cigarettes. They were all of the brand
‘Muratti Ambassador’ with filter, just like the packets that were found scattered about the flat. To all appearances they were the brand the victim smoked. But in the same ashtray, and also on the floor in the study, they had found some ash residue of an Alfa brand cigarette, though they were unable to recover the butts. Perhaps the cigarette had been smoked down to the end, since that brand had no filter.
But as far as that went, De Marchi continued, Alfas were a common cigarette. As for the rest, they did find some hair besides the victim’s, almost all bleached blond, but not all belonging to the same person. And the three strands of dark hair they found belonged to two different people.
‘Obviously they could belong to anyone who set foot in that flat over the last few months,’ De Marchi said.
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Aside from Badalamenti’s, we found fingerprints belonging to sixteen different people, with a particularly high concentration in the study. I don’t know how useful they’ll be. They could have been made by just about anyone, on any day, but I’ll have them checked to see if any belong to any previous offenders. As for the scissors, as I’ve already said, they were cleaned with a handkerchief or cloth … Or else the killer was wearing gloves.’
‘The result is the same,’ said the inspector.
‘With all the movies they make these days, even children know you have to wear gloves when you kill someone,’ De Marchi said, sighing.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not much. We picked up some other stuff from Badalamenti’s clothes and around the body, but nothing important: a few little bits of tomato, breadcrumbs … that sort of thing.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘And that’s all, Inspector.’
‘Thanks. Please send me the written report as soon as you can.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Bordelli hung up and leaned back on the springs of his chair, making it squeak. De Marchi was right to be pessimistic. All those fingerprints were practically useless. Clearly the killer had taken care not to leave any traces about the flat, just as he had been careful with the scissors as well. The other fingerprints could belong to just about anybody. Everyone on the list of debtors had a plausible reason for entering the apartment, and for the moment they were the only hypothetical suspects. He shook his head. Given the nature of the case, the findings of the forensics lab seemed to lead nowhere. The only element unlike the rest was Marisa, the beautiful girl in the photographs.
It was almost midnight. Piras was playing poker with two friends, and between the three of them they’d already drunk half a bottle of filu e ferru . 10 They were at the home of Angelo Nireddu, in front of a warm fire. Angelo lived on a small, steep street near the church and worked as a surveyor for the town of Oristano. The other friend was Ettore Cannas, a muscular, nervous lad who worked as a farmhand. He lived nearby with his parents and a much younger sister, but he also had three older brothers who had gone to live in Italy proper, whom he often spoke of as heroes to emulate.
All three card players had been to Piras’s house, along with a few other neighbours, to watch Giorgio Gaber on the telly. When the half-naked dancing girls appeared, Maria looked out of the corner of her eye at Gavino and shook her head while she continued cleaning the vegetables.
After the final evening news report, Pietrino and his two friends had walked to the Nireddus’ house. The kitchen was the warmest room. A log of olive wood was burning its last between two rough-hewn stones that served as firedogs. After adding more wood, they’d pulled out the playing cards and a bottle and sat down at the table. Angelo’s parents and younger brothers had gone to bed some time before, but they all slept in the other part of the house behind closed doors, so there was no need to whisper.
As they were playing,
‘Muratti Ambassador’ with filter, just like the packets that were found scattered about the flat. To all appearances they were the brand the victim smoked. But in the same ashtray, and also on the floor in the study, they had found some ash residue of an Alfa brand cigarette, though they were unable to recover the butts. Perhaps the cigarette had been smoked down to the end, since that brand had no filter.
But as far as that went, De Marchi continued, Alfas were a common cigarette. As for the rest, they did find some hair besides the victim’s, almost all bleached blond, but not all belonging to the same person. And the three strands of dark hair they found belonged to two different people.
‘Obviously they could belong to anyone who set foot in that flat over the last few months,’ De Marchi said.
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Aside from Badalamenti’s, we found fingerprints belonging to sixteen different people, with a particularly high concentration in the study. I don’t know how useful they’ll be. They could have been made by just about anyone, on any day, but I’ll have them checked to see if any belong to any previous offenders. As for the scissors, as I’ve already said, they were cleaned with a handkerchief or cloth … Or else the killer was wearing gloves.’
‘The result is the same,’ said the inspector.
‘With all the movies they make these days, even children know you have to wear gloves when you kill someone,’ De Marchi said, sighing.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not much. We picked up some other stuff from Badalamenti’s clothes and around the body, but nothing important: a few little bits of tomato, breadcrumbs … that sort of thing.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘And that’s all, Inspector.’
‘Thanks. Please send me the written report as soon as you can.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Bordelli hung up and leaned back on the springs of his chair, making it squeak. De Marchi was right to be pessimistic. All those fingerprints were practically useless. Clearly the killer had taken care not to leave any traces about the flat, just as he had been careful with the scissors as well. The other fingerprints could belong to just about anybody. Everyone on the list of debtors had a plausible reason for entering the apartment, and for the moment they were the only hypothetical suspects. He shook his head. Given the nature of the case, the findings of the forensics lab seemed to lead nowhere. The only element unlike the rest was Marisa, the beautiful girl in the photographs.
It was almost midnight. Piras was playing poker with two friends, and between the three of them they’d already drunk half a bottle of filu e ferru . 10 They were at the home of Angelo Nireddu, in front of a warm fire. Angelo lived on a small, steep street near the church and worked as a surveyor for the town of Oristano. The other friend was Ettore Cannas, a muscular, nervous lad who worked as a farmhand. He lived nearby with his parents and a much younger sister, but he also had three older brothers who had gone to live in Italy proper, whom he often spoke of as heroes to emulate.
All three card players had been to Piras’s house, along with a few other neighbours, to watch Giorgio Gaber on the telly. When the half-naked dancing girls appeared, Maria looked out of the corner of her eye at Gavino and shook her head while she continued cleaning the vegetables.
After the final evening news report, Pietrino and his two friends had walked to the Nireddus’ house. The kitchen was the warmest room. A log of olive wood was burning its last between two rough-hewn stones that served as firedogs. After adding more wood, they’d pulled out the playing cards and a bottle and sat down at the table. Angelo’s parents and younger brothers had gone to bed some time before, but they all slept in the other part of the house behind closed doors, so there was no need to whisper.
As they were playing,
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