by Marco Vichi
‘This is he, who is this?’
‘Inspector Bordelli …’
‘Hello … How are you?’ said Pellissari, surprised and upset.
‘Not too bad, and you?’
‘Have you found anything out, Inspector?’ His voice was trembling a little.
‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to come and see you.’
‘Yes, of course … Have you got some news?’
‘If you’ll just be patient, we can talk when I get there.’
‘As you wish …’ said the lawyer, seeming more and more worried.
‘Half past two all right?’
‘Yes …’
‘It’s probably better if your wife is present as well.’
‘She’s right here. We’ll be waiting for you.’
‘See you in a bit …’
As soon he set down the receiver, he left the house and got into his Beetle under a blanket of low clouds.
It was a long journey through time, during which he relived those awful days in October and November … The boy’s disappearance, the discovery of the body in the woods, the frantic investigation … The incessant rain … The flood …
He pulled up outside the cemetery of San Domenico and went in through the gate. There was nobody there, as he’d hoped. He calmly searched the graves until he found Giacomo’s. There was a photo of the boy on the tombstone with a gap-toothed smile and a cyclist’s cap on backwards.
‘Ciao, Giacomo …’
‘Ciao, Inspector …’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Of course … Even though we’ve never met …’
‘I did what I could.’
‘I know … I saw everything … The dead see everything …’
‘I had to do it …’
‘Are you so sure?’
‘There was no other way. Either that, or forget about the whole thing.’
‘I would have rested in peace just the same …’
‘But I wouldn’t have, Giacomo. You’re on the other side, but I’m still here. I just couldn’t tolerate …’
‘You did it for yourself, Inspector … For yourself alone …’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know …’
‘Farewell, Inspector …’
‘Farewell, Giacomo … Remember me from time to time …’
He waved goodbye and headed for the exit. A woman in black stood motionless in front of a grave, arms dangling at her sides. She must have come in while he was chatting with Giacomo. He walked past her, but she didn’t move. Perhaps she, too, was speaking with the dead …
He left the cemetery and, driving slowly, steered on to Via della Piazzuola. He didn’t want to get there early. Turning on to Via Barbacane, he advanced a few hundred metres and then parked along the street where the road surface widened, near the Pellissaris’ villa. He rang the buzzer at the gate, and seconds later the lawyer and his wife appeared in the garden and came towards him. They greeted him with trepidation and showed him into the house, where chaos reigned. The entrance hall was cluttered with large boxes, parcels and suitcases.
‘We’ve sold the house,’ said the lawyer, glancing over at his wife. ‘We’re moving to Rome.’
They showed him into a sitting room and sat down opposite him, on the sofa.
‘Rosalba is expecting … And we thought it would be best to leave Florence …’
‘I understand …’
‘If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Giacomo,’ the woman said with tears in her eyes. Bordelli looked away, thinking it was a noble, courageous idea. One son was dead, and another was about to be born … Would they eventually tell him what had happened to his brother?
‘What did you have to tell us, Inspector?’ Signora Pellissari asked with a furrow in her brow, twisting her fingers. Bordelli took his time, searching for the right words. He heaved a long sigh …
‘I’ve found out who your son’s killers are.’
‘Ah …’ said the woman, blanching. The lawyer sprang to his feet.
‘I’ve known for a few months, but I had no proof … And so I didn’t want …’
‘How many are there? Who are they?’ the lawyer asked breathlessly.
‘Please sit down …’ said Bordelli.
Signor Pellissari sat down heavily on the sofa.
‘Who are they?’ he repeated, trying to control himself. Bordelli was tempted to tell them the whole truth, but immediately decided against it. It would have been careless.
‘Fate has evened the score. Three committed suicide, and the fourth was killed last night.’
‘I want the names!’ the lawyer pressed him, as his wife tried to catch her breath.
‘They’re dead now … All four of them … Are you sure you want to know?’
‘Yes …’ said Rosalba, leaning forward.
Bordelli nodded, even though he knew that it would not be very pleasant for them. Over those past few months they’d shut themselves up inside their suffering and managed to find a sort of resigned balance in it … Now they would have to turn it all upside down and start all over again.
‘Italo Signorini, the youngest of the group. He was the one who kidnapped Giacomo. He confessed this only to me, with no other witnesses around … He told me everything, even the names of the others … But then, as we were getting ready to go to police headquarters, he threw himself out of the window, destroying any chance of incriminating his friends.’
The lady squeezed her husband’s arm, biting her lips.
‘Livio Panerai, the butcher from the shop in Viale dei Mille. He was the one who actually murdered your son. He shot himself in the mouth with his double-barrel shotgun last February.’
The lawyer seemed to have trouble breathing and was rotating his head like a bull in the arena.
‘Moreno Beccaroni, the lawyer …’
‘No!’ the woman cried, standing up, her hand over her mouth.
‘Oh my God … We went to his funeral … He was a collegue of mine …’ the husband muttered, upset. Giacomo’s mother sat back down and buried her face in her hands, barely managing, with great difficulty, to suppress her sobs, while her husband delicately caressed the back of her neck.
