Marco Vichi - Death in Sardinia

‘My interpretation was much more poetic.’

‘And a lot less painful, I assure you.’

‘Anything I can do for you?’ The doctor gestured towards the corpse on the gurney.

‘If you really want to help, you can cut that gentleman over there in two, so I can get a headstart,’ he said.

‘You don’t say! I’ve been waiting all my life for this opportunity.’

‘The knives are on the table over there.’ Bordelli stuck a cigarette between his lips and started puffing on it as if it were lit.

‘You know, I just got a postcard from Uruguay … from a woman I liked very much,’ he said.

‘Oh really? And what did she say?’

‘Nothing special. But she did write to me.’

‘It’s a start,’ said the doctor, raising his eyebrows.

‘I don’t know why I told you that.’

‘Don’t worry, I can keep a secret.’

‘Go ahead and mock me, but I really did like that girl a lot.’

‘Eat some chestnuts and you’ll get over it, I promise.’

‘Thanks, you’re a real friend.’

‘If you’ve got nothing to do, why don’t you come with me to say hello to Baragli?’

When Bordelli got home, he filled the bathtub. He wasn’t hungry. He’d gone with Diotivede to see Baragli, and they’d stayed for a good half-hour. In spite of everything, the sergeant looked well. Or so it seemed.

He immersed himself up to his neck in the hot water and closed his eyes. He liked boiling himself in the tub, memory adrift … And from the tide of recollection surfaced a morning in ’44 when he was looking out over a valley through binoculars and saw some large black birds circling round the same point. They were cawing then swooping low, gliding over the meadow. It wasn’t hard to tell that they were feasting, and Bordelli decided to go and find out on what. He took two of his men and went down into the valley. They found the corpse of a smartly dressed English officer. He lay face down with his legs together and his face in the grass, one hand digging into the ground. His back was perforated by a high-calibre bullet. The birds had already started eating his ears, and they had to shoot to scatter them. Bordelli grabbed the officer’s hand and turned him over. The man’s disintegrating, blackened flesh oozed through his fingers like custard. He’d probably been dead for at least two weeks. Bordelli removed his ID tag and attached it to his belt. He would send it to British headquarters with the exact coordinates of the body’s position. The stench of death had stuck to his hands for a very long time afterwards …

The burst of a firecracker woke him up. The water had turned cold, and he had to get out of the tub. Whenever his thoughts turned to the war, time started passing very fast. As he was getting dressed he wished he could have a quiet evening, without spending the whole time rehashing this or that or thinking about Milena. Things would turn out however they turned out, and the same was true for everything. As he was putting on his shoes, the telephone rang. It was De Marchi.

‘I’ve just finished, Inspector.’

‘And?’ said Bordelli, holding his breath.

‘The hair you gave me and the hair found in Badalamenti’s flat belong to the same person.’

‘Ah …’ said the inspector.

‘But I haven’t written anything up yet, as you asked.’

‘Good, thank you so much. Now go and get some rest.’

‘Have a good evening, Inspector.’

Bordelli hung up and ran a hand over his face. The hair you gave me and the hair found in Badalamenti’s flat belong to the same person. This was no small matter. He returned to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. If Odoardo had admitted having been in Badalamenti’s flat at least once, then it might mean nothing. Shedding hair is not unusual. But Odoardo had lied, and clearly had his reasons for lying. Of course, he could have gone to Badalamenti’s just to pay off his mother’s IOUs or to try to get back the photographs and had lied only for fear of being considered a suspect …

Bordelli heaved a sigh. Aside from the hair that had betrayed him, there wasn’t any hard evidence against Odoardo. All the same, from the very start, he’d had the distinct feeling that the lad was lying to him. Whereas Raffaele had always given him the opposite impression: a difficult, instinctual young man, even a bit of a blowhard, but as transparent as glass in sunlight. He had to go back to see Odoardo. It would almost certainly be the last chapter of an unamusing novel. Perhaps he would go back the following morning. Perhaps. He no longer was in such a hurry. Before going out, he remembered the ballistics test and rang Piras.

‘I tried calling a little while ago, Inspector, but your line was busy,’ said the Sardinian.

‘Any news?’

‘The arrest has been upheld. The shell under Pintus’s shoe was fired from the same gun that killed Benigno Staffa.’

‘That sounds a lot like something someone told me just a minute ago.’

‘What’s that, Inspector?’

‘Nothing. I’ll tell you when you get back. I wanted to let you know I called up an old friend with the Secret Service and gave him all the information on Frigolin. We’ll see if anything turns up …’

‘Pintus has changed his story. Now he says he went to see Benigno to try and persuade him to sell that land, and he found the door open, went inside, found him dead, and ran away because he didn’t want any trouble.’

‘With a good lawyer, he might even get off,’ said Bordelli.

‘Pintus is the Fascist Frigolin, Inspector, I’m sure of it. You should have seen his face when I provoked him …’

‘Being sure doesn’t help, Piras. You need proof.’

‘If that son of a bitch wriggles out of this, Benigno will turn in his grave.’

‘Talk to Stella. Send a photograph of Pintus express to the RAI and ask them to broadcast it on the evening news. Maybe somebody’ll recognise him as Frigolin and we can nail him for war crimes.’

‘Shit, Inspector, I hadn’t even thought of that.’

‘It would have come to you tonight, Piras.’

‘Can you imagine, Inspector? All Frigolin had to do was look once at the sole of his shoe, and he would have got off scot free.’

‘As far as that goes, he would have got off scot free if nobody had shot you in the legs.’

‘I suppose I have to admit that every cloud has a silver lining … Be sure to watch the news on Thursday,’ said Piras.

‘You’re very optimistic.’

‘No, I’m Sardinian. Goodnight, Inspector, I’m going to go and read a little Maigret.’

‘Give him my best.’ They hung up. Bordelli went into the kitchen to make a cheese sandwich and drink a glass of wine. By the time he left the house it was already half past nine. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still choked with clouds. On the other side of the street the little boys sat on the kerb in the dim light of a street lamp. They were lighting firecrackers. As soon as they saw Bordelli, they all got up and ran towards him.

‘Have you arrested the killer?’ asked Mimmo.

‘Not yet.’

‘There’s only four days left. You’re not gonna break your promise, are you?’

‘I never break a promise,’ said Bordelli, walking towards his car.

‘If you don’t get us a new football we’re gonna ring your doorbell every single day,’ said Rabbit-teeth. Bordelli got into the Beetle and rolled down the window.

‘Actually I think you’d better all get ready to wash my car.’

The little boys giggled with delight. They waited for the inspector to set off, then hurled firecrackers after his car before retreating to their territory.

Bordelli crossed the bridge and turned down Via Tornabuoni. There was some traffic, and at moments the cars ground almost to a halt. Despite the cold, there was a good deal of bustle, and more than a few foreigners. The shop windows were already full of Epiphany stockings and sweet coal. Every so often one heard firecrackers popping. He crossed the centre of town and came out on the Viali. Holding the steering wheel with his knees, he lit a cigarette. He only wanted to take a few drags, he told himself, and then he would throw it out. He drove through Piazza delle Cure, and when he got to the end of Via Maffei, he still had the fag in his mouth. Turning left, he arrived at the Mugnone and parked the car. He got out and started walking down Via Boccaccio. He wanted to have a quiet stroll undisturbed. Dogs barked in the dark gardens of an immense villa. He continued down the dark road with his hands in his pockets. The asphalt was still wet, and there was nobody about. He could see the bluish light of televisions filtering through a number of windows. At that hour there must have been a film on. Here and there he heard dogs growling behind locked gates.