Rounding the Mark Page 4

  He got rid of Fazio, who had grown curious and demanded to know more, then quickly washed up, got in his car, and headed off to Montelusa. The first bar on Viale Libertà tended towards the squalid. Montalbano had been there only once, and that was more than enough. He went inside and immediately spotted Pasquano sitting at a table.

  He sat down beside him.

  “What’ll you have?” asked Pasquano, who was drinking an espresso.

  “Same as you.”

  They sat there in silence until the waiter arrived with the second demitasse.

  “So?” Montalbano began.

  “You saw the shape the corpse was in?”

  “Well, as I was towing it I was afraid his arm would fall off.”

  “If you’d dragged it any further, it would have,” said Pasquano. “The poor bastard had been in the water for over a month.”

  “So he probably died sometime last month?”

  “More or less. Given the state of the body, it’s hard for me to—”

  “Did it still have any distinguishing marks?”

  “He’d been shot.”

  “So why did you tell me there weren’t—”

  “Would you let me finish, Montalbano? He had an old gunshot wound in his left leg. The bullet had splintered the bone. It must have happened a few years ago. I only noticed it because the saltwater had eaten the flesh off the bone. He probably had a slight limp.”

  “How old do you think he was?”

  “About forty. And definitely not a non-European. He will, however, be hard to identify.”

  “No fingerprints?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Doctor, why are you so convinced he was murdered?”

  “It’s just my opinion, mind you. The body’s covered with wounds from having been dashed repeatedly against the rocks.”

  “There aren’t any rocks in the water where I found him.”

  “How do you know where he’s from? He’d been sailing a long time before turning himself over to you. What’s more, he’s all eaten up by crabs; he still had two of them in his throat, dead . . . As I was saying, he’s covered with asymmetrical wounds, all of them postmortem. But there are four that are symmetrical, perfectly defined, and circular.”

  “Where?”

  “Around his wrists and his ankles.”

  “That’s what it was!” exclaimed Montalbano, jumping out of his chair.

  Before falling asleep that afternoon, he’d remembered a detail he couldn’t decipher: the arm, the bathing suit wrapped tightly around the wrist . . .

  “It was a cut that went all the way around the left wrist,” the inspector said slowly.

  “So you noticed it, too? He had the same thing around the other wrist and the ankles as well. And that, to me, can mean only one thing . . .”

  “He’d been tied up.”

  “Exactly. But with what? With iron wire. Pulled so tight that it sawed into his flesh. If it had been rope or nylon, the wounds wouldn’t have been so deep as to cut almost down to the bone. And we certainly wouldn’t have found any trace of them. No, before they drowned him, they took the wire off. They wanted to make it look like a routine drowning.”

  “Any chance we can get some forensic tests done on him?”

  “Maybe. It all depends on Dr. Mistretta. We’d have to order the tests specially from Palermo, to see if there are any traces of metal or rust remaining inside the cuts around the wrists and ankles. But it’d take a long time. And that’s the long and the short of it. It’s getting late.”

  “Thanks for everything, Doctor.”

  They shook hands. The inspector got back in his car and drove off at a leisurely pace, lost in thought. A car came up behind him and flashed its high beam, reproaching him for going so slowly. When Montalbano pulled over to the right, the other car, a kind of silver torpedo, passed and came to a sudden stop in front of him. Cursing, the inspector slammed on the brakes. In the beam of his headlights, he saw a hand emerge from the torpedo’s window and give him the finger. Seething with rage, Montalbano got out of his car, ready to have it out with the driver. The torpedo’s driver also got out. Montalbano stopped dead in his tracks. It was Ingrid, arms open and smiling.

  “I recognized the car,” said the Swede.

  How long had it been since they’d last seen each other? Surely at least a year. They embraced long and hard. Ingrid kissed him, then lightly pushed him away, holding him at arm’s length to have a better look.

  “I saw you naked on TV,” she said laughing. “You’re still a pretty nice hunk.”

  “And you’re more beautiful than ever,” said the inspector in all sincerity.

  Ingrid embraced him again.

  “Is Livia here?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d like to come sit a while on your veranda.”

  “Okay.”

  “Give me a second. I need to break an engagement.”

  She murmured something into her cell phone, then asked.

  “Got any whisky?”

  “A whole bottle, still unopened. Here, Ingrid, take my house keys. You go on ahead, I can’t keep up with you.”

  She laughed, took his keys, and had already vanished by the time the inspector turned on the ignition. He was pleased by this chance encounter. It would not only afford him the pleasure of spending a few hours with an old friend, but would grant him the distance necessary to think with a cool head about what Dr. Pasquano had just revealed to him.

  When he pulled up in front of his house, Ingrid came up to him, embraced him and held him tight.

  “I have authorization.”

  “From whom?”

  “From Livia. The minute I went inside, the phone started ringing, so I answered. I shouldn’t have, I know, but it was an instinctive reaction. It was her. I told her you’d be home in a few minutes, but she said she wouldn’t call back. She said you hadn’t been feeling too well and that, as your nurse, I was authorized to comfort you and take care of you. And this is the only way I know how to comfort and take care of people.”

