“Killed him . . . how?”
“Drowned him.”
“How did you find him?”
“He found me, actually.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Remember when you saw me naked on TV?”
“Yes.”
“The dead body I bumped into on my swim was his.”
Only then did Ingrid bring the glass to her lips, and she didn’t lower it until there wasn’t a drop of whisky left in it. Then she got up, went to the veranda, and stepped outside. Montalbano took his first sip and lit a cigarette. Ingrid came back inside and went into the bathroom. She returned after washing her face, sat back down, and refilled her glass.
“Have any more questions?”
“A few more. Is there anything of yours at the villa in Spigonella?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you leave anything of yours there?”
“Like what?”
“How should I know? A change of clothes . . .”
“Panties?”
“Uh . . .”
“No, there’s nothing of mine there. As I said, I never felt like spending the whole night there with him. Why do you ask?”
“Because, sooner or later, we’ll have to search the villa.”
“Don’t worry about that. Any other questions? I’m feeling a little tired.”
Montalbano pulled the photos out of his pocket and handed them to Ingrid.
“Which one looks most like him?”
“But aren’t these pictures of him?”
“They’re computer composites. His face was very badly deteriorated, unrecognizable.”
Ingrid studied them, then chose the one with the mustache.
“This one,” she said. “But . . .”
“But?”
“Two things are wrong. His mustache was a lot longer and had a different shape, kind of a handlebar mustache . . .”
“And the other thing?”
“The nose. The nostrils were wider.”
Montalbano took the dossier out of the envelope.
“As in this shot?”
“That’s him, all right,” said Ingrid. “Even without the mustache.”
There was no longer any doubt: D’Iunio and Errera were the same person. Catarella’s wacky theory had proved true.
Montalbano stood up and held his hand out to Ingrid, making her get up. When she was fully erect, he embraced her.
“Thanks,” he said.
Ingrid looked at him.
“Is that all?” she said.
“Let’s take the bottle and glasses out on the veranda,” said the inspector. “Now the fun begins.”
They settled onto the bench very close to each other. The night now smelled of brine, mint, whisky, and apricot, which was exactly what Ingrid’s skin smelled like. It was a blend not even a prize
They didn’t speak. They were happy just the way they were. Her third glass Ingrid left half full.
“Do you mind if I lie down on your bed?” she murmured suddenly.
“Don’t you want to go home?”
“I don’t feel up to driving.”
“I’ll take you home in my car. You can come pick it up—”
“I don’t want to go home. But if you really don’t want me to stay here, I’ll just lie down for a few minutes. Then
