The Track of Sand

by Andrea Camilleri

  The inspector let her get it out of her system, then went and stood next to her at the window. He realized she was still crying, so he pulled a packet of tissues from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  He then went and filled a glass with water from a bottle he kept atop a file cabinet, and handed this to her. Rachele drank it all.

  “Would you like some more?”

  “No, thank you.”

  They returned to their prior places. Rachele appeared calm again, but Montalbano feared the questions that were sure to come. Such as:

  “How was he killed?”

  Now, there was a difficult question! But, instead of continuing this question-and-answer session, wasn’t it perhaps better for him to tell her the whole story from the moment he had opened his bedroom window?

  “Please listen to me,” he began.

  “No,” said Rachele.

  “You won’t listen to me?”

  “No. I already understand. Do you realize you’re sweating?”

  He hadn’t noticed. Perhaps the woman should be enrolled in the police force. She didn’t miss a thing.

  “So what? Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “It means they must have killed him in some horrible way. And it’s hard for you to tell me. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I see him?”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because after they killed him, they took him away.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Indeed, for what purpose?

  “Well, we guessed that they removed the carcass”—the word must have stung her, because she briefly closed her eyes—“to prevent us from seeing his brand.”

  “He wasn’t branded.”

  “Which would have let us track down his owner. But that has proved to be an erroneous surmise, since you, in the end, have come to report his disappearance.”

  “But if they figured I would come and report it, what need was there to take him away? I doubt they’re planning to put him in my bed.”

  Montalbano felt at sea.What was this about her bed?

  “Could you explain what you mean by that?”

  “Haven’t you ever seen The Godfather, where they put the horse’s head in the movie producer’s—”

  “Ah, yes.”

  And why, in that film, had they put the horse’s head in the producer’s bed? Then he remembered.

  “But have you, by any chance, been made an offer you can’t refuse?”

  She gave a strained smile.

  “Oh, I’ve had a lot of those. And to some I’ve said yes, to others I’ve said no. But there’s never been any need to slaughter a horse.”

  “Have you been in these parts before?”

  “The last time was two years ago, for the same reason. I live in Rome.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Your relationship with—”

  “My relationship with my husband is excellent. Fraternal, I’d say. And, anyway, I think Gianfranco would sooner commit suicide than kill a horse.”

  “Do you have any idea why anyone would want to do such a thing to you?”

  “The only one I can think of would be to eliminate me from tomorrow’s race, which I would surely have won. But that would seem a bit excessive.”

  She stood up. Montalbano did likewise.

  “Thank you for your courtesy,” she said.

  “Aren’t you going to file a report?”

  “Now that he’s dead, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Are you going back to Rome?”

  “No. I’ll be going to Fiacca anyway, day after tomorrow. And I’ve decided to stay a few more days after that. I would like it if you could keep me informed, especially if you find anything out.”

  “I’m hoping to do just that.Where can I reach you?”

  “Let me give you my cell phone number.”

  The inspector jotted it down on a sheet of paper that he put in his jacket pocket.

  “In any case,” the woman continued, “you can always call me at the home of my friend who’s putting me up.”

  “What’s the phone number?”

  “I think you already know her phone number. She’s Ingrid Sjostrom.”

  3

  “And so, just like that, Rachele Esterman has sent all our wonderful hypotheses down the tubes,” Montalbano concluded, finishing his account of their meeting.

  “While leaving all our problems the same as they were before,” said Augello.

  “First of all, why did they kidnap and kill the horse of an outsider?” Fazio asked.

  “Well,” the inspector cut in, “it’s possible they have no gripe with her, but with Saverio Lo Duca.”

  “But then they would have grabbed and killed one of his horses,” Mimì objected.

  “Maybe they didn’t know that the horse didn’t belong to Lo Duca. Or else maybe they knew perfectly well and killed it precisely because it didn’t belong to Lo Duca.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Augello.

  “Say there are people who want to do harm to Lo Duca. To ruin his image. If they kill one of his horses, the news probably won’t make it out of the province. But if they kill the horse of a woman from his social circle, a horse in his care, then, when that lady goes back to Rome, she will tell everyone what happened, which will put a blot on his reputation. We all know that Lo Duca brags high and low that he is untouchable and has the respect of everyone, including the Mafia. Does that make sense to you?”

  “It makes sense,” said Mimì.

  “Your argument sounds reasonable enough,” Fazio admitted. “But it seems a bit too roundabout to me.”

  “Could be,” Montalbano admitted. “And, second of all, why did they come back for the carcass, taking a very grave risk?”

  “Every idea we’ve had so far has turned out to be totally wrong. And, to be honest, at the moment I can’t come up with any other hypotheses,” said Mimì.

  “How about you, Fazio? Any ideas?”