Bordelli waited patiently, seeing the corpses of the four playmates file past in his mind’s eye …
‘And who was the fourth?’ asked the lawyer, trying to control himself. His wife looked up, eyes like two charred chestnuts.
‘Monsignor Sercambi, a high prelate of the Curia … He’s dead now, too … Strangled last night in his own home … I heard it on the radio …’ Bordelli concluded.
Signora Pellissari looked around as though lost, and a moment later started whimpering like a puppy. Her husband put his arm around her waist, managing to make her stand up, and accompanied her out of the room. He returned about fifteen minutes later, and Bordelli stood up. The lawyer had recovered a certain composure, though it could not have been easy.
‘I imagine it’s not worth the trouble of making this horror story public … To expose the killers anyway …’ he said, trying to appeal to legalistic reasoning.
‘Nobody would believe us … There’s no proof …’
‘I think you’re right, though it’s hard to swallow.’
‘I’m sorry …’
‘I’m very grateful to you, Inspector. Nobody can give us our son back, but at least we know now that his killers are not living out their lives undisturbed … I don’t like being happy over the death of another person, but in this case I can’t help it.’
‘That’s not hard to understand …’
‘Thank you again.’
‘I’m just the messenger.’
‘At last it’s all over … Now we can try to carry on.’
‘You’ll find peace again, I’m sure of it,’ said Bordelli, smiling with difficulty.
‘Let me show you out …’
They went out of the villa in silence, walked through a garden full of flowers and bumbl
ebees buzzing, and stopped at the gate.
‘Have a good journey, Signor Pellissari. And please give my regards to your wife.’
‘Goodbye, Inspector.’
‘Goodbye …’ said Bordelli, shaking his hand firmly.
As he headed down the street he heard the gate close behind him. He got into the Beetle and continued down Via Barbacane, shouldering a melancholy feeling of death. Coming out into Viale Volta, he turned right.
As he drove past the house in which he was born he remembered a spring afternoon from some fifty years earlier … He was six or seven and had just discovered the thrill of death … He would pretend to have been hit with a bullet, or stabbed in the back, run through with a sword, poisoned … It was crazy, insane fun, pretending to die … He would fall on the ground, start kicking wildly, breathe his last breath … He was very good at dying, and his mother used to say that he would be an actor when he grew up …
There was one last thing he had to do, and he realised he’d been waiting for this moment for a very long time. Crossing the overpass of Le Cure, he turned on to Viale Don Minzoni and a few minutes later pulled his car up outside the guard booth of the police station. Mugnai ran out to greet him and came up to the car window.
‘Inspector! How are you?’
‘Hello, Mugnai, I missed you.’
‘You look good, sir, years younger …’
‘I guess tending a garden is good for you.’
‘Makes me sweat just thinking of it …’
‘Need any help with the crossword puzzle?’
‘I’ve stopped doing that stuff, Inspector.’
‘So what do you do now?’
‘I read Diabolik, it’s a lot more fun.’
‘I don’t doubt it …’
‘Have you heard about last night’s murder?’
‘I heard it on the radio … Is Commissioner Inzipone in?’
‘I think so, I haven’t seen him go out.’
‘I’m going upstairs for a minute.’
He said goodbye to Mugnai and parked in the courtyard, as he had done for so many years. While climbing the stairs he said hello to a few former colleagues, and even stopped to exchange a few words. The uniformed cops he crossed paths with saluted him as if he were still in service. When he got to the second floor, he knocked at the commissioner’s door and went in without waiting.
‘Good afternoon, sir …’ he said, approaching the desk. Inzipone welcomed him with a look of astonishment that quickly turned into a sort of smile.
‘It’s not’s a good afternoon, Bordelli; in fact, it’s a bloody awful day all round …’
He stood up to shake his hand and then immediately sat back down, putting his elbows up on the desk.
‘Yes, I know, I heard it on the radio,’ said Bordelli, who remained standing. He didn’t intend to stay long.
‘Just what we needed. Jesus bloody Christ!’ the commissioner cursed.
‘Life is full of surprises …’
‘But what are you doing here, anyway, Inspe— Mr Bordelli?’ asked Inzipone, as if he’d just woken up.
‘If I may … I’ve come to tell you something.’
‘Then tell me …’
‘I’m ready to return to duty – if you want me, that is.’
‘Are you serious?’ said the commissioner, wide eyed.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I knew it … I knew it all along …’ Inzipone muttered. He opened a drawer, took out Bordelli’s badge and pistol and laid them on the desk.
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector, gathering up the tools of his trade.
‘I shall inform Rome at once of your return to service.’
‘Starting tomorrow, if you don’t mind.’
‘Immediately would be better …’
‘Who’s in charge of last night’s murder?’
‘Inspector Del Lama … You don’t know him, he hasn’t been here long … Young, but on the ball …’
‘Any leads yet?’
‘Del Lama spent the entire morning questioning the monsignor’s chauffeur, but nothing came of it … Clearly the poor bastard’s got nothing to do with it … All he’s been doing is crying … He worshipped his boss … As for everything else, total darkness … Nobody saw anything, no fingerprints … And, as if that wasn’t enough, there was even a swastika …’
‘A swastika? What do you mean?’
