himself.
“Chief, that would be the old folks’ son waiting for you in Fazio’s office.”
“Would be or is?”
Catarella didn’t miss a beat.
“Both, Chief.”
“Let him in.”
Davide Griffo came in looking frazzled: unshaven, red-eyed, suit rumpled.
“I’m going back to Messina, Inspector. What’s the use staying around here? I can’t fall asleep at night, with the same thought in my head all the time ... Mr. Fazio said you still haven’t managed to find anything out.”
“Unfortunately, that’s right. But rest assured that as soon as there’s any news, we’ll let you know immediately. Do we have your address?”
“Yes, I left it for you.”
“One question, before you leave. Do you have any cousins?”
“Yes, one.”
“How old is he?”
“About forty”
The inspector pricked up his ears.
“Where does he live?”
“In Sydney. He works there. He hasn’t been to see his father in three years.”
“How do you know?”
“Because every time he comes, we arrange to see each other.”
“Could you leave this cousin’s address and telephone number with Fazio?”
“Certainly. But why do you want it? Do you think . . .?”
“I don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”
“Look, Inspector, the mere idea that my cousin could have anything to do with this disappearance is utterly insane ... if you’ll excuse my saying so.”
Montalbano stopped him with a gesture.
“Another thing. You must know that, in these parts, we give names like cousin, uncle, nephew to people with whom we have no blood relation. We do it out of affection, because we like them ... Think hard. Do you know of anyone your parents might refer to as nephew?”
“Inspector, you obviously don’t know my father and mother! God forbid any of us should have such a disposition! No, sir, I do not think it possible that they would ever call anyone a nephew who wasn’t their nephew.”
“Mr. Griffo, you’ll forgive me if I make you repeat something you’ve already said to me, but, you must understand, it’s as much in your interest as mine. Are you absolutely certain your parents mentioned nothing to you about the excursion they were planning to go on?”
“They said nothing, Inspector, absolutely nothing. We weren’t in the habit of writing to each other; we only talked over the phone. I was always the one who called, every Thursday and Sunday, always between nine and ten P.M. Thursday, the last time I spoke to them, they made no mention of going to Tindari. Actually, Mama, before hanging up, said: ‘We’ll talk again Sunday, as usual.’ If they were already planning on going on that tour, they would have told me not to worry if they weren’t at home, and to call back a little later, in case the bus was late. Doesn’t that seem logical to you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But since they didn’t say anything, I called them on Sunday at nine-fifteen, and nobody answered. And that’s when my torments began.”
“The bus returned to Vigata around eleven o‘clock that evening.”
“And I called and called until six the next morning.”
“Mr. Griffo, we must, unfortunately, consider every possibility. Even those that we find repugnant. Did your father have any enemies?”
“Inspector, if I didn’t have this lump in my throat I would laugh out loud. My father is a good man, even if he has an unpleasant personality. Like my mother. Papa’s been retired ten years. Never has he spoken of anyone wanting to do him harm.”
“Was he rich?”
“Who, my father? He got by on his pension. He was able to buy the flat they’re living in by liquidating their savings.”
Griffo lowered his eyes, disheartened.
“I can’t think of any reason why my parents would have wanted to disappear, or anything that would have forced them to disappear. I even went and spoke to their doctor. He said they were doing well, given their age. And they had no signs of arteriosclerosis.”
