Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  The detective shrugs. “This,” he taps the report again, “would suggest otherwise. And this makes me sad: I was beginning to like you. But you could have made this so much easier for yourself, if you had told me when I asked you yesterday if the gun was yours.”

  Ric thins his lips and replies, “It wasn’t and it isn’t. It just happened to turn up on the Mara. I should have filed it in a couple of hundred fathoms. Don’t know why I didn’t.”

  Talaia inclines his head. “Oh, this is understandable. I think it is impossible for a soldier – pardon, a fighting man – to throw away his weapon. It is against his nature. This, I will grant you.”

  “You’re too understanding,” Ric replies, with deserved sarcasm. “But the Beretta stayed on the boat until it was taken out of the water. I found it was missing when I went to Maggiore’s yard. Didn’t you tell me a few minutes ago that the chair you are sitting in is yours until you vacate it?”

  He nods, “Yes, but you know very well what I meant when I said this. And even though this pistol is not in your possession at this moment; it has your fingerprint on it, which tells me that it was in your possession and that is how it came to be here.”

  “Okay, you’re right, Commissario. The Beretta was on the Mara when I arrived; it was left on the boat by someone who thought I might need it. For what reason, I don’t know. But maybe that’s a story for later. However, sometime between my arrival in Lipari and the boat ending up in Maggiore’s yard, someone removed it and used it to shoot Candela.”

  Talaia scoffs, “And you expect me to believe Candela’s killer removed the pistol from your yacht in order to implicate you?”

  “It explains why the pistol was wiped clean except for one of my fingerprints.”

  “It would, but, if you will permit me, this theory stretches the imagination too far. How did this person know that your print was still on the pistol after he had wiped it clean?”

  Pellets of rain slap against the window behind the detective.

  “I don’t know; maybe they hedged their bets.”

  Talaia looks up at Officer Paolo and nods at Ric. The tall poliziotto steps forward.

  “Hang on a minute, Commissario, you know as well as I do that I’ve no motive for shooting Candela.”

  “It is true. But…” he pauses, considering. “So, what you are suggesting is that Signor Maggiore Marcello removed the pistol from your yacht and used it to shoot Girolamo Candela?”

  “No, Commissario, he can’t have shot Candela. Maggiore was out in the ocean fishing with me. I can verify his alibi in the same way he has verified mine–”

  “Which makes this a conspiracy between the two of you,” he interrupts, pouting and raising his eyebrows. “If you remember, I asked you if you trusted Signor Maggiore.”

  “And, if I remember rightly, I told you I had no reason not to. Now, though, I’m not so sure.”

  “Because you think it must be Signor Maggiore who stole the pistol from your yacht?” Talaia’s tone and expression suggest he is leading his suspect down a path he has been expecting him to take all along.

  “Or one of his men,” Ric replies, thinking of the wiry Salvo. “I know Maggiore didn’t shoot Candela, but that doesn’t rule out the possibility one of his men did it.”

  “No,” Talaia agrees, “it most definitely does not, Signor Ross. However, I have made many checks on Signor Maggiore and though he may be the acquaintance of some less than desirable members of the wider community, I find it hard to believe he would be stupid enough to commit, or even commission, this sort of action.”

  “You mean he’s not part of the Mafia? I thought everyone was in some way.”

  The Commissario groans, leans forward on his forearms and interlaces his fingers, putting his thumbs together as though he is imitating a church spire on the roof of his fingers.

  “Signor Ross, we have spoken about the Mafia. I was hoping to have educated you as to how many strands of this insular organisation exist. But what you have singularly failed to appreciate is that the Mafia is only a natural extension of the way society is constructed here. There are many families, associations and even corporations – call them what you will – who conduct themselves perfectly peacefully and yet they adhere to the same unspoken laws as those of the criminal gangs. These laws are a complex sociological construct which has evolved over many centuries. The concept of the Godfather has been made real and popular for us by writers like Puzo and film-makers like Coppola, or, come to think of it, even by some opera composers. What I am not saying is that these larger than life characters do not exist, because sadly they do. But, what I am saying is that their origins lie in a feudal system where one man, by his own nature, has the power to impose himself over others.”

