yourselves a lot of trouble, and perhaps — who knows? — the judge will take this into consideration. Otherwise …’
Angela gave a start.
‘Otherwise?’ she said.
Bordelli threw his hands up.
‘Otherwise I’ll keep all four of you here and interrogate you one at a time for as long as I see fit, perhaps until midnight, or until tomorrow morning, or even, if necessary, for three straight days. The choice is yours.’
‘But we’ve already told you everything we know,’ said Gina, trying to smile.
‘We are not murderers,’ said Anselmo.
Bordelli shrugged.
‘As you wish. Here’s the telephone. Call all the lawyers you want.’
As Anselmo was dialling, Bordelli stood up and went over to Piras. He spoke loudly so they could all hear him.
‘Get a whole stack of pages ready, Piras. It looks like we’ll be spending the night here.’
‘That’s fine with me.’
Half an hour later, Santelia, the lawyer arrived, all eighteen stone of him. He had a pair of penetrating blue eyes and the face of an insecure little boy. He stank of sweat and eau de cologne.
‘Let’s get one thing immediately clear, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Have my clients been formally charged? Because, if not-’
‘It’s all by the book, sir. I’m questioning suspects in the presence of their lawyer.’
‘Of course, of course, what I meant was … well, to proceed properly, what are they suspected of?’
‘Premeditated murder.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the basis of some very convincing evidence, sir. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to begin the questioning.
‘Ready, Piras?’
‘Ready, Inspector.’
‘Good.’
The individual interrogations began. While awaiting their turn, the other three bided their time in three separate rooms. Once the first round was over, they started all over again. Bordelli’s ashtray was filling up faster than you could count the butts. Piras only sighed, resigned to breathing the foul air. He hit the keys hard, striking them with only two fingers: Q and A, Q and A … Same questions, same answers. One in particular.
‘But we were at the coast at that time! Everybody saw us, didn’t they?’
And at once the bothersome clacking of the typewriter would fill their ears. Santelia the lawyer sat as still as if he were posing for a sculpture, staring at the person being questioned. After each question he would nod, almost closing his eyes, giving the go-ahead for the answer. At one point he said the question was irrelevant, and Bordelli retorted that he should save that objection for the trial.
‘Trial? I didn’t know that in Italy the innocent were put on trial,’ he said.
There were two or three more irksome, pointless squabbles, trifling matters, in fact. During one of the many interrogations of Giulio, the lawyer protested.
‘It is nine o’clock, Inspector! You certainly don’t want to violate the rights of your suspects, I hope! They’re hungry! And I myself am ravenous!’
‘You’re right,’ said Bordelli, and he called Mugnai and told him to bring the other suspects into his office. When they were all there, he had them sit down and sent Mugnai out for panini.
‘I’d like a beer, myself,’ said the lawyer. ‘Actually, make that two.’
‘No beer,’ said Bordelli. ‘Orangeade for everyone.’
Fifteen minutes later Mugnai returned with a bag full of provisions. Piras devoured his share in seconds, though the panini were dry round the edges and the prosciutto had long since turned to cardboard. Bordelli bit into his, but it was so disgusting that he shoved it into a drawer and lit up a cigarette instead. He then took to observing the Morozzis as they chewed with difficulty and in silence, and he began to feel sorry for them. For a brief moment he even doubted that they had done the deed and that money was the motive, and he wondered whether at that very moment the killer wasn’t living it up somewhere, utterly indifferent to the inheritance. Then he looked at Piras’s grave expression and became convinced he was on the verge of closing the case.
Gina and Angela tried to eat without smearing their lipstick. They raised their lips before sinking their teeth into the bread, incisors exposed all the way to the gums; then they closed their mouths and ruminated with lips sealed. They seemed downright batty. Still, their serenity had the look of innocence.
Although Bordelli couldn’t wait to lie down in bed, by this point he had to play the part of the stubborn cop to the end. This was no time to give in. The lawyer took great big bites of his sandwich, displaying a revulsion he didn’t deign to translate into words.
‘They’re from the bar outside. They make them in the morning, and in this heat …,’ said Bordelli, trying to apologise for the terrible quality of the dinner. Santelia waved his hand in the air as if to sweep away this excuse, then he grabbed a bottle of orangeade by the neck.
‘Have you got a bottle-opener?’ he asked.
‘Give it here, I’ll open it for you,’ said Bordelli. The lawyer handed him the bottle, and he flipped off the cap, as he always did, with his house key. Santelia watched Bordelli’s operation with a sneer of pity, as if watching some street punk cut a lizard in two. While he was at it, Bordelli opened all the bottles.
‘Now, let’s get back to work,’ he said.
The air in the room had become stifling. The window was wide open but only served to give them a glimpse of the evening’s lazy progress. There wasn’t the slightest puff of wind that might sweep away the foulness.
Round about ten o’clock the Morozzis began to look tired and worried. Bordelli took advantage of this fact to communicate that he knew more than he had let on. He started tossing out random statements without batting an eyelid.
‘The post-mortem showed that while there was no trace of Asthmaben in your aunt’s blood, it was all over her tongue. How would you explain that?’
‘I’m not a doctor,’ Anselmo said.
‘Signora Gina, do you know what we found in Gideon’s fur?’
The woman squinted and then shook her head as if she hadn’t understood.
‘Gideon? Who’s that?’ she said.
The lawyer smiled provocatively.
‘Don’t ask useless questions, Inspector. Get to the point.’
‘That is precisely the point, sir. The mate pollen that was found in the cat’s fur means that your clients’ alibi isn’t worth a mouse turd any more. You know what I mean?’
As the hours passed, they all grew more tired and nervous. The inspector had already filled and emptied the ashtray twice, betraying all his good intentions, and this bothered him more than a little. Piras was disgusted by all the smoke. His eyes were bloodshot, and during the pauses he stuck his head out of the window for air.
At around midnight Anselmo had a fit of rage. Irritated by one of Bordelli’s questions, he shot to his feet and grabbed the edge of the desk as if he wanted to overturn it. Santelia forced him to sit back down and whispered something in his ear, squeezing his shoulder with his hand.
The clacking of the Olivetti had become unbearable to all. To Bordelli it felt as if the transcript were being typed directly on his temples. The lawyer was the only person who seemed not to suffer. Every so often he would doze off while seated, his nose emitting a buzzing sound, and each time he awoke his eyes looked smaller.
‘Don’t you think you’re taking this too far, Inspector? This is not Nuremberg, you know,’ he said.
‘Sorry, but I haven’t finished yet.’
‘You’re certainly not going to keep us here all night.’
‘You can leave if you wish.’
‘Lunacy!’
‘Please, just let me do my job.’
The interruptions became more and more frequent and annoying. The lawyer would raise an objection and Bordelli would politely ask him not to interrupt. Around two o’clock in the morning, Bordelli’s tone changed,
