Death in Sardinia (2 page)

‘Won’t that be a problem for someone with only one arm?’

‘He tried using a friend’s machine and says it’s fine.’

‘Give him a big hug for me.’

‘Thanks, Inspector …’

‘And give Sonia a kiss for me.’

‘Sonia only gets kisses from me.’

‘You’re starting to sound like a Sicilian.’

‘I’ll be on that ferry before the first of January, Inspector, you have my word.’

‘Ciao, Pietrino, let’s talk again soon.’

They found him on Wednesday with a pair of scissors stuck deep in his neck, at the base of the nape. Office scissors, the kind with pointed tips. When the stretcher-bearers of La Misericordia took away the body, all the building’s tenants stood in their respective doorways to watch. Seeing them pass, a woman on the second floor said:

‘That’ll teach him, the pig!’ Then she quickly crossed herself so that she might be forgiven for saying something so wicked.

The murder victim, Totuccio Badalamenti, was a loan shark. He lived only a few blocks away from Bordelli, in Piazza del Carmine, on the top floor of a fine old stone building. He was from southern Italy, like many outsiders in the city at the time. He’d been in town for a little over a year and worked as an estate agent as cover. In the neighbourhood they called him ‘the newcomer’ and probably would have kept on calling him that for ever had he not been killed. The whole San Frediano quarter knew exactly what he did, even though Badalamenti was careful not to ‘do business’ with anyone who lived near by. Every so often the inspector used to see him driving down those impoverished streets in his new red Porsche. He wore very fine gold-rimmed glasses and had a square-shaped head and frizzy hair you could scour a frying pan with.

Badalamenti lent out money, even very small sums, but always demanded outrageous rates of interest. Anyone who was late with payments faced the sort of penalties people commit suicide over. He was a violent man. Rumour had it that he beat the prostitutes he brought home with him, even though he usually made amends afterwards by paying them double. He was very rich and was always investing his money profitably in every imaginable sort of traffic. His wealth was legendary. One story had it that he’d bought a whole island down south just so he could swim undisturbed. He would buy houses and land at auction and then resell them, and often they’d belonged to the very people he had ruined. At other times he would rent squalid apartments cheaply, then fix them up at low cost and sublet them out for three times the amount to people in financial straits, petty criminals, prostitutes and the like. He kept copies of all the keys to his flats, and if a tenant went away for more than two weeks, he would manage to rent the place out to some other wretch, who would pay dearly for it. Some even said that he had a circuit of whores working for him in the south, and that he had dealings with the Cosa Nostra. There certainly was no lack of gossip about Badalamenti, some real, some invented, but nailing him wasn’t easy. He was very clever at using his work as an estate agent to camouflage his real occupation.

Bordelli dealt in murder, but having that loan shark so close to home really bothered him, like a pebble in his shoe. And so a few months earlier he had started concerning himself personally with the problem. As far back as the previous February he had spoken to Commissioner Inzipone about it, explaining who the man was and how difficult it was to find evidence to warrant arresting him.

‘We need someone who will press charges,’ Inzipone said, thoughtfully pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger. He didn’t seem terribly interested in the matter.

‘You know perfectly well that nobody will ever do anything of the sort, because they might well end up dead,’ Bordelli replied, annoyed.

‘Well then, stop wasting my time and tell me what you have in mind.’

‘I want a search warrant.’

‘Oh, do you? On what grounds?’

‘Whatever you can think up … By now even the cobblestones know who the man is and what he does.’

‘I’ll have you know that until proven otherwise, it might just all be malicious gossip, Inspector … And, anyway, you’re supposed to investigate murders, or am I mistaken?’

‘All right, but if you won’t get me the warrant, I’ll handle it my own way,’ the inspector said, standing up.

‘And what will you do, Inspector? Break into the man’s home illegally … as you’ve done on other occasions?’

‘I’m a policeman, and I try to do my job to the best of my abilities.’

‘A chief inspector who picks locks … Is that any way to do things? Can you imagine what would happen if—’

‘Just tell me one thing, sir: will you help me get that warrant or won’t you?’ Bordelli retorted, standing in front of Inzipone’s desk. The commissioner sighed deeply, chewing his lips.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

‘Well, be quick about it. That man must be stopped.’

