So that was why the missing-persons report had been made in Fiacca. At the time Montereale had fallen within that jurisdiction.
'This is the girl who was killed?' asked Dipasquale, still holding the printout in his hand.
'Yes.'
'I'm positive that...'
'Speak’
'You remember what I told you last time? This is the girl Ralf chased around naked and Spitaleri saved.' Suddenly Dipasquale realized he'd made a mistake. Talking without thinking, he'd dragged Spitaleri into it. He tried to put things right. 'Or maybe not. In fact, there's no "maybe" about it. I got it wrong. This is the twin sister, I'm sure of it.'
'Did you see the twins often?'
'Often, no. Now and then. There was no way to get to Pizzo without driving past their house.'
'How come Micciche said he'd never seen her before?'
'Inspector, the masons would come to the site at seven in the morning when the girls were still asleep, I'm sure. An' they got off work at five thirty, when the girls were still on the beach. But me, I went back and forth, to and from the site.'
'How about Spitaleri?'
'He came less often’
'Thanks, you can go’ Montalbano concluded.
'What do you make of Dipasquale's alibi?' Fazio asked, after the foreman had left.
'It could be true or it could be false. It rests entirely on a phone call from Spitaleri that we don't know was ever made.'
'We could ask the secretary’
'Really? The secretary will do and say exactly what Spitaleri tells her to do and say. Otherwise she'll find herself one hundred per cent sacked. And with the shortage of work there is, these days, I don't imagine she'll want to jeopardize her job.'
'I get the feeling we're not making any progress.'
I've got the same feeling. Tomorrow we'll hear what Adriana has to say.'
'Would you explain to me why you want to talk to Filiberto?'
'But I don't want to talk to him. I just wanted to see what Dipasquale's reaction would be. Whether he had any suspicions about us being the two who paid Filiberto a visit the other night.'
'It looks to me as if they haven't thought of us.'
'Sooner or later they'll come to that conclusion.'
'And what will they do then?'
'In my opinion, they won't show their hand. Spitaleri will complain to the little friends who protect him, and they'll do something.'
'Like what?'
'Fazio, we'll wait for them to come and beat us up, and then we'll start crying.'
'Okay,' Fazio began, 'I'm going—'
A bang as loud as a cannon-shot interrupted him. It was the door slamming against the wall. Catarella was still standing there with one arm raised, his fist closed, and holding an envelope in his other hand.
'Sorry 'bout the noise, Chief. Somebuddy just now brought a litter.'
'Give it to me and get out of here before I shoot you.'
It was a big envelope, and in it were two faxes sent from Germany and addressed to Callara's agency.
'Stay and listen, Fazio. This contains the news of Ralf's death. Callara sent it.'
Montalbano began reading aloud.
Dear Sir,
Three months ago, while reading a newspaper, I happened to notice a news item, of which I am herewith sending you a copy with accompanying translation.
I immediately felt, perhaps by maternal instinct, that those wretched remains must belong to my poor Ralf, for whom I have hem waiting all these long years.
I asked that a comparison be made between the unknown man's DNA and my son's. It was not at all easy to obtain consent for such a test; I had to insist for a long time.
Finally, a few days ago, the result was sent to me.
The data correspond perfectly. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, those remains belong to my late son Ralf.
Since no trace of clothing was found, the police maintain that Ralf got up in the night to go to the lavatory during his return home from Italy by train, accidentally opened the outside door, and fell out.
That house in Sicily has brought us nothing but misfortune. It led to the death of both my son Ralf and my husband Angelo, who after his trip to Sicily, and certainly after Rolf's disappearance, was no longer the same man.
For this reason, I would like to sell the house.
Some time in the next Jew days I will fax you copies of all the documents related to the house's construction: the blueprints, the permit, the Land Registry plan, and the contracts with Spitaleri Enterprises. You will need these for the amnesty request as well as for the future sale.