  “Nah,” said Fazio, dejected.

  “Well, then, we’ll stop right here,” said Montalbano.“As soon as somebody has another brilliant idea—”

  “Wait a second,” Mimì butted in. “Signora Esterman had second thoughts about reporting the crime and decided it was pointless. So, what I’d like to know is: What do we base our next move on?”

  “We base our next move on one thing, Mimì, which I’ll tell you promptly. But first I must ask you a question. Do you agree that this sort of thing can have grave consequences?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “So, our next move will be based, unofficially, of course, on the desire to prevent, however we can, any possible reaction. By whom? We don’t know. How? We don’t know. Where? We don’t know.When? We don’t know. If you want to take yourself out of the game because there are too many unknowns, you have only to tell me.”

  “Actually, I think unknowns are fun.”

  “Then I’m glad to have you on board, Mimì. Fazio, do you know where Lo Duca keeps his horses?”

  “Yessir. At Monserrato, near the village of Columba.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “Then I want you to go there early tomorrow morning, have a look around, and try also to find out who works there. Would it be easy for one or more people to break in and steal a horse? Or did they need to have accomplices on the inside? And who sleeps there at night? Is it only the caretaker? In short, try to find something you think could serve as a starting point.”

  “And what about me?” asked Augello.

  “Do you know who Michilino Prestia is?”

  “No.Who is he?”

  “A dim-witted former accountant who serves as the front man for the organizers of clandestine horse races. Get Fazio to fill you in on what he already knows about him and then carry on by yourself.”

  “All right. Bu
t can you tell me what the clandestine race horses have to do with this?”

  “I don’t know if they’ve got anything to do with it or not, but it’s better if we leave no stone unturned.”

  “Could I say something, Chief ?” Fazio interjected.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if Augello and I traded jobs? Because, you see, I know some people who are close to Prestia who—”

  “You okay with that, Mimì?”

  “Makes no difference to me, Salvo,” said Augello.

  “All right then, I wish you both a very pleasant eve—”

  “Wait a second,” said Mimì,“sorry to be a party pooper, but I’d like to make an observation.”

  “Speak.”

  “We may be making a mistake to take everything Signora Esterman told us as the gospel truth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Salvo, she came in here and told us that there was no reason in the world why anyone would kill her horse and so on and so forth. But that’s only what she says.And we gobbled it up like little children. How do we know if it’s really true?”

  “I see what you’re getting at. You think we might do well to learn a little more about the beautiful Signora Rachele, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, Mimì. I’ll take care of that end of things.”

  Before heading home, he phoned Ingrid.

  “Hello, is this the Sjostrom home?”

  “Z gahtz de wrang nomba.”

  Where on earth did Ingrid dig up these housekeepers?

  He checked the number, which he had dialed from memory. It was correct.

  Perhaps he’d been wrong to use Ingrid’s maiden name. It was unlikely the housekeeper knew it. But what was her married name? He couldn’t remember. He dialed again.

  “Hello? I’d like to speak with Signora Ingrid, please.”

  “Da ziniuora zinnit ere.”

  “An doo noze win zhe be baak?”

  “Donoze, donoze.”

  He hung up. He dialed her cell phone number.

  “The number of the person . . .”

  He cursed the saints and let it drop.

  As he was inserting the key into the lock he heard the phone ringing. He opened the door and ran to pick up.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  It was Ingrid.

  “Yes. I need—”

  “You only call me when you need something.You never ask me out for a candlelight dinner, never mind the inevitable conclusion. Just for the pleasure of being together.”

  “You know perfectly well that’s not true.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s just as I say. What do you need this time? Consolation? Assistance? An accomplice?”

  “Nothing like that at all. I want you to tell me about your friend Rachele. Is she there with you?”

  “No, she’s dining in Fiacca tonight with the organizers of the horse race. I didn’t feel like going. Did you find her attractive?”

  “It’s not a private matter.”

  “My, my, how formal we’ve suddenly become! Well, just so you know, when Rachele got back she did nothing but talk about you. About how gracious you are, how understanding, friendly, even handsome, which I think is going a bit too far ...When do you want to get together?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “What would you say if I came to Marinella?”

  “Right now?”

  “Why not? What did Adelina make for you?”

  “I haven’t checked yet.”

  “Go look and then set the table on the veranda. I’m very hungry. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  A bowl stuffed with so much caponata that it overflowed. Six mullets in a cipuddrata. More than enough for two.Wine, he had. He set the table outside. It was chilly, but there wasn’t even a hint of wind. Just to be sure, he went and checked if he still had any whisky. There was only about two fingers’ worth left in the bottle. Dinner with Ingrid was inconceivable without a well-irrigated finale. He dropped everything and got in his car.