‘And what if your search yields nothing of interest?’

‘I’ll turn his flat upside down, take it apart piece by piece… I’m convinced something will turn up.’

‘You’re really so sure, are you?’

‘Let’s say I’m certain it’s worth the trouble of trying,’ Bordelli concluded, and with a nod, he headed for the door. Inzipone stood up.

‘Bordelli, have I ever told you I don’t like your methods?’

‘I think you have.’

‘Well, then let me repeat it. I don’t like your methods one bit.’

‘I’m truly sorry about that.’

Closing the door behind him, Bordelli heard the commissioner sputtering curses between clenched teeth.

In the days that followed, he learned that the judge had thrown a tantrum. Without a formal denunciation or concrete evidence, the possibility of a search warrant was less than a mirage. Seeing red, Bordelli had decided to go and talk directly with Judge Ginzillo, the man with the smallest head he’d ever seen. He’d had to deal with him a number of times in the past, and it had never been pleasant.

‘Dr Ginzillo, please don’t always throw spanners in my works, if you can help it,’ Bordelli said politely the moment he was allowed into the judge’s office.

‘Please sit down, Inspector, and excuse me for a moment,’ Ginzillo said without looking at him. He was busy reading something and seemed engrossed. Bordelli sat down calmly, repressing his desire to grab him by the ears and lift him off the ground. He even resisted the desire to light a cigarette, but not for Ginzillo’s sake. He’d decided to stop smoking and was always trying to put off the next cigarette for as long as possible.

The judge glanced at his watch, took a sip of water, and drummed his fingers on the desk, all the while hypnotised by that bloody, stamp-covered piece of paper.

‘All right, let’s hear it, Inspector, but make it brief,’ he said suddenly, without looking up. Before the inspector could open his mouth, a forty-something secretary dressed like an old maid walked in carrying a number of documents that urgently needed signing. The judge adjusted the glasses on his nose, and with a solemn mien sought the proper pen on his desk, found it, then started skimming the documents, murmuring the words as he read them. When he got to the end of each document, he gave a nod of approval, appended his signature, tightening his lips, then pushed the paper aside and went on to the next.

‘Go ahead, Inspector, I’m listening,’ he muttered, still reading. Bordelli didn’t reply, for fear he would utter an obscenity. When the secretary finally left, Ginzillo removed his spectacles with a weary gesture, cleaned them with a handkerchief, and put them back on. Then he resumed reading, fiddling with a very sharp pencil with a rubber at the end. He was holding it between two fingers and making it bounce off the wooden desktop.

‘So, you were saying, Inspector?’ he said, still hunched over the sheet of paper.

‘I haven’t breathed a word.’

‘Then please do. What are you waiting for?’

‘When I speak to someone I like to be able to look them in the eye, sir. It’s a fixation of mine.’

Ginzillo raised his head and, sighing, set the pencil down on the stack of papers. It seemed to cost him a lot of effort.

‘Go ahead,’ he muttered, looking at Bordelli with what seemed like great forbearance.

‘I need that search warrant, Dr Ginzillo.’

‘What search warrant?’

‘Badalamenti,’ the inspector said, staring at him.

‘We needn’t be so hasty.’

‘Hasty? Tell that to the people who’ve left their bollocks on the loan shark’s table.’

‘Please don’t be so vulgar, this is no place for that kind of talk.’

‘Why don’t you go some time and have a look for yourself at all the misery the man has caused? It’s not catching, you needn’t worry.’

‘Please, Bordelli …’

‘I said
misery
, sir, and while it may indeed be an obscenity, it’s not a bad word.’

The judge was getting upset. He put the pencil back in the cup and wrinkled his nose as if noticing an unpleasant smell.

‘Please sit down, Inspector, I want to have a little talk with you.’

Bordelli was already seated. Indeed, it felt to him as if he’d been sitting there for ever, and now he wanted to leave.

‘I don’t need to have a little talk with you, sir. What I need is that search warrant …’

The judge raised his eyebrows, looking irritated.

