The Potter's Field

“Inspector, all I know about my husband’s life is what he chooses to tell me, in person or in writing. He’s certainly never mentioned anything about enemies. It’s true he’s talked a few times about some arguments he’d had with other officers or crew members, but those were all things of no importance.”

“What about here in Vigàta?”

“At this point Giovanni has very few friends in Vigàta. He moved to Colombia with his parents when he was still very young, did his studies there, and then, when his father died, a relative from Vigàta helped him out until he took ship for the first time as a professional. He’s lived more abroad than here.”

“Do you know the names and addresses of any of these friends?”

“Of course.”

“You can give them to Fazio later. When Giovanni’s father died, did you and Giovanni already know each other?”

The memory made her smile ever so faintly.

“Yes, we’d been together for three months. He took me into Papa’s studio and—”

“Okay, okay. When was your husband supposed to have taken ship?”

“On the fourth of September.”

“Where?”

“At Gioia Tauro.”

“When did he leave here?”

“Very early the day before, on the third.”

“How?”

“By car.”

“Wait a minute. That means he was definitely in Gioia Tauro on the evening of the third. We need to find out what hotel he went to. And what he did.”

“But that’s not what happened, Inspector. I left with him on the morning of the third. We took my car, in fact. We got there in the evening and went straight to his room.”

“His room?”

“Yes, for the last two years or so he’s been renting a oneroom flat with a bathroom and kitchenette.”

“Why?”

“Because very often Giovanni didn’t have time to come and see me here. He would call at port for only two or three days . . . And so he would let me know so that, when he came ashore, I would be there waiting for him.”

“I see. And what did you do on the evening of the third?”

“We ate and then we—”

“Out? Did you eat out at a restaurant?”

“No, we ate at home. We’d bought some provisions. And then we went to bed early. This time it was going to be a long journey.”

Better skip the nocturnal details. How was it possible that after years of marriage those two could think of nothing but engaging in that particular act? Maybe it was a Colombian thing.

“Did you receive any telephone calls?”

“There’s no phone there. But nobody called on the cell phone, either.”

“And the following morning?”

“Giovanni left at eight o’clock. I tidied up and left immediately afterwards. Which was a mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because I had no idea how tired I was. I had hardly slept a wink the night before and so, as I was driving, all at once I woke up as I was about to run into the sign for the bypass for Lido di Palmi. Two men who were in the car behind me and who came to my aid said I had also run into the median and made no sign of braking. They realized I was falling asleep.”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, luckily. I went and rested at a motel nearby as my car was being repaired. They hoped to have it ready for me by the afternoon but didn’t manage. So I spent the night at the motel and left the next day.”

“Have you been back to Gioia Tauro at any time since?”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Therefore the place should be in the condition you left it on the morning of September the fourth.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the keys?”

“Of course.”

“And your husband has his own set?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a cleaning woman who—”

“I always leave everything in order. And when I go back, I make sure that Giovanni finds the place all clean.”

“Give me the address.”

“Via Gerace 15, ground floor. You enter from the rear; there’s a little gate.”

“Give Fazio the keys before he leaves.”

“Why?”

“Signora, we don’t know how or why your husband disappeared. If he did it of his own free will, he very likely went back to that room after you left for Vigàta. And even if he disappeared at the hands of someone else, it’s possible that he was held in that room, against his will, by someone who knew him well.”

“I see.”

“Well, for the moment I think that’s all.”

“Don’t you want to pick a photo of Giovanni?”

“Ah yes, that’s right.”

“Come with me into the bedroom. They’re in there.”

At the sound of the word “bedroom,” Fazio, whom the inspector had brought along as a watchdog, sprang to his feet.

“I’m coming too,” he said.

“No, you stay here,” said Montalbano.

Fazio sat back down, looking worried.

“Call me if you need me,” he muttered.

“Need you for what?” asked Dolores, genuinely puzzled.

“Well, in case there are too many photos, you know...,” the inspector improvised.

In the bedroom the scent of cinnamon was so strong, it made him want to cough.

The bed was one of the biggest Montalbano had ever seen, a veritable drill ground. You could have held maneuvers, parades, and marches in it. At the foot of the bed there was a huge television and dozens of memory discs. On top of the television was a video camera.