  Ric interrupts, “And Marcello Maggiore is one such character?”

  “In some ways, yes. But what I am talking about is a society founded on respect. Each man has respect for the other, but individual strengths and weaknesses produce a society in which one man generates more respect than the next. Also, this respect is handed down from one generation to the next, from one Vecchio Signori to the next, and so the respect becomes, quite literally, inherent; it is not questioned.”

  Talaia’s lecture on the laws of the Sicilian jungle confuses Ric. It knocks him off balance for a while. For if the Commissario does not suspect Maggiore for having some part in Candela’s murder, Ric cannot think who else might have killed him.

  The little detective smiles, evidently pleased that he is ahead of Ric. “Signor Ross, in my opinion Signor Maggiore has too much to lose to be involved in Candela’s assassination. He is neither a big enough, nor a small enough fish for such a crime.”

  Ric is fast running out of ideas and is puzzled as to why Talaia should want to lend Maggiore such a ringing endorsement. “What about his brother? I understand Marcello Maggiore had a brother,” he offers. “Is he big enough to fry?”

  “Yes and no,” Talaia replies. “This Claudio, I have not met him, but I am led to believe he walks in his brother’s shadow; he has not the same spine as Signor Maggiore. However, my counterparts in Palermo, who have been investigating Girolamo Candela, have discovered correspondence between Claudio and the deceased.”

  “What sort of correspondence?”

  The detective chews Ric’s question over for a couple of seconds before replying, “For the moment, let us not concern ourselves with the communications between these two individuals. They are in all probability irrelevant to our enquiries.”

  Ric notes his reluctance to explain the connection further.

  Talaia blinks and frowns, “You said had, Signor Ross. If I recall correctly, you said Signor Maggiore Marcello had a brother. What did you mean by this?”

  Though Ric knows the news will mean a whole load of trouble for Marcello, he has no option left other than to give it up: “What I mean, Commissario, is that Claudio Maggiore, like his pen-friend, Girolamo Candela, is dead.”

  55

  The news knocks the wind out of Talaia’s sails. “But I am informed his yacht is moored in the Villa Igiea, in Palermo. My officers tell me the port authority record shows that he arrived a week ago. He was seen in Palermo.”

  “His yacht may be there, Commissario, but I can assure you he isn’t.”

  Talaia sits up and glares at him. “How do you know this, Signor Ross?”

  “Because, Commissario, Claudio Maggiore is lying dead in a pumice warehouse near Porticello. I heard someone kill him a week ago.”

  “You heard someone kill him?” Talaia mocks. “Was it a very loud gunshot?”

  Ric expects him to be sceptical, so he holds his peace.

  “Signor Ross, I heard San Bartolo’s effigy is made of silver, but I’m not about to try and lift it to find out if it is true.” He chuckles, “Although I believe the Germans found this out when they tried to steal it.” Then he, too, waits and watches.

  When, eventually, the detective realises Ric is being serious, he sighs. �
��Va bene, tell me.”

  Ric relates the curious episode of his arrival at Lipari: how he tied up to the bent and rusted stanchion of the old wharf; how he sat in the mist and listened to a man plead for his life; and how, when his explanations, excuses and apologies had all been taken into account, the man was strangled. When he’s finished, he too sits back once more and folds his arms.

  Talaia smirks, clearly believing Ric is being over-imaginative in his story telling. “You know,” he says, “it is strange the tricks a mind can play on a man when he is fatigued. You say you heard voices? Did you recognise either of them? Was, perhaps, San Bartolo one of them?”

  “Not that I recall, no.”

  “Then how do you know if it was Claudio Maggiore who was being killed?”

  “Because I’ve seen his dead body.”

