August Heat

by Andrea Camilleri

  'Could you call him for me?'

  Fazio, too, had a sheet of paper in his hand when he came in. 'Catarella told me the girl's been identified. Can I see her?'

  Montalbano handed him the printout. Fazio looked at it, then gave it back to him. 'Poor kid.'

  'When we catch him — because we will catch him, of that much I'm certain — I'm going to smash his face in,' the inspector said quietly. A thought had just come to him. 'How is it,' he continued, 'that the girl's parents reported her missing to the Fiacca police?'

  'I don't understand it, Chief, even though it happened during the period of co-operation between all the different commissariats regardless of territorial boundaries. Remember all the confusion?'

  'How could I not? Since we had to deal with everything, we couldn't deal with anything. Anyway, let's not forget to ask the parents.'

  'Speaking of which, who's going to tell them?'

  'You are. But inform Tommaseo first. In fact, do that now, from this phone. Then we won't have to think about it any more.'

  Fazio spoke with the prosecutor, who wanted the file emailed to him. But before alerting the parents, the inspector wanted to talk to Pasquano and assure himself of the girl's identity.

  'Catarellal'

  'Here I am, Chief.'

  'Take the girl's file and email it immediately to Prosecutor Tommaseo.'

  After Catarella had gone. Montalbano went on the attack. 'Why did it take you all morning to find those names?'

  'It wasn't my job to find them, Chief, it was Spitaleri's.'

  'But haven't they got a computer or some other sort of filing system?'

  'They have, but they keep only the information of the last five years in the office, and since that house was built six years ago...'

  'And where do they keep the rest of it?'

  'At the house of Spitaleri's sister, who, it turns out, went to Montelusa this morning so we had to wait till she got back.'

  'I don't understand why he keeps these documents at his sister's house.' 'I do.'

  'Then tell me.'

  'Because of the Finance Police. In the event of an unannounced visit by the auditors. That way, Spitaleri has time to forewarn his sister. Who has been instructed beforehand and knows which documents to bring and which not to bring to the office. Does that explain it?' Fazio asked.

  'Perfectly.'

  'Anyway, the masons who were working—'

  'Wait a minute. We still haven't had a chance to talk about Spitaleri.'

  'Concerning the girl's murder—'

  'No. For now I want to talk about Spitaleri the property developer. Not the Spitaleri who likes under-age girls. We can talk about him afterwards. What did you make of him?'

  'Chief, he smells fishy to me. When we made up the story about the post-mortem not finding any alcohol in the Arab's blood but only on his clothes, he didn't react. Not a peep. He should have either been surprised or said it couldn't be true.'

  'Therefore they must have drenched the poor bastard in wine after he died so people would think he'd been drunk.'

  'So what do you think happened, Chief)' 'When you were out with Spitaleri, I called in the foreman, Dipasquale, and interrogated him. In my opinion, the Arab fell off the unprotected scaffolding and none of his comrades noticed. Maybe he was working alone in some concealed area of the structure. Then the site's watchman, whose name is Filiberto Attanasio, found the body after everybody'd gone home and rang Dipasquale, who informed Spitaleri. What's wrong? Are you listening to me?'

  Fazio looked lost in thought. 'What did you say the watchman's name was?' 'Filiberto Attanasio.'

  'Would you excuse me for a minute?' He got up, went out, and returned five minutes later with a printout in hand. 'I remember him well,' he said.

  He handed Montalbano the printout. Filiberto Attanasio had been convicted several times of theft, grievous bodily harm, attempted murder and armed robbery. The photo showed a fiftyish man with an oversized nose and nary a hair on his head. He was classified as a habitual offender.

  'A good thing to know,' was the inspector's comment. Then he said, 'After being informed by the watchman, they checked out the situation and decided to cover their arses by putting up a protective railing, which they didn't have, at the crack of dawn on Sunday. They drenched the body in wine and went home to bed. The following morning, thanks to the watchman, they sorted it all out.'

  'And Inspector Lozupone swallowed it.'

  'You think so? Do you know Lozupone?'

  'Not personally. But I'm certainly aware of who he is.'

  'I've known him a long time. He's not—'

  The phone rang.

