August Heat Read online

  'Now, then, if you had told me you wanted to phone someone, I would dutifully have informed you that all calls into and out of every police station in Italy, even those made with mobiles, are intercepted and recorded.'

  'What?'

  'Oh, yes. You heard correctly. A recent directive from the Ministry of the Interior. You know, with all the terrorism...'

  Spitaleri had turned pale as a corpse. ‘I want that tape!' 'You're always wanting something! Your lawyer, the tape...'

  Fazio, the foil, started to laugh. 'Ha-ha-ha! He wants the tape!'

  'Yes, I do. And I don't see what's funny about that!'

  'Let me explain,' Montalbano interjected. 'We don't have any tapes here. The conversations are intercepted by the anti-Mafia and anti-terrorism commissions in Rome via satellite. And they are recorded there. To avoid all interference, deletion, omissions. Understand?'

  Spitaleri was sweating so profusely he looked like a hot spring. 'Then what happens?'

  'If, when they listen to the intercepted conversation, they hear anything suspicious, they inform us from Rome, and we investigate. Excuse me, but why are you so worried? You have no record, you're not a terrorist, you're not in the Mafia...'

  'Of course, but

  'But?'

  'You see ... about three weeks ago, at one of my work sites in Montelusa, there was an accident.'

  Montalbano glanced at Fazio, who signalled to him that he knew nothing about it. 'What sort of accident?'

  'A worker ... an Arab

  'An illegal immigrant?'

  'Apparently, yes ... But I had been assured...'

  '... that he was legal.'

  'Yes. Because he was in the process...'

  '... of being legalized.'

  'So you know everything!'

  'Precisely.'

  SIX

  And, flashing a sly smile, he added, 'We know all about that case’

  'We certainly do!' Fazio laid it on even thicker, again laughing abrasively.

  The lie was as big as a house.

  'He fell from the scaffolding...' the inspector ventured.

  '... on the third floor,' said Spitaleri, now drenched in sweat. 'It happened, as you probably know, on a Saturday. When there was no sign of him at the end of the day, everybody thought he'd already left. We didn't find out until Monday, when work resumed at the site.'

  'Yeah, I know, that's what we were told by...'

  '... Inspector Lozupone of Montelusa, who conducted a very serious investigation,' Spitaleri concluded.

  'Right, Lozupone. By the way, what was the Arab's name again? I can't quite remember.'

  'I can't remember, either.'

  Montalbano thought they ought to build a great monument, like the Vittoriano in Rome to the Unknown Soldier, to commemorate all the illegal immigrants who had died on the job for a crust of bread.

  'Well, you know, that business about the protective railing...'

  A second shot in the dark.

  'Oh, there was a protective railing, Inspector, I swear to God there was! Your colleague saw it with his own eyes. The truth of the matter is that that Arab was totally drunk, climbed over the railing and fell.'

  'Are you aware of the post-mortem results?'

  'Me? No.'

  'No trace of alcohol was found in the blood.'

  Another whopper. Montalbano was firing blindly away.

  'But on his clothing there was!' said Fazio, with the usual laugh. He, too, was shooting blindly, come what may.

  Spitaleri said nothing. He didn't even feign surprise.

  'Who were you talking to just now?' the inspector asked, going back to square one.

  'The yard foreman.'

  'And what did you say to him? You don't have to answer, of course, but it's in your own best interests...'

  'First, I told him I was sure you'd summoned me here to ask me about this business of the Arab and then—'

  'That's enough, Signor Spitaleri, say no more,' said the inspector magnanimously. 'I am required to respect your privacy, you know. And I do so not out of formal observance of the law but out of a deep respect for others, which is something I was born with. If Rome tells me anything, I'll call you back here for questioning.'

  Behind the developer's back, Fazio mimed clapping; he was applauding Montalbano's performance.

  'So, I can go?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  'Well, you see, I didn't summon you here concerning the investigation into your employee's death, but about something else entirely. Do you remember if it was you who designed and built a house in the Pizzo district at Marina di Montereale?'

  'For Angelo Speciale? Yes.'