  Shit. Livia must have been seriously upset. Ingrid hadn’t understood, or had pretended not to understand, Livia’s venomous irony.

  “Excuse me just a minute,” said Montalbano, breaking free of her embrace.

  He dialed Livia’s number in Boccadasse, but it was busy. She’d taken the phone off the hook, no doubt about it. He tried again. Meanwhile Ingrid roamed about the house, digging up the whisky bottle, getting some ice cubes from the freezer, going out on the veranda and sitting down. The line remained busy. The inspector gave up, went outside, and sat down next to Ingrid on the bench. It was an exquisite night. There were a few light, wispy clouds in the sky, and the surf washed ashore with a caressing hush. A thought—a question, really—came into the inspector’s head and made him smile. Would the night have seemed so idyllic if Ingrid hadn’t been there beside him, head resting on his shoulder after having poured him a generous dose of whisky?

  Then Ingrid started talking about herself and didn’t finish until three and a half hours later, when only four fingers of whisky remained in the bottle before it could be officially declared dead. She said her husband was acting like the asshole he was and that they lived separate lives under one same roof; she said she’d gone to Sweden because she’d felt a longing for her family (“You Sicilians gave me the bug”); and she admitted she’d had two affairs. The first was with a member of Parliament, a strict Catholic who went by the name of Frisella or Grisella—the inspector couldn’t quite hear which—and who before getting into bed with her would kneel on the floor and beg God’s forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit. The second was with the captain of an oil tanker who’d taken an early retirement after coming into a generous inheritance, and it could have become a serious involvement if she hadn’t decided to call things off. This man, who went by the name of D’Iunio or D’Ionio—the inspector couldn’t quite hear which—troubled her and made her feel uncomfortable. Ingrid h
ad an extraordinary ability to grasp at once the comical or grotesque aspects of her men, and this amused Montalbano. It was a relaxing evening, better than a massage.

  Next morning, despite an eternal shower and four cups of coffee, gulped down one after the other, when he got into his car his head was still numb from the whisky of the night before. As for everything else, he felt entirely back on track.

  “J’you get over your illment, Chief?” asked Catarella as the inspector walked into headquarters.

  “My illment’s a lot better, thanks.”

  “Hey, I saw you on TV, Chief. Jesus, what an embodiment you got!”

  The inspector went into his office and called Fazio, who arrived in a flash. The sergeant was dying to know what Dr. Pasquano had told him, but didn’t dare ask. He didn’t open his mouth at all, in fact, because he was keenly aware that these were dark days for the inspector, and the slightest peep might set him off. Montalbano waited for him to sit down, pretending to look at some papers out of sheer meanness, since he could clearly see Fazio’s question etched in the curve of his lips. He wanted to let him stew a little. Then, all at once, without looking up from his papers, he said:

  “Homicide.”

  Taken by surprise, Fazio jumped out of his chair.

  “Shot?”

  “Nuh-unh.”

  “Stabbed?”

  “Nuh-unh. Drowned.”

  “But how did Dr. Pasquano—”

  “Pasquano merely took a look at the body and formed an opinion. But Pasquano’s almost never wrong.”

  “And what’s he base his opinion on?”

  The inspector told him everything. And he added:

  “The fact that Mistretta doesn’t agree with Pasquano actually helps us. In his report, under the heading ‘Cause of Death,’ Mistretta will surely write: ‘Drowning,’ using the proper forensic terminology, of course. And that’ll be our cover. We can work in peace without any interference from the commissioner’s office, the flying squad, or anyone else.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “First of all, you should request an identification profile for the victim: height, hair color, age, things like that.”

  “And a photo, too.”

  “Fazio, didn’t you see the state he was in? Did that look like a face to you?”

  Fazio looked crestfallen.

  “If it’ll make you feel any better,” the inspector continued, “I can tell you that he probably limped. He’d been shot in the leg some time ago.”

  “It’s still going to be tough to identify him.”

  “Try anyway. Have a look at the disappearance reports, too. Pasquano says the body’d been cruising the seas for at least a month.”

  “I’ll try,” said Fazio, unconvinced.

  “I’m going out. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  He headed straight for the port, stopped the car, got out, and walked towards a wharf where two fishing boats were moored, the rest having already gone out to sea some time before. Luckily, the Madre di Dio was there, having its motor overhauled. He approached and saw the captain and owner, Ciccio Albanese, standing on deck, overseeing operations.

  “Ciccio!”

  “Is that you, Inspector? I’ll be right down.”

  They’d known each other a long time and were fond of one another. Albanese was a brine-bitten sixty-year-old who’d been working on fishing boats since the age of six and who people said had no peer when it came to knowing the sea between Vigàta and Malta and all the way to Tunisia. He could find mistakes in nautical charts and navigation manuals. It was whispered about town that when work was scarce, he wasn’t above smuggling cigarettes.

  “Is this a good time, Ciccio?”

  “Absolutely, Inspector. For you, I’m always available.”

  Montalbano explained what he wanted from him. Albanese limited himself to asking how much time it would take, and the inspector told him.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, boys.”