  'Chief? 'At'd be Proxeter Dommaseo onna phone wanting a talk to you poissonally in poisson.' 'Put him on.'

  'Montalbano? Tommaseo.' 'Tommaseo? Montalbano.'

  The prosecutor got disoriented. 'I wanted to tell you ... er ... Ah, yes, I've seen the photo on the printout. What a beautiful girl.'

  'Right.'

  'Raped and slaughtered!'

  'Did Dr Pasquano tell you she'd been raped?'

  'No. He told me only that her throat had been slashed. But I sense intuitively that she was raped. In fact, I'm sure of it.'

  As if the public prosecutor's brain wouldn't be working round the clock trying to imagine, down to the finest detail, the crime scene.

  At this moment, Montalbano had a truly brilliant idea that might perhaps spare him or Fazio the unpleasant task of breaking the tragic news to the girl's family. 'Apparently the girl has a twin sister, or so I've been told, who is far more beautiful than the victim,' he said.

  'More beautiful? Really?'

  'Apparently, yes.'

  'So, today this twin sister would be twenty-two years old.'

  'It adds up.'

  Fazio was glaring at him, dumbfounded. What on earth was the inspector concocting?

  There was a pause. Surely the prosecutor, his eyes glued to the photo in the dossier, was licking his chops at the thought of meeting the twin sister. Then he spoke. 'Montalbano, I think it would be better if I went in person to inform the family ... given the victim's tender age ... and the particularly savage manner...'

  'You're absolutely right, sir. You're a man of profound human understanding. So you'll tell the family?'

  'Yes. It seems only right.'

  They said goodbye and hung up. Fazio, having understood the inspector's game, was laughing. 'The minute that man hears talk of a woman ...'

  'Forget about him. He'll dash over to the Morreales' house, hoping to meet a twin sister who doesn't exist. What was I saying to you before he called?'

  'You were telling me about Inspector Lozupone.'

  'Ah, yes. Lozupone's been around, he's clever, and he knows what's what.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'That in all likelihood Lozupone thought as we did, that the protective railing was put up after the accident, but he let it slide.'

  'And why would he do that?'

  'Maybe he was advised to stick to what Dipasquale and Spitaleri were telling him. But it's unlikely we'll ever find out who, in the commissariat or in the Ministry of so-called Justice, gave him this advice.'

  'Well, we might be able to get some idea, anyway,' said Fazio.

  'How?'

  'Chief, you said you know Lozupone well. But do you know who he's married to?' 'No.'

  'Dr Lattes's daughter.' 'Ah.'

  Not bad, as news went.

  Dr Lattes, chief of the commissioner's cabinet, dubbed 'Caffe-Lattes' for his cloying manner, was a man of church and prayer, a man who never said a word without first anointing it with lubricant, and who was continuously, at the right and wrong moments, giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  'Do you know what political formation Spitaleri's brother-in-law is with?'

  'You mean the mayor? Mayor Alessandro is with the same party as the regional president, which happens to be the same party as Dr Lattes, and he's the grand delegate of the Honou
rable MP Catapano, which is saying a lot.'

  Gerardo Catapano was a man who had managed to keep both the Cuffaros and the Sinagras, the two Mafia families of Vigata, on good behaviour.

  Montalbano felt momentarily demoralized. How could it be that things never changed? Mutatis mutandis, one always ended up caught in dangerous webs of relations, collusions between the Mafia and politicians, the Mafia and entrepreneurs, politicians and banks, money-launderers and loan sharks.

  What an obscene ballet! What a petrified forest of corruption, fraud, rackets, villainy, business! He imagined a likely dialogue.

  'Proceed very carefully because Z, who is MP Y's man and the son-in-law of K, who is Mafia boss Z's man, enjoys particularly good relations with MP H.'

  'But doesn't MP H belong to the opposition party?'

  'Yes, but it's the same thing.'

  How had Papa Dante put it?

  Ah, servile Italy, you are sorrow's hostel, a ship without helmsman in terrible storms, lady not of the provinces, but of a brothel!

  Italy was still servile, obeying at least two masters, America and the Church, and the storms had become a daily occurrence, thanks to a helmsman whom she would have been better off without. Of course, the provinces of which Italy was the 'lady' now numbered more than a hundred, but the brothel, for its part, had increased exponentially.

