under a beach umbrella, a woman bathing on the rocks, a group of friends on a beach playing with a large ball.
And all these things he wanted to know immediately, he wouldn’t sleep or eat or think about anything else until he did.
He wrapped the cartridge in the handkerchief and put it in his pocket. ‘Excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back.’ The telephone was in the hall. The kitchen door was ajar and through it he could see Lorenza knitting a winter outfit for Sara and listening to the radio. He smiled at her and gestured to her to remain seated, he didn’t need anything. He looked at his watch: nine o’clock.
‘Superintendent Carrua, please.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Duca Lamberti.’
A long wait, a few clicks, then Carrua’s voice, a little distorted. ‘Sorry, I’m yawning.’
‘I’m sorry, too, but I needed to talk to you urgently.’
‘You could have come here without phoning, I’m always ready to see you.’
‘I wanted to know if the photographic lab was open.’
‘The lab? Obviously it’s closed. They’re still doing a short week.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow morning.’ He couldn’t, he’d rather go and rouse some photographer from his bed.
‘If it’s urgent, I could have it opened and get hold of the technicians.’
‘It
is
urgent. I’ll explain when I get there.’
‘All right, I’ll be waiting.’
‘I’ll be bringing Auseri’s son with me.’
Ten minutes later, he and Davide were in the Via Fatebenefratelli, and by 11:40 Carrua’s large desk was covered in photographs in 18×24 format: the enlargements from the Minox film. There were also two large bottles of Coca-Cola on the desk. Only Davide had not taken his jacket off: they had sat him down at the far end of the room, in front of the table where the typewriter was, and there he had stayed and there he was even now, while they looked at the photographs.
‘What are you thinking, Duca?’
‘I’m sorting the photographs.’
From a puritan point of view, they were obscene images. They were extremely clear, in spite of being enlarged, and technically excellent. Against a vague background of clouds, the kind you found in old photographic studios, stood the subject, a naked woman.
‘There isn’t much to sort: half are of the brunette and half of the blonde.’
That was true: there were about twenty-five photographsof the same dark-haired girl, and twenty-five or twenty-six of the blonde. It could have been claimed that these were artistic images, however daring, in fact the poses seemed to have a modicum of aspiration towards artistry, but that would have been splitting hairs. The poses of the two girls were openly alluring, it wasn’t just their nakedness, it was also the gestures of the arms, the position of the legs. In most of the photographs the girls were hiding their faces, but not in all of them. They couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old.
‘Where did you put the Radelli girl’s file?’ he asked Carrua.
‘Oh yes, it’s in the drawer.’ Carrua gave it to him.
It was a large yellow folder, quite creased, the dossier on the suicide of Alberta Radelli. It contained her photograph, the death certificate issued by the pathologist, a photostat of the letter the girl had written to her sister asking forgiveness for killing herself, an officer’s report, an overall report made by the appropriate office, three or four pages summarising the interviews conducted with a number of people: the suicide’s sister, the famous cyclist Antonio Marangoni, the caretaker of the building where the dead girl lived with her sister. There were stamps, signatures, words underlined in red, and large blue seals. Duca extracted the photograph of the girl, taken from her licence, and showed it to Carrua along with one of the photographs from the Minox.
‘It could be,’ Carrua said.
‘We can soon find out. Davide, come here a moment, please.’
And all these things he wanted to know immediately, he wouldn’t sleep or eat or think about anything else until he did.
He wrapped the cartridge in the handkerchief and put it in his pocket. ‘Excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back.’ The telephone was in the hall. The kitchen door was ajar and through it he could see Lorenza knitting a winter outfit for Sara and listening to the radio. He smiled at her and gestured to her to remain seated, he didn’t need anything. He looked at his watch: nine o’clock.
‘Superintendent Carrua, please.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Duca Lamberti.’
A long wait, a few clicks, then Carrua’s voice, a little distorted. ‘Sorry, I’m yawning.’
‘I’m sorry, too, but I needed to talk to you urgently.’
‘You could have come here without phoning, I’m always ready to see you.’
‘I wanted to know if the photographic lab was open.’
‘The lab? Obviously it’s closed. They’re still doing a short week.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow morning.’ He couldn’t, he’d rather go and rouse some photographer from his bed.
‘If it’s urgent, I could have it opened and get hold of the technicians.’
‘It
is
urgent. I’ll explain when I get there.’
‘All right, I’ll be waiting.’
‘I’ll be bringing Auseri’s son with me.’
Ten minutes later, he and Davide were in the Via Fatebenefratelli, and by 11:40 Carrua’s large desk was covered in photographs in 18×24 format: the enlargements from the Minox film. There were also two large bottles of Coca-Cola on the desk. Only Davide had not taken his jacket off: they had sat him down at the far end of the room, in front of the table where the typewriter was, and there he had stayed and there he was even now, while they looked at the photographs.
‘What are you thinking, Duca?’
‘I’m sorting the photographs.’
From a puritan point of view, they were obscene images. They were extremely clear, in spite of being enlarged, and technically excellent. Against a vague background of clouds, the kind you found in old photographic studios, stood the subject, a naked woman.
‘There isn’t much to sort: half are of the brunette and half of the blonde.’
That was true: there were about twenty-five photographsof the same dark-haired girl, and twenty-five or twenty-six of the blonde. It could have been claimed that these were artistic images, however daring, in fact the poses seemed to have a modicum of aspiration towards artistry, but that would have been splitting hairs. The poses of the two girls were openly alluring, it wasn’t just their nakedness, it was also the gestures of the arms, the position of the legs. In most of the photographs the girls were hiding their faces, but not in all of them. They couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old.
‘Where did you put the Radelli girl’s file?’ he asked Carrua.
‘Oh yes, it’s in the drawer.’ Carrua gave it to him.
It was a large yellow folder, quite creased, the dossier on the suicide of Alberta Radelli. It contained her photograph, the death certificate issued by the pathologist, a photostat of the letter the girl had written to her sister asking forgiveness for killing herself, an officer’s report, an overall report made by the appropriate office, three or four pages summarising the interviews conducted with a number of people: the suicide’s sister, the famous cyclist Antonio Marangoni, the caretaker of the building where the dead girl lived with her sister. There were stamps, signatures, words underlined in red, and large blue seals. Duca extracted the photograph of the girl, taken from her licence, and showed it to Carrua along with one of the photographs from the Minox.
‘It could be,’ Carrua said.
‘We can soon find out. Davide, come here a moment, please.’
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