Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer

by Luigi Guicciardi

  ‘When someone tells you a true story years after the event, the accuracy of the story is always subjective,’ he says, as an opening. ‘But there’s always a foundation of truth. I mean, it’s important to know some facts… to know them in the way they’ve remained stuck in people’s memory… even if those people don’t actually remember exactly how things went. Do you follow?’

  ‘I think so,’ says the other man, cigarette in hand.

  ‘And it’s true that from old stories we might get to hear other things that we hadn’t even suspected. Because people speak quite freely about the past, much more than about the present or what happened the day before yesterday. Anyway, that’s just something I’ve noticed over the years.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because our memories make us feel younger?’

  He smiles, encouragingly. ‘Might be. Regarding memories… do you have a good memory?’

  ‘Well… it depends.’

  ‘Let’s see then.’ Cataldo looks for the right words, and in the meantime runs his thumbnail down the side of the bottle, splitting the wet label in two. ‘You’ve lived here for a long time, haven’t you? Do you remember a man called Walter Cristoni, who lived here in Guiglia? A rich guy…’

  ‘Of course I remember. I even met him. But he died… about twenty years ago.’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘If you say so. Anyway, he died… and it wasn’t clear what the circumstances were. Is this what you’re interested in?’

  ‘Maybe. I still don’t know.’

  ‘What do you want to know then?’

  ‘Whether his widow’s still in town. She must be about seventy now… she’s not necessarily dead…’ With his thumb he now draws a circle in the condensation on the bottle, then he pushes it to one side and leans forward, raising his voice slightly, ‘I want to know if she still lives in Guiglia, if she remembers anything… if it’s worth speaking to her.’

  The fat man gestures affirmatively before replying:

  ‘As far as I know, she does still live here… in Via Paganini, near the swimming pool, where they built those new villas. She’s very rich. Her husband was in manufacturing, but I can’t remember in which particular field. She worked as well… taught history, I remember that because she used to write articles for Guiglia Oggi, the local tourist board’s magazine. By the way, if you’re interested I’ll introduce you to the secretary of the tourist board – Nunzio’s his name, comes here sometimes to play billiards. But it might be quicker if you go to the office, it’s just round the corner, in Via Roma. There’s no phone, but in the summer it’s always open… for the holidaymakers, in the evening too.’

  ‘Is it open tonight?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And do you think it’s worth going to see the widow Cristoni?’

  ‘I’d say so. She’s always been an intelligent, well-read woman.’

  Cataldo gets up from the table to get out of the sun. The other man continues: ‘She had one son – Marco, who went off to university. But he never graduated, lived off his family’s money, went off the rails…’

  ‘Gambling or women?’ Cataldo guesses.

  ‘Heroin. That’s how he died. He’d be about forty now…’

  ‘More or less my age.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘No, nothing. It’s strange though.’

  ‘What’s strange?’

  ‘That he wasn’t at his father’s funeral. I looked carefully at the photos,’ and with his index finger he points to the closed folder, ‘and he’s not in any of them. It wasn’t until a week after the funeral that he reappeared, helped with enquiries… very strange.’

  Cataldo drinks a sip of the beer, savouring it slowly – the bottle is half full and the beer is warming up.

  ‘Have I been of any help?’ the fat man asks suddenly.

  ‘We’ll see.’ He looks at him and smiles again. ‘But you’ve given me an idea… and I need ideas. Sometimes they turn out to be wrong, other times they’re right… but at least they get us moving.’

  ‘As long as you’re happy… can I get you anything else?’

  ‘No, thanks. You can go. If I need you I’ll get in touch.’

  He has left his cigarette in the ashtray and a thin line of bluish smoke rises, the ash still hanging. Cataldo opens the folder again and starts reading, looking at his watch now and then.

  So here we go again, he thinks. The usual ritual of the interview – the litany of questions, the scrutiny of people’s characters, the subtle game of pauses, gazes – all this taking place in the theatre that is the interview room. The search for a sign, some uneasiness or a mistake that might lead to the case being closed. And as always he will notice in others their surprise at the discrepancy between his surname and his appearance – a tall, blonde southerner, not stocky and dark-haired, not even authoritarian and not a dialect speaker. He can of course just ignore all this, or he can make a joke out of it… perhaps mentioning the fact that many Sicilians have Norman ancestors. This is the game that will be played till the very end.

  Via Dante Alighieri again – the last house, the gate closed. He buzzes and she comes to the door almost immediately, without even asking who it is on the intercom. Perhaps she saw him from a window, behind the curtains, or perhaps not; perhaps she knew he would be back.

  ‘Please come in.’

  Cataldo looks at her back as she leads the way. Just below the nape of her neck, her skin curves into a soft dimple… partly hidden by her straight hair.

  ‘Do you have more questions for me?’

  She points to the sofa in the cool of the living room, then she sits opposite, in an armchair. And before he replies they look at each other in silence for a moment and it seems to him that her eyes express no feeling. Two serious eyes with something absent in them, something impersonal. Grief, probably…

  ‘I was struck by your call just before. When you asked me if Giulio was left-handed…’

  However lucky you are in your life, you will not be spared the experience of grief… where had he read that phrase once?