  At the Marinella Bar he bought two bottles for which they made him pay four times the normal price. As he turned onto the small road that led home, he saw Ingrid’s powerful red car. But she wasn’t there. He called her name, but she didn’t answer. He figured she’d probably gone down to the beach, circled around the house, and entered through the veranda doors.

  He opened the door, but Ingrid did not come to greet him. He called out.

  “I’m in here,” he heard her answer from the bedroom.

  He set the bottles down on the table and went into the bedroom, where he saw her crawling out from under the bed.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, confused.

  “I was hiding.”

  “You want to play hide-and-seek?”

  Only then did he notice that Ingrid was pale and that her hands were trembling a little.

  “What on earth happened?”

  “When I got here I rang the doorbell and, when you didn’t answer, I decided to come in through the veranda. But as soon as I turned the corner I saw two men come out of the house and leave. So I got worried and went inside, thinking that . . . Then I realized those guys might come back, so I hid. Have you got any whisky?”

  “As much as you like.”

  They went out into the living room, where he opened a bottle and poured her half a glass. She gulped it down.

  “That’s better.”

  “Did you get a good look at them?”

  “No, just a glimpse. I immediately stepped back.”

  “Were they armed?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Come.”

  He led her out onto the veranda.

  “Which way did they go?”

  Ingrid looked doubtful.

  “I wouldn’t know. When I stuck my head back out a few minutes later, they were already gone, vanished.”

  “Strange. There’s even some moonlight. You should at least have seen two shadows running away.”

  “No, there wasn’t anyone.”

  So did that mean they had hidden somewhere nearby and were waiting for him to return?

  “Wait here just one minute,” he said to Ingrid.

  “Not on your life. I’m coming with you.”

  Montalbano went out the door with Ingrid practically glued to his back, opened his car, took his pistol out of the glove compartment, and put it in his pocket.

  “Is your car locked?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Lock it.”

  “You lock it,” she said, handing him the keys.“But check first and make sure there’s nobody hiding inside.”

  Montalbano looked inside the car, locked it, and they went back into the house.

  “You were really scared just now. I’ve never seen you—”

  “You know, when those two left and I went inside and started calling you and you didn’t answer, I thought they had . . . ”

  She stopped, threw her arms around him, and kissed him on the mouth.

  Returning her kiss, Montalbano realized the evening was taking a dangerous turn. So he gave her a couple of friendly taps on the shoulder.

  She got the message and let go.

  “Who do you think they were?” she asked.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Maybe some two-bit burglars who saw me go out and—”

  “Oh, stop telling me nonsense you don’t even believe yourself !”

  “I assure you that—”

  “How could these burglars have known there wasn’t somebody else in the house? And why didn’t they steal anything?”

  “You didn’t allow them enough time.”

  “But they never even saw me!”

  “Yes, but they heard you ring the doorbell and call me . . . Come on, let’s go. Adelina has cooked us—”

  “I’m afraid to eat outside, on the veranda.”

  “Why?”

  “You would be an easy target.”


  “Come on, Ingrid . . .”

  “Well then why did you go get your gun?”

  She wasn’t entirely wrong, when you came right down to it. But he wanted to calm her down.

  “Listen, Ingrid, I’ve been living in Marinella for years and years, and no one has ever come to my house with bad intentions.”

  “There’s always a first time for everything.”

  Once again, she wasn’t entirely wrong.

  “Where would you like to eat?”

  “In the kitchen. Bring everything in and then close the French door. Even though I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Her appetite returned after two glasses of whisky.

  They polished off the caponata and divided the mullets evenly, three apiece.

  “When does the interrogation begin?” asked Ingrid.

  “Here in the kitchen? Let’s go into the living room, where we can relax on the couch.”

  They brought along a bottle of wine they’d barely begun, as well as the bottle of whisky, already half empty. They sat down on the sofa, but then Ingrid got back up, pulled up a chair, and rested her legs on it. Montalbano set flame to a cigarette.

  “Fire away,” said Ingrid.

  “What I’d like to know about your friend is—”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I want to know? Because I don’t know anything about her.”

  “So why do you want to know more about her if you’re not interested in her as a woman?”

  “I’m interested in her as a police inspector.”

  “What has she done?”

  “She hasn’t done anything. But, as you probably know, her horse was killed, and in a rather barbaric fashion.”

  “How?”

  “Bludgeoned to death with iron rods. But don’t tell anyone, not even your friend.”

  “No, I won’t tell anyone. But how did you find out?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes.The horse came here to die, right outside the veranda.”

  “Really? Tell me about it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I woke up, opened the window, and saw it lying there.”

  “All right, but why do you want to know more about Rachele?”

  “Since your friend claims not to have any enemies, I am compelled by logic to think that the horse was killed to spite Lo Duca.”

  “So?”