Death in Sardinia (16 page)

At first glance the house seemed abandoned. The roof was warped and a gutter had come detached and was dangling in the void.Tall grass was growing through the cracks in the brick pavement of the threshing floor. Opposite the house was a large, half-ruined barn full of wreckage. The shell of an old Lancia Ardea, a pair of rusted Lambretta scooters without wheels and resting on bricks. Bicycle frames, an old Motom that looked as if it had caught fire, and countless other things thrown about helter-skelter.

He entered the loggia and knocked on the door. There was no reply. He knocked again, harder this time.There were motor-oil stains and faint tyre tracks on the tiled flooring, as if someone parked a motorbike there. There wasn’t a soul around. The house really did seem uninhabited. Aside from those marks under the loggia, there was nothing to make one think otherwise. He went round to the back of the house. The olive grove was fairly large and sloped slightly downwards. It looked rather neglected, the ground all overgrown with weeds, though the olive trees looked well tended and the olives had been harvested.

Twenty or so paces from the house, under a fig tree, there was some wire fencing enclosing a small wooden shelter.Within the enclosure some twenty-odd chickens were scratching about in the company of a white rooster which looked too old to enjoy all that good luck. A few items of clothing had been hung out to dry on a line, only men’s garments, mostly shirts. A bit farther from the house was a sort of large tool shed, as ramshackle as everything else. Here and there Bordelli could see abandoned grapevines, their black, contorted stocks strangling the support posts while the unpruned shoots snaked along the ground for several yards. Beyond the olive grove was a forest of pine and cypress that climbed up the hillside. Here and there in the distance could be seen large yellow farmhouses amid the vineyards, a number of churches, and the crenellated towers of a few fake nineteenth-century castles. It wasn’t often that Bordelli saw such open spaces. He liked the countryside more and more, and in an era like the present one, he was perhaps the only person who thought that way. Perhaps he needed to stop thinking about it and finally take the plunge. Sell his flat in San Frediano and move to a place like this, or perhaps even farther away from Florence … To Impruneta, or Strada in Chianti, or even Greve. He started strolling through the olive grove, enjoying the light breeze caressing his face. He tried to imagine himself at one with the land. He didn’t know the first thing about it, but he would gladly ask the advice of the local peasants so he could learn. He would try making wine, growing salad greens and tomatoes and raising chickens. It couldn’t be that difficult.

He went back to the threshing floor in the forecourt. The sky was a grey dome. Unable to hold out any longer, he lit his first cigarette of the day, thinking he would take the bull by the horns another day. He smoked it while poking about in the barn amidst carcasses of bicycles and motorbikes, pots and pans without handles, glass jars, crates, torn blankets and dismantled bedframes. There were six or seven old tyres stacked on top of one another, and through the holes in the middle stood some pestle-shaped sticks used to crush grapes in tubs. He’d seen them being used once or twice as a child, when he and his father would take the bus out to the country to buy wine from the priest at Montefioralle or some other vintner. Those big sticks had a precise name, but he couldn’t remember it just then.

He went back outside. Crushing the cigarette butt on the brick threshing floor, he glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock. He didn’t feel like waiting any longer and decided to come back another time. He got into the Beetle and turned on the ignition. As he was backing up, a young man arrived on a Vespa. He was wearing goggles that covered half of his face. Bordelli turned off the engine and got out. The lad parked the Vespa under the loggia and took off his goggles. He looked about twenty years old. He was wearing a raincoat that must have once been white. He walked towards Bordelli, a leather bag in his hand, and stopped about ten feet away.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ he asked. He had a beautiful face, dark eyes and black hair.

‘Hello,’ Bordelli said provocatively.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ the youth repeated, slightly annoyed. His expression seemed to be one of eternal resentment.

‘I would like to speak with Signora Beltempo,’ the inspector said.

‘My mother died three months ago.’ This might be the Odoardo mentioned in the letter, Rosaria’s son.

‘I’m sorry … Your mother must have been very young,’

Bordelli said.

‘Forty-two.’

‘What happened?’

‘To whom am I speaking, if I may ask?’

‘Sorry … I’m Inspector Bordelli, police,’ said the inspector, pulling out his badge.

The lad’s face tensed.

‘My mother was hit by a car. Why are you looking for her?’ he asked coldly.

The inspector took a few steps forward and stopped in front of him.