Gudrun Walser
The translation of the news item went as follows:
Remains of Unidentified Man Found
The day before yesterday, following a fire that broke out in the dense brush on a railway embankment some twenty kilometres outside Cologne, the remains of a human body were discovered half-buried in a dip in the ground by firemen who had rushed to the scene to control the flames. No certification of the man's identity could be made, however, because no clothing or documents were found in the vicinity.
The post-mortem revealed beyond doubt that the remains belonged to a young man, and that the death dated from at least five years ago.
'This fall from the train doesn't convince me,' said Fazio.
'Or me. The police say Ralf got up to go to the lavatory. Would he have done that naked? What if he'd run into someone in the corridor?'
'So, what do you think?'
'Bah. It's all guesswork, as you know. We'll never have any proof or confirmation. Maybe Ralf spotted a pretty girl on the train and decided to strip off and try to kiss her, as Dipasquale said he liked to do. And maybe he ran into her husband, father or boyfriend, who threw him out of the train.'
'That sounds like a bit of a stretch to me.'
'There's another possible explanation. Suicide.'
'For what reason?'
'Let's make an argument based on the fact that, on the afternoon of the twelfth of October, Angelo Speciale and his stepson remained in Pizzo alone, as Dipasquale says. Say Angelo goes out onto the terrace to enjoy the sunset while Ralf goes for a walk in the direction of the Morreale house. Don't forget that Dipasquale told us that Ralf had once tried to grab Rina. He happens to run into her, and this time doesn't want to let her get away. He threatens the girl with a knife and forces her to go with him into the underground apartment. And that's where the tragedy occurs. Ralf wraps up the girl's body, puts it in the trunk, takes her clothes, hides them in the house, then goes out on the terrace to keep Angelo company. The stepfather, however, finds the girl's clothes, maybe on their last day there. Maybe they were even stained with her blood when he killed her.'
'But hadn't he made her take her clothes off?'
'We don't know. It's possible he only stripped her afterwards. There was no need for her to be completely naked for him to do what he wanted to do.'
'So, how does it end?'
'It ends as follows: during the train ride back to Germany, Angelo forces Ralf to confess to the murder. And, after confessing, the boy kills himself by jumping off the train. But I can give you a variant, if you like.'
'What?'
'Angelo throws him off the train, killing the monster.' 'Pretty far-fetched, Chief
'Whatever the case, don't forget that Signora Gudrun wrote that when her husband got back to Cologne, he said he never wanted to leave again. Something must therefore have happened to him.'
'You're damn right something happened to him. The poor man woke up the next morning in his sleeping car and his stepson was gone!'
'In short, you don't see Speciale as a murderer?'
'No.'
'But in Greek tragedy—'
'We're in Vigata, Chief, not Greece.'
'Tell me the truth: do you like the story or don't you?'
'It might do for TV.'
TWELVE
It had been a long day, made longer by the August heat. The ins
pector felt a little tired. But he had no lack of appetite.
When he opened the oven, he was disappointed not to find anything. But when he opened the refrigerator, he saw a salad of calamari, celery and tomatoes that still needed to be dressed with olive oil and lemon. Adelina had wisely prepared him a dish to be eaten cold.
A mild, newborn breeze was circulating on the veranda. It was too feeble to move the dense mass of heat that was holding out as night fell, but it was better than nothing.
He took off his clothes, put on his trunks, ran down to the water and dived in. He went for a long swim, in broad, slow strokes. Returning to shore, he went into the house, set the little table on the veranda, and began to eat. When he had finished, he still felt hungry, so he prepared a plate of green olives, cured black passuluna olives, and caciocavallo cheese that called for — indeed demanded — good wine.
The light breeze on the veranda had matured from infancy to adolescence and was making itself felt.
He decided to seize this favourable moment when his thoughts weren't log-jammed by the heat, and consider rationally the investigation he had on his hands. He cleared the little table of dishes, cutlery and glasses, and replaced them with a few sheets of paper.
Since he didn't like to take notes, he decided to write himself a letter, as he sometimes did.
