He put it on her lap. The woman looked at it and seemed truly surprised.
“How did you get this?”
“Is it yours?”
“Of course it’s mine. It has my initials on it.”
When she saw that the two letters of the alphabet were missing, she became even more confused.
“They must have fallen off,” she said in a low voice, but she was unconvinced. She was losing her way in a labyrinth of questions without answer, and clearly something was beginning to trouble her now.
“Your initials are still there, you just can’t see them because it’s dark. Somebody tore them off, but their imprints are there in the leather.”
“But who tore them off ? And why?”
Now a note of anxiety sounded in her voice. The inspector didn’t answer. He knew perfectly well why they had done it: to make it look as if Ingrid had wanted to make the purse anonymous. When they came to the little dirt road that led to Capo Massaria, Montalbano, who had accelerated as if intending to go straight, suddenly cut the wheel violently, turning onto the path. All at once, without a word, Ingrid threw open the car door, nimbly exited the moving vehicle, and started fleeing through the trees. Cursing, the inspector braked, jumped out, and gave chase.
After a few seconds he realized he would never catch her and stopped, undecided. At that exact moment he saw her fall. When he was beside her, Ingrid, who had been unable to get back up, interrupted her Swedish monologue, incomprehensible but clearly expressing fear and rage.
“Fuck off !” she said, and continued massaging her ankle.
“Get up, and no more bullshit.”
With effort, she obeyed and leaned against Montalbano, who remained motionless, not helping her.
~
The gate opened easily; it was the front door that put up resistance.
“Let me do it,” said Ingrid. She had followed him without making a move, as though resigned. But she had been preparing her plan of defense.
“You won’t find anything inside, you know,” she said in the doorway, her tone defiant.
She turned on the light, confident, but when she looked inside and saw the videocassettes and the perfectly furnished room, she reacted with visible surprise, a wrinkle creasing her brow.
“They told me . . .”
She checked herself at once and fell silent, shrugging her shoulders. She eyed Montalbano, awaiting his next move.
“Into the bedroom,” said the inspector.
Ingrid opened her mouth, about to make an easy quip, but lost heart. Turning her back, she limped into the other room, turned on the light, and this time showed no surprise; she expected it to be all in order.
She sat down at the foot of the bed. Montalbano opened the left-hand door of the armoire.
“Do you know whose clothes these are?”
“They must belong to Silvio, to Mr. Luparello.”
He opened the middle door.
“Are these wigs yours?”
“I’ve never worn a wig.”
When he opened the right-hand door, Ingrid closed her eyes.
“Look, that’s not going to solve anything. Are these yours?”
“Yes, but—”
“But they weren’t supposed to be there anymore,”
Montalbano finished her sentence.
Ingrid gave a start.
“How did you know? Who told you?”
“Nobody told me. I figured it out. I’m a cop, remember? Was the purse also in the armoire?”
Ingrid nodded yes.
“And the necklace you said you lost, where was that?”
“Inside the purse. I had to wear it once, then I came here and left it here.”
She paused a moment and looked the inspector long in the eye.
“What does this all mean?” she asked.
“Let’s go back in the other room.”
~
Ingrid took a glass from the sideboard, filled it halfway with straight whiskey, drank almost all of it in a single draft, then refilled it.