‘Listen, Bordelli – Inspector Bordelli, that is … Why don’t you handle this dreadful affair?’
‘Thanks for thinking of me, but I’d rather wait for the next murder. I don’t want to deprive Del Lama of the thrill of arresting the killer.’
‘This is a difficult case – we need someone with experience.’
‘If you like I could give Del Lama a few pointers …’
‘Such as?’ asked the commissioner, staring at him.
‘First of all, he should probe deep into the victim’s private life. Usually a murder of this kind masks something unexpected. It might come out, for example, that the prelate lived a double life. Maybe he lent money at usurious rates, or sold indulgences under the table, or was some sort of perverted child-rapist … And, you know what? I’ve changed my mind: if you want, I will take the case …’
‘No, no, no … If you put it that way, it’s out of the question. Do you want to create a scandal? I’ve already got a call from a big fish at the Vatican, and have even heard from Minister Taviani. I’m supposed to report daily on the progress of the investigation … I’m under orders to proceed with extreme sensitivity, so you can forget about digging into the priest’s private life …’ said Inzipone, nervously bending a pen as if wanting to break it.
‘All right, then, sir.’
‘All we needed was that damned swastika. Bloody hell …’ the commissioner muttered, biting his lips.
‘I’m sorry, but what office should I use?’
‘You can take your own back; nobody else has moved in.’
‘That’s excellent news. I’m a creature of habit … Have a very good day, sir …’
‘See you later, Bordelli.’
‘Break a leg on that sensitive case …’
‘Oh, to hell with it all!’ said Inzipone, almost yelling.
The inspector gave a slight bow and left, ignoring the commissioner’s embittered mutterings. He went down to the first floor and pushed open the door to his office. It smelled stale in there, and he threw open the windows. A golden, almost blinding light was filtering through a break in the clouds. Less than six months had passed since he’d left his gun and badge on the commissioner’s desk, but he felt as if he was returning after a decades-long voyage. How many times had he looked out of that window, trying to put his thoughts in order? How many paces taken back and forth across the room … How many cigarettes smoked while watching a moribund fly crash against the walls …
He left the window open and sat down at his desk … Other memories surfaced in his mind … Depositions … Interrogations … Confessions … He ran a finger over the dust and smiled. Nothing represented time better than dust.
He shut his pistol up in the bottom drawer, where he had always kept it. Three more years, and they would put him out to pasture. Now that he lived in the country, however, the idea no longer scared him.
He picked up the phone and called Mugnai, to find out whether Piras was on duty.
‘He’s out on patrol, Inspector. But his shift is almost over, so he should be back shortly.’
‘Could you please tell him to come up and see me as soon as he gets in?’
‘Where are you, exactly, Inspector?’ Mugnai asked, unsure.
‘In my office … Consider this my official announcement that, as of tomorrow morning, I’m back on the job.’
‘Nooooh! This is a great day, Inspector … I won’t tell a soul, sir …’
They said goodbye, and Bordelli lit his first cigarette of the day. He started staring at the wall before him, realising he remembered every single crac
k in the plaster. He could only imagine how much hair poor Inspector Del Lama must be pulling out of his head at that moment, in his struggle with his ‘sensitive’ case. You had to stick your nose everywhere to make any progress at all on any case, and the murder of Monsignor Sercambi was a particularly hard nut to crack … What was the motive? Nobody had any idea. And the murder weapon? A pair of gloved hands. Witnesses? None. Even the best detective in the world could never make head or tail of it. Against fate, they were all powerless …
He forgot about Monsignor Sercambi and continued his aimless journey through his memories, as the office slowly filled with ghosts. How many people had sat there before him, to answer his questions? And what if he’d been wrong once, and sent an innocent to jail? He certainly had done the opposite once, letting the killer of a loan shark go free … And now he was letting himself go free as well …
There was a knock at the door, it opened and Piras appeared.
‘Inspector … Don’t tell me you’re …’
‘I’m back, Piras.’
‘I’m glad to hear it …’ said the Sardinian, waving away the smoke with his hand.
‘I was hoping at least for some sort of Tarzan yell.’
‘I’m yelling inside, Inspector.’
‘The famous silent yell of the Sardinians …’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Go right ahead … Why don’t you sit down?’
‘Was it you who killed Giacomo’s three killers?’ Piras asked point blank, still standing. He stared hard at Bordelli, as though trying to discover the truth in his eyes.
‘What’s got into you, Piras?’
‘I just wanted to say that if it was you, you did the right thing.’
‘It wasn’t me, Piras … It was clearly fated to happen …’ said Bordelli.
‘I’d gladly have lent you a hand, if you’d asked,’ the Sardinian persisted.
‘I haven’t done anything, Piras. I’ve merely been patient, and my patience has paid off …’
He sat down at the table in front of a plate of pasta but did not turn on the telly. He’d spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering about the back streets in the centre of Florence, turning around to look at the girls’ bare legs.
