Death and the Olive Grove (25 page)

‘Take me home with you,' she had said out of the blue.

‘Yes, madam,' Bordelli had replied. And they had exchanged a smile of understanding and gone back to his car. On the drive home, they were both silent. Bordelli drove slowly, sniffing the air to pick up her scent. It was nice sitting in silence, listening to the sound of the Beetle. It was nice to see, out of the corner of his eye, Milena's leg swinging to and fro. It was also nice to look at the buildings' facades, the people passing by, to feel the steering wheel in his hands. It was all wonderful.

‘This is where I live,' Bordelli had said, parking directly in front of the entrance.

‘We know,' she'd said, in the tone of a spy.

They'd gone up the stairs without looking at each other. Once inside, she'd closed the door and kissed him on the lips, squeezing him tight and grabbing the hair on the nape of his neck.

‘You move fast,' Bordelli had said, feeling Milena's hands fumble under his shirt.

‘When I know what I want, I don't like to waste any time,' she had whispered, smiling. A minute later they were in bed …

Bordelli lay on his back, playing with Milena's hair, curling the locks round his fingers. But his sense of well-being was slowly beginning to feel contaminated … It was the murdered little girls, whose senseless deaths continued to gnaw at his brain. Milena had one leg over his belly, and every so often kissed him on the neck. It was nice to have her so close, to feel her hair on his shoulder, to smell the lovely scent of her skin and breath.

‘I feel good too,' said Bordelli.

She began breathing more heavily, climbed on top of him, and they started all over again.

The little girl had gone out shortly after seven o'clock to buy milk just round the corner from home, as she did almost every evening. It usually took her only a few mintues, but today, after fifteen minutes, she still hadn't returned. She was nine years old and her name was Susanna. Her mother had gone out to look for her and asked the milkman, but he hadn't seen her. She'd asked the other shopkeepers as well, but they didn't know anything. That area of Gavinana wasn't very well lit, and at that hour there was hardly anyone on the street. The woman became seriously scared and started looking for her daughter up and down the streets from Via di Villamagna to Piazza Elia dalla Costa, asking the few pedestrians she passed whether they'd seen a little girl with blonde hair wearing a yellow sweater. But nobody knew anything. In the end she collapsed, and around nine o'clock she called the police. Bordelli was informed and instinctively phoned Davide Rivalta. He let it ring a long time, counting the rings. At the twentieth ring, he hung up, then rushed to the radio communications room to speak with the officers who were watching Rivalta.

‘What time did he go out?' he asked, squeezing the microphone.

‘He's at home, Inspector. He got back at five and hasn't moved since. At the moment he's on the ground floor. I can see the lights on,' said the policeman.

Bordelli ended the communication and returned to his office feeling very disappointed. He tried ringing Rivalta again. He let the phone ring for a long time again, and just when he was about to hang up, he heard someone pick up.

‘Who is this? Hello? Hello?! Who is this?' said Rivalta, half asleep. Bordelli hung up without saying a word.

There was a great deal of commotion at the police station. Hundreds of photos of the little girl were printed up in record time, to be distributed to the residents of the Gavinana quarter. The television news reports also broadcast a photo of Susanna, asking people to call the police if they had any information whatsoever, even the most insignificant. Meanwhile a veritable hunting party was organised, starting at the Parco dell'Anconella and going as far as the end of Via di Ripoli. They searched every garden, public and private, and checked every courtyard, as well as a broad stretch of open country around Ponte a Ema. The search lasted late into the night, but the girl was never found. Susanna Zanetti had vanished into thin air. Nobody had seen her talking to anyone, or getting into a car, or even walking down the street. How was it possible that no one at all had seen a little blonde girl in a yellow sweater? Bordelli's stomach was in knots. He hadn't slept much the night before, and the fatigue was muddling his brain.

‘Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Piras?'

‘Unfortunately, yes, Inspector, but I hope I'm wrong.'

‘Fuck …' said Bordelli, lighting his thousandth cigarette of the day. During their search he had hoped the girl had simply, stupidly got lost, but several hours had now passed, and he no longer expected her to be found alive.

