A Nest of Vipers Read online

  ‘Somebody was raping a frog?’

  ‘Azackly. A fimminine frog, Chief. A froggess.’

  How was that possible?

  ‘Was the phone call recorded?’

  ‘Natcherly, Chief.’

  ‘Let me hear it.’

  Catarella fiddled with some keys and soon the agitated voice of a probably elderly woman could be heard saying she’d called because she was witnessing a rape in progress.

  In a way, despite the fact that the inspector felt instinctively like killing rapists whenever they came within range, he relaxed a little.

  If it had really involved a frog, it would have meant that humanity – already brilliantly well on its way – was dangerously accelerating its journey towards total madness.

  He went into his room and sat down, discouraged, looking at the huge stack of papers on his desk to be signed.

  It occurred to him that bureaucracy across the world was most certainly contributing to the end of that same world. How many forests had been cut down over the years to make the paper necessary for all these useless bureaucratic memos?

  And not immediately answering a letter from the administration was worse, because they would be sure to send a letter of reminder concerning the memo not dispatched. Not dispatched! So, if he answered it, then the memo would be dispatched.

  Criminals used the same word, dispatch, to mean ‘to kill someone’. Therefore the bureaucracy could be likened to a gigantic criminal organization, a kind of ubiquitous Mafia. No wonder a real revolutionary like Che Guevara was so against bureaucracy!

  Resigned, the inspector picked up a ballpoint pen and the file at the top of the pile.

  *

  Around midday, by which time his right arm had grown numb from all the signing, he told Catarella to call Fazio’s mobile phone.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Before answering, Fazio heaved a long sigh. ‘Still here at the house, Chief.’

  ‘What’s taking so long?’

  ‘Hello? Are you there, Chief?’

  ‘Hello! What’s wrong, can’t you hear me?’

  ‘Wait a second while I go outside. The reception’s not very good in here.’

  It was just an excuse. Obviously he didn’t want the other people in the room to hear him.

  ‘You there, Chief?’

  ‘Yeah, tell me everything.’

  ‘Prosecutor Tommaseo got here about five minutes ago. He’d gone and crashed into a petrol pump, and since he broke his glasses, after the pump he crashed straight into an HGV parked there.’

  It was well known that Tommaseo behind the wheel was a genuine menace to public safety. Though he drove at only ten miles an hour, he was still capable of doing damage.

  ‘To say nothing of the curses and obscenities coming from Dr Pasquano when he had to wait all that time just to move the corpse.’

  ‘Listen, did Barletta leave you those addresses and phone numbers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Give the sister a ring. Tell me her name again.’

  ‘Giovanna.’

  ‘Tell her to come to the station this afternoon at four o’clock.’

  He’d just hung up when Mimì Augello, his second-in-command, came in.

  ‘What’s this about a rape?’ the inspector asked him.

  ‘A lady called Assuntina Naccarato looked out of her window and saw someone trying to rape a girl, who was crying desperately, in the bedroom of the house opposite. And so she called us.’

  ‘You got there too late, naturally.’

  ‘Way too late. The rapist had already had his way with the girl and was gone. The girl, who was still crying, told me she didn’t recognize the man, who she said was black and had entered the house through the front door, which had been left unlocked.’

  ‘Did you question the lady neighbour?’

  ‘Mrs Naccarato? Of course.’

  ‘And did she confirm it?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Signora Assuntina claims the rapist not only wasn’t black, but was a white man she had no problem recognizing.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘According to Signora Assuntina, this rape is, so to speak, a regular occurrence.’

  ‘A regular occurrence?’ said Montalbano, appalled.

  ‘It’s like this. For the past three months or so, the girl’s uncle, her father’s brother, comes to the house every week when nobody else is there and takes advantage of her. You should know that the girl is sort of a half-wit. This time, however, she rebelled so loudly that Signora Assuntina felt obliged to call the police.’

  ‘And why didn’t she call us all the other times?’

  ‘She said she didn’t want to meddle. But this time the girl went nuts, and so . . .’

  ‘Apparently the signora’s sense of morality functions according to decibel levels. But it’s so strange!’

  ‘What’s so strange?’

  ‘That the rapist wasn’t a Third World foreigner.’

  ‘What are you saying!’

  ‘It’s not me saying it. Just yesterday evening I heard the chief editor of the news argue that while it’s wrong for Italians to slaughter a Congolese or send a Chinese to the hospital, we must nevertheless bear in mind that all rapes of Italian women – and he stressed the word all with his tone of voice – are committed by non-Europeans. So what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll write in the report that Antonio Sferlazza – that’s the uncle’s name – is of remote North African origin,’ said Augello.

  ‘Did you arrest him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Here, in the holding cell. I’m waiting for a crew from Montelusa Prison to come and get him. Want me to bring him here to you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I might feel tempted to kick him in the teeth.’

