But what photos was he looking at? The hair-raising photos of the corpse?
‘Did you get them from Forensics?’
‘No! I asked Strangio for them. By the way, I’ve formed a pretty clear idea of things, you know.’
Montalbano was stunned.
Never mind Sherlock Holmes! Tommaseo was a combination of Poirot, Maigret, Marlowe, Carvalho, Derrick, Columbo, and Perry Mason all thrown together in a blender.
‘You don’t say!’
‘I certainly do, my friend! Listen, I’ll tell you how the whole thing went. I’m absolutely sure of it, cross my heart.’
As Catarella had said. With the result that somebody’s heart was going to give out sooner or later.
‘Please enlighten me.’
‘It’s really quite simple. I’m convinced that when Strangio went back home unexpectedly, he found his girlfriend in the midst of sexual congress with another man. And so, insane with jealousy, he killed her.’
But how could Tommaseo not have noticed that the girl’s blood was already dry? That she’d been murdered the previous day, at the very least? Montalbano decided to toy with him a little.
‘But how did you manage, in such a short time . . .?’ he asked, feigning amazement and admiration.
‘Just talking to him was enough. Anyway, you were there yourself, weren’t you? Did you see what self-control? What pitiless lucidity, I might add?’
‘What self-will!’ said Montalbano.
‘Exactly. What? The girl you live with gets murdered and you don’t bat an eyelid?’
‘Don’t even wince?’ said Montalbano.
‘Exactly. You don’t even twitch?’
‘Don’t shed a tear?’ Montalbano suggested.
‘Exactly. So you agree, Montalbano, that such coldness is typical of a murderer?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So I want you to put the screws on him, I mean it!’
‘But is he under arrest?’
‘No. You tell me: how could I? For the moment he’s simply a witness.’
And therefore should be treated like one. So much for the screws.
NINE
An hour later Fazio came in.
‘You know what? Tommaseo phoned me,’ said the inspector.
‘What did he want?’
‘He wants us to put the screws on Strangio.’
‘Ha ha ha!’
‘Why do you laugh?’
‘Because he himself was very careful not to put the screws on him! Didn’t you see how his expression changed when Strangio told him whose son he was? Mr Prosecutor wants us to be his lightning rod!’
‘But,’ said Montalbano, ‘that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t carry on just the same. Taking care that none of it reaches Strangio’s ears or his father’s. Otherwise things could get dangerous.’
‘Like touching the third rail,’ said Fazio.
‘The girl – what’s her name? – ah, yes, Mariangela Colosimo . . .’ the inspector began.
‘Carlesimo,’ Fazio corrected him.
How was it that he never used to get people’s names wrong but now was becoming more and more like Catarella?
‘This girl,’ he resumed with a note of pique in his voice, ‘based on what her boyfriend said, did not seem like the housekeeping type. She must certainly have had a cleaning lady she paid by the hour. We should find out who she is, what her name is—’
‘Already taken care of,’ said Fazio.
The inspector saw red.
Overcome by a rage as unreasonable as it was irresistible, he slammed his hand on the desk.
Surprised, Fazio gave a start.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ said Montalbano, ashamed of his nervous outburst. ‘I killed a fly that was bothering me. So tell me.’
‘Can I look at a piece of paper I have in my pocket?’ Fazio asked in a tone that was at once prefatory and slightly combative.
‘Provided there’s nothing from the records office.’
‘Fine. After everything had been done at Strangio’s house and everyone had just left, I was getting into the car to come back here when a woman of about fifty came up to me, wanting to know what had happened. I told her she would find out on the TV news. But then she said she was Strangio’s housekeeper, and that she normally came in to work at one. And so I told her what happened, and since she could hardly walk after hearing the news, Gallo and I gave her a ride home. That way I was able to question her eye to eye.’
‘Well done, Fazio.’
‘Thanks.’
Only now did he pull the piece of paper out of his pocket. He gave it a quick glance and then put it back in his pocket.
‘The housekeeper’s name is Concettina Vullo. She used to work every day except Sunday. She would come in at one and stay until four. She cooked, ironed, and cleaned.’
‘What did she tell you about Strangio?’
‘She said she didn’t know him well because he almost always ate out during the day. She said he was flighty.’
‘Flighty? Meaning?’
‘He’d be cheerful one minute and then totally pissed off the next.’
‘Did she ever witness any quarrels between him and his girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘And what was the girl like?’
‘Basically a nice girl. She would spend hours on her phone.’
‘So, to cut a long story short, she didn’t tell you anything substantial.’
‘No, but there was one thing of interest.’
‘And what was that?’
‘She said that sometimes the girl would make her own bed.’
Montalbano gave him a puzzled look.
‘That doesn’t seem like such big news to me.’
‘Mrs Vullo said that most of the time she herself would make the bed, but on certain mornings she would find it already made.’
‘I got that already. So what? Maybe every so often the girl felt like doing some housework.’
Fazio continued, unruffled.
‘And this always happened whenever Strangio was away on business and spent the night out. See my point?’
That changed the whole picture.