Round about four o'clock in the morning he felt on the verge of collapse and went home to rest for a while. He got into bed, turned off the light, and a few minutes later was already asleep, head full of memories of the war.

Shortly after dawn, a man phoned police headquarters, and Mugnai rang Bordelli at home.

‘It's done, Inspector … They've found her.'

‘Dead?' asked Bordelli, holding his breath.

‘Dead,' said Mugnai. The inspector cursed and ran a hand over his sleepy face.

‘Where?' he asked.

‘In a wood between Bagno a Ripoli and l'Antella.The squads are already on their way there.'

‘Ring Piras and tell him I'll be at his place in a few minutes … And inform Diotivede at once.'

The inspector dragged himself out of bed, got dressed in a hurry, and raced down the stairs. He was a wreck. As he got into the car, he felt a crushing sense of desolation. He had slept barely two hours, and his ears were ringing. Fatigue was altering his perceptions, and he kept thinking he saw a cat running under the Beede's wheels. He swung by Via Gioberti to pick up Piras, who was already waiting in the doorway, bags under his eyes. They didn't even greet each other. The streets were almost empty, and they got to Bagno a Ripoli in a matter of minutes. Through the clouds shone a greenish light that did nothing to remedy the atmosphere of death. The air smelled strongly of rain.

They turned in the direction of Antella, and about half a mile later saw the flashing blue lights of several squad cars. Bordelli pulled up at the side of the road, and they both got out. Aside from the policemen, there was nobody there, not even journalists.

‘Has the mother been informed?' Bordelli asked one of the uniformed cops.

‘Scarpelli's taking care of that, Inspector.'

‘Is he always the one to do that?'

‘He's the best at that sort of thing, sir.'

‘Where's the little girl?'

‘Up that path … The man who found her is also there.'

‘Come, Piras.'

They went up the trail, which ascended steeply through the woods, and past a bend they saw the silhouettes of two policemen standing motionless in the middle of the path. There was also an elderly man wearing a hat and holding a rather agitated hunting dog on a leash. When they reached the group, a very young policeman Bordelli didn't know came forward.

‘She's over there, Inspector,' he said with the voice of a child, lighting the woods with a torch. Two bare little feet were sticking out from behind a tree trunk. Bordelli and Piras approached the body, followed by the child cop. The sun still hadn't fully come up, and hardly any light penetrated through the trees.

‘Pass me the torch,' Bordelli said to the kid, taking it out of his hand. He shone it on the little girl.

‘That was the gentleman who called us, Inspector,' the boy said under his breath, gesturing towards the man in the hat.

‘Did he touch anything?' asked Bordelli.

‘He didn't, but his dog may have when he found the body.'

‘Go ahead and send him home.'

Piras had knelt down and was leaning forward to have a closer look at the little girl. The spectacle was more or less the same as in the other cases. Susanna was lying face up, beautiful, dark green eyes open. Her blonde, slightly undone braid stood out against the moss, and her yellow sweater was all soiled with dirt. Bordelli lifted it with one finger, knowing what he would find underneath. The teeth had sunk deep into the flesh, leaving a bluish imprint.

The wind was blowing, and great sinewy clouds passed overhead. An evil light filtered into the dense wood. A car was heard pulling up along the road, then a door slammed. A moment later Diotivede appeared on the path, black bag in hand. In the darkness of the wood, his bright white hair looked almost luminous. He made the faintest of gestures and without saying a word knelt beside the little girl and studied her for a few minutes. He checked the marks on her neck, the bite on her belly, the consistency of her flesh. It took him less time than the others. Then he stood up and, as always, started jotting down his first notes in his notebook.

‘How long has she been dead?' Bordelli asked, without taking his eyes off the child.

‘At a glance I'd say about twelve hours … and don't ask me if I'm sure,' the pathologist said under his breath, staring at him from behind his glasses with a look of disgust. He put his notebook in his pocket and headed back down the path without another word. Bordelli followed him with his eyes, rather stunned. All at once Diotivede stopped and turned round. He gestured to Bordelli to approach. Apparently he wanted to talk to him alone.