  'It is my duty to inform you that a crime was committed. We discovered some illegal construction, an entire underground level.'

  Spitaleri could not hide his sigh of relief. Then he started to laugh. Had he expected a more serious charge? 'So, you found it! Well, you were wasting your time. That's pure nonsense, if you'll forgive me. Look, Inspector, around here you're practically required to engage in illegal construction just to avoid looking like an idiot! Everybody does it! All Speciale has to do is request an amnesty and—'

  'That doesn't change the fact that you, as builder and works superintendent, didn't abide by the terms of the building permit.'

  'But, Inspector, I repeat, that's bullshit!'

  'It's a crime.'

  'A crime, you say? I'd call it a minor error, the kind that used to be marked in red pencil. Believe me, you'd do better not to report me.'

  'Are you threatening me, by any chance?'

  'I'd never do that in the presence of a witness. It's just that, if you report me, you'll be the laughing stock of the town. You'll look like a fool.'

  The fucking crook was getting bold. With that business about the phone call, he'd been practically shitting his pants, but illegal construction only made him laugh. So Montalbano decided to shoot him straight in the face. 'Maybe you're right. Unfortunately, however, I still have to look into that illegal apartment.'

  'But why?'

  'Because we found a dead body inside it.' 'A dead ... body?'

  'Yes, of a fifteen-year-old girl. Little more than a child. With her throat slashed. A horror.'

  He purposely stressed the words that referred to the victim's tender age.

  Suddenly Spitaleri extended his arms, as if he was trying to fend off a force that was pushing him backwards. Then he attempted to stand up, but his legs and breath failed him and he fell back into the chair. 'Water!' he managed, with difficulty, to articulate.

  They gave him the water, and even sent someone to fetch him a cognac from the bar on the corner. 'Feeling better?'

  Spitaleri, who still didn't seem in any condition to speak, gestured with his hand that he felt so-so.

  'Listen, Mr Spitaleri, for now I'll do the talking, and you can shake or nod your head. All right?'

  The developer nodded.

  'The girl's murder can only have happened on the day before or the day itself when the illegal apartment was buried. If it happened the day before, then the killer hid the body somewhere and only brought it inside the next day — and just in the nick of time, since the underground floor became inaccessible after that point. You follow?'

  A nod.

  'If, on the other hand, the murder took place on the day itself, the killer must have left just an opening, pushed the girl through it and then, once he was inside, raped her, slit her throat and stuck her into the trunk. After which he left the apartment and closed the only remaining opening. Do you agree?'

  Spitaleri threw up his hands, as if to say he didn't know what to say.

  'Did you oversee the work up to the last day?'

  The developer shook his head. No.

  'Why not?'

  Spitaleri spread his arms and made a rumbling sound. Krrrrrrrrrrrrn...

  Was he imitating an aeroplane? 'You were flying?' Affirmative nod.

  'How many masons were em
ployed to bury the illegal apartment?'

  Spitaleri held up two fingers.

  Was this any way to carry on an investigation? It resembled a comedy routine.

  'Mr Spitaleri, I'm tired of watching you answer in that fashion. Among other things, I'm beginning to wonder if you think we're so stupid that you can fuck around with us.' He turned to Fazio. 'Were you wondering the same thing?'

  'I was.'

  'So, you know what you're going to do? You're going to take him into the cloakroom, make him strip naked, then give him a cold shower until he recovers his senses.'

  'I want my lawyer!' yelled Spitaleri, miraculously recovering his voice.

  'You think it's a good idea to publicize this?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean that if you call your lawyer I'll call the newsmen. I believe I remember you have a history with young girls ... If those guys turn it into a public trial, you're fucked. If, on the other hand, you cooperate, you can walk out of here in five minutes.'

  Pale as a corpse, the developer was overcome by a sudden fit of the shakes. 'What else do you want to know?'

  'Just now you said you hadn't been able to see the work through to the end because you'd taken a plane somewhere. How many days before?'

  'I left on the morning of the last day of work.'

  'And do you remember when that last day was?'

  'The twelfth of October.'

  Fazio and Montalbano exchanged a glance.

