Zito stood there for a moment in silence, then spoke.
‘You realize that as soon as I broadcast it, the sky will fall. Surely the judge will confiscate the recorder and—’
‘Wait. I’m not interested in the recorder itself. For me, it’s enough that you make a copy of what’s on it and keep it in reserve for me.’
‘Sure, I can do that for you. But that’s not the point. I won’t ask you how you got your hands on that recording, but if the judge asks me how I got it, what am I going to tell him?’
‘You’ll give him the classic answer: you received it in an anonymous parcel with no return address.’
‘I may still manage to broadcast it on today’s one o’clock report.’
*
As soon as he set foot in the station he went to see Augello in his office.
‘Did you summon Strangio and his lawyer?’
‘Yes, but the lawyer can’t come. He told me to carry on just the same. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?’
‘It certainly does. He wasn’t present when his client gave his deposition to Tommaseo, either.’
‘So, can you explain to me why it’s better for me not to handle this case?’
‘Because you’re already risking a great deal by continuing to handle the supermarket case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mimì, do you remember that I said we were going to have to fight on four fronts?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I was wrong. It’s five fronts.’
And he told him about his talk with the commissioner and the conclusion he’d reached.
When he’d finished, Mimì was dismayed, confused, disgusted.
‘Now let’s go into the conference room,’ Montalbano said after looking at his watch.
‘To do what?’
‘Watch TV.’
The television had been put in six months earlier. An order had been issued that all the police commissariats must have one.
Mimì turned it on and tuned in to the Free Channel. The logo of the news report vanished and Zito’s face appeared.
We inform our viewers that straight after our news report we will broadcast a major scoop concerning the suicide of the former supermarket manager from Vigàta, Guido Borsellino. As our viewers already know, the Honourable Giulio Mongibello of the majority party has notified the Montelusa commissioner of police that he intends to request a parliamentary investigation of this suicide, which he maintains was provoked by the less than orthodox methods of Inspector Salvo Montalbano of the Vigàta Police. More specifically, the Honourable Mongibello claimed that Inspector Montalbano subjected Mr Borsellino to veritable psychological torture. We are now in a position to reveal what really happened, thanks to an original recording of the conversation that took place between Inspector Domenico Augello and Borsellino, and the conversation that took place between Chief Inspector Montalbano and Borsellino. We will broadcast the recording in its entirety, even though it contains a gap of roughly half an hour between the dialogue with Augello and that with Inspector Montalbano. But first the news.
A good-looking young woman appeared and said:
Good afternoon. Here are today’s major news stories.
THIRTEEN
An image of a building under construction appeared.
In Montereale, two illegally employed immigrant workers have died after falling from scaffolding. The courts have opened an investigation . . .
This was followed by the usual burglaries, the usual arson, the usual landings of boats filled with illegal immigrants, and a few attempted murders. When it was over, Zito’s face reappeared.
And now we will broadcast the recording we mentioned at the start of this report. For the hearing impaired, we have provided a transcription that can be read on your screen as the audio recording unfolds.
The half-hour in which nobody spoke, but in which you could hear Mimì whistling and Borsellino pacing back and forth, moving chairs, opening and closing the window, and muttering to himself, turned out to be much more disturbing than any images. When it was over, Mimì Augello was smiling.
It would be quite difficult now for the Honourable Mongibello to maintain his claim of psychological torture.
*
The inspector went to Enzo’s for lunch.
‘I’ve got a huge appetite today,’ he said as soon as he sat down.
And he was served according to his wishes. Seafood antipasto, spaghetti with a sauce of clams and mussels (a serving and a half), grilled calamari and scampi (double serving), wine, no water, and coffee.
When he came out of the trattoria, he realized that a walk along the jetty was crucial if he wanted to go on living.
When he came to the lighthouse, he sat down on the flat rock and started thinking.
Why had Borsellino carefully recorded his talk first with Mimì and then with him?
There had to be a reason.
Despite the huge meal, his brain was functioning well, and after an hour of thinking things over, he was convinced that Borsellino’s intention had almost certainly been, at first, to have the Cuffaros listen to his conversation with the police so they could see that he had behaved correctly and hadn’t said a single word too many or too few. But Mimì’s question concerning the lack of signs indicating forced entry had taken him completely by surprise. Apparently that was news to him as well. It seemed that since, when he got to the supermarket, he would normally enter through the rear door, he hadn’t gone to check the main doors through which the public entered, one of which the burglar must have forced. Perhaps he realized at that moment that he’d been set up on purpose and that, given this fact, he was now the prime suspect in the burglary. And so he’d reacted the only way possible: that is, by saying he wanted his lawyer. But the ensuing questions that he, Montalbano, asked him left him with no way out. And his weeping, in the end, had been a sort of half confession.
And thus the recording had become useless to Borsellino.
Worse, actually. There was no mistaking the meaning of his weeping.
So why hadn’t he erased it?
