“Over the radio? What kind of radio?”
“A ham radio. It was his hobby, he told me. He said that when he used to sail the seas the radio always kept him company, and ever since . . . He had a huge setup in the living room.”
“Did you ever hear what he said?”
“Yes, but I didn’t understand . . . He often spoke in Arabic or some similar language. After a while I would get dressed and leave. Anyway, that day I started asking myself some questions, and I decided our affair was meaningless, or that, in any case, it had gone on too long. And so I didn’t go see him.”
“Did he have your cell phone number?”
“Yes.”
“And he used to call you?”
“Of course. He would call when he wanted to tell me I should come a little later than planned, or a little earlier.”
“Weren’t you surprised that he didn’t come looking for you when you never showed up for your appointment?”
“To be honest, yes. But when he didn’t call, I decided it was better that way.”
“Listen, I want you to try hard to remember. When you were with him there, did you ever hear any noises in the rest of the house?”
“What do you mean, in the rest of the house? Do you mean the other rooms?”
“No, I meant on the ground floor.”
“What kind of noises?”
“I dunno, voices, sounds . . . a car pulling up . . .”
“No. The downstairs was empty.”
“Did he get a lot of phone calls?”
“When we were together, he would turn off his cell phones.”
“How many did he have?”
“Two. One was a satellite phone. Whenever he turned them on, someone would call almost immediately.”
“Did he always speak in Arabic or whatever that language was?
“No, sometimes he’d speak Italian. And in that case he would go into another room. But it’s not like I really cared to know what he was saying.”
“How did he explain them?”
“Explain what?”
“All those phone calls.”
“Why should he explain them?”
True enough, again.
“Do you know if he had any friends in this area?”
“I certainly never saw any. I don’t think so. It suited him just fine, not having any friends.”
“Why’s that?”
“One of the few times he told me about himself, he said that on his last voyage, his oil tanker had caused a huge environmental disaster. There was a lawsuit still pending, and the shipping company had advised him to disappear for a while. Which explained everything: the secluded villa, why he always stayed home, and so on.”
Even assuming everything he told Ingrid was true, thought the inspector, it still didn’t explain why D’Iunio-Errera had died the way he did. Was one to think that his shipping firm, to keep him quiet, had ordered him killed? Come on. There certainly were dark motives behind the murder and, according to Ingrid’s description of him, he wasn’t a man with nothing to hide. But these dark motives lay elsewhere.
“I think I’ve earned a little whisky, Mr. Inspector,” Ingrid said at this point.
Montalbano got up and opened the liquor cabinet. Luckily Adelina had remembered to restock. There was a brand-new bottle. He went in the kitchen to get two glasses, returned, sat down, and filled the glasses halfway. They both wanted it neat. Ingrid took her glass, raised it, and eyed the inspector.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Murdered, right? If not, you wouldn’t be handling the case.”
Montalbano nodded yes.
“When did it happen?”
“I believe he never called you after you failed to show up because he was no longer in any condition to do so.”
“He was already dead?”
“I don’t know if they killed him immediately or kept him prisoner a long time.”
“Killed him . . . how?”
“Drowned him.”
“How did you find him?”
“He found me, actually.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Remember when you saw me naked on TV?”
“Yes.”
“The dead body I bumped into on my swim was his.”
Only then did Ingrid bring the glass to her lips, and she didn’t lower it until there wasn’t a drop of whisky left in it. Then she got up, went to the veranda, and stepped outside. Montalbano took his first sip and lit a cigarette. Ingrid came back inside and went into the bathroom. She returned after washing her face, sat back down, and refilled her glass.
“Have any more questions?”
“A few more. Is there anything of yours at the villa in Spigonella?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you leave anything of yours there?”
“Like what?”
“How should I know? A change of clothes . . .”
“Panties?”
“Uh . . .”
“No, there’s nothing of mine there. As I said, I never felt like spending the whole night there with him. Why do you ask?”
“Because, sooner or later, we’ll have to search the villa.”
“Don’t worry about that. Any other questions? I’m feeling a little tired.”
Montalbano pulled the photos out of his pocket and handed them to Ingrid.
“Which one looks most like him?”
“But aren’t these pictures of him?”
“They’re computer composites. His face was very badly deteriorated, unrecognizable.”
Ingrid studied them, then chose the one with the mustache.
“This one,” she said. “But . . .”
“But?”
“Two things are wrong. His mustache was a lot longer and had a different shape, kind of a handlebar mustache . . .”
“And the other thing?”
“The nose. The nostrils were wider.”
Montalbano took the dossier out of the envelope.
“As in this shot?”
“That’s him, all right,” said Ingrid. “Even without the mustache.”
There was no longer any doubt: D’Iunio and Errera were the same person. Catarella’s wacky theory had proved true.
Montalbano stood up and held his hand out to Ingrid, making her get up. When she was fully erect, he embraced her.
“Thanks,” he said.
Ingrid looked at him.
“Is that all?” she said.
“Let’s take the bottle and glasses out on the veranda,” said the inspector. “Now the fun begins.”
They settled onto the bench very close to each other. The night now smelled of brine, mint, whisky, and apricot, which was exactly what Ingrid’s skin smelled like. It was a blend not even a prize parfumeur could have invented.
They didn’t speak. They were happy just the way they were. Her third glass Ingrid left half full.
“Do you mind if I lie down on your bed?” she murmured suddenly.
“Don’t you want to go home?”
“I don’t feel up to driving.”
“I’ll take you home in my car. You can come pick it up—”
“I don’t want to go home. But if you really don’t want me to stay here, I’ll just lie down for a few minutes. Then I’ll go. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Ingrid stood up, kissed him on the forehead, and went inside. I don’t want to go home, she’d said. What did Ingrid’s and her husband’s house represent for her? Perhaps a bed even more alien than the one she was presently lying in? And if she’d had a child, would her home have seemed different to her, warmer, more welcoming? Poor woman! How much loneliness and melancholy might she be hiding under her apparently superficial joie de vivre? He felt a new emotion towards Ingrid well up inside him, a kind of heartbreaking tenderness. He swallowed a few more sips of whisky and, as a cool wind had started to blow, went inside with the bottle and glasses. He glanced over at the bedroom. Ingrid was sleeping with her clothes on, having removed only her shoes. He sat back down at the table. He wanted to let her sleep another ten minutes or so.
Meanwhile let’s do a brief review of the previous episodes, he said to himself.