That would fix Captain Ernesto Panzacchi. At midnight all his moves would enter the public domain.
He really didn’t feel like eating. He undressed, got into the shower, and stayed there a long time. Emerging, he put on a clean pair of briefs and undershirt. Now came the hard part.
‘Livia.’
‘Oh, Salvo, I’ve been waiting so long for your call! How is Francois?’
‘He’s great. He’s grown a lot.’
‘Did you notice the progress he’s made? Every week, when I call, his Italian gets better and better. He’s become so good at making himself understood, don’t you think?’
‘Even too good.’
Livia paid no attention; she had another pressing question.
‘What did Franca want?’
‘She wanted to talk to me about Francois.’
‘Why, is he too energetic?
Disobedient?’
‘Livia, that’s not the problem. Maybe we made a mistake keeping him so long with Franca and her husband. The boy has grown attached to them. He told me he doesn’t want to leave them.’
‘He told you himself?’
‘Yes, of his own free will.’
‘Of his own free will!
You’re such an idiot!’
‘Why?’
‘Because they told him to say that to you! They want to take him away from us! They need free labour for their farm, the rascals!’
‘Livia, you’re talking nonsense.’
‘No, it’s true, I tell you!
They want to keep him for themselves! And you’re happy to turn him over to them!’ ‘Livia, try to be rational.’
‘Oh, I’m rational, all right, I’m very rational! And I’ll show you and those two kidnappers just how rational I am!’
She hung up. Without putting on any additional clothing, the inspector went and sat out on the veranda, lit a cigarette, and finally gave free rein to his melancholy.
Francois, by now, was a lost cause, despite the fact that Franca was leaving the decision up to Livia and him. The truth of the matter, plain and unvarnished, was what Mimi’s sister had said to him: children aren’t parcels that you can deposit here or there whenever you feel like it. You can’t not take their feelings into account. Rapisardi, the lawyer who was following the adoption proceedings for the inspector, had told him it would take another six months at least. And that would give Francois all the time in the world to put down roots at the Gagliardo home. Livia was crazy if she thought Franca could ever put words in the child’s mouth. He, Montalbano, had got a good look at Francois’s expression when he ran up to embrace him. He remembered those eyes well now: there was fear in them, and childish hatred. Besides, he could understand how the kid felt. He’d already lost his mother and was afraid to lose his new family. In the end, he and Livia had spent very little time with the boy; their images hadn’t taken long to fade in his mind. Montalbano felt that he would never, ever have the courage to inflict another trauma on Francois. He had no right. Nor did Livia. The kid was lost to them for ever.
For his part, he would consent to the child’s remaining with Aldo and Franca, who were happy to adopt him. But now he felt cold, so he got up and went inside.
‘Were you sleeping, Chief?
Fazio here. I wanted to inform you that we held a meeting this afternoon. And we wrote a letter of protest to the commissioner. Everybody signed it, starting with Inspector Augello. Let me read it to you: “We the undersigned, as members of Central Police Headquarters of Vigata, deplore—’” ‘Wait. Did you send it?’
‘Yes, Chief.’
‘What a bunch of fucking idiots! You could at least have let me know before sending it!’
‘Why? Before or after, what’s the difference?’
‘I would have talked you out of making such a stupid move!’
He cut off the connection, enraged.
It took him a while to fall asleep. Then an hour later he woke up, turned on the light, and sat up in bed.
Something like a flash had made him open his eyes. During his visit to the crime scene with Dr Licalzi, something — a word, a sound — had seemed, well, dissonant. What was it? He lashed out at himself. ‘What the fuck do you care?
The case isn’t yours any more.’
He turned off the light and lay back down.
‘And neither is Francois,’
he added bitterly.
TEN
The next morning, at headquarters, the staff was almost at full strength: Augello, Fazio, Germana, Gallo, Galluzzo, Giallombardo, Tortorella and Grasso. The only one missing was Catarella, who had a legitimate excuse for his absence, attending the first class in his computer training course. Everyone was wearing a long face fit for the Day of the Dead, avoiding Montalbano as if he were contagious, not looking him in the eye. They’d been doubly offended: first by the commissioner, who’d taken the investigation away from their chief just to spite him, and, second, by their chief himself, who had reacted meanly to their letter of protest to the commissioner. Not only had he not thanked them — what can you do, the inspector was just that way — but he had called them a bunch of fucking idiots, and Fazio had told them this.
All present, therefore, but all bored to death, because, except for the Licalzi homicide, it had been two months since anything substantial had happened. For example, the Cuffaro and Sinagra families, two criminal gangs perpetually engaged in a turf war who were in the custom of leaving behind, with near-perfect regularity, one corpse per month (one month a Cuffaro, the next month a Sinagra), seemed to have lost their enthusiasm a while back. Such indeed had been the case ever since Giosue Cuffaro, after being arrested and having suddenly repented of his crimes, had helped lock up Peppuccio Sinagra, who, after being arrested and having suddenly repented of his crimes, had helped put away Antonio Smecca, a cousin of the Cuffaros, who, after suddenly repenting of his crimes, had pulled the plug on Cicco Lo Carmine, of the Sinagra gang, who.
The only noise to be heard in Vigata had been made the previous month, at the San Gerlando festival, by the firework display.
‘The number-one bosses are all in jaili’ Commissioner Bonetri-Alderighi had triumphantly exclaimed at a jam-packed press conference.
That morning Grasso, who had taken Catarella’s place at the switchboard, was doing crossword puzzles, Gallo and Galluzzo were testing each other’s mettle at the card game of scopa, Giallombardo and Tortorella were engrossed in a game of draughts, and the others were either reading or contemplating the wall.
The place, in short, was buzzing with activity.
On his desk Montalbano found a mountain of papers to be signed and various other matters to be dealt with. Subde revenge on the part of his men?
The bomb, unexpectedly, exploded at one, when the inspector, his right arm stiffening, was considering going out to eat.
‘Chief, there’s a lady, Anna Tropeano, asking for you. She seems upset,’ said Grasso.
‘Salvo! My God! On the TV
news headlines they said Maurizio’s been killed!’
As there weren’t any television sets at the police station, Montalbano shot out of his office, on his way down to the Bar Italia.
Fazio intercepted him.
‘Chief, what’s happening?’
‘They killed Maurizio Di Blasi.’
Gelsomino, the owner of the bar, along with two clients, were staring open-mouthed at the television screen, where a TeleVigata reporter was talking about the incident.
‘… and during this night-long interrogation of the engineer Aurelio Di Blasi, Ernesto Panzacchi, captain of the Flying Squad, surmised that Di Blasi’s son, Maurizio, a prime suspect in the Michela Licalzi murder case, might be hiding out at a country house belonging to the Di Blasi family in the Raffadali
