'You're a shit,' Ingrid said calmly, 'and an asshole.'
'Yes, you're right. Every now and then something comes over me, and I get that way.'
'Does this Suckert really exist?'
'He used to. But he called himself Curzio Malaparte. He was a writer.'
They heard the roar of the Porsche, burning rubber as it pulled out.
'So did you get it out of your system?' Ingrid asked.
'I think so.'
'I could tell right away, you know, that you were in a bad mood.'
'What is it? Can you tell me?'
'I could, but it's not worth going into. Problems at work.'
Montalbano suggested that Ingrid leave her car in the bars parking lot; they would come back later to get it. Ingrid didn't ask him where they were going, nor what they were going to do. All of a sudden Montalbano asked her:
'How's it going with your father-in-law?'
'Fine!' Ingrid said cheerfully. 'I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it sooner. Things are fine with my father-in- law. He's left me in peace for two months now. Hes no longer after me.'
'What happened?'
'I don't know. He hasn't told me anything. The last time was on our way back from Fela, where we'd been to a wedding. My husband couldn't make it and my mother-in-law wasn't feeling well, so the two of us were left alone again. At some point he turned off onto a side road, continued for a mile or two, then stopped in a wooded area. He made me get out of the car, tore off my clothes, threw me to the ground, and fucked me with his usual brutality. The next day I left for Palermo with my husband, and when I got back a week later, my father-in-law seemed like he'd aged. He was trembling. Since then, he's sort of been avoiding me. Now when I find myself face-to-face with him in some corridor of the house, I'm no longer afraid he's going to push me up against the wall with one hand on my tits and the other on my cunt.'
'It's better this way, isn't it?'
...
The story Ingrid had just told him Montalbano knew better than she did. The inspector had learned of Ingrid's relations with her father-in-law the very first time he met her. Then one night, as they were talking, without warning, Ingrid had burst into convulsive sobs; she could no longer bear the situation with her husbands father. An absolutely liberated woman, she felt soiled, demeaned by this quasi-incestuous relationship that was being forced on her. She thought of leaving her husband and returning to Sweden. Being an excellent mechanic, she would manage to earn a living.
That was when Montalbano had made up his mind to help get her out of that mess. The following day, he'd invited Corporal Anna Ferrara to his house for dinner. Young Anna was in love with him and convinced that he and Ingrid were lovers.
'I'm desperate,' he had told her, opening the evening with a face worthy of a great tragic actor.
'Oh my God, what's wrong?' asked Anna, squeezing one of his hands in hers.
'Ingrid is cheating on me.'
He let his head fall to her breast and by some miracle managed to make his eyes grow moist.
Anna suppressed an exclamation of triumph. She'd been right all along! Meanwhile the inspector was hiding his face in his hands, and the girl felt overwhelmed by this exhibition of despair.
'You know, I never told you anything because I didn't want to upset you, but I did a little investigation about Ingrid. You're not the only man.'
'But I knew that!' said the inspector, his hands still over his face.
'What is it, then?'
'It's different this time! It's not some little fling like all the rest, which I could even forgive. She's in love, and he feels the same way!'
'Do you know who she's in love with?'
'Yes: her father-in-law.'
'Oh, Christ!' said Anna, giving a start. 'She told you herself ?'
'No, I found out on my own. Actually, she denies it. She denies everything. I need some kind of irrefutable proof, something to throw in her face. Do you know what I mean?'
Anna had offered to provide him with this irrefutable proof. And she'd gone to such lengths that she even managed to take some pictures of that rustic episode in the woods. She'd had them enlarged by a trusted girlfriend of hers in the crime lab and then turned them over to the inspector. Ingrids father-in-law, aside from being chief physician at Montelusa Hospital, was also a prominent local politician. And so Montalbano sent the man some eloquent initial documentation at his provincial party office, the hospital, and home. On the back of each photo were only the words: We've got you now. The barrage of images had apparently scared him to death: in a flash he'd seen his career and family jeopardized. In case of need, the inspector had another twenty or so photographs. He'd said nothing about this to Ingrid. The woman might throw a fit if she knew her Swedish sense of privacy had been violated.
Montalbano accelerated, now satisfied that the complex machinations he'd set in motion had achieved their desired goal.
