Marco Vichi: Death in Sardinia

By late morning there were only two rooms left to scour, and he still hadn’t found a thing. On the other hand, he had managed not to smoke, and this gave him a certain satisfaction. If he’d prevailed over the Nazis, he could prevail over that stupid vice. He decided to search Badalamenti’s bedroom first. He went in and turned on the light. Ugly room. A light fixture of glass fruit, small metal lamps painted with green enamel, light brown furnishings reminiscent of a post office. A large rectangular mirror with a light blue frame hung from a wall. But the piece de resistance was the gold-plated wooden bed, with a headboard inlaid with fanciful squiggles. On top of it was a great pile of clothes removed from the drawers. Bordelli rummaged through them. Underpants, vests, socks, all fine brand-name stuff. Beside the window was a small writing table with a black marble top and a rather fancy Leica camera on it. It was clear the killer hadn’t committed the murder during a robbery.

The two drawers of the desk had already been rifled through, like everything else. Papers large and small lay scattered across the floor: old bills, money orders to be filled out, empty envelopes, stamps. Nothing of importance.

He cast a 360-degree glance around the room. Hanging on the wall above the headboard of the bed was a print of a Quattrocento Christ inside a thick frame of black wood. Bordelli lifted it off of its hook to look behind it, and something fell on to the pillow. Setting the picture down, he picked up a small stack of black-and-white photographs held together by a broad rubber band. There was even a small envelope with the negatives. The first photo was of a beautiful girl in a bikini, very young, with long black hair. She was standing, leaning back against a door jamb and smiling innocently. On the whole, a rather provocative picture. She had a very beautiful body, if a little immature. But she wasn’t far from her full flowering. Bordelli brought the photos into the light and removed the rubber band. There were twelve in all. The dark young girl was as beautiful as the sun. Three of the shots showed her in a bikini; in a few others she was wearing a very short dress revealing two magnificent legs; and in a couple of others her breasts could be seen behind her folded arms. In the background, a few corners of Badalamenti’s flat were recognisable.

Written on the back of each snapshot was a name: Marisa . He wondered why Badalamenti kept them hidden. Putting the rubber band back around them, he put the photos in his pocket and resumed sifting carefully through everything, with no results. At last he gave up and went into the sitting room, the last to be searched. It was a rather spacious room, with large red terracotta tiles and floral curtains that dragged along the floor.

Between the sofa and the black leather armchairs was a low glass table that Badalamenti must not have cleaned very often. The only other piece of furniture was an unsightly modern glass-fronted cabinet full of glasses and bottles. The inspector opened both doors to have a better look. Cognac, whisky, Spanish brandies, all expensive stuff. Below, next to the glasses, was a tin can of the sort used for varnish. He grabbed it and pried off the lid with his house keys. It had grey putty inside. What the hell was a can of grey putty doing with the drinking glasses? He put the can back in its place and glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock, and he was starting to feel hungry. He would resume his search calmly after lunch.

He went down into the street with the intention of walking over to the Osteria di Santo Spirito for a panino and a glass of red. Then he changed his mind. He got in his Beetle, drove through the centre of town and parked the car in the inner courtyard of police headquarters. The sky had clouded over, and it felt a little less cold outside. After spending all morning holed up in that ghastly apartment, he felt like walking for a while in the open air.

Crossing Viale Lavagnini, he slipped into the Trattoria da Cesare, where for many years he’d been eating almost daily. As he entered he greeted the owner and waiters with a nod and exchanged a few quips with them. It was almost like being among family.

The inspector never sat at a table. His place was in the kitchen with the Apulian cook, Toto, where he had his very own stool. He considered it a privilege, and probably would have made a stink if anyone else were ever granted permission to enter that paradise of splashing sauces and drums full of offal.

‘Have you ever thought of getting married, Toto?’

The cook was enveloped in a cloud of infernal smoke, with six pans on the cooker at once. Bordelli watched in amusement as the material was transformed. A chunk of butter, a bit of meat, and some other insignificant thing turned into a pleasure for the tongue and palate. Toto was a shrimp, but had the touch of a bullfighter. Any animal had to feel honoured to be mistreated by him. He could handle many pots at a time, and he bragged about it like a little boy. He kept the whole kitchen going all by himself.

Finishing up his spaghetti alla carbonara , Bordelli thought with pleasure of the cigarette he would smoke once he’d finished his lunch. Toto emerged from his inferno and came up to him.

‘I’ll serve you in a second, Inspector. Wait till you taste the osso buco.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Did you like the pasta?’

‘Love at first sight.’

‘Don’t you think there was a little too much pancetta? Sometimes even I get it wrong.’

‘Cut the false modesty, Toto, you’re not convincing anyone.’

‘Nobody’s perfect, Inspector,’ the cook said, grinning like a braggart, before returning to the hob to see to the customers’ orders. Bordelli refilled his glass.

‘Toto, did you hear my question earlier?’ he asked.

‘What question, Inspector?’

‘Never mind,’ said Bordelli.

The cook drew near with a frying pan in his hand.

‘You like it hot, right?’ he asked.

‘I can’t live without it.’

‘Then have a taste and see if you like this osso.’

The meat was practically submerged in rather dense red sauce.

‘Your own invention?’

‘Almost … It’s sort of done in the Algerian style.’

‘You’re becoming as cosmopolitan as my friend Bottarini,’

Bordelli said to provoke him. The previous year Botta had replaced Toto in that kitchen for a few days, keeping the restaurant going without much trouble, and when Toto had returned from his trip to the south he’d heard tell that his stand-in knew how to cook foreign stuff , not knowing that Botta had learned all those dishes by spending time in the prisons of half the countries in Europe and even a few in North Africa.

‘Give me a break with this Botta, Inspector! I’ve always known how to cook those dishes! It’s just that nobody ever asked to me to make them before,’ said Toto, lower lip jutting in disgust, waving his greasy hands in front of his face.

‘There’s certainly nothing wrong with learning new things, Toto,’ Bordelli persisted with feigned innocence. Toto shook his head dramatically and sighed.

‘Keep that wine close to you, Inspector, this stuff is pure fire,’ he said, then turned back towards the cooker with his arms dangling. Never tell a cook he could learn something from anyone, Bordelli thought, studying the osso buco. It looked magnificent but dangerous.

Toto was endlessly filling dishes and bowls and passing them to the waiters through the semicircular hatch that gave on to the dining room. Bordelli put the first bite of meat in his mouth and felt his gums burst into flame. He took a long sip of wine.

‘Very good,’ he said with tears in his eyes.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ Toto said slyly.