Death and the Olive Grove (31 page)

She shook her head and pressed the handkerchief to her mouth.

‘If Friedrich was still here, this would never have happened … Never …' she said, shaken by another sob.

‘Was he Chiara's father?' Bordelli asked, distracted by a thought that had begun buzzing in his brain like a great big fly.

‘Yes … he died only a few months ago … We were supposed to get married in September,' the woman whined.

‘He wasn't Italian, I take it?'

‘He was German, from Cologne,' the woman mumbled, eyes full of despair.

‘How did it happen?'

‘An accident …'

‘I'm sorry,' said Bordelli, looking thoughtful. The fly kept kept buzzing in his head, but he hadn't yet determined what species of fly it was. The woman grabbed one of his arms with both hands.

‘Let me see that man; I want to see his face,' she said.

‘I don't think that's possible,' said Bordelli.

‘I beg you …'

‘I can't.'

‘I want to look him in the eye and ask him why he did it,' she whispered, rolling her eyes.

‘What was that?' said Bordelli, staring into space. The fly had suddenly landed and turned into a suspicion that demanded to be clarified at once.

‘Why did he kill my child?… I want him to look me in the eye and tell me,' the woman insisted, bursting into tears again.

‘I'm sorry, Signora Benini, but I really don't think I can help you.'

‘He killed my little girl … I want to look him in the eye and tell him—'

‘I really can't, I'm sorry,' Bordelli interrupted her in a decisive tone.

Signora Benini took it badly, biting hard into her lip.

‘I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Inspector,' she muttered, and without another word she flung open the door and went out. Bordelli let her go; he couldn't do anything for her. He went and stood in the doorway, waited for her to disappear down the stairs, then locked himself in his office. He sat down at his desk and scratched his head a long time, just like a monkey. Then he suddenly started rifling through the papers scattered across his desk and finally found what he was looking for. He picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

‘Signora Bini, this is Inspector Bordelli.'

‘Hello,' said Sara's mother in a thin little voice.

‘Am I disturbing you?'

‘Nothing can disturb me any more, Inspector.'

‘You have to be strong,' said Bordelli, knowing how meaningless his words were.

‘I'm glad you arrested him,' the woman muttered.

‘If only we'd caught him sooner …'

‘I feel sorry for the man,' she said without hatred.

‘Signora Bini, I'd like to ask you something.'

‘Go right ahead.'

‘Was Sara's father German?' the inspector asked, holding his breath.

‘Yes … Why do you ask?' she said.

Bordelli felt a shudder run down his neck.

‘Nothing important … I'm sorry, signora, but why hadn't your daughter taken her father's surname?'

‘At first she did … Up until a few months ago, Sara was called Isphording, but last year my husband and I decided to go to City Hall and try to have it changed to Bini.'

‘And why is that?' asked the inspector, his mind already elsewhere.

‘Sara still didn't know anything about her real father. She was going to start school in October, and we didn't want her to find out that way. We thought we would tell her everything in a few years, but wanted to wait for the right moment.'

‘I understand.'

‘We ran into some problems at the register office and began to think we weren't going to manage, or at least not in time for October. Then, with the help of a friend who works at City Hall, we finally managed … Though, as you can see, it turned out to be pointless …'

‘I'm sorry,' Bordelli said, embarrassed to say something so banal.

‘Why do you want to know these things, Inspector? Is there some new development in the case?' she asked, without any real interest.

‘It would take too long to explain … Thank you so much, signora. That'll be all for now'

Bordelli hurriedly said goodbye to the woman and hung up. He sat there for a few minutes staring at his hand on the receiver, then picked it up again. He rang Carla Panerai, Valentina's mother, and asked her the same question …

‘Mugnai, send me Piras, would you?' said Bordelli, sounding rather agitated.

‘Straight away, Inspector.'

While waiting he started pacing back and forth with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He'd slept very little the night before, because of Milena, and felt a bit groggy. His footsteps on the grit-tile floor echoed in his head like hammer-blows.

