Sandro, camouflaged in a tatty straw hat, striped shirt and a pair of tennis shorts so tight they went out of fashion in the 80s, is tracking some victims up the Garibaldi towards the bottom of the Via del Concordato. When he sees them hesitate at the bottom of the broad steps, he pounces.
“Ah, my friends! It is good to see you.” He spreads his long arms as though he has been searching for his goslings all day and is extremely relieved to find them. He points up towards the citadel. “This is the way up to the jewel of Lipari: the Cathedral of San Bartolo. These steps were built as part of the Spanish fortifications after the pirate Barbarossa ravaged the island in 1544…”
Ric waits across the road until the escurzionista has finished his turn at the pump and has handed out his flyers for the boat trip to Stromboli.
“Yes, tomorrow, just before midday, on the quay by the Chiesa delle Anime Purgatorio. Bring swimming costumes, cameras and a hat for the sun, oh, and something warm for the evening.”
The gaggle of tourists – Empire shorts, long socks and sandals – nod, cluck their approval and set off up the steps.
“If the fat one makes it to the top without a heart attack,” Sandro mutters as he crosses the cobbled street, “I will eat my hat.”
“Looks as though you’ve had a go at it already,” Ric points out.
Sandro removes his Panama and examines it. He grimaces, “You know, it is not wise to criticize a man’s sense of dress, eh? You might offend someone and we Latin types are easily offended.” He grins in case Ric should mistake his self-deprecation.
Ric chuckles, “It’s a good hat, Sandro. It sends the right message; like you’re doing alright, but not exactly creaming it. Do you have a minute?”
“For you, always, my friend.”
Ric hates to think how the escurzionista must treat his enemies and supposes they must all be victims, just like the gaggle of goslings hauling themselves up the hill. He glances briefly up and down the street, but outside of a few tourists and the old women who sit outside their shops, hoping beyond hope for some business to break the monotony of their day, the cobbled street is empty.
Sandro begins to shepherd him towards the Marina Corta, “Come, let us go and take a Birra Messina in the Corta.”
Ric, remembering the beating he was subjected to the evening before, holds fast and raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” says Sandro, a knowing look to his face, “I understand. Let us walk up the città too. Only a fool would walk up these steps in this heat and the Liparoti are not fools. Well, not all of them.”
They turn in through the entrance to the Concordato. The steps, though broad and set several strides apart, are tall, as though they have been cut to suit coffin bearers. From the enormous flower pots set on each and every step, coconut palm fronds lean leaf-tips down, like mourners.
“What can I do for you that we need to be so secret?” Sandro asks, quietly.
“I need to know, strictly between you and me,” Ric turns and looks hard at the escurzionista, wanting him to be in no doubt that he needs to trust him, “whether anyone has gone missing in the last few days; someone you would normally see about the place who isn’t around?”
Sandro snorts, dismissively. “This is a small island, my friend. Everyone knows everyone and if someone is missing, word gets round pretty fast. But what do you know about this person? Is this a man or a woman we are talking about?”
“A man: medium height, medium weight.”
He scoffs and replies, “This could be half the men in Lipari. Is there anything else you know about this man?”
“No, not much.” Ric thinks hard, recalling the rictus grin on the face of the corpse. “Oh, he is bald and has a beard, a short beard. And he wears a brown t-shirt with the word Lipari stitched in yellow on the shirt chest.”
Sandro scratches his head, “These shirts are available everywhere; they are common. But a beard, you say. Not so many people here have beards; it is the heat, it does not suit men to grow beards.” He rubs at the stubble on his cheeks. “Yes, I know I have this, but it is because I am lazy and do not like to shave. A beard, eh? I will think for you. Anything else?”
“No, I didn’t get a chance to look at the man for too long. If anyone comes to mind or if you hear of anyone missing, perhaps you’d let me know.” Ric stares at him, holding his gaze: “But, between you and me, if you get my meaning?”
“Sure, my friend. I get your meaning.” Sandro smiles; a look that holds promise, but not in so much quantity that Ric is adequately reassured. “Maybe you would answer a question for me, eh?”
“Fire away.”
“I have heard it said that this policeman, the one who is making investigations into the murder of Girolamo Candela, came to see you this morning. Is it true?”
“Word does get about,” Ric muses.
Sandro shrugs, “Yes, of course. It is as I said: this is a small island. When a Commissario from La Polizia comes to Lipari, a lantern is lighted and people whisper beneath it. And when this Commissario and one of La Polizia are seen coming out of your monolocale, this makes the flames of the lantern grow so bright that people no longer whisper; they talk openly. And now you ask me questions about a man with a beard who you say is missing. Whatever it is that you are up to, Gallese, I would tell you it is time for you to be careful.”
“I think it may be too late for being careful, Sandro. But, thanks for the advice: I’ll take it on board.”
“No, I mean this,” Sandro takes his arm to make sure he has Ric’s full attention. “This type of policeman is not like the English Bobby; they are tricky, eh? They make their rules up as they go along.”
Ric knows he has heard this before, something Valeria told him not long after he arrived, “they play by different rules”.
He reaches for the escurzionista’s hand and shakes it gently and slowly, but applying just enough pressure in his grip that his appreciation cannot be misconstrued. “Thanks, Sandro. I get the picture. I’ll see you later,” but adds as an afterthought, “my friend” and smiles warmly. Ric turns and strolls off down the steps towards the Garibaldi.