Maybe that’s exactly why he’d gone back to the supermarket; but the killer hadn’t given him time. And if the killer hadn’t made off with the recorder, as he’d done with the mobile, it was because he hadn’t known it existed. And he hadn’t looked in the breast pocket of Borsellino’s jacket.
Another thing occurred to the inspector.
Borsellino called the police to report the burglary at eight o’clock in the morning, when the shop opened its doors to the public. But the manager must certainly have come in earlier, if only to unlock the entrance for the employees. Was it possible he hadn’t noticed the burglary the moment he went into his office? And, if he had, why didn’t he report it at once?
Maybe because he’d talked about it with someone.
There were four conversations on the digital recorder, three of which had taken place the day before, since there hadn’t been any time for Borsellino to have had them that morning. So the phone call discussing the burglary might actually be the one that Catarella had qualified as ‘Talk with ya-can’t-till-who’.
But had it been a talk or a phone call?
He glanced at his watch. A few minutes to three. By now Zito must be back at the Free Channel from lunch. The inspector headed back to the station.
‘Hello, Montalbano here. Is Zito in?’
‘I’ll put him on at once.’
‘Did you like the broadcast?’ Zito asked as soon as he picked up the phone.
‘Yes, a lot. Thanks.’
‘Dozens of people have been calling in. They’re all on your side and against Ragonese and Mongibello.’
‘That’s nice to know, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘I don’t think popular will or public opinion has any concrete effect on things any more.’
‘So, in your opinion, the press and television serve no purpose? Don’t they serve to shape public op
inion?’
‘Nicolò, the press – that is, the newspapers – are useless. Italy is a country with two million illiterates and thirty per cent of the population that can barely sign their names. Three-quarters of those who buy newspapers read only the headlines, which often – and this is another fine Italian custom – say the opposite of what the articles themselves say. The few remaining people have already formed their own opinions and buy whatever newspaper reflects what they already think.’
‘As far as the press is concerned,’ said Nicolò after a moment’s pause, ‘I would agree with you in part, but you must admit that even illiterates watch television!’
‘And we can see the results. The three biggest private television stations are the personal property of the head of the majority party, and two of the state television stations are headed by men chosen personally by the head of the majority party. That’s how your famous public opinion is formed!’
‘But my television station isn’t—’
‘Your station is one of the few exceptions, and it is a truly independent voice. And so I ask you: how many viewers do you have compared to TeleVigàta? One-tenth? One-twelfth? One-twentieth as many? Italians don’t like to hear independent voices. The truth troubles their perennially sleepy brains; they’d rather hear voices that don’t make any trouble, that reassure them they are part of the flock.’
‘I’m sorry, but then why did you turn to me to—’
‘So that whoever needed to understand would understand. Listen, let’s talk about more serious matters. Has the judge confiscated the recording?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Have you managed to make copies of everything?’
‘Yes. Of everything that was on the recorder. Even the stuff that didn’t concern the burglary.’
‘That stuff’s precious to me, you know.’
‘Not to worry.’
‘I’ll drop in late tomorrow morning to pick it up.’
‘Come whenever you like.’
*
Meanwhile he could read the printout of what Catarella called the ‘talk with you-can’t-tell-who’. He searched through the papers Catarella had given him, but those pages were not among the papers piled on his desktop. Nor were they in the middle drawer.
‘Can I come in?’ asked Fazio.
Montalbano abandoned his search. He would resume later.
‘Did you find anything at Strangio’s house?’
Fazio looked disappointed.
‘Strangio’s correspondence is all business-related. There are a few private letters but of no importance. There’s nothing of any interest in the Carlesimo girl’s correspondence, either. It’s almost all letters from her parents, who live outside Palermo. And there’s a few postcards from a girl friend who must be close to her; she lives here in Vigàta but wrote to her when she travelled. Can I look at a piece of paper I’ve got in my pocket?’
‘Yes, but you know on what condition.’
‘Of course, and I’ll respect it.’
He took out a small piece of paper, cast a quick glance at it, and put it away again. ‘The friend’s name is Amalasunta Gambardella, and she lives at number sixteen, Via Crispi.’
Amalasunta! What was the name of the painter who painted Amalasuntas?
‘After we talk to Strangio we’ll decide whether we need to call her in or not. Anything else?’
‘Yes. The girl’s diary. The only time she would write things down was when she had to go to Palermo for classes or to the hairdresser, stuff like that. On the other hand, the telephone section has quite a few numbers that need looking into. I’ve got the diary in my office. Want to see it?’
‘No, you study it.’
‘Oh, and I also took the girl’s computer and gave it to Catarella.’
‘How do you know it belonged to the girl?’
‘I turned it on and noticed there was stuff related to architecture.’
‘And there wasn’t any computer belonging to Strangio in his house?’
‘No.’
Catarella appeared in the doorway.
‘Chief, ’at young guy, LeStrange, ’d be ’ere fer yer ’terrogation. I set ’im down inna waitin’ room.’