‘Wait for me here,' the inspector said to Piras. He'd never seen Diotivede behave this way. Sticking a cigarette between his lips, he walked towards the doctor, wondering what he might have to say. When he was a few steps away from him, Diotivede resumed walking, but more slowly. Bordelli drew level with him, and they continued down the path side by side, without looking at each other. Waiting for Diotivede to talk, the inspector lit the cigarette. The wind was gusting through the trees, raising the hair on their heads, as it had the previous evening with Milena. The smoke he blew out of his mouth swirled in the air and vanished in a second. He suddenly realised the doctor was no longer beside him. Turning round, he saw that Diotivede had stopped a few steps behind him. They were standing face to face, in the darkness of that narrow path in the woods. Bordelli tried to glean something from Diotivede's eyes, but saw only his dark silhouette and white hair shining in the darkness.

The wind, the dawn, the twittering birds … Had the situation been different, it could have been a beautiful moment.

‘Have I ever spoken to you about Aurora?' the doctor suddenly asked, his voice breaking.

‘No,' said Bordelli, feeling a shudder down his spine.

‘She was a niece of mine. Died in ‘39. Aged six.'

‘What happened?'

‘Crushed by a lorry.'

‘You've never mentioned that to me.'

‘When I saw her dead body, I felt in a way as if I myself had died. I shut myself up at home for many days. It was as if the world had stopped. I wanted it to stop. That seemed like the right thing to me. Then one morning I went out and saw people all around me, getting on with their lives as usual. I saw people walking, talking, queuing up for bread … Some were even laughing. Nothing at all had stopped. Only me. Then, slowly, I started to feel alive again, perhaps even more alive than before, as if Aurora's life had entered me …'

‘Maybe these things really do happen,' said Bordelli.

‘I don't know … But when I find myself looking at these dead little girls I feel just as powerfully as before that the world should stop.'

The doctor advanced a few steps and stopped in front of Bordelli. His eyes were now quite visible behind the lenses: two big eyes full of disgust.

‘Find the killer, Bordelli,' he said. And then he went on his way down the little path without another word, medical bag dangling at his side. He looked like an old sorcerer returning exhausted to his underground burrow after a lost battle against the forces of Evil. Bordelli tossed his fag-end to the ground and squashed it with his shoe until it broke apart.

Midday. The strong wind made the antennae on the rooftops sway, even managing to knock a few of them down. Bordelli sat in his office, staring at the wall in front of him, in part because, aside from the yellowed plaster, there was nothing on it to look at. He thought distractedly that his office needed a good whitewash and started to feel dizzy. For neither of the past two nights had he managed to sleep more than three hours. Having forgotten an almost whole cigarette in the ashtray, he lit another. He smoked and stared at the wall; he stared at the wall and smoked. Every so often he ran a hand over his unshaven face, as if to wipe his soul clean of the mixture of horror and impotence wearing him down. He would have given anything to be truly floating in space through the Milky Way and other galaxies. He put out his cigarette, noticed the abandoned one, and smoked it as well. He took deep drags, angrily savouring the fist of smoke punching his throat. Then nausea came over him and he violently crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. He picked up the report on Susanna Zanetti again. Nine years old, blonde hair, found dead at dawn by a retiree's hunting dog in the countryside at Bagno a Ripoli. And nobody had seen anything.

Susanna's mother had been accompanied by the inevitable Scarpelli to Forensic Medicine to identify the body. When they raised the sheet she had bent over her daughter with a demented smile on her face. That child wasn't Susanna. She couldn't be Susanna. She might look like her, but she wasn't Susanna, she couldn't be. Susanna never kept her mouth open like that, Susanna never let her braid come undone, Susanna didn't have dead eyes like that, Susanna was alive, Susanna was at school, this little girl wasn't Susanna, Susanna didn't have dead eyes like that, this couldn't be her, Susanna never let her braid come undone …

Diotivede had already done the first tests and determined with certainty that Susanna Zanetti had been killed between seven and eight o'clock the previous evening. The means were the same, except for the traces of chloroform found in the child's respiratory tract. The murderer had put her to sleep so he could abduct and kill her at his convenience. She probably passed from sleep to death without even noticing.