Death and the Olive Grove by Marco Vichi Page A

unpacked, rags strewn about, and a musty, closed smell that made one want to cough.
    â€˜I’m still getting settled,’ said the young man, standing in front of Bordelli.
    â€˜Are you the one making all the racket at night?’ the inspector asked.
    â€˜It was the old hag on the first floor who told you that, wasn’t it? What the hell is her name …?’
    â€˜Couldn’t you try to be a little quieter?’
    â€˜I am extremely quiet, but the minute the lady hears a fly buzz—’
    â€˜What about that record player?’
    â€˜I keep it turned down low.’
    Bordelli went over to see what records Nocentini was listening to. Celentano, Carosone, Rita Pavone …
    â€˜Have you got a job?’ he asked.
    â€˜I work at the central market. At five a.m. I’m already there unloading.’
    The inspector looked up from the stack of records and headed towards the door.
    â€˜Well, I have to go now. Try not to make too much noise at night, or Signora Capecchi will keep bugging me.’
    â€˜Okay.’
    â€˜And see that you don’t put out your cigarette butts in the stairwell.’
    â€˜I’ll be careful not to.’
    â€˜It’ll be better for everyone,’ said Bordelli, knowing how annoying old ladies of that sort could be. He shook the lad’s hand and went away trying to remember the title of that song by Yves Montand.
    Ever since he had seen little Casimiro folded up inside the suitcase, Bordelli had felt guilty. But now all he could do was find who had killed him, and this he swore he would do.
    Forensics had examined Casimiro’s flat but found no fingerprints other than those of Bordelli and the Beast. The killer had taken great care not to leave any traces. Which was rather strange for the murder of a poor dwarf from the Case Minime.
    Late the following morning, around midday, Bordelli got into his car with Piras and headed off towards Fiesole. On the way he gave his assistant a thorough account of everything he knew about the case, from the not-quite-dead man Casimiro had seen in the field to his last phone call to the inspector.
    They left the car in the usual spot and walked as far as the olive grove. Bordelli had no clear sense of what they were doing, but Casimiro’s last words led them to that villa, and that was where they should start. When they got to the buttresses, they noticed a great many torn ivy leaves on the ground. It looked as if someone had tried to climb up one of the buttresses by grabbing on to the vines’ strongest branches.
    â€˜I like this story less and less, Piras.’
    Bordelli was thinking of Casimiro, his wretched life and horrific death. It would have been better if he had never been born. At that hour maybe Diotivede had already opened up his belly.
    Piras was looking carefully at the ground. At a certain point he spotted something in the grass and got down on his kness.
    â€˜Come and look, Inspector.’
    Bordelli came closer and bent down to look.
    â€˜Shit,’ he said. It was Casimiro’s little plastic skeleton. He picked it up and turned it around sadly in his hand.
    â€˜Why did you say shit , Inspector?’
    â€˜Because this belonged to Casimiro.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’ asked Piras.
    â€˜Quite sure. It was a sort of talisman. He was always fiddling with it.’
    â€˜Couldn’t he have dropped it the night you came here together?’
    â€˜No, I remember specifically that he had it in his hand when I drove him home.’
    â€˜Shit,’ said the Sardinian.
    Bordelli put the little skeleton in his pocket and resumed looking around. He took a few steps back to get a full view of the villa. As usual, the shutters were closed and there was no sign of life within. Piras kept searching along the ground, looking for footprints, but it was no use. The dense carpet of grass didn’t hold an impression for very long.
    â€˜Let’s go up to the villa,