About ten minutes later the door opened and Piras came in.

‘You were looking for me, Inspector?'

‘Where the hell were you?'

‘I was in Rinaldi's office, taking care of the—'

Bordelli cut him off with a wave of the hand.

‘Piras … all four of those little girls had German fathers.'

‘Holy shit!' said the Sardinian, jaw dropping.

Bordelli glanced at his watch. It was almost half past two.

‘Let's go and see Rivalta,' he said.

They went out at once, got into the Beetle and headed straight for the Murate prison. It was still raining hard. Bordelli was nervous and continually moved his hands about the steering wheel. He couldn't wait to face Rivalta and tell him point blank what he had discovered. He was hoping to make him talk, to wrench something out of him as to the motive for those murders.

Entering the prison, they walked down the corridors in the company of a listless warder. Bordelli felt goosebumps along his arms, as he did whenever he thought he was getting close to a revelation. It seemed to take for ever to get to Rivalta's cell. The sound of their footsteps and the gates opening and closing echoed through the ancient vaults of the former convent. Water dripped on to the flooring from some unseen point in the vaults.

At last the warder stopped. He opened the cell door, took one step inside and yelled: ‘
Oh, fuck
!'

Rivalta was hanging from the bars over the window, a piece of metal wire looped round his neck. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and his mouth was hanging open. His tongue dangled all the way down to his chin, and was as black as spoilt meat. It was obviously not a suicide. His feet were more than a yard off the floor, and there was no sign of a chair or stool anywhere around him.

‘Shit,' said Bordelli, looking at Rivalta's face.

‘I guess that's the end of that,' said Piras, gesturing horizontally with his hand.

‘Come, Piras.'

They asked the prison governor for a free room and got down to work. In a little over an hour they interrogated all the guards on the cell block, one after another, and then the prisoners in charge of services. Not surprisingly, nothing of any use emerged. Nobody had seen or heard anything. Rivalta had been hanged by ghosts.

‘What do you make of all this, Piras?' the inspector asked as they got into the car, his head aching. It was raining much less than before.

‘I don't know what to say, Inspector. The first thing I thought was that he was killed by other inmates, obviously with the tacit approval of the guards … But what's strange is the way …'

‘Normally in these cases there's a lot more blood,' said Bordelli, setting the car in motion.

‘He wasn't even beaten,' Piras noted, curling his lips.

Bordelli dropped Piras off at the station and went to look for a quiet place to have a drink in peace. He wanted a moment alone to reflect. On top of all the things he hadn't yet managed to understand, now there was also the murder of Davide Rivalta: Why had he been eliminated? And by whom? He didn't understand a bloody thing any more.

After flinging open the door, the inspector went and sat down on a stool. Once he had a glass in front of him, he lit a cigarette. Only then did he notice that there was a guy beside him in jacket and tie, with a gaunt, bony face, who was staring at him. Bordelli glanced at him distractedly and immediately forgot about him. He wanted to be left alone so he could think.

‘If I may …?' the man said, extending a white hand, thin as a blade, towards him. Bordelli looked at him without saying anything.

‘The name's Mario Gallori, pleasure … I'm just passing through,' the man continued, hand still extended. He had a nasal voice and a strong northern accent.

Bordelli sighed and shook those cold fingers, smiling formally.

‘Pleasure,' he said without a whit of pleasure.

‘I sell washing machines … What do you do for a living?' Mario Gallori had it written all over his face that he worked hard and wasn't the least bit satisfied.

‘I'm sorry, but I want to be left alone,' said Bordelli.

‘I didn't mean to bother you, sir, it was just to have a little chat … I'll just finish my beer and be on my way.'

The inspector's thoughts were utterly confused, and he continued to ignore the washing-machine man, who was tapping his fingers on the bar.

‘You know how I feel? It's as if I were some kind of revolutionary … I'm one of those people who are helping this country to change,' he said in all seriousness.