  “Oh, I see,” Talaia replies, dragging out his response to suggest he doesn’t see, at all. “You have not only heard this man being murdered, you have also seen his corpse.” He holds up his hands in surrender and looks up at Officer Paolo as if waiting for his confirmation that the story is too far-fetched to carry even the slightest ring of truth. He looks back, “Okay, Signor Ross, if you have seen Signor Maggiore’s corpse, where exactly is it?”

  “Buried under a pile of rubble in the old La Cava warehouse at Pietra Liscia.”

  “Spiaggia di Pietra Liscia,” Talaia repeats. He quiets for a moment and turns his attention to the surface of the desk. “The beach of smooth stones, you say? It sounds like a nice place. Do you know where this beach is?”

  “Of course! It’s the last beach up the coast before Porticello.”

  “I see; the last beach before Porticello?”

  “Yes.”

  Commissario Talaia smirks, briefly, and then stiffens. He blinks and rubs his eyes. “And does this killing of Signor Maggiore Claudio have any connection with this Beretta?”

  “No, I had the gun on the Mara at that time. It was the last time I saw it. Listening to Claudio’s screams prompted me to retrieve it from the locker in case I was next. In the end I didn’t need it, so I replaced it. I probably put the Beretta down grip first, which is why it would have had my thumbprint near the muzzle.”

  “Okay, Signor Ross,” Talaia decides, “I truly give up. I must say this was not what I expected; another corpse. Now I have two to deal with.”

  Ric chuckles a little nervously and says, pretty much to himself, “At least they’ll make up for the two empty graves in the cemetery.”

  Talaia looks up sharply, “Empty graves? What empty graves?”

  “Long story, Commissario.”

  “Aren’t they all? So, what we do from here is we have to go to Pietra Liscia to see for ourselves the body of Maggiore Claudio.” He turns in his seat and stares out the window for a few seconds: “Come to the sunny Aeolian islands,” he mutters. “Paolo, sai qual è la Spiaggia Pietra Liscia?”

  “Si, Commissario.”

  “Va bene. Prendi l’auto, per favore.”

  The tall officer leaves the room.

  To Ric he says, “Come, we will go find your corpse, if he hasn’t already drowned.”

  56

  Before they leave, Talaia makes a couple of phone-calls while Ric waits in the entrance hall.

  Officer Paolo drives them. Commissario and Ric sit in the back.

  The island looks oddly sad in the rain; it is as though the tears from the sky are being shed in apology for the bother the clouds are causing the people. The bus station is deserted and the pier for the Aliscafo looks forlorn without its usual, colourful crowd.

  “Tell me about Girolamo Candela, Commissario. Was he popular?”

  Talaia pouts, “Oh, popular enough to be elected.”

  “Valeria Vaccariello told me he used to be a good communist,” Ric says, trying to jog the policeman along.

  “They were all good communists at one time, but The Party lost ground after the war. In Sicily, the Christian Democrats became too close to the Mafia and in return for being allowed a free hand, the Mafia would assassinate socialists and communists, insisting they were fighting against the influence of the Soviet Union. It became very difficult for the communists.”

  “And Candela?”

  “Candela was different. He was intelligent with the company he kept. He benefitted from the financial backing of many celebrities in the seventies and eighties: writers, musicians, film-makers; many of them communists who supported his ultra-left wing views.” He silences as they drive through the tunnel to Canneto.

  The wipers scrape against the momentarily dry windscreen and as they exit down the hill a torrent rages through the gulley beside the road.

  “Paolo, non così in fretta, per favore,” Talaia pleads.

  “Si, Commissario.”

  “But,” Ric carries on, “La Signorina Vaccariello told me he was no longer a good communist. What did she mean by that?”

  Talaia shrugs, “Oh, like most people who cannot see a way ahead, he changed direction. The Partito Comunista Italiano became the Partito Democratico della Sinistra and many of the members, including Candela, became socialists; their concentrated views were, over time, watered down. As a hard-line comunista, it was unlikely that a relatively small-time politician like Candela would become a minister in the Sicilian Parliament, but by falling in with the Democrats and the Socialists he moved further to the right. He became what we call assessore, then sottosegretario. This is first an assessor, a councillor if you like, and later a secretary for the President. He enjoyed increasing power. And as his power grew and he grew closer to the right, the left-wing celebrities who had been funding his electoral campaigns began to question his political fidelity. With his funding reduced, so he looked for other sources and some of these were very dubious. It is these sources which are my concern and the concern of many of my fellow investigators.”

