“Between us, down below,” said Ingrid.
Montalbano felt himself blush and tried to pull his hips back, but Ingrid kept him plastered against her.
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
For a second the car’s headlights shone directly on them, then it turned left at the last oak tree and disappeared.
“That was your car, a Jaguar,” said Ingrid.
Montalbano thanked the Good Lord that Marzilla had arrived in time. He couldn’t have held out another minute. Breathing heavily, he pulled away from Ingrid.
It wasn’t a chase because at no point did Marzilla or the other two men in the Jaguar have the feeling that another car was following them. Ingrid was an exceptional driver. For as long as they were off the main road to Vigata, she drove without headlights, guided only by the moonlight. She didn’t turn them on until they reached the main road, since she could easily hide in the traffic. Marzilla drove along briskly, though not overly fast, and this made it easier to shadow him. It was like following someone on foot. Marzilla’s Jaguar turned onto the road for Montelusa.
“I feel like I’m out for a boring Sunday drive,” said Ingrid.
Montalbano didn’t answer.
“Why did you bring your gun?” she continued. “You haven’t been needing it much.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yes, I was hoping for something more exciting.”
“Well, never fear. We’re not in the clear yet, something could still happen.”
After Montelusa, the Jaguar took the road for Montechiaro.
Ingrid yawned.
“Ouf! I have half a mind to let them know we’re following them.”
“Why?”
“To shake things up a little.”
“Don’t do anything stupid!”
The Jaguar drove past Montechiaro and took the road that led to the coast.
“You drive for a while,” said Ingrid. “I’m bored.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, because soon there won’t be any more cars on the road and you’ll have to turn off the headlights to avoid being spotted. And I can’t drive by moonlight.”
“And second?”
“And second, because you know this road a lot better than I do, especially at night.”
Ingrid turned a moment to face him.
“You know where they’re going?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To the villa of your former friend Nini D’Iunio, as he used to call himself.”
The BMW swerved, almost ending up in a field, but Ingrid quickly got it under control. She said nothing. When they got to Spigonella, instead of taking the road the inspector knew, Ingrid turned right.
“That’s not the—”
“I know,” said Ingrid, “but we can’t keep following the Jaguar here. There’s only one road that goes to the promontory and the house. They would definitely see us.”
“And so?”
“So I’m taking us to a spot from where we can see the front of the house. And we’ll get there a little before they do.”
Ingrid stopped the BMW at the edge of a cliff, behind a Moorish-style bungalow.
“Let’s get out. They can’t see our car from here, but we’ll have an excellent view of them.”
They went around the bungalow. On their left they had a clear view of the promontory and the road leading to the villa. Less than a minute later, the Jaguar pulled up to the closed gate. They heard two very brief toots of the horn, followed by a long one. Then the door on the ground floor opened, and against the light they saw the silhouette of a man going to open the gate. The Jaguar drove in, and the man walked back to the house, leaving the gate open.
“Let’s go,” said Montalbano. “There’s nothing more to see here.”
They got back in the car.
“Now, turn on the motor,” said the inspector, “and, with headlights off, we’re going to go to . . . Do you remember that small red-and-white villa where Spigonella begins?”
“Yes.”
