Death and the Olive Grove by Marco Vichi

or—’
    â€˜What else can you tell me about this Nocentini?’
    â€˜Ah, he’s a perfect boor, I tell you! Never says hello, always humming something through his teeth … and he puts out his cigarettes in the stairwell … and he spits, I’ve seen it with my own eyes … And he’s always chewing that American filth … and he whistles at women …’
    â€˜Well, I think I’ll go and have a chat with him,’ said Bordelli, feigning disapproval. He was at the end of his tether.
    â€˜And when will you do that, sir?’
    â€˜I’ll do it straight away, if he’s in.’
    Signora Capecchi blanched, shuffling her slippers again on the floor.
    â€˜Please, don’t ever say it was I who sent him to jail,’ she whispered, her eyes open wide.
    â€˜Don’t worry, nobody will ever know.’
    â€˜Ah, thank God!’ said Signora Capecchi, crossing herself. And then she thanked Bordelli endlessly, saying how really very nice he was, for a carabiniere , extremely nice, in fact she’d never met a carabiniere so nice. Bordelli crushed his fag-end in a little dish from Lourdes and got up to leave.
    â€˜Will you keep me informed, Marshal?’ she asked, sliding along the floor as she saw him out.
    â€˜The moment I’ve got any news, I’ll give you a ring.’
    â€˜Soon, I hope.’
    â€˜That depends,’ said Bordelli, glad to be leaving.
    â€˜Don’t let that oaf intimidate you, Marshal. Put him in his place,’ the old woman said as she opened the door.
    â€˜Don’t you worry.’
    â€˜Don’t pull any punches, Marshal. The hooligan may be big and fat, but you’re a carabiniere , aren’t you?’
    â€˜More or less.’
    â€˜Let me know when the trial date is set, I shouldn’t want to miss it.’
    â€˜Goodbye, signora. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.’
    â€˜Thank heavens. You have no idea how happy that makes me.’
    At last Signora Capecchi closed the door, and Bordelli heard the sound of a hundred bolts turning. Shaking his head, he started up towards the top floor. He felt like an idiot. With all the things he had to do, here he was, doing the bidding of a crazy old woman. At the top of the stairs, he lit a cigarette. On the door on the right-hand side of the landing there was still a little plaque with the name Meletti . Bordelli knocked without conviction, but nobody came to the door. He knocked again. Nothing.The nasty fellow wasn’t there. He descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, but before heading down the last flight he heard the front door open and close. Accompanied by a gust of cold wind, someone came in whistling a famous tune. Bordelli tried to remember the title, but it wouldn’t come to him. The man took the stairs like a horse, and when he was face to face with Bordelli, he stopped whistling. He was tall and fat, and must certainly be him, the terrible Nocentini. He looked to be just over twenty years old, with clear eyes and a likeable face.
    â€˜Evenin’,’ he said, thrusting his hands in his pockets and continuing on his way.
    â€˜I beg your pardon, but what were you whistling?’ Bordelli asked him.
    The young man turned round and gave him a funny look, then smiled faintly, amused.
    â€˜I don’t know, something French, I think,’ he said, shrugging.
    â€˜Was it perhaps a song by Yves Montand?’
    â€˜Perhaps.’
    â€˜Are you Nocentini?’
    â€˜Yes. Why do you ask?’ the man said, no longer smiling.
    â€˜Could I talk to you for a minute?’
    â€˜And who are you?’
    â€˜Inspector Bordelli. Let’s go upstairs for a minute. I just need to ask you a couple of questions.’
    â€˜All right,’ said the lad, frowning.
    They climbed up to the top floor and went into his flat. It consisted of a narrow hallway with a room at each end, dirty walls, crates yet to be