  ‘So, do you have something else to ask me?’

  He focuses, smiles. ‘There is something, yes. I’m sorry, but I’d like to know if you have any memory of one night in February, eighteen years ago.’

  Suddenly she becomes serious. ‘Why so far back?’

  ‘Because the photocopy from the Carlino, the one you told me about, refers to this particular night. There was an accident at midnight, just outside Guiglia – everyone knew about it.’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘A businessman died, a man called Cristoni, and a suitcase containing seven hundred million lire went missing from his car. A hitchhiker was convicted, sent down for a long time, but he’s always maintained his innocence…’ He looks her in the eye. ‘Didn’t you know about this?’

  ‘No, I told you. I didn’t even read that photocopy… I only caught a glimpse of it.’

  In the half-light of the room, with the shutters closed, it seems to him that she blushes, and that he can hear a different note in her voice.

  ‘That’s true. You did tell me. But you must recall it now.’

  She breathes deeply, then nods. ‘Yes, I remember it. Everything. But how did you…’

  ‘How did I come to know about it? Marchisio told me… the hitchhiker. He’s the one who put the photocopy in the mail box. He’s done eighteen years for that death, then been released, and now he’s here.’

  Perhaps she understands, or perhaps she wants to ask why, but she doesn’t. She just lowers her eyes and when she speaks again her voice is definitely different, almost hoarse.

  ‘You’re right. Everyone in town was talking about it. We did too.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The seven of us. Our group. That very evening we’d celebrated Ramondini’s graduation, he’s one of us, at the Tre Lune, a restaurant that’s still there… on the main road to Vignola, six or seven kilometres from where the accident took place. It was a nice part
y, very cheerful, but then the next day…’

  ‘You read about it in the newspapers, I understand. Tell me about Ramondini.’

  ‘Luigi. He’s forty-three, a bachelor. He’s the one who’s had the most successful career – he’s already a full Professor at the university…’

  ‘I see, a brainbox. And apart from you, who else was there? Your husband?’

  ‘Giulio was there, yes.’ For just an instant a shadow runs through her voice. ‘We were going out at the time. He was twenty-two, studying literature in Bologna. Giulio is… was… three years younger than Ramondini, but you wouldn’t have noticed. They were great friends even at high school. We all went to the same school…’ she speaks quietly, sometimes almost as though she is talking to herself, ‘… the Muratori, in Modena, section B. I know Giulio had helped Luigi with his dissertation, with his research…’

  ‘Pardon my curiosity, but if you were all from Modena, why did you choose to celebrate here in Guiglia? Had it been summer, I might have understood…’

  ‘Because we’d all been coming here on holiday since we were children. We liked it here. My parents even had their wedding reception here. For us it was a nice place. And then I…’ and she blushes now, undecided, ‘I even did some painting. Years ago. When I first saw these hills I thought they were boring, then I understood that all it took was a ray of light, a gust of wind, and they opened up, they moved…’

  Cataldo nods. ‘I’d like to see one. Really. And did the others like your paintings?’

  ‘The others?’ She is surprised. ‘I don’t know. They never said anything.’ And after a moment: ‘The others… yes. I still have to tell you about them… there was Don Lodi, Athos Lodi that is. Do you know him?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘Well, he has a publishing house in Modena and a cultural foundation that’s named after him here in Guiglia. He’s from Guiglia, but we met him in Modena.’

  ‘At school?’

  ‘That’s right. He was our history and philosophy teacher, then he became something of a… of a cultural mentor for us. At university, and even after we’d graduated…’

  ‘I’ll have to meet him then. From the way you speak about him.’

  ‘Yes, you should. He’s in his fifties – very well read and very generous. Especially with young people. And he was fond of Giulio…’

  Her voice cracks, and Cataldo hurries on.

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘Ah… yes, Carlo Zanetti. He was at school with us too, as was Katia, his wife – they first met in class. But he never went to university, he was keen on football. He played, you know…’

  ‘And was Katia there?’

  ‘Yes, she was there too. They were going out together, like me and Giulio. None of us were married.’

  ‘I understand. What’s she like?’

  ‘Katia? She’s intelligent. Better read than her husband. She wanted to study, even went to university, but she gave up, never got her degree…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he didn’t care for studying and it rubbed off on her… that’s how I see it. The fact is, she gave up and she regretted it.’ She stops, looks at him and then adds, ‘They have one son, he’s at primary school now.’

  ‘There’s still one more.’

  ‘Yes, Calabrese was there too. I don’t think you know him…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Francesco Calabrese. Bachelor. Degree in economics, an accountant, rich and intelligent. Nice house, here in Guiglia, Lancia K 2000, customized. How’s that for a description?’

  ‘Lucky him. Strange though…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I haven’t noticed a car like that in town.’

  ‘Because he doesn’t drive very much. It’s understandable. He’s disabled.’ She lowers her voice, as if out of respect, as if Calabrese were there listening. ‘At home he uses a wheelchair.’

  ‘Ah… and why?’