  *

  He went out to Enzo’s trattoria. Seeing that it would surely keep raining until the evening and that he would not, therefore, be able to take his customary digestive-meditative walk along the jetty out to the lighthouse, he decided not to eat much.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Enzo, I’d like to keep to light things. No first courses. Bring me—’

  ‘What a shame!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because today my wife made spaghetti with mussels and clams and had the good idea to give it a touch of hot pepper and another condiment that she wouldn’t reveal to me. It’s a real miracle, believe me!’

  ‘I’ll have some,’ the inspector said without hesitation. In the end, he ate even more than usual.

  But when he came out of the trattoria, he felt better prepared to face the rest of the grey, rainy day.

  *

  He found Fazio at the station. ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then have a seat. What did Pasquano tell you?’

  ‘You know what the doctor’s like, don’t you? This time, with the prosecutor coming so late, his usual bad mood was multiplied by a hundred.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It was absolutely impossible to say anything to him. If I had, he was liable to bite my head off.’

  ‘I’ll give him a ring tomorrow or go and see him. Let’s hope his poker game goes well at the club tonight. That’ll make him more manageable. Now tell me what else happened, aside from Pasquano being rude to everyone.’

  ‘Well, Chief, on Barletta’s side of the bed, Forensics found three long strands of hair, female and blonde, naturally.’

  ‘But shouldn’t they have been on the pillow on the other side of the bed?’

  Fazio seemed embarrassed.

  ‘Chief, apparently the woman moved over, because . . . and she had her face over Barletta’s stomach when he probably grabbed a tight hold of her head and pulled out a few hairs . . . Get the picture?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Then Pasquano told Arquà he wanted Forensics to test the coffee that had spilled onto
the tablecloth and what was left in the cup with the undissolved sugar.’

  Montalbano looked puzzled. ‘Did he explain why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But if Barletta was killed by a shot to the base of the skull, what’s the coffee got to do with it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Listen, I want you to be here with me when Barletta’s daughter comes in. But when we’ve finished, as soon as she leaves, you have to go hunting. I want to know everything there is to know about Barletta and his son.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Chief.’

  ‘And I also want you to try and find out who the blonde woman sleeping beside him was.’

  ‘That’ll be a little harder.’

  ‘Try anyway.’

  *

  Giovanna Barletta Pusateri was a very attractive woman of about thirty-five who was keen, though there was no need, on appearing a few years younger than her age. Perhaps she wished time had stopped ten years earlier. She was tall and blonde with hazel eyes with green highlights, long legged and elegant in her designer jeans. Montalbano, caught off guard, gawked at her for a few moments. Fazio, too, seemed a little dazed.

  Unlike her brother Arturo, she was clearly grief-stricken by her father’s death. Her eyes were teary and her hands shook. But she controlled herself.

  As soon as she sat down, the inspector asked her: ‘Why didn’t your husband come?’

  Giovanna seemed surprised.

  ‘I wasn’t told to bring him. And anyway . . .’

  Montalbano cast a questioning glance at Fazio, who threw up his hands.

  ‘Chief, nobody told me . . .’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll see him tomorrow morning.’

  Giovanna shook her head. ‘That’s what I was about to say. Carlo’s not in Montelusa. He’s out and about on business. He’s gone and won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Two. One is thirteen, the other eleven.’

  ‘When did you last see your father?’

  ‘A week ago. I would come down to Vigàta once a week, usually on days when Carlo was definitely not around.’

  ‘Did you have more time on such days, with your husband not around?’

  ‘That wasn’t the only reason, Inspector. Carlo and Papa didn’t . . . they didn’t get along.’

  ‘Can you tell me why?’

  ‘I married Carlo against my father’s wishes. In fact, I might as well tell you everything before someone else does. I left my parents’ home when I was twenty to live with Carlo. My father was adamant and always saying that Carlo was a good-for-nothing, so I had no choice. We got married two years later, but Papa didn’t come to the wedding. Finally, in the end he forgave me and we started seeing each other again. Sometimes I spent the night at his place.’

  ‘What about the children?’

  ‘There’s the nanny.’

  The nanny? And those designer jeans? How much did a travelling salesman earn, anyway?

  ‘Listen, who was it that broke the news to you?’

  ‘The news of Papa’s death? Arturo, of course.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning. I don’t remember at what time. It must have been around half-past seven.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Well, give or take a few minutes. Gianni and Cosimo, my two boys, had just finished breakfast.’

  ‘I see. Do you know whether your father had any enemies?’

  ‘Of course he did.’

  ‘Give me a few names.’

  She gave him a tense smile. She was a truly beautiful woman, with a mouth that immediately gave one ideas.

  ‘I think the list would be pretty long. Papa was . . . was not an easy person, and in matters of business he didn’t pull any punches.’

  Basically the same thing her brother Arturo had said. ‘And how were his relations with your brother?’

