Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I can see you’re warming to the story yourself … I’m glad.’

  ‘I’m just waiting for it to end.’

  ‘I can picture the whole scene … Try to do so yourself … Badalamenti turns to open the door to chase Odoardo away, but the boy has something else in mind. All at once he grabs the scissors, raises his hand in the air and … thrusts them deep into the man’s neck … like this.’ Bordelli mimed the motion, left hand in the air, then resumed pacing calmly back and forth and talking.

  ‘With Badalamenti dead, our Odoardo now has the time to look for the photographs. Not exactly calmly, mind you. He’s just killed a man and can’t wait to get out of there. And so he ransacks the whole flat in haste, searching every corner, even the bathroom, but finds nothing. In the end he gives up and leaves. What do you think? The ending’s a little weak, but we can work on it.’

  ‘It would make a bad movie,’ said Odoardo.

  ‘You can help me make it better.’

  ‘Listen, Inspector, I’ve been a good little boy and listened to your story through to the end. But now I’d like to leave.’

  ‘Why is it that everyone your age is always in such a hurry?’ asked Bordelli, stopping in front of the window. The boy didn’t reply.

  ‘What are all these important things you have to do?’ the inspector continued, watching the rain, which showed no sign of letting up.

  ‘It’s not just the important things,’ said Odoardo. Bordelli looked at him, feigning great surprise.

  ‘That’s a very interesting reply,’ he said.

  ‘I knew you were an intelligent lad. Perhaps all we’d need to understand one another would be a common language … Are you familiar with Plato’s example of the fisherman and the fishing line?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’ll bet you like Kafka … Do you remember that horrific story about the penal colony?’ Odoardo looked at him as if he were dealing with a madman.

  ‘I’ll make you a complete list of all the books I’ve read and post it to you,’ he said, voice hoarse with irritation.

  ‘That’s another interesting reply. What do you think, Odoardo? Is killing Badalamenti a crime or isn’t it? I mean from a moral perspective.’ Odoardo clenched his teeth so hard that, for a moment, his cheeks trembled.

  ‘That’s enough, Inspector. If you wish to indict me, please do so, but this charade makes no sense at all,’ he said, trying to control his anger.

  He’s very upset, Bordelli thought again, then he made a face of utter astonishment.

  ‘Indict you for what?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering.’

  ‘My dear Odoardo, I told you, all I’ve just said is mere conjecture. I used your name only to help you identify with the main character. I would, however, like you to tell me how a—’

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ Odoardo interrupted him.

  ‘And I believe you.’

  ‘Then leave me alone.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Bordelli, and he resumed pacing back and forth. Then he stopped in the middle of the room, forefinger on his brow.

  ‘As I was saying, there’s something I would like to understand … How is it that an alert, intelligent lad like Odoardo was unable to find Badalamenti’s secret hiding place under one of the living room tiles? Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What you were looking for, Odoardo, was under the floor … That is, if you were Odoardo the killer, of course … We’re still in the realm of hypothesis. It is odd, though. I mean, I myself, who am less intelligent than you, I found the hiding place in no time at all … In short, in case you haven’t yet understood, I now have those photographs of your mother.’

  Odoardo changed colour but said nothing. Bordelli pointed at the desk.

  ‘They’re right there, in a drawer. I imagine you must be quite anxious to see them.’ The boy said nothing, but only stared at the inspector with eyes as cold as ice.

  ‘But I’m afraid I can’t grant your wish … I’m sorry.’ Bordelli sighed histrionically.

  ‘I don’t know anything about those photos … In fact, I’m convinced they’re just another of your lies,’ the boy said, stone faced.

  ‘My dear Odoardo, you’re free to think whatever you like.’

  ‘And if they really do exist, they belong to me now, since my mother is dead.’

  ‘You’re better off not seeing them, believe me,’ said the inspector. Odoardo curled his lips as if wanting to smile, but he looked more like a dog baring its teeth.

  ‘Inspector, why don’t you drop all the bullshit?’ he said.

