Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi

that her son was a saint. It was a pretty painful scene, sir.’
    ‘Did you tell her we can’t release the body just yet?’
    ‘I did, but she kept on yelling and I don’t know if she heard me.’
    ‘Send a telegram to the local police.’
    ‘Of course, Inspector … How’s Piras doing?’
    ‘Much better. You’ll see, he’ll be back at work in a few weeks.’
    ‘Please give him my best.’
    Mugnai look his leave and left the room with his typical duck waddle. To get it over with, Bordelli immediately went upstairs to see the commissioner. He knocked and went in.
    Inzipone seemed fairly upset.
    ‘At last! Do you know who called me, Bordelli? Judge Ginzillo,’ said the commissioner, standing up.
    ‘To wish you a happy Christmas?’
    ‘Spare me the wit, Bordelli … Don’t you ever realise that you take things too far?’
    ‘Not this time – at least, I didn’t think so.’
    Inzipone shook his head.
    ‘Threatening a judge … Have you gone mad?’
    ‘Ginzillo is too touchy.’
    ‘You make life difficult for me, Bordelli, and I really don’t need that right now. And what’s this business about the promissory notes?’
    ‘I’m going to give them back to their rightful owners. It’ll be a sort of Christmas present to them.’ Inzipone sighed, seeming already resigned.
    ‘You are well aware, Bordelli, that the law calls for different procedures,’ he said without conviction.
    ‘Yes, I know, but I think what I’ve decided to do is better.’
    The commissioner sighed and ran a hand over his face. He seemed tired.
    ‘I’ll look the other way this time, but it will be the last,’ he said. Deep down he seemed happy with the decision. But, just so as not to give Bordelli too much satisfaction, he stared long and hard at him, purposely donning the expression of the man of authority struggling to tolerate yet another breach of discipline.
    ‘That’s all I have to say, Inspector,’ he said at last, sitting back down. Bordelli had already opened the door when Inzipone called to him again.
    ‘How’s our boy Piras doing?’ he asked.
    ‘He’s recovering.’
    ‘Next time you hear from him, give him my regards and best wishes for the holidays.’
    ‘I certainly shall.’
    The inspector closed the door behind him and walked slowly back to his office. Sitting down at his desk, he started turning his swivel chair round on its base: right … left … right … left … He was worried … If something didn’t turn up soon, this murder was likely to end up on the stack of unsolved cases begun by that of poor Wilma Montesi ten years ago. He had to admit that he would rather find out who killed Montesi than catch a loan shark’s killer, even if unsolved murders were detrimental to the social order on the whole. They set a bad example and only served to encourage those who hoped, literally, to get away with murder.
    Around two o’clock he realised he wasn’t very hungry and went out to eat a panino at the bar in Via San Gallo. He never ate at the station’s cafeteria. If he didn’t at least go out to eat he would feel like a prisoner.
    After taking coffee he returned to the office. Lighting his second cigarette, he continued thinking distractedly about Badalamenti. Whoever killed him had to have had a great deal of rage in him to attack him in that fashion. The scissor blades had penetrated deep into the stocky usurer’s thick neck, as if they’d been pounded in with a hammer. And Diotivede was almost certain the killer was left-handed. For the moment, that was all they had to go on.
    He calmly stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and then rang De Marchi, chief of the forensics lab, to find out the results of their search of Badalamenti’s flat. De Marchi was precise as usual. He promised straight off that he would send the written report by the end of the day. Bordelli thanked him and asked him to tell him the results straight away. De Marchi said he’d analysed the ashes and butts of a few