  ‘Polio, as a child. There was no treatment then, not even the vaccine. But I don’t know any more than that. And then he transferred to our school in the third year.’

  ‘So you don’t know him as well. I mean, as well as you know the others. Good.’ Cataldo sighs, stretches his legs, then crosses them. ‘Yes, I’d like you to give me their addresses before I go. Do you think I’ll be able to get hold of all of them?’

  ‘Right now, yes. They either live here, or they’re here for the holidays.’

  There is a pause. And she looks around, as though uneasy about something.

  ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t offered you anything… a coffee?’

  He smiles as he looks at her.

  ‘I’ve got an espresso machine… or perhaps you’d like a cold drink?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve almost finished.’ He shakes his head, politely, then leans back in the armchair. ‘So what do you remember, then, of that evening?’

  ‘Very little, unfortunately. It was a long time ago…’

  ‘I know, but even that very little might be useful.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You never know.’

  She concentrates in silence and he does nothing to disturb her, showing not a single sign of impatience. Only for a moment does he find himself distracted by the sight of her legs, then he averts his eyes and waits, also because the momentary distraction has suddenly brought back a memory.

  Miriam, too, has remembered something: ‘It started at eight o’clock, or thereabouts. A party for a group of friends in a private room… something to eat, the cake and some spumante. It was all very merry… maybe a little too merry.’

  Cataldo has an idea. ‘Do you have any photographs?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think so… yes, Ramondini must have them. He was keen on keeping photographs as souvenirs…’

  ‘That makes sense. After all, it was his celebration.’

  ‘And a photographer came. Yes, now I remember… a photographer from the tourist office, for their magazine, which is called…’

  ‘Guiglia Oggi.’

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘No, but someone just mentioned it.’

  ‘Oh yes? It’s just a small, local thing… but Ramondini has always been a bit on the vain side, it could even have been him who asked them to write a piece…’

  ‘With a photograph.’ Cataldo smiles at this display of human weakness. ‘But why did you say before that there was too much merriment?’

  ‘Because of Giulio.’ She is more serious now, and she looks towards a point on the floor, somewhere to rest her eyes. ‘He was euphoric, excited… I don’t know. It was as if Ramondini’s graduation had infected him with some sort of frenzy. As if he was the one graduating. Or maybe he was just thinking about his own future graduation… the fact is that he started drinking.’

  ‘Even though the priest was there?’

  ‘Yes. It’s strange, isn’t it? But that’s what happened. He’d never done that before…’

  ‘And did he leave alone?’

  ‘Not at all. He left with me… at about eleven. I drove. He was too tipsy to drive.’

  Cataldo looks at her firmly.

  ‘I have to tell you something. Marchisio says he saw him. He wasn’t driving, it’s true… he was in a car with someone. But it was midnight, not eleven.’ And since Miriam says nothing, ‘Do you understand? One hour later.’

  ‘That’s impossible!’ She suddenly raises her voice, her face red, almost ugly. ‘And then, if he’d seen Giulio in the car with me…’

  ‘He didn’t say he’d seen him with you… he didn’t see who was driving. He only saw your husband.’

  ‘And why didn’t he tell the police? Why not at the trial?’

  ‘Because he only discovered who it was later, after the trial, when he was in prison.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘It’s still too early to say… I’m only at the beginning of this. But you, are you sure of the time?’

  ‘Yes, I told you. Positi
ve.’

  ‘Alright.’

  As he gets up and shakes her hand, he has not decided whether to believe her or not. Her face now is a bit too rigid, her eyes slightly veiled. Lies, of course, can change people’s features in this way, but so can tension in an innocent person.

  ‘Will you come back again?’ She asks suddenly, when they are at the door.

  ‘To ask you more questions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looks at her. ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On you.’

  It seems to Cataldo that she smiles, but people always smile when they fail to understand something.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The priest

  ‘I remember that evening. It seems odd, but I do, even though it was so long ago. The fact is we were celebrating the graduation of Luigi, one of my best pupils. Perhaps that’s why it has stayed in my mind…’

  Don Lodi is certain as they sit in the library of the Foundation, and Cataldo immediately thinks he has done the right thing in coming here to see him, so serious and authoritative does he appear. Especially at the beginning of an investigation there is a real need for reliable witnesses. Three walls of the room are taken up with matching bookshelves: the books with their ivory colour, the shelves in warm oak and the room itself is austere – all these tangible signs of culture lend this meeting, these words, a comforting atmosphere of truth, or at least of reliability.

  ‘And I imagine you must have had many pupils. I mean you know all about young people…’

  ‘Yes, I’d say so.’ He smiles, pleased, and then proceeds to speak as though reciting some maxim, ‘When a youngster’s setting out, he’s betting on himself, on his future. On what he’ll manage to do as a grown man.’

  ‘And Ramondini?’

  ‘Ramondini graduated at twenty-five, which would not have been anything special, but he wrote a fine dissertation on Nievo… on some minor works by Nievo. The Novelliere Campagnuolo, and part of his thesis was published immediately in Belfagor, the journal.’ His eyes sparkle behind his glasses, ‘A wonderful debut, no doubt about it.’