  He followed behind Montalbano, who was heading towards his car. They rode in silence. The guard at the morgue told the inspector that Dr. Mistretta wasn’t in yet; only Jacopello, his assistant, was there. Montalbano felt relieved. Meeting with Mistretta would have ruined the rest of his day. Jacopello was quite loyal to Pasquano, and his face lit up when he saw the inspector.

  “Good to see you!”

  With Jacopello, the inspector knew he could lay his cards on the table.

  “This is my friend, Ciccio Albanese. He’s a man of the sea. If Mistretta’d been here, we’d have told him my friend wanted to see the body, fearing it might be one of his deck hands gone overboard. But there’s no need to playact with you. If Mistretta asks you any questions when he comes in, you know what to answer. Right?”

  “Right. Follow me.”

  The corpse, in the meantime, had grown even paler. It looked like a skeleton with an onionskin laid over it and bits of flesh randomly attached here and there. As Albanese was examining it, Montalbano asked Jacopello:

  “Do you know how Dr. Pasquano thinks this poor bastard was killed?”

  “Of course. I was there for the discussion. Mistretta’s wrong. See for yourself.”

  The deep, circular grooves around the wrists and ankles had, moreover, turned greyish in color.

  “Jacopè, think you could persuade Mistretta to order that test Pasquano wanted done on the tissues?”

  Jacopello laughed.

  “Want to bet I can?”

  “Make a bet with you? Never.”

  Jacopello was a well-known betting enthusiast. He made bets with everyone on everything from the weather forecast to how many people would die of natural causes over the course of a week, and he rarely lost.

  “I’ll think up some reason to convince him that we’re better off having that analysis done. How are we going to look if Inspector Montalbano later discovers that the guy didn’t die by accident, but was murdered? Mistretta will sacrifice his ass if he has to, but he doesn’t like to lose face. But I’m warning you, Inspector, those tests take a long time.”

  Only during the drive back did Albanese decide to emerge from his silence.

  “Bah,” he managed to mutter.

  “What?” the inspector said in vexation. “You look at a dead body for half an hour and all you can say is ‘bah’?”

  “It’s all very strange,” said Albanese. “And I’ve certainly seen my share of drowning victims. But this one . . . ,” he interrupted himself to follow another thought: “How long did the doctor say he’d been in the water?”

  “A good month.”

  “No, Inspector. Two good months, at least.”

  “But after two months in the water, there wouldn’t have been any body left, just pieces here and there.”

  “That’s what’s so strange about it.”

  “Explain, Ciccio.”

  “The fact is that I don’t like to talk bullshit.”

  “If you only knew how much comes out of my mouth! Come on, Ciccio, out with it!”

  “You saw the wounds made by the rocks, right?”

  “Right.”

  “They’re superficial, Inspector. This past month we had rough seas for ten days straight. If the body was thrown against any rocks in those waters, it wouldn’t have that kind of wound. It would have had its head knocked off, or some ribs broken, or a few bones sticking out.”

  “So? Maybe during those bad days you mention, the body was out on the open sea, far from any rocks.”

  “But Inspector, you found it in an area where the currents go backwards!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you find it right off Marinella?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the currents there either go out to sea or run parallel to the coast. Another two days and the body would have passed Capo Russello, you can be sure of that.”

  Montalbano fell silent, lost in thought. Then he said:

  “You’ll have to explain thi
s business about the currents a little better for me.”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “You free tonight?”

  “Yessir. Why don’t you come to my place for dinner? My wife’s making striped surmullet her own special way.”

  Immediately Montalbano’s tongue was drowning in saliva.

  “Thanks. But what do you make of all this, Ciccio?”

  “Can I speak freely? First of all, rocks don’t leave the kind of wounds that guy had around his wrists and ankles.”

  “Right.”

  “He must have been tied up by the wrists and ankles before they drowned him.”

  “With iron wire, according to Pasquano.”

  “Right. Then they took the body and let it soak for a while in sea water, probably in some secluded place. Then, when they figured he was pretty well pickled, they put ’im out to sea.”

  “Why would they wait so long?”

  “Inspector, those guys wanted to make it look like the body came from far away.”

  Montalbano looked at him with admiration. Not only had Ciccio Albanese, a man of the sea, come to the same conclusions as Dr. Pasquano, a man of science, and Montalbano, a man of ironclad police logic; he also had taken a big step forward.

  4

  But the inspector was destined never to get so much as a whiff, not even from afar, of the striped surmullets specially prepared by Ciccio Albanese’s wife. Around eight that evening, when he was getting ready to leave the office, a call came in for him from Deputy Commissioner Riguccio. Though he’d known him for years and they got on rather well, their relationship had never gone beyond the confines of work. It wouldn’t have taken much for it to turn into friendship, but neither of them could make up his mind.

  “Hello, Montalbano? Sorry, but is there anyone in your office who wears glasses with a correction of three for nearsightedness in both eyes?”

  “Huh?” the inspector replied. “We’ve got two patrolmen who wear glasses, Cusumano and Torretta, but I have no idea what their prescriptions are. Why do you ask? Is this some survey you’re doing for your beloved minister?”

  It was no mystery that Riguccio’s political positions were close to those of the new government.