for having made some sort of mistake, or for not obeying orders?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Could you explain a little better?”

  “I’m just hoping this doesn’t turn out to be the first in a series of murders in a war between the families, like the one that caused so much bloodshed in our region a few decades ago. That’s why I want to do everything in my power, and by every means possible, to nip this thing in the bud. And I’m ready, if necessary, to request exceptional reinforcements of personnel.”

  He’d lowered the baited hook into the water. He was positive that a fish or two would bite.

  When he got home it was ten-thirty. Too late. Surely Marian had tried to call earlier.

  His hunger was so extreme that it didn’t allow him time to set the table on the veranda.

  He ate standing up in the kitchen the pasta e fagioli he found in the refrigerator while waiting for the mullet all’agrodolce to warm up in the oven.

  When the mullets were hot, he pulled them out, put them on a plate, and took this to the chair in front of the television, where he sat down just in time to watch his interview.

  It would be rebroadcast on the midnight edition of the news, as Zito had promised.

  Having finished eating, he got up and went out on the veranda.

  But less than half an hour later he was back in front of the television. At eleven-thirty there was the nightly news on TeleVigàta, the Free Channel’s competitor, and he wanted to see whether they would comment on the interview.

  The anchor giving the news made no mention of it.

  As he was about to wish the viewing audience a good night, a hand holding a sheet of paper came into the picture.

  The newsman read it.

  “We have just received notice that there appears to have been an exchange of gunfire in the countryside near Raccadali between the police and three non-Europeans who were able to slip through an encirclement by the forces of order. The police have neither confirmed nor denied this report. The incident appears to have involved three non-Europeans with ties to local organized crime. One of them is reported to have been wounded. We have no more details at this time, but will present any updates we may receive in the meanwhile on our twelve-thirty report, in an hour.”

  For no good reason, Montalbano thought again of Alkaf, Mohammet, and the third man, the one who’d kept hidden in the hayloft.

  Might they be the three non-Europeans who clashed with police? And how, if it was indeed them, had they come to such a pass?
>
  At midnight he watched the Free Channel report, which ran his interview again. As for the firefight, Zito only pointed out that one of the three foreigners had been armed with a machine gun and that it was he who fired first at the police.

  The whole thing made sense. Alkaf and Mohammet did not seem like men who would fire a gun like that, but the one in the hayloft might well have been armed and ready to kill.

  He went to bed reluctantly, putting the telephone on the bedside table just to be sure.

  Why wasn’t Marian calling?

  He started reading, but was too distracted by the thought of Marian and had to reread a page twice because the first time he hadn’t understood a thing. After half an hour of this he couldn’t stand it anymore and turned off the light, closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep.

  Why wasn’t Marian calling?

  And why, despite the fact that he had promised himself to do so, had he never asked her for her cell phone number?

  And why had she herself never thought of giving it to him?

  And why . . .

  And why don’t two plus two equal three?

  The ringing of the telephone awoke him so unexpectedly and so noisily that he was unable, in the dark, to get ahold of the receiver and made the whole thing fall to the floor.

  He turned on the light. It was six a.m.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Inspector Montalbano?”

  A man’s voice, which he didn’t recognize. He was tempted to tell him he had the wrong number.

  All he wanted to hear was Marian’s voice.

  Then he realized that it would be a mistake to pretend he wasn’t himself.

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “This is Orazio Guttadauro, the lawyer.”

  In a flash the inspector’s brain was completely lucid.

  Guttadauro, a sweet-tongued, courteous man, and as dangerous as a snake, was the lawyer for the local Mafia family, the Cuffaros. He was practically their spokesman.

  The fish were biting. Montalbano decided to leave him dangling for a spell. One must never appear too interested.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but could you please call me back in about ten minutes?”

  “Of course!”