  The car twists up the tight turns out of Canneto. The rain still falls in stair rods and out to sea the Mare Siculum is a commotion of white and grey.

  “I understand the Maggiore family were anti-fascist,” Ric states. “Is there a chance they used to bankroll Candela?”

  Talaia waves his suggestion away. “We have no proof of it if they did. I am not sure they have ever had sufficient money to bankroll a politician. Look,” he points out the window at the barren landscape of pumice scree at Monte Pilato up ahead, “in 2002 there were only forty people left to work the mines, these days you don’t get rich from this kind of commercial enterprise; maybe eighty or ninety years ago, yes, but not now.”

  “You said Claudio Maggiore had been in correspondence with Candela. What were they up to?”

  “That is for me to know,” Talaia replies, curtly.

  “Was it about the new hotel Candela had been talking about?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Claudio Maggiore was on the urban council, wasn’t he?”

  Talaia glances at Ric out of the corner of his eye. “So I am led to believe.”

  “Is it true what they say,” Ric asks, “that this new hotel planned for Porticello is supposed to have a thousand rooms?”

  The Commissario doesn’t answer in words; he shifts in his seat. “Porticello,” he repeats. But the way Talaia repeats the name implies that it is of some greater significance than simply being the sight of the planned development.

  “Sure, Porticello,” Ric adds. “That’s where it’s supposed to be built, right?”

  “Yes, Porticello,” Talaia sighs. “But the first part is to be built on the site of the old La Cava warehouse at Pietra Liscia.”

  Ric is stunned. He turns to look at the Commissario, who simply stares out of his window.

  Officer Paolo drives on through the unrelenting rain; his two passengers each marshalling similar thoughts. Above, the dirty-white mountain of pumice towers over them; below, the grey ocean dissolves in the gloom.

  “You think the Maggiore family sold out to Candela?” Ric asks, knowing full well that is the only conclusi
on to be drawn.

  “Possibly,” Talaia grunts. “But even if they have, there would be no guarantee that this hotel would ever be built. There would still be many mouths to feed before he could think of applying for permission.”

  It was what Valeria had said, “Many mouths to feed”. “It’s the next track right,” Ric states.

  The Commissario exhales loudly, “Ah, I’m sure Paolo knows where he is going; he grew up in Lipari before going to the academy in Spoleto.”

  Officer Paolo does indeed know the track and he knows enough not to attempt the steep track in the heavy rain. The pumice dust has turned to mud and whilst they might make it down to the beach, there is little chance they would make it back up.

  Commissario Talaia shrugs on a raincoat, but otherwise seems oblivious to the rain and the mess the mud will make of his suit and shoes. Officer Paolo, though, is still sodden from his overnight vigil. Ric hardly cares; he is more concerned about the consequences of showing Talaia Claudio Maggiore’s body.

  The three of them trudge down the winding track.

  Though the wind is blowing the rain horizontally across the slender, pebbled beach, the lad at the beach bar leaves the cosy confines of his post to wave and watch them.

  “It’s up there,” Ric points to the third floor of the derelict warehouse.

  Talaia glances at Paolo and nods for him to follow Ric.

  The two of them make their way gingerly up the side of the building, Ric showing the tall poliziotto where to put his feet and where to take hand-holds. The rain spits in their eyes and the pumice blocks are treacherously slimy.

  A couple of times, Officer Paolo cups his hands and hoists Ric up to the next floor and he returns the favour with a helping hand up. They reach the third floor and walk to the far end, careful to place their feet squarely on the exposed beams.

  The wooden door set into the rock is still in place, but it hangs slightly ajar.

  He turns to Officer Paolo and indicates his head: “Attenzione, eh?”

  “Si,” he replies and crouches.