‘I wanted to give something back to her and talk to her a little,’ he said vaguely.

‘Whatever it is, you can give it to me.’

‘It’s a private matter. I don’t know if your mother would approve.’

‘My mother is dead. Is there anything else you have to tell me? I’m in a bit of a rush,’ the youth said, stiff as a tree trunk.

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘To know whether you have any brothers or sisters.’

‘Good answer.’

‘Does your father live with you?’

‘I live alone,’ the lad said.

‘Oh … And where is your father?’

‘I don’t know, I’ve never met him.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I stopped thinking about it a long time ago,’ said the youth, shrugging. Aren’t you afraid to be here all alone?’

‘Are you referring to the bogeyman or the big bad wolf ?’

The inspector smiled. He was amusing himself, but that wasn’t why he’d come.

‘Do you know someone called Totuccio Badalamenti?’ he asked out of the blue.

‘No,’ the boy said decisively. But Bordelli had seen him give a slight start, with nostrils flaring. Perhaps it was only a coincidence, or perhaps the boy was just nervous because a policeman was asking him strange questions.

‘So you live here all alone,’ Bordelli repeated, gesturing towards the large house.

‘Yes, I live here all alone.’

‘It’s a nice big place. Is the land around it yours?’

‘A few hectares,’ the lad said placidly. He’d already recovered his cool.

‘You’re very lucky … Do you tend the olive trees yourself ?’ Bordelli asked with great apparent interest.

‘No.’

‘Who takes care of them?’

‘An old peasant who lives near by.’

‘I can just imagine how good the oil must be … The new oil’s ready now, you know, the kind that stings on the tongue,’ said Bordelli.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. He seemed annoyed.

‘Do you have anything else to ask me, Inspector? I’m a little busy.’

Bordelli calmly took another step forward.

‘No, nothing else,’ he said.

‘Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going,’ the youth said, staring at him with hostility.

‘There’s no need to hurry.’

‘Unfortunately, I happen to be in a hurry.’

‘Tell me … What are you doing for Christmas?’

‘Nothing I have to tell the police about,’ the lad said.

‘I wasn’t asking as a policeman.’

‘At any rate I’ve still got nothing to say.

Bordelli glanced at the old Ardea.

‘Beautiful car. Did it belong to your mother?’

‘We found it.’

‘In my day it was everybody’s dream.’

The lad made a gesture of exasperation.

‘Goodbye, Inspector. As I said, I’m very busy.’ And he turned away and walked towards the house, keys in hand.

‘Just a second, Odoardo,’ said Bordelli.

The boy turned round abruptly.

‘How do you know my name?’ he asked.

The inspector walked towards him with his hands in his pockets.

‘I’m a policeman …’ he said as though excusing himself.

‘Why don’t you tell me straight out why you came here?’

‘Do you know that this same Mr Badalamenti was killed?’ Bordelli asked, looking him straight in the eye.

‘I don’t know him,’ Odoardo said indifferently, looking for the right key on the chain.

‘Don’t you want to know who he was?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll tell you anyway. He was a loan shark … A despicable usurer and extortionist.’

‘I’m not interested,’ Odoardo said impatiently, sticking the key in the lock. With his left hand, Bordelli noticed, but perhaps that was because he had his bag in his right.

‘Somebody stabbed him in the neck with a pair of nice sharp scissors, the pointed kind …’

‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t care.’

‘The killer searched the whole house, but in my opinion he didn’t find what he was looking for.’ Odoardo shot him another exasperated glance.

‘I really don’t know what you’re getting at,’ he said, annoyed, letting the key chain dangle from the door.

‘I just wanted to have a little chat.’

‘What does any of this have to do with my mother?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Bordelli. Then he took out the ring with the name
Ciro
inside and went up to Odoardo.

‘Does this ring look familiar to you?’ he asked, handing it to him.

The boy looked at it for only a second.

‘Never seen it,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Of course not, I would need several days to think it over.’

‘You see? You can be funny when you want to be,’ said Bordelli.

‘Let’s make this quick. Is this what you wanted to give my mother?’

‘Do you know where I found it?’ Bordelli asked, ignoring the question.

‘Do you want to keep me here until nightfall, Inspector?’

‘It was in Badalamenti’s stomach …’

‘So what?’

‘The guy swallowed it. When the police pathologist opened him up, he found it in there somewhere … Odd, don’t you think?’