  ‘At first they were excellent. Then, three years ago, there was a rift.’

  ‘Do you know the reason?’

  ‘Of course. The will.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘One Sunday – it was summer – Papa invited Arturo and me to the beach house for lunch. He didn’t want me to bring the children. At the end of the meal, he told us he was planning to make a will. And he gave us advance notice that the greater part of the inheritance would come to me. Arturo took it badly and demanded an explanation. Papa replied that it was because I had two children and he had none. Arturo got up from the table and left. Later they made peace, but their relationship was never quite the same after that.’

  ‘And, as far as you know, did he ever make the will?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘Did he have a notary?’

  ‘Yes, a very good friend of his named Piscopo, from Montelusa.’

  ‘Here’s a delicate question. Did your father have a lover?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, in your opinion, after the tragic death of his wife, he no longer—’

  Another smile, even more forced than the previous one. ‘That’s not what I meant. My father was a full-blooded, vital man. He just didn’t have a steady lover. But he certainly had plenty of girls!’

  Again, the brother and sister were saying the same thing.

  ‘Girls?’

  ‘Yes, he liked them young.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. He wasn’t a paedophile. He liked twentysomethings.’

  ‘Did he ever mention any of their names to you?’

  ‘Anna, Giuliana, Vittoria . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, but why would girls so young go with a man so much older than them?’

  ‘Papa was a very charismatic older man. He made a point of staying in shape and he dressed well. And, on top of that . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He was very generous with them. Arturo would often quarrel with him specifically over—’ She broke off.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘They were family quarrels of a very common sort. Not big scenes. Arturo would reproach him for squandering his money on young girls.’

  ‘And what would your father say?’

  ‘He would tell him not to worry, that after he died there would be plenty left over for him in the safe. But there was something else Arturo feared, and he wanted me as his ally. But I didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘What was your brother afraid of?’

  ‘That Papa would lose his head over one of those girls.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘To be more precise: he was afraid Papa would fall in love and change the will. And he told me that if this happened, I too would lose my inheritance.’

  ‘I get it. And I have to tell you that your father wasn’t alone in that house on his last night.’

  ‘He wasn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who was with him?’

  ‘A blonde woman.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Our forensics team found some long blonde hair in the bed.’

  ‘But couldn’t it have been there from before?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Papa didn’t have a cleaning woman for that house. Or, actually, he did have one, who would go there and tidy up now and then in the off-season. Papa took care of everything himself, and he made his own bed himself, though often he would merely pull up the sheet. So what I mean is that the hair might have been there from before last night.’

  Her reasoning made perfect sense.

  ‘Anyway, why is that so important?’ she continued. ‘I’ve just finished telling you that Papa—’

  ‘It’s important, believe me. Since there are no signs of forced entry, it might have been that woman who let the killer in.’

  Giovanna opened her eyes wide. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘It’s a possib
ility.’

  ‘My God, that’s horrible!’

  ‘Do you know who your father was currently seeing?’

  ‘I may be mistaken, but when I was at his place a little less than two months ago, the phone rang and I answered. It was a woman, and she sounded young. She said her name was Stella and she wanted to talk to Papa.’

  ‘Did you hear any of their conversation?’

  ‘I couldn’t help it. Papa told her he would wait for her as he always did, at the usual time. And he hung up.’

  ‘And you know nothing else about this Stella?’

  ‘I do. I jokingly asked Papa who his new flame was, and he answered that she was a medical student who lived with her parents here in Vigàta. But that’s all I can tell you.’

  Montalbano stood up, and Fazio did likewise.

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll give you a call if I need you for anything else. Fazio, please accompany the lady.’

  Who, viewed from behind, didn’t lose a thing. On the contrary.

  Fazio returned.

  ‘Do you know the first thing you must do?’ Montalbano asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Find out the surname of a certain medical student named Stella.’

  THREE

  The rain had stopped, but the humidity got into one’s bones.

  Since there was no point in eating on the veranda, he just sat there for a few minutes gazing at the sea. Way out on the water were the lights of a few fishing boats, since nowadays the fish stayed well away from the stinking, polluted shore. He went inside and laid the table in the kitchen.

  Adelina, his housekeeper, had left him a platter of seafood salad in the fridge, enough for three people and more. He conscientiously wolfed down the whole thing, and when he was finished, since he still felt hungry, he made himself a hefty plate of passuluna olives and bread, which he went and ate standing up, leaning against the jamb of the French windows. After a day’s work he always needed to breathe in the sea air to clean out his lungs and mind.

  Then, leaving the French windows half open, he sat in the armchair and turned on the TV. He channel-surfed until he found a film he’d seen before but had rather liked: Bad Lieutenant. He watched it again and then switched to the TeleVigàta news.

  Naturally, the most important item was the murder of Ragioniere Barletta. There was nothing said in the report that the inspector didn’t already know.