  'So, you're in a position to tell me whether, in the living room, aside from the window frames wrapped in plastic, there was also a trunk.'

  'There was.'

  'Are you sure about that?'

  'Absolutely. And it was empty. Mr Speciale himself told us to carry it down there. He'd brought some stuff in it from Germany. It was rather battered and almost unusable, but he wanted it in the living room downstairs rather than throwing it away. He said he might need it later on.'

  'Tell me the names of the two masons who were the last to work on the house.'

  'I can't remember them.'

  'Then you'd better phone your lawyer,' said Montalbano, 'because I'm going to accuse you of being an accessory to—'

  'But I really can't remember!'

  'I'm sorry, but—'

  'Can I make a call to Dipasquale?' 'Who's he?' 'A foreman.'

  'The one you called earlier?'

  'Yes. That's him, Dipasquale. He was the foreman when we built Speciale's house.'

  'Go ahead, but remember not to say anything that might compromise you. Don't forget the phone taps.'

  Spitaleri dug out his mobile and dialled a number. 'Hello, 'Ngilino? 's me. Do you by any chance remember the names of the masons who worked for us six years ago on the construction of the house at Pizzo, in Marina di Montereale? ... No? So what am I supposed to do? It's Inspector Montalbano who wants to know ... Oh, yes, that's true, you're right. Sorry.'

  'Before I forget, would you give me Angelo Dipasquale's mobile-phone number? Fazio, write it down,' Montalbano directed him.

  Spitaleri dictated it.

  'So?' Montalbano pressed.

  'Dipasquale can't remember the names of the masons, but they're definitely in my office somewhere. Can I go and get them?'

  'Of course.'

  The developer stood up and nearly ran to the door.

  'Wait a minute. Fazio will go with you and will bring the names and addresses back to me. You, meanwhile, must remain available.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'It means you're not to leave the Vigata area. If you need to go anywhere further away, you must let me know. Speaking of which, do you remember where you were flying to on the twelfth of October?'

  'I ... To Bangkok.'

  'You really like fresh meat, eh?'

  The moment Spitaleri and Fazio had gone out, Montalbano phoned Spitaleri's foreman. He didn't want the developer to have time to talk to him and get their stories straight.

  'Dipasquale? Inspector Montalbano here. How long would it take you to come down to the Vigata police station from your work site?'

  'Half an hour at most. But it's no use asking me 'cause I can't come now. I'm working.'

  'I'm working, too. And my work involves telling you to come here now.'

  'I repeat, I can't.'

  'How would it be if I sent somebody to fetch you in one of our cars, sirens blaring, in front of all your men?' 'But what do you want?'

  'Just come in and I'll satisfy your curiosity. You've got twenty-five minutes.'

  He was there within twenty-two. To save time, he hadn't even changed his clothes. He was still in his lime-stained overalls. Dipasquale was about fifty; his hair was entirely white but he had a black moustache. Short and stocky, he never looked at the person he was speaking to, and when he did, his gaze was troubled.

  'I don't understand why first you rang Mr Spitaleri about that Arab and then me about the house at Pizzo.'

  'I didn't phone you about the house at Pizzo.'

  'Oh? Why did you call me, then?'

  'About the death of that Arab mason. What was his name?'

  'I don't remember. But it was an accident! The guy was drunk! Those people start drinking first thing in the morning every day! Never mind Saturday! In fact, Inspector Lupuzone concluded that—'

  'Forget my colleague's conclusions. Tell me exactly what happened.'

  'But I've already told the judge and the inspector.'

  'Third time lucky.'

  'Oh, all right. At five thirty that Saturday, we finished working and left. Then, on Monday morning—'

  'Stop. Didn't you notice that the Arab wasn't there?'

  'No. What am I supposed to do — take a roll-call?'

  'Who closes the work site?'

  'The watchman, Filiberto — Filiberto Attanasio.'

  But when they had come in and caught Spitaleri talking on the phone, hadn't he .said that very name,

  Filiberto? 'Why do you need a watchman? Don't you pay for protection?'

