Free God's Dog by Diego Marani Page B

visit: the yellowing curtains, the knitted bedcover made with scraps of leftover wool, the piles of old newspapers, a rickety table, a peeling mirror in a bamboo frame. He went quickly into the living room and opened the photograph albums. The more recent photos had been removed, but oddly enough their absence left no gaps: if looked at in sequence, these images told another story entirely. All traces of Chiara had vanished. The photos were of other children, nephews and nieces or friends of the lonely couple who had spent their lives going from one oil well to another. Chiara had replaced the old woman for just as long as it took her to bring about her husband’s death. She had pretended to be his daughter, and a devout Catholic, so as to be allowed into the palliative care unit. She had gone to live in the Bonardis’ flat and had the old woman hidden elsewhere; she must belong to a well-organised network if she could afford to arrange such things. Had Chiara herself gone into the hospital during the night, when the unit was under surveillance, or had the job been done by her fellow-conspirators? In that way, Bonardi’s death would not have aroused suspicion. But how had he died? What poison, what weapon was used by the angels of death? Salazar went back into the hallway. The old woman had shuffled quietly after him from room to room; now she was looking at him apprehensively from the kitchen doorway. A pan was boiling on the stove, causing the windows to mist over. The battered formica table was set with a soup plate, a spoon, a glass and a napkin. Salazar could smell the broth. Now he turned and looked at the old woman who was leaning up against the door frame, clearly rigid with fear. With a sudden shudder, he sensed that this house, though full of pain, had been freed of some ghostly presence. He went off without a word. When the automatic light on the stairs went out, a trembling hand on the fourth floor switched it on again.
    The hairdresser’s and the beauty salon were barely thirty metres apart. Salazar went in and approached the first assistant available.
    â€˜Excuse me, may I ask you a few questions?’ he said, pointing to his badge. The girl was mixing a dye. Before she could reply, a heavily made-up woman intervened.
    â€˜Can I help you?’ she asked, edging Salazar towards the door. She was chewing gum, and smelled strongly of violets.
    â€˜I’m looking for this woman,’ said Salazar, taking the photo of Chiara Bonardi out of his pocket and edging the woman backwards in his turn.
    â€˜Do you know her? She came to your establishment on 27 February.’ The woman took the photograph and put on the glasses which had been hanging round her neck; she looked at the face for a moment, frowning.
    â€˜That’s Signora Loiacano! How young she looks! Look, Teresa!’ Salazar snatched the photograph from her hand.
    â€˜Do you know where she lives? Does she come here often?’
    â€˜She’s been a client of ours for years. But I don’t know where she lives. I think she’s local, though, because I often see her go by with shopping bags.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Salazar, and slipped out of the shop under the curious gaze of the two assistants. He wandered aimlessly through the streets around Piazza Risorgimento, looking at people at the tram stops, in shop windows and doorways with the secret hope of catching the woman by surprise. She lived round here; at this very moment she might be in the supermarket on the corner or the café opposite, or perhaps, unknown to him, she was at some window, observing him from behind the curtains. Salazar looked up at the uncommunicative façades of the buildings which lined the street: closed curtains, blinds half-down, the frosted glass of surgeries and offices. He looked at his watch: by now it was two o’clock and he hadn’t had anything to eat. He went into a bar and ordered a sandwich, casting an eye