‘I certainly do. Now the whole thing is clear. On the nights when Strangio didn’t sleep at home, she would “entertain”, let’s say, without any fear of unpleasant surprises from her boyfriend. And to prevent the housekeeper from noticing that the bed had been slept in by two people instead of one, she would have it all nicely made up by the time the lady arrived.’
‘So it would seem.’
The inspector remained pensive. Then, looking Fazio in the eye, he said:
‘We absolutely have to find out who it was that used to go and see her when Strangio was away.’
‘Of course,’ said Fazio. ‘But how? It was only by chance, you know, that I met the housekeeper and found these things out. Otherwise, we’d be completely in the dark. And Strangio’s house, except for the big apartment building next to it, is rather isolated. It’s unlikely I’ll find anyone who can say to me that on certain nights he saw such-and-such a car parked outside the gate until dawn.’
‘But we should try anyway, using her as our starting point.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Fazio, what do we know about this girl? Hardly anything at all. We know she was studying architecture, that her parents don’t live in Vigàta, and that she slept till ten in the morning. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to find out more? To go into the house, search through photos, papers? And while you’re at it, you could have a look at his things too . . . Find out, for example, whether the girl had any female friends, somebody she saw often . . .’
‘Chief, the seals have gone up on the house, you know.’
‘And I’m not telling you to do a repeat of the supermarket. This time go and get proper authorization from Tommaseo.’
*
‘Catarella? Listen carefully. I want you to search the Rome telephone directory f
or the number of the main office of Ugotti—’
‘Yeah, Chief, I got it.’
‘You got what?’
‘I’m asposta fine yiz the nummer o’ the main office.’
‘Yes, but the main office of what?’
‘Ya din’t tell me the name o’ the company, y’only said to look for the nummer o’ the main office, an’ then y’ast if I got it, an’ I said, “Yeah, I got it.” ’
The misunderstanding became clear to Montalbano. ‘No, Cat, I didn’t ask you if you got it. The name of the company I need the number for is Ugotti.’
‘Now I got it, Chief. Sorry ’bout the quiquivacation. Then whaddo I do?’
‘When you get the number, dial it, and when they answer, put the call through to me.’
‘Straightaways, Chief.’
Five minutes went by, and the telephone rang.
‘Ugotti Computers. Can I help you?’ said a crabby, high-pitched female voice with a Roman accent.
‘This is Inspector Montalbano, police. I’d like to speak with somebody in management.’
‘What about, may I ask?’
‘About yesterday’s meeting of regional representatives.’
‘I’ll put you through to Quagliotti. Just a moment, please.’
The moment – with a background of sacred music by Bach, whose connection with computers was entirely unclear – lasted so long that Montalbano had enough time to review the times tables for 7, 8, and 9.
‘Quagliotti here. What can I do for you, Inspector? I should forewarn you, however, that we’re not allowed to divulge confidential information over the telephone. It’s company policy. It would therefore be best if you—’
‘I don’t need any confidential information. I just want to know at what time the meeting of your regional representatives was held yesterday.’
‘From ten a.m. to one p.m.,’ the other began, speaking very fast, ‘lunch break from one to two, afternoon session from two to five.’
‘A final question and I’ll let you go. Was Giovanni Strangio at the afternoon session?’
‘He signed back in at two o’clock. Whether he left later on, I can’t say . . .’
Montalbano thanked him and hung up.
*
All things considered, this wasn’t necessarily a solid alibi.
If it happened to come out in the post-mortem that Mariangela was murdered in the late afternoon, Strangio would still have had time to catch a plane in Rome and drive from Punta Raisi airport to Vigàta, snuff out the girl, drive back to Punta Raisi, spend the night in Rome, and head back to Vigàta the following morning.
To confirm this hypothesis, however, one would need to check the flight timetable, and Montalbano had never known how to read any kind of transportation timetable at all – trains, ferries, buses, and especially flights, since those timetables also included information on connections for other cities.
But there was a solution.
‘Cat, I want you to call the central police office of Punta Raisi and ask for the chief inspector. Then put the call through to me.’
‘Straightaways, Chief.’
And it really was straightaways.
‘Inspector Montalbano? The chief inspector is out at the moment. I’m Sergeant De Felice. You can ask me whatever it is you need to know.’
Montalbano explained the problem to him. ‘Could you hold the line?’ asked the sergeant.
He came back barely three minutes later.
‘OK, I’ve got the timetable here in front of me, and I can confirm that what you said to me is possible. Here, let me give you the details.’
‘I’m sorry, De Felice, but timetables only confuse me. It’s enough for me to know that my hypothesis is plausible.’
‘Of course it is, Inspector.’
*
He needed another confirmation, however. He rang the Institute for Forensic Medicine.
‘Montalbano here.’
‘You want to talk to Dr Pasquano?’ the attendant asked.
Who else, if not? One of the dead people lying around the morgue?
‘Listen, do you know whether the doctor has performed the post-mortem on that girl who was knifed to death?’
‘He just finished. Shall I put him on?’
‘No, I’d rather speak with him in person.’
‘Well, you’d better get here quickly, because he’s anxious to go home early today.’
