‘Forgive me,’ said Licalzi, sitting down in an armchair. ‘I didn’t imagine .. .It’s just horrible to die like that. The killer held her face down against the mattress, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was very fond of Michela, very. She had become like a daughter to me, you-know.’
Tears started streaming down his face again, and he wiped them away, without much success, with a handkerchief.
‘Why did she decide to build this house here instead of somewhere else?’ the inspector asked.
‘She had always mythologized Sicily, without ever knowing the place. The first time she came for a visit, she became enchanted with it. I think she wanted to create a refuge for herself here. See that little display cabinet? Those are her things in there, personal trinkets she brought down with her from Bologna. It says a lot about her intentions, don’t you think?’
‘Do you want to check and see if anything’s missing?’
The doctor got up and went over to the display cabinet.
‘May I open it?’
‘Of course.’
The doctor stared at it a long time, then raised a hand and picked up the old violin case, opened it, showed the inspector the instrument that was inside, reclosed it, put it back in its place, and shut the door.
‘At a glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything missing’
‘Did your wife play the violin?’
‘No, she didn’t play the violin or any other instrument. It belonged to her maternal grandfather from Cremona, who made them. And now, Inspector, if it’s all right with you, I want you to tell me everything.’
Montalbano told him everything, from the accident on Thursday morning to what Dr Pasquano had reported to him.
Emanuele Licalzi, when it was over, remained silent for a spell, then said only two words, ‘Genetic fingerprinting’
‘I’m not really up on scientific jargon.’ ‘Sorry. I was referring to the disappearance of her clothes and shoes.’ ‘Might be a decoy.’
‘Maybe. But it might also be that the killer felt he had no choice but to get rid of them’
‘Because he’d soiled them?’
asked Montalbano, thinking of Signora Clementina’s thesis.
‘The coroner said there was no trace of seminal fluid, right?’
‘Yes’
‘That reinforces my hypothesis, that the killer didn’t want to leave the slightest biological trace that could be used in DNA testing — that’s what I meant by genetic fingerprinting. Real fingerprints can be wiped away, but what can you do about semen, hair, skin? The killer tried to make a clean sweep.’
‘Right,’ said the inspector.
‘Excuse me, but if you don’t have anything else to tell me, I’d like to leave this place. I’m starting to feel tired.’
The doctor locked the front door with his key, Montalbano put the seals back in place, and they left.
‘Have you got a mobile phone?’
The doctor handed him his.
The inspector called Pasquano, and they decided on ten o’clock the following morning for identifying the body.
‘Will you come, too?’
‘I should, but I can’t, I have an engagement outside of Vigata. I’ll send one of my men for you, and he can take you there.’
He had Licalzi drop him off at the first houses on the outskirts of town. He needed a little walk.
‘Chief! Chief! Dr Latte with an s at the end called tree times, more and more pissed off each time, with all due respect. You’re asposta call ‘im ‘mediately in poisson.’
‘Hello, Dr Lattes?
Montalbano here.’
‘Thank heavens! Come to Montelusa immediately, the commissioner wants to talk to you.’
He hung up. It must be something serious, since the Caffe-Lattes wasn’t even lukewarm.
As he was turning the key in the ignition, he saw a squad car pull up with Galluzzo at the wheel.
‘Any news of Inspector Augello?’
‘Yeah, the hospital called to say they were discharging him. I went and picked him up and drove him home.’
To hell with the commissioner and his urgency. He stopped at Mimi’s first.
‘How are you feeling, you intrepid defender of capital?’
‘My head feels like it could burst’ That’ll teach you.’
Mimi Augello was sitting in an armchair, head bandaged, face pale.
‘I once got clobbered on the head by some guy with a blackjack. They had to give me seven stitches, and I still wasn’t in as bad a shape as you.’
‘I guess you thought you took your clobbering for a worthy cause. You got to feel clobbered and gratified at the same time.’
‘Mimi, when you put your mind to it you can be a real arsehole.’
You too, Salvo. I was going to phone you tonight to tell you I don’t think I’m in any condition to drive tomorrow.’
We’ll go to your sister’s another time.’
‘No, you go ahead, Salvo.
She was so insistent on seeing you.’
‘But do you know why?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
‘Listen, tell you what.
I’ll go, but I want you to go to the Hotel Jolly tomorrow morning at nine thirty to pick up Dr Licalzi, who arrived today, and take him to the mortuary.
OK?’
‘How are you, old friend? Eh? You look a bit down. Chin up, old boy. Sursum corda! That’s what we used to say in the days of Azione Cattolica.’
The Caffe-Lattes had warmed up dangerously. Montalbano began to feel worried.
‘I’ll go and inform the commissioner at once.’
He vanished, then reappeared.
‘The commissioner’s momentarily unavailable. Come, let me show you into the waiting room. Would you like a coffee or something else to drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
Dr Lattes, after flashing him a broad, paternal smile, disappeared. Montalbano felt certain the commissioner had condemned him to a slow and painful death. The garrotte, perhaps.
On the table in the dismal little waiting room there was a magazine, Famiglia Cristiana, and a newspaper,
L’Osscrvatore Romano, manifest signs of Dr Lattes’s presence in the commissioner’s office. He picked up the magazine and began reading an article on Susanna Tamaro. Inspector! Inspector!’
A hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw a uniformed policeman.
‘The commissioner is waiting for you.’
Jesus! He’d fallen into a deep sleep. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was eight o’clock. The fucker had made him wait two hours.
‘Good evening, Mr Commissioner.’
The noble Luca Bonetri-Alderighi didn’t answer, didn’t even say ‘Shoo’ or ‘Get out of here’, but only continued staring at a computer screen. The inspector contemplated his superior’s disturbing hairdo, which was very full with a great big tuft in the middle that curled back like certain turds deposited in the open country. An exact replica of the coif of that criminally insane psychiatrist who’d triggered all the butchery in Bosnia.
‘What was his name?’
It was too late when he realized that, still dazed from sleep, he’d spoken aloud.
‘What was whose name?’
asked the commissioner, finally looking up at him.
‘Never mind,’ said Montalbano.