  'There's always some young drug addict who might—'

  'I see. Where can I find him?'

  'Filiberto? He's the watchman at the site we're working at now. In fact, he sleeps there.' 'In the open air?'

  'No, there's a hut made of corrugated tin.'

  'Tell me the exact location of the construction site.'

  Dipasquale told him.

  'Go on.'

  'But I've told you everything I know! We found the Arab dead on the Monday morning. He fell from the scaffolding on the third floor. He'd climbed over the protective railing, drunk as a skunk. It was an accident, I tell you!'

  'For now, we'll stop there.' 'So I can go?'

  'In just a minute. Were you there when the work was completed?'

  Dipasquale baulked. 'But the construction in Montelusa's still not finished!'

  'I'm talking about the house at Pizzo.'

  'But didn't you say you called me in to talk about the Arab?'

  'I've just changed my mind. Is that all right with you?' 'Have I any choice?'

  'You know, of course, that a whole floor was built illegally at Pizzo?'

  Dipasquale looked neither surprised nor concerned. 'Of course I know. But I was just following orders.'

  'Do you know what the word "accomplice" means?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then tell me.'

  'Well, there's accomplice and accomplice. To call somebody helping to build an illegal floor on a house an accomplice is like calling a pinprick a fatal injury.'

  He even knew how to debate, did the foreman. 'Did you stay at Pizzo until the work was completed?'

  'No. Mr Spitaleri transferred me to Fela four days before 'cause they were just finishing setting up another construction site there. But everything was just about done at Pizzo. We only had to seal off the illegal floor and cover it with sand. That was easy work, no need for a supervisor. I remember I hired two masons, but I forget their names. Like I said to Spitaleri, you can find them by looking—
'

  'Yes, Spitaleri went to turn them up. Listen, do you know if Mr Speciale stayed until the work was finished?'

  'He was there as long as I was. And that mad stepson of his, the German kid.'

  'Why did you call him mad?'

  'Because he was.'

  'What did he do that was so unusual?'

  'He could stand on 'is head for an hour straight with his feet in the air. An' he used to get down on all fours and eat grass like a sheep.' 'Is that all?'

  'When nature called, he'd drop his trousers and do it in front of everybody without feeling embarrassed.'

  'But nowadays there are a lot of people like him, no? They call themselves naturists, with good reason, I should think ... All things considered, it doesn't seem to me that this German was mad.'

  'Wait. One day he went down to the beach. It was summertime and there was people there, and he got it in his head to strip bare-naked and start chasing a girl with 'is dick hanging out and all.'

  'So what happened?'

  'It turned out a couple of young guys who was there grabbed him and busted his head.'

  Maybe Ralf had got it into his head to pretend he was Mallarme's faun. But what the foreman was saying was interesting. 'Do you know of any other episodes like this one?'

  'Yes. They told me he did the same thing with another young girl he met on that path that leads from the provincial road to Pizzo.'

  'What did he do?'

  'Soon as he saw her, he took off all his clothes and chased her.'

  'And how did the girl get away?'

  'Well, just then Mr Spitaleri drove by in his car.'

  The right man at the right moment! A whole slew of cliches came into Montalbano's head: from the frying-pan into the fire, between a rock and a hard place ... He felt irked at himself for having such obvious thoughts. 'Listen, I suppose Mr Speciale knew about his stepson's exploits?'

  'Oh, yes!'

  'And what did he say about it?'

  'Nothing. He just laughed. He said the boy had had his moments in Germany too, but was harmless. All he wanted to do to the girls was kiss 'em, that's what Mr Speciale told us. But what I want to know is this: why did he need to take off his clothes if all he wanted to do was kiss the girls?'

  'All right, you can go now. But make yourself available to us.'

  Dipasquale had spontaneously offered him Ralf's head on a platter not of silver but gold. Especially since the foreman, thus far, knew nothing about the murdered girl he'd found. So Montalbano had an embarrassment of riches to choose from, as far as sex maniacs went: Spitaleri and Ralf. There were just two minor problems. The young German had disappeared on his way back to Germany, and on that terrible 12 October, Spitaleri had been travelling.