‘Is he alone?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Go and see if his lawyer’s coming.’
Catarella went over to the window, opened it, and started looking outside. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What ya ast me to do: I’m lookin’ to see if ’is lawyer’s comin’.’
What was this, some kind of Three Stooges routine?
‘No, I meant you should go and ask Strangio!’
‘Straightaways, Chief!’
‘Fazio, I want this all written up.’
Fazio got up and went out. Catarella reappeared.
‘’E says as ’ow ’ere’s no point in waitin’ ’cuzza lawyer’s encaged.’
Fazio returned with the computer that a few years ago had replaced the old typewriter, and he went and sat on the small sofa.
‘Cat, go and tell Augello to come here right away, and then bring in the young man.’
Mimì appeared immediately and sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the desk.
Strangio seemed calm. But he was unshaven, and his eyes were bloodshot. His hands trembled slightly.
‘Please sit down,’ said Montalbano, indicating the unoccupied chair.
Strangio sat down and the telephone rang. The inspector picked up.
‘I’m not here for anyone!’ he yelled, hanging up.
‘Mr Strangio . . .’
The phone rang again.
‘Ahh, Chief! Ahh, Chief, Chief!’
It was the commissioner.
‘Put the call through to Augello’s office,’ he said, and then, to those present in the room: ‘Sorry, I’ll try to get this over with as quickly as possible.’
He raced to Augello’s room, where the phone was already ringing as he entered.
‘Hello? Montalbano here.’
‘I’ve learned about the Free Channel broadcast of—’
‘Yes, Mr Commissioner.’
‘I’m very pleased, because it shows unequivocally that you and Augello acted quite correctly. And I think that any accusations against the two of you would at this point be groundless.’
Why did he say ‘the two of you’ instead of ‘us’? Wasn’t he himself a member of the police force? Were they no longer in the same boat? This was a mistake unworthy of Bonetti-Alderighi’s intelligence.
‘I agree with you, sir.’
Was it possible the commissioner had called only to congratulate him?
‘Ah, listen, Montalbano. Do you have any idea how that recorder ended up in that journalist’s hands?’
Here was the real reason for the phone call.
‘No idea at all, Mr Commissioner. When I searched Borsellino’s home and office, there was no sign of it.’
‘Well, if anything should occur to you . . .’
‘I shall dutifully inform you at once.’
Love and kisses, goodbye. He went back to his office.
Clearly, during the time he was out of that room, nobody had said a word. The silence was as thick as a shroud of smoke. ‘You, Strangio, when you would go away for work, would you phone your girlfriend Mariangela?’
‘Of course.’
‘Even when you went to Rome?’
The young man smiled.
‘When I went to Rome I would call her several times. Upon arrival, then in the afternoon, and again in the evening.’
‘Did you do so also on the—’
‘Of course. But my last call to her was around five p.m. that day.’
‘Did she say anything unusual to you at that time?’
‘She said she had a terrible headache and was going to go to bed early, and she asked me not to call her again in the evening, as I usually did.’
‘Did she seem calm?’
‘Totally calm. Normal.’
‘How did
you call her? On your mobile?’
‘No, from a public phone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I hadn’t gone to my hotel yet, and my mobile was out of juice.’
‘Then you must have recharged it later, since you declared to Prosecutor Tommaseo that you rang your girlfriend several times on your drive back to Vigàta from Palermo airport.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I recharged it as soon as I got to the hotel.’
‘What’s the name of the hotel you stayed in?’
‘The Sallustio. If you want the number—’
‘No, that’s all right, thanks. I don’t need it. Now I want you to try and remember what you did after your business meeting.’
‘After the meeting? I went out to dinner and—’
‘Do you usually dine at five p.m.?’
Strangio smiled again. This time, however, it was a sly little smile that rather irritated the inspector.
‘I can see you’ve done your homework. I went wandering around Rome.’
Montalbano had the distinct impression the young man was not telling the truth.
At this point the inspector had an idea. He would bluff, with all due respect to Livia. Before speaking, he performed a bit of theatre, à la Bonetti-Alderighi. He picked up a ballpoint pen, studied the tip with great interest, put it back in its place, and then said very seriously:
‘Mr Strangio, I find myself compelled to ask you to rethink the last answer you gave me. Would you like to change it?’
‘No. Why would I?’
‘Because Inspector Augello, here present, has already called the Sallustio Hotel. As you yourself noticed, we’ve done our homework concerning your stay in Rome.’
Strangio went as stiff as a salted codfish and didn’t open his mouth. Montalbano turned to Augello.
‘Tell us what they told you.’
Mimì proved equal to the challenge.
He slowly pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket and pretended to read what was written on it. ‘The customer left the hotel in the afternoon, after paying his bill.’
He folded the paper up again and put it back in his pocket.
Strangio fell straight into the trap, clothes and all, that they’d laid for him.
A Voice in the Night Page 13