On his way out, the inspector said to Catarella:
‘I’ll be back in about an hour. If Augello or Fazio come looking for me, I’ll be with Dr Pasquano.’
*
On the way to Montelusa, everything happened.
Two HGVs proceeding side by side for a stretch, preventing anyone from passing them; a minor collision between two cars; and a broken-down bus.
Which caused him to lose a great deal of time before getting to the institute.
He had barely pulled up in the car park when out of the corner of his eye he saw the car right next to him take off like a rocket with a loud screech of the tyres.
As he looked on in curiosity, he saw a hand emerge from the driver’s side window and wave bye-bye. It was that bastard Pasquano fleeing so he wouldn’t have to talk to him.
He started his car back up and gave chase.
He managed to pass Pasquano’s car before it reached the exit gate and to swerve in front, blocking him.
Then, just like a US highway patrolman about to issue a ticket, he got out of his car slowly – regretting only that he wasn’t wearing gloves like them so that he could peel them off coolly – and went and bent down at Pasquano’s window.
‘Licence and registration,’ he said.
‘I’ll give them to you only on the condition that you stick them you-know-where,’ Pasquano said angrily. ‘What is this? Is an honest man no longer free to go home after a hard day’s work? What did I ever do in life to deserve you as my punishment? When the hell are you going to make up your mind and finally retire? Can’t you see you’re nothing but an old wreck who’s falling apart?’
‘OK, now that you’ve got it out of your system,’ said the inspector, ‘what can you tell me about the girl?’
‘What, you think I didn’t know that was why you were here? All right, I’ll tell you all in one breath so you won’t keep on at me. Listen closely, because I’m not going to repeat it. Ready? Forty-seven knife wounds, if you can call them that, of which the first, to the jugular, was fatal.’
‘But then—’
‘Don’t interrupt me or I won’t say another word, even if you torture me. The other forty-six served only to vent the killer’s rage and were concentrated particularly around the vagina and breasts. Is that clear so far? Don’t talk, don’t say yes or no; just shake your head or nod. Yes? Then I can go on. The killing must have taken place between five and seven p.m., eight at the latest. I’m sorry for Dr Tommaseo, who will be deeply disappointed, but, despite appearances, the girl was not, I repeat, not raped. Nor are there any traces of consensual relations. And with that, I wish you the best.’
‘Wait a second, please!’ said Montalbano, grabbing the edge of the window as Pasquano started the car again.
‘Were there any signs of a struggle?’
Pasquano looked at him with pity.
‘How could there have been any kind of struggle if I just told you that the first stab cut her jugular?! Can’t you see that you’re already completely senile? The girl went into the study and was immediately killed.’
‘But why did she go into the study naked?’
‘How the hell should I know? That’s your job to find out.’
‘What kind of knife did he use?’
‘It wasn’t really a knife, but something very sharp and thin. Like a razor or a box cutter, something like that.’
‘Have Forensics recovered the weapon?’
‘Can’t you see you’re really not right in the head? If Forensics had found the weapon, I would have told you precisely what was us
ed to kill the girl. Can I go now?’
‘Of course. Thanks.’
Montalbano went and moved his car.
Pasquano passed slowly in front of him, then stuck his head out the window.
‘Oh, I almost forgot. She was pregnant.’
‘How far along?’ Montalbano shouted.
‘Two months,’ Pasquano replied.
Then he accelerated.
*
Now it was late. Before driving back to Marinella, he dropped in at headquarters to see if there was any news.
Not only was there no news, but there was no one there at all except Catarella.
‘How far along are you with Borsellino’s computer?’
‘Jess finishin’ up now, Chief.’
‘What’s inside it?
‘The kapewter’s got tree icones isside it, one fer corrisponnences, which’d be the litters ’e wrote to diff ’rint companies consoinin’ the stuff the foresaid was asposta send to the supermarket, y’ know, the ordnances . . .’
‘Purchase orders.’
‘Whativver ya wanna call ’em. An’ insomuch as the supermarket riceived ’em more or less inna mount the foresaid supermarket ast fer, annat—’
‘OK, I get the picture. What’s in the other two?’
‘Well, Chief, one of ’em’s got the calculations of each day’s preceeds . . .’
‘Proceeds, Cat.’
‘Whativver. Ann’iss is follered by the wickly preceeds, an’ then the manthly preceeds, an’ then—’
‘I get the picture, Cat. What about the third one?’
‘Inna toid icone ’ere’s the wickly clarence odda moichandise, the clarence—’
‘OK, that’s enough. Is there anything else?’
‘Yeah, I still gotta look at tree more files.’
‘All right, I’ll be seeing you. I’m going home.’
*
In the entranceway he ran into Augello, who was coming in.
‘Can you hang around for another five minutes?’ asked Mimì. ‘I need to talk to you.’
He seemed clearly agitated.
‘Sure,’ said the inspector, turning on his heel and heading back to his office.
‘I have to tell you what I learned entirely by chance from Fazio, a small detail concerning Borsellino.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘That he didn’t commit suicide but was strangled and then made to look as if he’d hanged himself.’
A Voice in the Night Page 9
