Free IM10 August Heat (2008) by Andrea Camilleri Page A

when we built Speciale’s house.”
    “Go ahead and call, but remember: Don’t say anything that might compromise you. Don’t forget about the phone taps.”
    Spitaleri dug out his cell phone and dialed a number.
    “Hello, ’Ngilino? ’Ss me. Do you by any chance remember the names of the masons who worked for us six years ago, on the construction of the house at Pizzo, in Marina di Montereale? No? So what am I supposed to do? It’s Inspector Montalbano who wants to know. Oh, yes, that’s true, you’re right. Sorry.”
    “Listen, before I forget, would you give me Angelo Dipasquale’s cell phone number? Fazio, write it down.”
    Spitaleri dictated it to him.
    “So?” Montalbano pressed him.
    “Dipasquale can’t remember the names of the masons. But they’re definitely in my office somewhere. Can I go get them?”
    “Go right ahead.”
    The developer stood up and nearly ran to the door.
    “Wait a minute. Fazio’s going with you and will bring the names and addresses back to me.You, meanwhile, have to remain available.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means you are not to leave the Vigàta area. If you need to go anywhere farther away, you must let me know. Speaking of which, do you remember where you were flying to on the twelfth of October?”
    “I . . . to Bangkok.”
    “You really like fresh meat, eh?”
    The moment Spitaleri and Fazio went out, Montalbano phoned Spitaleri’s foreman. He didn’t want to give the developer time to talk to him and get their stories straight.
    “Dipasquale? Inspector Montalbano here. How long would it take you to come down to the Vigàta police station from your worksite?”
    “Half an hour, at the most. But it’s no use asking me, ’cause I can’t come now. I’m working.”
    “I’m working, too. And my work involves telling you to come here now.”
    “I repeat, I can’t.”
    “What do you say I send somebody to get you in one of our cars with sirens blaring, right in front of all your men?”
    “But what do you want from me?”
    “Just come, and I’ll satisfy your curiosity. You’ve got twenty-five minutes.”
     
     
     
    It took him twenty-two minutes flat to get there. To save time, he hadn’t even changed clothes. He was still in his lime-stained overalls. Dipasquale was about fifty, with hair entirely white but a black moustache. Short and stocky, he never looked at the person he was speaking to, and when he did, he had a troubled gaze.
    “I don’t understand why first you called Mr. Spitaleri about that Arab, and then you called me about the house at Pizzo.”
    “I didn’t call you about the house at Pizzo.”
    “Oh, no? Why’d you call me, then?”
    “About the death of that Arab mason. What was his name?”
    “I don’t remember. But it was an accident! The guy was completely drunk! Those people start drinking first thing in the morning, every day! Never mind Saturday! In fact, Inspector Lupuzone concluded that—”
    “Forget about my colleague’s conclusions. Tell me exactly what happened.”
    “But I already told the judge and the inspector—”
    “The third time’s a charm.”
    “Oh, all right. At five-thirty that Saturday, we finished working and went home.Then, on Monday morning—”
    “Stop right there. Didn’t you notice that the Arab wasn’t there?”
    “No.What am I supposed to do, take roll call?”
    “Who closes up the worksite?”
    “The watchman. Filiberto. Filiberto Attanasio.”
    But when they came in and caught Spitaleri talking on the phone, hadn’t he said that very name, Filiberto?
    “Why do you need a watchman? Don’t you pay for protection?”
    “There’s always some young drug addict that might—”
    “I see.Where can I find him?”
    “Filiberto? He’s also the watchman at the site we’re working at now. In fact, he sleeps there.”
    “In the open air?”
    “No, there’s a prefab made out of corrugated tin.”
    “Tell me the exact location of this construction site.”
    Dipasquale