  ‘You think I’m just pulling your leg?’

  ‘Worse. You’ve got it into your head that it was me who killed that guy, and you’re making up all manner of bollocks to confirm your belief. You don’t know which way to turn, and so to bring the case to a close, you’re happy to find any culprit at all … Unfortunately you’ve landed on me. You policemen do this sort of thing all the time … You think I don’t know?’

  Odoardo gave a sort of half-smile, as if he’d finally found the right way to defend himself. But it was clear he couldn’t stand being shut up in that room any longer. Bordelli let out another long, slow sigh.

  ‘You know something, Odoardo? I’ve seen killers who were extremely anxious to confess, as if admitting to their crime gave greater meaning to what they had done. There’s one I remember well. He was sitting right there, in the same chair as you. His name was Guido … Guido Mecocci. He looked me straight in the eye and sweated … And sweated … It was very hot, too, it must have been July … July ’56, I believe—’

  ‘Do you know what time it is, Inspector?’ Odoardo asked, annoyed, tapping his watch with his finger.

  ‘Let me finish telling you about Mecocci, it’s quite interesting. Mecocci was short and stocky, practically illiterate, but he had a very intelligent face. You know what I mean? The kind of person who has … How do you say it? Well, intelligent eyes. You know what I’m trying to say?’

  ‘No, these concepts are too difficult for me,’ said Odoardo. He could no longer stand all the chatter. Bordelli was satisfied. He felt he’d played the part of the oddball inspector rather well.

  ‘Have you ever noticed, Odoardo? That people who are lucky enough to have those eyes, even if they’re short and ugly, well, it doesn’t even matter … Have you ever noticed?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I really don’t give a fuck about any of this.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll only take up another minute of your time … At any rate we’ve established that Guido Mecocci was that sort of man , short and ugly but with all the pride of a handsome one. But let’s get to the point, otherwise I risk boring you … Mecocci had clubbed his brother-in-law to death because he couldn’t bear seeing him mistreat his wife, who was Mecocci’s only sister. He was a prime suspect and had no alibi. I interrogated him. He didn’t say anything for quite a while, though I could see that he was squirming. At a certain point, though, his expression changed, and without my having to ask him anything, he started telling me everything from A to Z. He was glad to tell me how and why he’d killed his brother-in-law or, actually, “that great big son of a bitch of a brother-in-law”, as he put it. And when he was done, he actually thanked me for having listened to him. Interesting story, don’t you think?’

  Odoardo looked as if he were carved out of wax.

  ‘And where do the three little pigs come in?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got dozens of stories, if that’s what you want. For example, I remember the time I had to climb up to the top of a roof to catch a multiple murderer. I managed to bring him down without firing a shot but, boy, did that ever cost me some effort. I won’t even mention how hungry I was afterwards. I ate like a pig, then I went to bed and fell asleep straight away, without reading even a page … Whereas normally I always read. What about you? Do you read before falling as
leep?’

  ‘No, I can’t because at night I have to go around killing people.’

  ‘Not to be indiscreet, but … what was the last book you read?’

  ‘Crime and Punishment, and I loved it. Especially when Raskolnikov splits the pawnbroker’s head open with an axe.’

  Bordelli folded his hands behind his neck.

  ‘And have you read any Lermontov?’ he asked with an air of great interest.

  ‘Inspector, I’m going to go now. If you’re going to arrest me, I suggest you do it for a specific reason and, above all, with a stamped and signed arrest warrant,’ said Odoardo, heading for the door.

  Bordelli waited for him to open it, then said calmly:

  ‘You may not realise it, but I am your friend.’

  The lad turned round. His face was pale.

  ‘Enemies are quite enough for me, thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m going to have to write that down,’ said Bordelli. Odoardo went out and closed the door behind him. It was still raining outside. He was going to get soaked to the bone.

