'Listen, Inspector, the opinion I gave you is just between us, okay? It has no legal value whatsoever.'
...
The commissioner greeted him at once, with arms joyfully open.
'What a wonderful surprise!'
'Do you have a little time?'
'Come along with me, we'll go to my house. I'm expecting a phone call from my son. My wife will be so happy to see you.'
The commissioner's son, Massimo, was a doctor who belonged to a volunteer organization that defined itself as without borders. Its members went to work in war-torn countries, lending their skills as best they could.
'My sons a pediatrician, you know. He's in Rwanda at the moment. I'm very worried about him.'
'Is there still fighting?'
'I wasn't referring to the fighting. Every time he manages to call us, he sounds more and more overwhelmed by the horror and anguish.'
The commissioner fell silent. To distract him from his preoccupations, Montalbano told him the news.
'I'm ninety-nine percent certain I know the first and last name of the dead girl we found in the Crasticeddru.'
The commissioner said nothing, but only gaped at him.
'Her name was Elisa Moscato, aged seventeen.'
'How the devil did you find that out?'
Montalbano recounted the whole story.
The commissioner's wife took his hand as if he were a little boy, and had him sit down on the sofa. They spoke for a short while, and then the inspector stood up and said he had an engagement and had to go. It wasn't true, but he didn't want to be there when the call came. The commissioner and his wife should be allowed to enjoy their faraway son's voice in peace and by themselves, however full of sorrow and pain his words might be. As he was leaving the house, he heard the telephone ring.
...
'I've kept my word, as you can see. I brought you back the photograph.'
'Come in, come in.'
Signora Burgio stepped aside to let him in.
'Who is it?' her husband called loudly from the dining room.
'It's the inspector.'
'Well, invite him inside!' the headmaster roared as if his wife had somehow refused to let him in.
They were eating supper.
'Shall I set a place for you?' the signora asked pleasantly. And without waiting for an answer, she put a soup dish on the table for him. Montalbano sat down, and the signora served him some fish broth, reduced to a divine density and enlivened with parsley.
'Were you able to find anything out about the photo?' she asked, without noticing the disapproving look her husband was giving her for being, in his opinion, too forward.
'Unfortunately, yes, signora. I think it's a photomontage.'
'My God! So whoever sent it to me wanted me to believe something that wasn't true!'
'Yes, I do think that was the purpose. To try to put an end to your inquiries about Lisetta.'
'See? I was right!' the woman practically yelled at her husband, and then she started to weep.
'Come on, why are you crying?' Burgio asked.
'Because Lisetta is dead, and they wanted me to think she was alive and happily married!'
'Well, it might have been Lisetta herself who'
'Don't be ridiculous!' said the signora, throwing her napkin on the table.
There was an awkward silence. Then Mrs. Burgio spoke again.
'She's dead, isn't she, Inspector?'
'I'm afraid she is.'
The headmaster's wife got up and left the dining room, covering her face with her hands. As soon as she was out of the room they heard her give in to a kind of plaintive whimpering.
'I'm sorry,' said the inspector.
'She got what she was looking for,' Burgio said without pity, keeping to the logic of his own side of the marital quarrel.
'Let me ask you one question. Are you sure that the feelings Lillo and Lisetta had for each other were only the kind that you and your wife mentioned?'
'What do you mean?'