‘Just bear with me for a moment, Inspector,’ he said, sighing, putting his open hands forward as if to defend himself from the muzzle of a drooling, excessively friendly dog. Having caught his breath, he then stressed every syllable as if he were hammering nails.

‘If you really want to know, Inspector, Mr Badalamenti has a number of friends in our city government and socialises with some important families … Do you get the picture? Or can you think of nothing but your precious warrant? If I did as you ask and you found nothing … What would we do then? Can you imagine what the newspapers would say? Or have you already forgotten what happened with the Colombian jeweller?’

His voice came out through his nose with a metallic sound.

‘That wasn’t my case,’ Bordelli said, glancing compassionately at the timorous judge. Ginzillo raised his forefinger and his voice came out in a falsetto.

‘That’s exactly my point! If you’re wrong, it will be the first time for you, Inspector … but the second time in six months for the police force. Do you understand what I’m saying? The
second time
! And if you think I’m going to …’

‘Goodbye, Dr Ginzillo,’ Bordelli said unceremoniously, getting up and leaving the room.

As he had given Commissioner Inzipone to understand, the inspector had decided, after his fruitless meeting with Ginzillo, to enter the usurer’s flat illegally and search high and low for any evidence that might help to nail him. He was convinced he would find something but, truth be told, he was also hoping for a little luck.

That same night, at about three in the morning, he’d gone to inspect the site, to determine how difficult a job it would be. The small
palazzina
in which Badalamenti lived was quiet and dark. It was February and very cold outside. In the glow of the street lamps he could see a fine rain falling and turning to sleet.

Some years before, the inspector had taken lockpicking lessons from his friend Ennio Bottarini, known to intimates as Botta, a master of the art of burglary, and he was now able to pick some two-thirds of all the locks on the market with a mere piece of wire. His intention was to ask one of his friends from the San Frediano quarter to keep watch while he broke into Badalamenti’s flat right after the loan shark went out.

He managed to open the front door to the building in just a few seconds. Then, after tiptoeing up the stairs to the top floor, he met with disappointment. One look at Badalamenti’s door and he knew he was faced with a lock that his teacher classified as ‘curseworthy’. Bordelli was incapable of opening that kind. Only Botta could.

The following day the inspector had gone looking for him at home, only to learn that he’d been in jail for several weeks. He’d been arrested near Montecatini, at Pavesi di Serravalle, trying to shift a television set stolen from the office of a service station. Botta was an artist of burglary, and a very good cook, but he was terrible at disposing of stolen goods.

The inspector was shocked to learn he’d started doing these small jobs again. The last time he’d seen him, Botta was still coasting on the money he’d made on a successful scam in Greece.

The following Sunday morning Bordelli had gone to see him at the Murate prison. A guard accompanied him down the long corridors, opening and closing gates along the way. Water dripped from the ceilings, and the floor was scattered with dirty little piles of sawdust. The doors of the some of the cells were open, and the inmates walked about the corridors in groups, dragging their feet. Under the general murmur of voices the inspector heard the distant sound of an ocarina. After the umpteenth barred door, the guard pointed to a man scrubbing the floor at the end of a long, deserted corridor. It was Ennio. The inspector went up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Ciao, Botta, how’s it going?’

‘Inspector! What are you doing here?’ Ennio asked, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

‘How much time did they give you?’

‘Fourteen months, Inspector. I’m supposed to come out in March of next year, but by now I know how these things go. If I’m good, they’ll let me out for Christmas.’

‘And the money from Greece?’

‘The horses, Inspector. It’s the last time, I swear.’

‘I certainly hope so, for your sake.’

‘Fourteen months for a television set … Though I must say it was a Voxon, one of the best.’ Botta sighed histrionically.

‘Why don’t you ever call me when you have a problem, Ennio? You know I’ll help you if I can.’

‘But you already own a television set, Inspector! A beautiful Majestic …’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘And I hadn’t even stolen it myself ! I was just lending a friend a hand … You know who gave it to me?’

‘I don’t want to know. Listen, I’m here to ask you a favour.’

‘A nice Greek dinner at your place?’

‘That too … but there’s something else.’