“You want any?”
Montalbano said no. He had sat down on the couch and was looking out at the sea. The light was dim enough to allow him to see beyond the glass. Ingrid came and sat down beside him.
“I’ve sat here looking at the sea in better times.”
She slid a little closer on the sofa, rested her head on the inspector’s shoulder. He didn’t move; he immediately understood that her gesture was not an attempt at seduction.
“Ingrid, remember what I told you in the car?
That our conversation was an unofficial one?”
“Yes.”
“Now answer me truthfully. Those clothes in the armoire, did you bring them here yourself or were they put there?”
“I brought them myself. I thought I might need them.”
“Were you Luparello’s mistress?”
“No.”
“No? You seem quite at home here.”
“I slept with Luparello only once, six months after arriving in Montelusa. But never again. He brought me here. But we did become friends, true friends, like I had never done before with a man, not even in my country. I could tell him anything, anything at all. If I got into trouble, he would manage to get me out of it, without asking any questions.”
“Are you trying to make me believe that the one time you were here you brought all those dresses, jeans, and panties, not to mention the purse and the necklace?”
Ingrid pulled away, irritated.
“I’m not trying to make you believe anything. I’m just telling you. After a while I asked Silvio if I could use this house now and then, and he said yes. He asked me only one thing: to be very discreet and never tell anyone who it belonged to.”
“And when you wanted to come, how did you know if the place was empty and available?”
“We had agreed on a code of telephone rings. I kept my word with Silvio. I used to bring only one man here, always the same one.”
She took a long sip, and sort of hunched her shoulders forward.
“A man who forced his way into my life for two years. Because I—afterward, I didn’t want to anymore.”
“After what?”
“After the first time. I was afraid, of the whole situation. But he was . . . sort of blinded, sort of obsessed with me. Only physically, though. He would want to see me every day. Then, when I brought him here, he would jump all over me, turn violent, tear my clothes off. That was why I had those changes of clothes in the armoire.”
“Did this man know whose house this was?”
“I never told him, and he never asked. He’s not jealous, you see, he just wants me. He never gets tired of being inside me. He’s ready to take me at any moment.”
“I see. And for his part did Luparello know who you were bringing here?”
“Same thing—he didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.”
Ingrid stood up.
“Couldn’t we go somewhere else to talk? This place depresses me now. Are you married?”
“No,” said Montalbano, surprised.
“Let’s go to your place.” She smiled cheerlessly. “I told you it would end up this way, didn’t I?”
13
Neither of the two felt like talking, and fifteen minutes passed in silence. But once again the inspector surrendered to the cop in him. In fact, once they had reached the bridge that spanned the Canneto, he pulled up to the side, put on the brakes, and got out of the car, telling Ingrid to do the same. From the summit of the bridge Montalbano showed the woman the river’s dry bed, which one could make out in the moonlight.
“See,” he said, “the riverbed leads straight to the beach. It’s on a steep incline and full of big rocks and stones. Think you could drive a car down there?”
“I don’t know. It’d be different if it was daylight.
But I could try, if you want me to.”
She stared at the inspector and smiled, her eyes half shut.
“You found out about me, eh? So what should I do?”
“Do it.”
“All right. You wait here.”
She got in the car and drove off. It took only a few seconds for the headlights to disappear from view.
“Well, that’s that. She took me for a sucker,” said Montalbano, resigning himself.