  'So, about those six masons...' Fazio resumed.

  'Wait. Have you got things to do this evening?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Would you come with me to Montelusa?' 'What for?'

  'To have a little chat with Filiberto, the watchman. I know how to find the site — Dipasquale explained it to me.'

  'It seems to me, sir, that you want to harm this Spitaleri.'

  'You've hit the nail on the head.' 'Of course I'll come along.'

  'So, are you going to tell me about these masons or not?'

  Fazio gave him a dirty look. 'Chief, I've been trying to tell you for the past hour.' He unfolded his sheet of paper. 'The masons' names are as follows: Antonio Dalli Cardillo, Ermete Smecca, Ignazio Butera, Antonio Passalacqua, Stefano Fiorillo, Gaspare Micciche. Dalli Cardillo and Micciche are the two who worked until the end and covered up the illegal ground floor.'

  'If I ask you a question, will you answer me truthfully?'

  'I'll try.'

  'Did you dig up the complete vital statistics on each of these six masons?'

  Fazio blushed slightly. He could not control his 'records-office mania', as the inspector called it. 'Yes, Chief, I did. But I didn't read them to you.'

  'You didn't read them to me because you didn't have the courage. Did you find out if and where they work?'

  'Of course. They're currently on the four construction sites Spitaleri's got going.'

  'Four?'

  'Yessir. And in five days another's opening. With the connections he's got between politicos and Mafiosi, how could he ever be short of work? Anyway, to conclude, Spitaleri told me he prefers always to use the same masons.'

  'Except for the occasional Arab he can toss into the dustbin without too much fuss. Are Dalli Cardillo and Micciche working at the Montelusa site?'

  'No.'

  'So much the better. I want you to call those two in for questioning tomorrow morning, one for ten o'clock and the other for noon, since we'll probably be up late tonight. And don't accept any excuses. Threaten them if you need to.'

  'I'll get on to it straight away.'

  'Good. I'm going home. We'll meet back here at midnight, and then we'll head for Montelusa.'

  'Okay. Should I put on my uniform?' 'You must be kidding. Much better for the man to think we're somewhat shady.'

  Sitting on the veranda at Marinella, he thought he felt a hint of cool, but it was mostly a hypothesis of cool since neither the sea nor the air was moving.

  Adelina had made pappanozza for him. Onions and potatoes boiled for a long time and mashed with the back of a fork until they blended together. For seasoning: olive oil, a hint of vinegar, salt and freshly ground black pepper. It was all he ate. He wanted to stick to light food.

  Then he sat outside until eleven o'clock, reading a good detective novel by two Swedish authors, husband and wife, in which there wasn't a page without a ferocious and justified attack on social democracy and the government. In his mind Montalbano dedicated the book to all those who did not deign to read mystery novels because, in their opinion, they were only entertaining puzzles.

  At eleven he turned on the television. Lupus infabula: Tele Vigata featured a story showing the honourable Gerardo Catapano inaugurating the new municipal dog shelter of Montelusa.

  He turned it off, freshened up a bit and left the house.

  He arrived at the station at a quarter to midnight. Fazio was already there. Both men were wearing a light jacket over a short-sleeved shirt. They smiled at one another for having had the same idea. Anyone wearing a jacket in that extreme heat couldn't help but cause alarm, since ninety-nine times out of a hundred it served to hide the revolver he was carrying in his waistband or pocket.

  And, in fact, they were both armed.

  'Shall we go in mine or yours?'

  'Yours.'

  It took them scarcely half an hour to drive to the site, which was near the old Montelusa railway station.

  They parked and got out. The site was surrounded by wooden fencing almost six and a half feet high and had a big, locked gate.

  'Do you remember,' said Fazio, 'what used to be here?'

  'No.'

  'Palazzina Linares.'

  Montalbano remembered it. A little jewel from the second half of the nineteenth century that the Linares, rich sulphur merchants, had hired Giovan Battista Basile, the famous architect of the Teatro Massimo in Palermo, to build. Later the Linares had fallen into ruin, and so had their palazzina. Instead of restoring it, the authorities had decided to demolish it and build, in its place, an eight-storey block of flats. So strict, the Ministry of Culture!