The youth looked at the ring again.

‘I’ve never seen it before,’ he repeated. Then he handed the ring back to Bordelli and turned the key in the lock.

‘Have you got a telephone?’ the inspector asked absently, eyes narrowing.

‘Yes, why?’

‘Could you please give me the number?’

‘What for?’

‘I may need you.’

‘You can find it in the phone book.’

‘Since we’re here, tell it to me yourself …’

Odoardo looked at him in defiance, then shook his head and told him the number. The inspector searched his pockets, pretending to be looking for something to write with.

‘I haven’t got a pen on me,’ he said, shrugging. Odoardo couldn’t take it any more and just wanted to get the whole thing over with. He set his bag down on the seat of the Vespa, yanked it open, and pulled out a pen and notebook. He scribbled the number, tore the sheet out, and handed it to Bordelli. The inspector noticed he held the pen in his right hand.

‘What do you do for a living, Odoardo? I’m not asking as a policeman,’ he said, putting the piece of paper in his pocket.

‘I work with an architect.’

‘Where?’

‘In Via Bertelli,’ the youth muttered, repressing the urge to tell him to go to hell.

‘Ah yes, over by Coverciano …’ said the inspector.

‘No, I’m referring to Via Timoteo Bertelli.’

‘I’m not familiar with it.’

‘It intersects with Via delle Forbici,’ said Odoardo, looking at him with antipathy.

‘I don’t believe it … I was born about a hundred yards away from there. Can you imagine?’

‘I can spend the rest of the afternoon imagining it. Now I have to go.’

‘What’s the architect’s name?’ Bordelli asked in a friendly tone.

‘Why? What do you want with him?’

‘I was just curious. Maybe I know him.’

‘Do you want to ask him if I go around at night killing people?’

‘I just want to know his name,’ said the inspector.

‘Giampiero Balducci.’

‘No, I don’t know him. Would you happen to have a cigarette? I’ve finished mine,’ Bordelli lied.

The young man pulled out a packet, nostrils flaring. With a brusque flick of the wrist, he made a cigarette pop out. Bordelli took it and thanked him. They were Alfas, matching the ash found in Badalamenti’s house. That didn’t mean anything, of course. A lot of people smoked Alfas, especially youngsters with no money.

‘Would you like a light, too?’ asked Odoardo, with feigned courtesy.

‘I’ll smoke it later, thanks,’ said Bordelli, putting it in his pocket.

‘Good. Do you need anything else, or can I get on with my life now?’

‘That’ll be all for now, but I’ll be back to see you soon, mind you … I like this place,’ the inspector said, looking around.

‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

‘Oh, one last thing, I’m sorry … What do you call that big stick in the shape of a pestle used to crush grapes in the—’

‘It’s called a plunger,’ the lad interrupted him, patience at the limit.

‘Ah yes, a plunger … Thank you so much.’

‘Not at all.’

‘See you soon,’ said Bordelli. He shook the youth’s hand and noticed that it was sweaty. Odoardo opened the door and disappeared inside.

Before leaving, Bordelli looked around again. He really did like the place. There was something glorious about the two tumbledown buildings.The carcass of the Ardea and the rusting motorcycles weren’t just scrap iron. All piled together like that in the barn, they were as fascinating as an archaeological find. Bordelli had a weakness for those sorts of things. He liked to see that time didn’t ravage only living beings.

He got into the Beetle and drove slowly back into town. When he turned on to the Viali, it was almost three. He passed the Fortezza and turned down Viale Lavagnini, which when he got confused he sometimes called Viale Principessa Margherita, as it was known before 1947. He was about to stop by the Trattoria da Cesare to see whether he could get a quick bite to eat, but then realised that Totò would only manage to make him eat more than he wanted. So he skipped it. Every so often one needs a break. He turned down Via Santa Caterina and shortly thereafter stopped in Piazza del Mercato Centrale. He went to the
friggitoria
in Borgo la Noce and had some fried polenta. Coming out, he noticed that the sky was still overcast with dense, grey clouds. At the tavern next door, he drank a glass of red. After a cup of black coffee, he lit Odoardo’s Alfa … Was it the third or the fourth cigarette of the day? He had to find a way to keep track. Inhaling the smoke, he felt a sort of thud in his chest. That blend of black tobacco was too strong for his taste.