Dear Montalbano,
I am forced to point out that, either from the onset of a senile second childhood or because of the intense heat of the last few days, your thoughts have lost all their lustre and become extremely opaque and slow-moving. You had a chance to see this for yourself during your dialogue with Dr Pasquano, who easily got the better of you in that exchange.
Pasquano presented two hypotheses concerning the fact that the killer took away the girl's clothes: one, it was an irrational act; and two, the killer took them because he's a fetishist. Both hypotheses are plausible.
But there is a third possibility. It occurred to you as you were talking to Fazio, and that is that the killer took the clothes because they were stained with blood. Stained with the blood that had spouted from the girl's throat as he was killing her.
But things may well have gone differently. You need to take a step back.
Neither when you discovered the body yourself, nor when you made Callara discover it officially, did you see the giant bloodstain near the french windows, and you didn't see it for the simple reason that it wasn't visible to the naked eye. The Forensics team only noticed it because they used luminol.
If the killer had left the big stain exactly as it had formed on the floor, some traces of dried blood would have remained on the tiles, even six years later. Whereas, in fact, nothing was found.
What does this mean?
It means that the man, after killing the girl, wrapping her up and sticking her in the trunk, used her clothes to wipe up, however superficially, the pool of blood. He dampened them with a little water, since the taps were in working order, then put them in a little plastic bag that he'd found there or brought with him.
Now the question is: Why didn't he get rid of the clothes by simply throwing the bag on top of the corpse?
And the answer is: Because in order to do that, he would have had to reopen the trunk.
And that was impossible for him, because it would have meant having the reality he had already begun to repress thrown back in his face. Pasquano is right: he hid the body not to stop us seeing it but to stop himself seeing it.
There's still another important question. It's already been asked, but it's worth repeating: Was it necessary to kill the girl? And, if so, why?
As for the 'why', Pasquano hinted at the possibility of blackmail, or a fit of temporary insanity from rage at finding himself suddenly impotent.
My answer is: Yes, it was necessary. But for only one, completely different, reason.
The following: the girl knew her aggressor well.
The killer must have forced the girl to enter the underground apartment with him, and once she was down there, her fate was sealed. For if the man had left her alive, she would surely have accused him of rape or attempted rape. Thus, when the killer took her underground, he already knew that, in addition to raping her, he would also have to murder her. On this point, there could be no more doubt. Premeditated murder.
Then comes the mother of all questions: Who was the killer? One must proceed by process of elimination.
It definitely could not have been Spitaleri. Even though you can't stand the man, and even though you'll try to screw him on some other charge, there is one incontrovertible fact: on the afternoon of the twelfth, Spitaleri was not in Pizzo but on a fight to Bangkok. And bear in mind that, for Spitaleri, a girl of Rina's age is already too mature for his tastes.
Micciche has an alibi: he spent the afternoon at Montelusa hospital. You can have this verified, if you like, but it will be a waste of time.
Dipasquale says he has an alibi. He left Pizzo at around five in the afternoon and went to Spitaleri's office to receive his boss's phone call. At nine p.m., he spoke to Micciche. But he didn't tell us what he did after going to Spitaleri's office. He said he and his boss had agreed he would ring between six and eight o'clock. Let's say for the sake of argument that the phone call comes in at six thirty. Dipasquale leaves the office and happens to run into Rina. He knows her, asks her if she wants a lift back to Pizzo. The girl accepts and ... That leaves Dipasquale plenty of time to telephone Micciche by nine.
Ralf. He stays behind in Pizzo with his stepfather after Dipasquale has gone. He knows Rina, has already tried to assault her. What if things actually did happen in the way you told Fazio? The mystery of his death remains, and could be linked in some way to his guilt. But accusing Ralf would be, to all intents and purposes, an act of faith. He's dead, his stepfather is dead. Neither could tell us what happened.
In conclusion: Dipasquale should be the number-one suspect. But you're not convinced.
A big hug and take care.