  They walked up to the wooden gate, peered between the fenceposts but saw no lights on.

  Fazio pushed the gate softly three times. 'It's locked from the inside with a bolt.'

  'Think you could climb over and open it?'

  'Yes, but not here. A car might drive by. I'll get over the fence at the back. You wait for me here.'

  'Be careful. There may be a dog.'

  'I don't think so. It would have started barking by now.'

  The inspector had time to smoke a cigarette before the gate opened just enough to let him in.

  NINE

  It was pitch-dark inside. To the right, however, one could make out a shed.

  I'll fetch the torch,' said Fazio.

  When he returned, he re-bolted the gate and turned on the torch. As they cautiously approached the door to the shed, they noticed it was half open. Apparently, in this heat, Filiberto couldn't stand being inside with the door closed. Then they heard him snoring lustily.

  'We mustn't give him any time to think,' Montalbano whispered into Fazio's ear. 'Don't turn on the lights. We'll work him over with the torch beam. We need to frighten him to death.'

  'No problem,' said Fazio.

  They entered on tiptoe. The shed stank of sweat, and the smell of wine was so strong that one felt drunk just breathing it. Filiberto, in his underpants, was lying on a camp-bed. He was the same man as in the dossier's photograph.

  Fazio shone the torch round the room. The watchman's clothes hung from a nail. There was a little table, two chairs, a small enamel wash-basin on an iron tripod, and a jerry-can. Montalbano grabbed it and smelled it: water. Without making any noise, he filled the basin, then picked it up in both hands, approached the camp-bed and flung the water into Filiberto's face. The man opened his eyes and, blinded by Fazio's torch, closed them at once, then opened them again, raising a hand to shield himself. 'Who — who—'

  'Whoopeedoo!' said Montalbano. 'Don't move.'

  And he brought his pistol into the torch beam. Filiberto instinc
tively put up his hands.

  'Have you got a mobile phone?' the inspector asked.

  'Yes.'

  'Where is it?' 'In my jacket.'

  The one hanging from the nail. The inspector grabbed the phone, dropped it on to the floor and stamped on it. Filiberto mustered the courage to ask, 'Who are you?' 'Friends, Filibe. Get up.' Filiberto stood up. 'Turn round.'

  His hands shaking slightly, Filiberto turned his back to them. 'But what do you want? Spitaleri's always paid his dues!'

  'Shut up!' Montalbano ordered. 'Say your prayers.' And he cocked the pistol.

  Hearing that dry, metallic click, Filiberto's legs turned to pudding and he fell to his knees. 'For heaven's sake! I ain't done nothing! Why do you want to kill me?' he asked, weeping.

  Fazio kicked his shoulder, making him fall forward. Montalbano put the barrel of the pistol to the nape of his neck. 'You listen to me,' he began. Then he stopped. 'He's either dead or fainted.' He bent down to touch the jugular on the man's neck. 'He fainted. Sit him up in a chair.'

  Fazio handed Montalbano the torch, grabbed the watchman by the armpits and sat him down. But he had to hold him up because he kept sliding to one side. They both noticed that the man's underpants were wet. Filiberto had pissed himself in fear. Montalbano went up to him and dealt him such a slap that he opened his eyes. The watchman blinked repeatedly, disoriented, then immediately started crying again. 'Don't kill me, please!'

  'You answer our questions, you save your life,' said Montalbano, holding the pistol to his face.

  'I'll answer! I'll answer!'

  'When the Arab fell, was there any protective railing?' 'What Arab?'

  Montalbano put the barrel to his forehead. 'When the Arab mason fell...'

  'Aah, yes, no, there wasn't.'

  'Did you put it up on Sunday morning?'

  'Yessir.'

  'You, Spitaleri and Dipasquale?' 'Yessir.'

  'Whose idea was it to douse the dead body with wine?' 'Spitaleri's.'

  'Now, be careful. Make no mistakes when you answer. Did you already have the materials for the railing at the construction site?'

  The question was essential to Montalbano. Everything hinged on Filiberto's answer.