The Potter's Field

Maybe someone had seen them breaking down the door. It would have been amusing to watch if they’d been arrested by the carabinieri.

“Did you go there yourself?”

“Of course. Without a warrant, I had to be the one to take responsibility. Get me that warrant, and I’ll let you know why I have to report everything to the prosecutor.”

“All right, but in the meantime, did you take any photos? Could you send them to me?”

“There are four photos, and you’ll be receiving them at any moment. Bye, talk to you soon.”

By the time Fazio returned, Montalbano had already spoken to Prosecutor Tommaseo, told him about Alfano’s disappearance, obtained a warrant, and had it faxed from Montelusa to Macannuco.

Fazio looked befuddled.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong, Chief, is we were wrong.”

“Can you speak a little more clearly?”

“I compared the data on Giovanni Alfano that Dolores gave me with the missing persons data. You remember when I said there wasn’t anybody whose data matched up with the body we found in the critaru?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, now there is somebody, and his information matches up with Alfano’s. In every respect: age, height, probable weight.”

Now it was Montalbano’s turn to look befuddled.

And as they were looking at each other, the door flew open with a crash that might have been a bomb. Montalbano and Fazio cursed in unison, while Catarella remained in the doorway, looking pensive.

“Well, aren’t you going to come in?”

“Chief, I’s thinkin’ that maybe I oughta try knockin wit’ my feet, since my ’and always slips.”

“No, instead you ought to try this: when you’re in front of the door, instead of knocking, take out your gun and shoot once in the air. I’m sure it would make less noise. What is it?”

Catarella came in, went up to the desk, and set four photographs down on it.

“They’s juss sint from Tauro Gioiosa an’ I prinnit ’em.”

He left.

“You’d better be careful, Chief. The next time he comes in, the guy’s gonna shoot just like you said,” said Fazio, worried. “And it may start a revolution.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Montalbano. “Come and have a look at these photos yourself.”

Fazio came up beside him.

The first shot, which showed the bedroom, had been taken in such a way as to display the whole room. On the right was an open door that afforded a glimpse of the bathroom. The bed was almost as big as the one the Alfanos had in Vigàta, and there was an armoire, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. All in perfect order but for a pair of trousers tossed carelessly onto the bed.

The second shot showed a sort of living room with a kitchenette in the corner and hanging cupboards. There was also a small table with four chairs, two armchairs, a television, a sideboard, and a refrigerator. Beside the sink was an uncorked bottle of wine, a can of beer, and two glasses.

The third photo showed the bathroom. But the shot was taken so as to isolate the sink, toilet, and bidet. Here it was clear that whoever had last used the toilet had forgotten to flush, since the bowl was full of shit.

The fourth was an enlargement of the pair of trousers on the bed.

“Hadn’t the lady said she left the place in order?” said Fazio.

“Yeah. That means someone entered the apartment after she left.”

“The husband?”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely accompanied by someone else. There are two glasses.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think, Chief?”

“At the moment I don’t want to think about anything.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We have to show these photos to Dolores immediately. Call her right now and ask her if she can come here or if we should go there.”

Dolores Alfano showed them into the living room, after receiving them without so much as a smile. She was clearly nervous and mostly curious to know what the two men had to tell her. She didn’t even ask if they wanted coffee or something to drink. Montalbano weighed his options. Should he get straight to the point or beat around the bush, given that she wasn’t going to like what he had to tell her? Better not to waste any time.

“Signora,” he began, “I believe I recall you saying this morning that it was your custom, when leaving the apartment in Gioia Tauro, to leave everything orderly and neat. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t have a cleaning woman?”

“I do the cleaning myself.”

“So, once you leave Gioia Tauro and lock up the flat, nobody else goes inside. Is that correct?”

“That seems logical to me, no?”

“One more thing, signora. In your opinion, could your husband have lent the apartment to a friend who needed a place to stay, perhaps an associate passing through?”

“When he wasn’t there, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I would absolutely rule that out.”

“Why?”

“Because Giovanni is very possessive. Of me, of his things, of everything that belongs to him. You can imagine how he would feel about leaving his apartment to someone...”

She stopped short when she saw Montalbano signal to Fazio, who handed him the envelope he was holding.