Ghosts of the Past: Book Six (Inspector Bordelli 6) by Vichi Marco

Author:Vichi, Marco [Vichi, Marco]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2018-04-19T00:00:00+00:00

At a quarter past eight he opened the door to his office. He had slept for only five hours or so, but was not overly tired, owing perhaps to the cold.

He sat down, reached for the telephone and set it squarely in front of him. He couldn’t give up, he had to try again. Who was that beautiful creature with whom Antonio Migliorini had fallen in love? How on earth was it possible that no one knew anything about her? He laid out the list of the usual suspects and started ringing them up, one after the other. The children, the sister, the daughter-in-law, friends … Miraculously he managed to speak to them all, although in some instances it took more than one try. But nothing came of it. He had wasted two hours. No one had ever seen the woman. Relatives didn’t even know she existed; they were thunderstruck by the news. Some of them even asked him for information, which was absurd.

He didn’t call Juliette; he was certain she didn’t know any more than she had already told him. He stopped to think about her for a minute and felt his heart race. Who knew whether they would ever see each other again. If he did ever see her again, it certainly wouldn’t be as a client, but sometimes life was strange …

He also rang Oberto, but not to ask him about the mystery woman – after all, he was the only one who had been able to give a description of her, however vague. He was calling him on a whim, for no specific reason, merely in the hope that something else might have popped into his mind. But he wasn’t at home. Oberto rarely was. And now he was even rich … The inspector wondered whether he would be a flashy spender or parsimonious. And what about Juliette? Would she stop practicing the world’s oldest profession? Or was it more than a profession for her? At this point she could allow herself to choose and this definitely made things easier for her. Ah, there he was thinking about her again.

Someone knocked on his door. It was Piras. He didn’t come all the way in, but just stood in the doorway, hand on the knob. He had been called out with Rinaldi and Tapinassi to a student protest. But he had news about Averino Buzzi, the chicken-plucker.

‘He’s been locked up in Pistoia prison for almost a year and has two more years to go. He stabbed two people in a fight, and he’s a repeat offender.’

‘So basically, another dead end.’

‘I have to go now.’

‘Thank you, Piras.’

‘You’re welcome, sir.’ The Sardinian closed the door behind him and silence fell over the room again. But it wasn’t the usual silence. It didn’t have anything to do with the absence of sound. Rather, it was a kind of emptiness cloaking Antonio Migliorini’s murder. He was like a corpse in the middle of a desert, surrounded by vast stretches of sand, the wind eroding any kind of trace.

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