  The inspector went and sat down, sighing for the thousandth time. In the end he hadn’t liked the charade either. Perhaps Odoardo was right. Perhaps he was evaluating things with his mind already made up. He’d got it into his head to torment the boy in every way possible and observe his reactions. He didn’t have the slightest bit of proof against him. Still, that great big fly kept buzzing in his brain, not allowing him a moment’s peace.

  Another fly, a real one, fat and hairy, flew in. It kept trying to land on his face, in always the same spot, right beside his nose. He would wave it away with his hand, and the fly would buzz about for a moment, making that tiresome drone, and a few seconds later would land in the same place, beside his nose. It seemed a little groggy. He shooed it away again, and the bastard got as far as the wall opposite Bordelli and then turned back. The inspector got his open hand ready, waited for the fly to return to home base, let it relax, then dealt himself a powerful slap. He struck himself square in the face, but the fly was faster than him. He could hear it buzzing away, and saw it land on the ceiling. His cheek and nose burned from the slap, and he felt like taking his gun out and shooting the damned thing. If God created flies, there must be a reason. That much he agreed with. What he did not understand was why God had created that particular reason. It was a subject that could take him far, very far …

  By mid-morning the sky was completely overcast with grey clouds. A fine, granular snow started to fall. Even the pigeons looked chilled, huddling together in groups along the buildings’ highest cornices, sheltered by the eaves.

  Bordelli stuck the customary unlit cigarette between his lips. It was too hot in his office, and he’d already taken off his jacket some time before. When he felt a drop of sweat roll down his cheek, he went and opened the window and started gazing outside. The snowflakes were tiny and icy, but the snow didn’t stick. Little by little, his memory started whirring … A similar snow was falling at Christmas in ’43, at Torricella Peligna. And a shitty Christmas it was, with Nazis encamped on the hillside opposite them, barely six miles away. Bordelli felt nervous that day, smoking one cigarette after another while awaiting orders from the rear lines. Because it was Christmas, nobody was shooting, like the good Christians they all were …

  Late that morning two of his men returned from patrol with Christmas dinner on a leash, a nice fat pig with a rope round its neck. They said they’d found it wandering about the countryside, and they were as happy as children. Everyone in the camp gathered round the beast, already tasting its roast flesh on their tongues. Battle-knives were drawn and the pig started to get nervous. Like everyone else, Bordelli too wanted a good hot meal; he was sick and tired of Italian biscuit spread with American tinned meat. But the whole thing seemed fishy to him. He told the men to hold their knives and asked for a more precise explanation of how they’d come by the pig. In the end it turned out they’d taken it away from a peasant.

  ‘But the bloke had another pig, Captain!’ the two men said, trying to minimise the offence. Bordelli could practically smell the roast pork already, but he was the commander and could not tolerate pillage, and so with an effort of will he told them they had to take the animal back to its rightful owner. And he felt that a little speech was in order.

  ‘This is robbery. Bloody hell, we’re not Germans, after all!’ he’d said.

  The pig was taken home, with heartfelt apologies and a few bars of dark chocolate. At camp that evening, they spread more American meat on Italian biscuits, but it tasted worse than ever. They had no way of knowing at the time, but they would have to wait more than six months before they had a decent meal, six long months during which several of Bordelli’s comrades would die. And they died not only from the increasingly sophisticated safety catches the Germans kept inventing to prevent removal of their mines. One morning Bordelli had to go out to recover the bodies of four of his men, killed in a basement when a defective hand grenade had gone off while they were playing cards. The small room was flooded with still-fresh, sticky blood. Their boots stuck to the floor. One piece of shrapnel had sliced Gaetano’s belly in two, and under his torn uniform one could see the mass of intestines moving. Bordelli bent down to pick up a blood-soaked playing card. The queen of spades. He put it in his pocket. They loaded the four bodies on to a lorry and returned to camp. Bordelli was the only one who vomited when, as they were taking a curve, Gaetano’s intestines fell out on to the flatbed …

  After a while the granular snow turned to a freezing drizzle. Only up in the hills did it continue to snow. The inspector sat back down behind his desk and lit the cigarette he’d had in his hand for the past few minutes. He smoked it while reading the list of Badalamenti’s debtors for the umpteenth time. There were nineteen men. Almost all of them were over seventy, and one over eighty. Diotivede had been quite clear about that, too. It was highly unlikely that an elderly man could have the strength to thrust a pair of scissors so deeply into another man’s neck, to the point of shattering a vertebra. He thought about this, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling. The big fly seemed to be gone. Maybe it was already dead.

