“Over the radio? What kind of radio?”
“A ham radio. It was his hobby, he told me. He said that when he used to sail the seas the radio always kept him company, and ever since . . . He had a huge setup in the living room.”
“Did you ever hear what he said?”
“Yes, but I didn’t understand . . . He often spoke in Arabic or some similar language. After a while I would get dressed and leave. Anyway, that day I started asking myself some questions, and I decided our affair was meaningless, or that, in any case, it had gone on too long. And so I didn’t go see him.”
“Did he have your cell phone number?”
“Yes.”
“And he used to call you?”
“Of course. He would call when he wanted to tell me I should come a little later than planned, or a little earlier.”
“Weren’t you surprised that he didn’t come looking for you when you never showed up for your appointment?”
“To be honest, yes. But when he didn’t call, I decided it was better that way.”
“Listen, I want you to try hard to remember. When you were with him there, did you ever hear any noises in the rest of the house?”
“What do you mean, in the rest of the house? Do you mean the other rooms?”
“No, I meant on the ground floor.”
“What kind of noises?”
“I dunno, voices, sounds . . . a car pulling up . . .”
“No. The downstairs was empty.”
“Did he get a lot of phone calls?”
“When we were together, he would turn off his cell phones.”
“How many did he have?”
“Two. One was a satellite phone. Whenever he turned them on, someone would call almost immediately.”
“Did he always speak in Arabic or whatever that language was?
“No, sometimes he’d speak Italian. And in that case he would go into another room. But it’s not like I really cared to know what he was saying.”
“How did he explain them?”
“Explain what?”
“All those phone calls.”
“Why should he explain them?”
True enough, again.
“Do you know if he had any friends in this area?”
“I certainly never saw any. I don’t think so. It suited him just fine, not having any friends.”
“Why’s that?”
“One of the few times he told me about himself, he said that on his last voyage, his oil tanker had caused a huge environmental disaster. There was a lawsuit still pending, and the shipping company had advised him to disappear for a while. Which explained everything: the secluded villa, why he always stayed home, and so on.”
Even assuming everything he told Ingrid was true, thought the inspector, it still didn’t explain why D’Iunio- Errera had died the way he did. Was one to think that his shipping firm, to keep him quiet, had ordered him killed? Come on. There certainly were dark motives behind the murder and, according to Ingrid’s description of him, he wasn’t a man with nothing to hide. But these dark motives lay elsewhere.
“I think I’ve earned a little whisky, Mr. Inspector,” Ingrid said at this point.
Montalbano got up and opened the liquor cabinet. Luckily Adelina had remembered to restock. There was a brand-new bottle. He went in the kitchen to get two glasses, returned, sat down, and filled the glasses halfway. They both wanted it neat. Ingrid took her glass, raised it, and eyed the inspector.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Murdered, right? If not, you wouldn’t be handling the case.”
Montalbano nodded yes.
“When did it happen?”
“I believe he never called you after you failed to show up because he was no longer in any condition to do so.”
“He was already dead?”
“I don’t know if they killed him immediately or kept him prisoner a long time.”