‘Of course you are,' said Bordelli, hoping it would end soon. He emptied his glass and then raised it in the air to order another grappa. Gallori pulled his stool closer.

‘I can tell that you don't believe me … Do you realise what the invention of the washing machine means for Italian society?' he said, lightly squeezing the inspector's elbow.

‘It means nobody will wash their clothes by hand any more,' said Bordelli, making a gesture of thanks to the bartender, who had refilled his glass. Gallori shook his head, waited for the bartender to leave, and then continued.

‘That's the most visible change, but it certainly doesn't end there. With the invention of the washing machine, women will no longer have to spend their mornings slapping and wringing clothes at the wash-house or the sink, because that backbreaking work will have been taken care of … Do you realise what that could mean?'

Bordelli started cursing himself for coming into this bar. He had no desire to talk, especially about washing machines.

‘Eh? Have you any idea, sir?' Gallori insisted.

‘I don't know, I'd have to think about it.'

‘No need to bother, I'll tell you myself. It's rather simple, after all, once you give it a little thought … I travel a great deal, I've got a Lancia Appia … it's parked right outside … But it's not mine, it belongs to the business … I could never afford a car like that … In short, I work like a dog and earn nothing … But never mind those things … What I really mean is … do you know how many kilometres I drive in a week?'

‘How many?' Bordelli sighed, hoping to get rid of the guy in a hurry. The salesman held up two very long fingers.

‘Two thousand. Sometimes even twenty-two hundred … With an average of ninety hours at the wheel per month. And do you know what I do when I'm driving?'

‘What do you do?'

‘It's quite simple … When I'm driving I think. And when somebody thinks, what happens? Because, sooner or later,
something
happens … What do
you
think happens?'

Bordelli stared at him, looking bored and hoping the man might suddenly understand the situation and stop talking. But the salesman gestured to the bartender to bring him another beer and then loosened his necktie.

‘Anyway, I said to myself, the washing machine is a wonderful invention, that's what everyone says – you said it yourself, just now, I think … But with so much less work to do, and so much more time on their hands, women will have a lot more opportunity to set their little minds a-whirring,
to think
, that is …' he said with a snigger. But he hadn't finished yet.

‘… and if women start thinking, what do you think that means?'

‘It means something will happen,' said Bordelli, at the limit of his tolerance. The salesman grabbed the inspector's arm.

‘Very good! I can see you're starting to get the idea … But do you know
what
will happen once women start thinking? Are you able to imagine it? Well, I'll tell you what will happen: overnight the country will change from
this
… to
this
,' he said, holding his hand palm down in the air and then flipping it over.

Bordelli stared at his glass of grappa with a wicked expression, determined not to say another word. Gallori regained his breath and snapped his fingers.

‘Yes, that is precisely what will happen … And now you will ask me: will it be a change for the better or for the worse? What do
you
think? For the better or for the worse?'

The barman brought Gallori his beer, chuckling under his moustache. He could clearly see that Bordelli was at the end of his tether. The salesman took a sip and resumed talking.

‘I've thought a great deal about this, you know … Ninety hours a month, watching the road roll under my tyres, you get the picture … And you know what I've realised? It will change for the worse, that's what. In fact, it'll be a disaster. And now you'll ask me why …'

Bordelli downed his glass in a single gulp, without the slightest enjoyment, then put his money on the bar and stood up.

‘Signor Gallori, it's been a pleasure,' he said. Gallori stood up with him, shook his hand and clung to it as he kept on talking.

‘The reason is quite simple … I don't read much because I annually spend forty-five per cent of my time sitting in my car … Which is hardly a drop in the ocean, you know, do the maths yourself … But in my youth, I studied a bit … not that it was my great passion, of course …'

The inspector managed to free his hand, made a last gesture of goodbye and, as the salesman kept rambling on, headed for the door. He stopped for a moment in the doorway to turn up the collar of his jacket, and before he went out, he heard Gallon's voice carrying on behind him.