  The killer might be the son or grandson of one of the debtors, he supposed, though a person like Badalamenti usually operated without the knowledge of his victims’ families. Still, there were always exceptions. This line of reasoning also brought the sons and husbands of the female debtors into the picture, complicating the whole matter quite distressingly. But if he stuck strictly to the list, obviously the youngest men were the most likely suspects. And Odoardo Beltempo was also a young man, the youngest of them all, intelligent and highly strung, shut tight like a sea urchin, and the son of a woman blackmailed by the shark. But he wasn’t left-handed. Diotivede be damned. Then there was Raffaele, who was rebellious, a big talker and, most importantly, left-handed. But it may have been another person not even on the list, someone who’d gone to see Badalamenti for the first time … a killer nobody would ever find, who had no need of the promise of pleasure gardens in order to kill.

  While following these useless conjectures Bordelli had started doodling on a sheet of paper, almost without realising it. And a rather strange figure had emerged, with pig’s feet and two swastikas instead of eyes. He crumpled the page and threw it into the wastepaper basket. He yawned with his whole mouth, accompanying it with a kind of groan. He thought he would return the promissory notes to the others on the list after the holidays … But then he changed his mind. The following morning he would send two police officers out to give back all the remaining IOUs, telling them to use maximum discretion and to speak only to those people directly involved. He had all the time in the world to call on them in person, but with those notes under the Christmas tree, they would sleep easier that night.

  He knocked on Patrolman Biagi’s door. An envelope had just arrived from the courthouse with a reply to his enquiry as to the criminal records of all the loan shark’s debtors. He read it at o
nce. They all had clean records except for two men, the same two whom De Marchi had found when investigating the fingerprints he’d taken.

  Deep down he’d never expected that search to produce any earth-shattering new developments. He wondered whether he really believed he would ever discover the truth of the murder, and he shook his head. He felt he’d reached a dead end. Of course, he’d told himself more or less the same thing many times in the past, and in those instances he’d decided, as a last resort, to follow his instinct. And in the end he had always succeeded in finding the killer. Almost always, that is. One time he’d failed, when a hunter had found, in the countryside near Cerbaia, the corpse of a woman of about forty of Nordic appearance, literally hammered to death and then dumped in a torrent that had carried her some several hundred yards over the rocks in the stream. No lead, no suspects, no nothing. He’d never even managed to identify the victim. The poor woman’s face was in a pitiful state, and there was no point in publishing a photo of it in the papers. Actually he would rather not think too much about that case. It was a nasty affair that didn’t exactly do wonders for his self-esteem.

  He started fiddling with an unlit cigarette, still thinking about Odoardo Beltempo and Raffaele Montigiani. He was trying to figure out what his next move should be. He repeated to himself for the hundredth time that there was no hard evidence incriminating either of the two youths. There weren’t any real suspects, actually. And yet that big fat fly wouldn’t stop buzzing round one name: Odoardo.

  The office of Musillo the lawyer was in Via Parpaglia, near the corner of Via La Marmora, on the first floor of an ancient palazzo. Piras got to Oristano at a quarter to eleven, drove the entire length of Via Tirso and parked near the Tower of Mariano. After some insistence, he had succeded in borrowing Ettore’s Fiat 500, which its owner usually left at home for fear of damage, taking the bus to work instead. To calm his worries Piras had shown him that, despite the crutches, he could drive safely, and in the end Ettore had tossed him the keys, telling him to drive slowly because the engine was still being broken in.