Yours, Salvo
He was taking off his trunks, getting ready to go to bed when, all of a sudden, he felt like talking to Livia. He dialled the number of her mobile phone. It rang for a long time, but nobody answered.
Why not? Was Massimiliano's boat so big that Livia couldn't hear her phone? Or was she too engaged, too busy doing other things to answer it?
He was about to hang up in anger when he heard Livia's voice. 'Hello? Who is it?'
What did she mean, "who is it"? Couldn't she read the caller's number on the display or whatever the hell it was called? 'It's Salvo.'
'Oh, it's you.'
Not disappointed. Indifferent. 'What were you doing?' 'Sleeping.' 'Where?'
'On the deck. I fell asleep without realizing it. It's all so peaceful, so beautiful 'Where are you?' 'We're sailing towards Sardinia.' 'And where's Massimiliano?'
'He was beside me when I fell asleep. Now I think he's—'
He cut her off, pulling out the plug. And what was that fucking idiot Massimiliano doing there? Singing her a lullaby?
He went to bed with his hair standing on end. And it took the hand of God to fall asleep.
In vain he went for a swim after waking; in vain he got into the shower, which should have been cold but was actually hot because the water in the tanks on the roof was so torrid you could have boiled pasta in it; in vain he dressed as lightly as possible.
The moment he set foot outside the house, he had to admit that it was no use. The heat was a fiery blaze.
He went back into the house, shoved a shirt, underpants and pair of trousers as thin as onion skin in a shopping bag, and left.
He arrived at the station with his shirt drenched in sweat and his underpants all of a piece with the skin of his arse, so tightly were they sticking.
Catarella tried to stand up and salute but couldn't manage it, falling lifelessly back into his chair. 'Ah, Chief, Chief! I'm dying! 's the devil, this heat!'
'Deal with it!'
He slipped into the cloakr
oom. He took off all his clothes, washed himself, pulled out the fresh shirt, underpants and trousers, got dressed, returned to his office and turned on the mini-fan.
'Catarella!'
'Comin', Chief.'
He was closing the shutters when Catarella entered. 'Your ord...' He trailed off, braced himself against the desk with his left hand, and brought his right hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. He looked like an illustration in a nineteenth-century acting manual for the expression 'shock and dismay'. 'Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...' he said in litany.
'Cat, are you ill?'
'Jesus, Chief, whatta scare! The heat's got into my head!'
'But what's wrong?'
'Nuttin', Chief, go 'head 'n' talk. I feel fine. My ears are workin' great, iss my eyes got me seein' tings.' And he didn't move from his position: eyes shut tight, hand on his forehead.
'In the cloakroom there are some clothes I've just changed out of...'
'Ya changed clothes?' said Catarella. He looked relieved, lowered his hand from his forehead and eyed Montalbano as if he'd never seen him before. 'So ya changed clothes!'
'Yes, Cat, I changed clothes. What's so weird about that?'
'Nuttin' weird, Chief, it was jes' a misunnerstannin'! I seen ya come in dressed one ways 'n' then I seen ya dressed anutter ways 'n' so I tought I was lahuccinating cuzza the heat. 'S a good ting ya changed clothes!'
'Go and get those clothes and hang them out in the courtyard to dry.'
'I'll take care of it straight aways.'
On his way out, he was about to close the door but the inspector stopped him. 'Leave it open, so there's a little draught.'
The direct line rang. It was Mimí Augello. 'How are you, Salvo? I tried you at home but there was no answer, and then I remembered that you don't give a shit about the fifteenth of August so—'
'You were right, Mimí. How's Beba? And the little one?'
'Salvo, don't ask. The baby's had a fever since the moment we got here. The upshot is we haven't had a single moment of holiday. Only yesterday did the fever pass, finally. And tomorrow I'm supposed to be back at work...'
'I understand, Mimí. As far as I'm concerned, you can stay another week if you want.' 'Really?'
'Really. Say hi to Beba for me and give your son a kiss.'
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