‘Hello, Pasquano?
Montalbano here. Got any news for me?’
‘A few things. I was about to call you myself.’ ‘Tell me everything.’
‘The victim hadn’t eaten dinner. Or very little, at least, maybe a sandwich. She had a gorgeous body, inside and out. In perfect health, a splendid machine. She hadn’t drunk anything or taken any drugs. Death was caused by asphyxiation.’
Is that it?’
‘No. She’d clearly had sexual intercourse.’
‘Was she raped?’
‘I don’t think so. She’d had very rough vaginal intercourse, intense, I suppose you could say. But there was no trace of seminal fluid there. Then she’d had anal intercourse, also very rough, and again no seminal fluid.’
‘But how can you know she wasn’t raped?’
‘Quite simple. To prepare for anal penetration an emollient cream was used, probably one of those moisturizing creams women keep in the bathroom. Have you ever heard of a rapist worried about minimizing his victim’s pain? No, trust me: the lady consented. And now I have to let you go. I’ll give you more details as soon as possible.’
The inspector had an exceptional photographic memory. Closing his eyes, he put his head in his hands and concentrated. A moment later he could clearly see the little jar of moisturizing cream with the lid lying beside it, the last item on the right-hand side of the messy bathroom’s shelf.
The nameplate next to the intercom outside Via Laporta 8 said only, ‘Eng. Aurelio Di Blasi’. He rang, and a woman’s voice answered. ‘Who is it?’
Better not put her on her guard. They were probably already on pins and needles. Is Engineer Di Blasi there?’ ‘No, but he’ll be back soon. Who is this?’
‘I’m a friend of Maurizio’s. Could I come in?’ For a moment he felt like a piece of shit, but it was his job.
‘Top floor,’ said the voice.
The lift door was opened by a woman of about sixty, dishevelled and looking very upset.
‘You’re a friend of Maurizio’s?’ the woman asked anxiously.
‘Sort of,’ replied Montalbano, feeling the shit spill out over his collar. ‘Please come in’
She led him into a large, tastefully furnished living room, pointed him towards an armchair, while she herself sat down in a plain chair, rocking her upper body back and forth, silent and desperate. The shutters were dosed, some miserly shafts of light filtering through the slats. Montalbano felt as if he were attending a wake. He even thought the deceased was there, though invisible, and that his name was Maurizio. Scattered on the coffee table were a dozen or so photos that all showed the same face, but in the shadowy room one couldn’t make out the features. The inspector heaved a long sigh, the way one does before holding one’s breath to go underwater, for he was about to dive into the abyss of sorrow that was the mind of Mrs Di Blasi.
‘Have you heard from your son?’
It was clear as day that things were exactly as Fazio had said.
‘No. Everyone’s been looking for him over land and sea. My husband, his friends … Everyone.’
She started weeping quietly, tears running down her face, falling onto her skirt.
‘Did he have much money on him?’
‘Half a million lire, for certain. He also had a card, how’s it called? An ATM card.’
‘Let me get you a glass of water,’ said Montalbano, standing up.
‘Please don’t bother, I’ll get it myself,’ the woman said, standing up in turn and leaving the room. In a flash Montalbano seized one of the photos, glanced at it — a horse-faced kid with expressionless eyes — and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Apparently Mr Di Blasi had had them made to be passed around. Mrs Di Blasi returned, but instead of sitting back down, she remained standing in the arch of the doorway. She’d become suspicious.
‘You’re quite a bit older than my son. What did you say your name was?’
‘Actually, Maurizio is friends with my younger brother, Giuseppe.’
He’d chosen one of the most common names in Sicily. But the signora’s thoughts were already elsewhere. She sat down and resumed rocking back and forth.
‘So you’ve, had no news of him since Wednesday evening?’
‘None whatsoever. He didn’t come home that night.
He’d never done that before. He’s a simple boy, good-hearted. If you tell him dogs can fly, he’ll believe you. At some point that morning, my husband got worried and started making phone calls. A friend of his had seen him walking by in the direction of the Bar Italia. It was probably nine in the evening.’
‘Did he have a mobile phone?’
‘Yes. But who are you, anyway?’
‘Well,’ the inspector said.
‘I think I’ll go now.’
He headed quickly for the door, opened it, then turned round.
‘When was the last time Michela came here?’ Mrs Di Blasi turned red in the face. ‘Don’t you mention that slut’s name to me!’ And she slammed the door behind him.
The Bar Italia was practically next door to police headquarters. Everyone, Montalbano included, was family there. The owner was sitting at the cash register. He was a big man with ferocious eyes that contrasted with his innate kind-heartedness. His name was Gelsomino Patti. ‘What‘11 it be, Inspector?’
‘Nothing, Gelso. I need some information. Do you know this Maurizio Di Blasi?’ ‘Did they find him?’ ‘Not yet.’
‘His dad, poor guy, has come by here at least ten times to ask if there’s any news. But what kind of news could there be? If he comes back, he’s going to go home, he ain’t going to come and sit down at the bar.’
‘Listen, Pasquale Corso—’
Inspector, the father told me the same thing, that Maurizio came here round nine that night. But the fact is, he stopped on the street, right here in front, and I seen him real good from the register. He was about to come in, and then he stopped, pulled out his mobile phone, and started talking. A little while later he was gone. On Wednesday evening, he didn’t come in here, that much I know for sure. What reason would I have for savin’ something that wasn’t true?’
‘Thanks, Gelso. So long.’
‘Chief! Dr Latte called from Montelusa.’
‘Lattes, Cat, with an s at the end.’
‘Chief, one s more or less don’ make no difference. He said as how you should call ‘im ‘mediately. And then Guito Sarah Valli called after ‘im. Left me ‘is number in Bolonia. I wrote it on this here piece a paper.’
It was time, to eat, but he could squeeze in one call.
‘Hello? Who’s this?’
‘Inspector Montalbano. I’m calling from Vigata. Are you Mr Guido Serravalle?’
‘Yes. Inspector. IVe been trying to reach you all morning, because when I called the Jolly to talk to Michela I found out…’
A warm, mature voice, like a crooner’s.
‘Are you a relative?’
He’d always found it to be a good tactic to pretend, during an investigation, that he knew nothing about the relationships between the various persons involved.
‘No. Actually, I…’
‘Friend?’
‘Yes, a friend.’