Before they leave, Talaia makes a couple of phone-calls while Ric waits in the entrance hall.
Officer Paolo drives them. Commissario and Ric sit in the back.
The island looks oddly sad in the rain; it is as though the tears from the sky are being shed in apology for the bother the clouds are causing the people. The bus station is deserted and the pier for the Aliscafo looks forlorn without its usual, colourful crowd.
“Tell me about Girolamo Candela, Commissario. Was he popular?”
Talaia pouts, “Oh, popular enough to be elected.”
“Valeria Vaccariello told me he used to be a good communist,” Ric says, trying to jog the policeman along.
“They were all good communists at one time, but The Party lost ground after the war. In Sicily, the Christian Democrats became too close to the Mafia and in return for being allowed a free hand, the Mafia would assassinate socialists and communists, insisting they were fighting against the influence of the Soviet Union. It became very difficult for the communists.”
“And Candela?”
“Candela was different. He was intelligent with the company he kept. He benefitted from the financial backing of many celebrities in the seventies and eighties: writers, musicians, film-makers; many of them communists who supported his ultra-left wing views.” He silences as they drive through the tunnel to Canneto.
The wipers scrape against the momentarily dry windscreen and as they exit down the hill a torrent rages through the gulley beside the road.
“Paolo, non così in fretta, per favore,” Talaia pleads.
“Si, Commissario.”
“But,” Ric carries on, “La Signorina Vaccariello told me he was no longer a good communist. What did she mean by that?”
Talaia shrugs, “Oh, like most people who cannot see a way ahead, he changed direction. The Partito Comunista Italiano became the Partito Democratico della Sinistra and many of the members, including Candela, became socialists; their concentrated views were, over time, watered down. As a hard-line comunista, it was unlikely that a relatively small-time politician like Candela would become a minister in the Sicilian Parliament, but by falling in with the Democrats and the Socialists he moved further to the right. He became what we call assessore, then sottosegretario. This is first an assessor, a councillor if you like, and later a secretary for the President. He enjoyed increasing power. And as his power grew and he grew closer to the right, the left-wing celebrities who had been funding his electoral campaigns began to question his political fidelity. With his funding reduced, so he looked for other sources and some of these were very dubious. It is these sources which are my concern and the concern of many of my fellow investigators.”
The car twists up the tight turns out of Canneto. The rain still falls in stair rods and out to sea the Mare Siculum is a commotion of white and grey.
“I understand the Maggiore family were anti-fascist,” Ric states. “Is there a chance they used to bankroll Candela?”
Talaia waves his suggestion away. “We have no proof of it if they did. I am not sure they have ever had sufficient money to bankroll a politician. Look,” he points out the window at the barren landscape of pumice scree at Monte Pilato up ahead, “in 2002 there were only forty people left to work the mines, these days you don’t get rich from this kind of commercial enterprise; maybe eighty or ninety years ago, yes, but not now.”
“You said Claudio Maggiore had been in correspondence with Candela. What were they up to?”
“That is for me to know,” Talaia replies, curtly.
“Was it about the new hotel Candela had been talking about?”
“Perhaps.”
“Claudio Maggiore was on the urban council, wasn’t he?”
Talaia glances at Ric out of the corner of his eye. “So I am led to believe.”
“Is it true what they say,” Ric asks, “that this new hotel planned for Porticello is supposed to have a thousand rooms?”
The Commissario doesn’t answer in words; he shifts in his seat. “Porticello,” he repeats. But the way Talaia repeats the name implies that it is of some greater significance than simply being the sight of the planned development.
“Sure, Porticello,” Ric adds. “That’s where it’s supposed to be built, right?”
“Yes, Porticello,” Talaia sighs. “But the first part is to be built on the site of the old La Cava warehouse at Pietra Liscia.”
Ric is stunned. He turns to look at the Commissario, who simply stares out of his window.
Officer Paolo drives on through the unrelenting rain; his two passengers each marshalling similar thoughts. Above, the dirty-white mountain of pumice towers over them; below, the grey ocean dissolves in the gloom.
“You think the Maggiore family sold out to Candela?” Ric asks, knowing full well that is the only conclusion to be drawn.
“Possibly,” Talaia grunts. “But even if they have, there would be no guarantee that this hotel would ever be built. There would still be many mouths to feed before he could think of applying for permission.”
It was what Valeria had said, “Many mouths to feed”. “It’s the next track right,” Ric states.
The Commissario exhales loudly, “Ah, I’m sure Paolo knows where he is going; he grew up in Lipari before going to the academy in Spoleto.”
Officer Paolo does indeed know the track and he knows enough not to attempt the steep track in the heavy rain. The pumice dust has turned to mud and whilst they might make it down to the beach, there is little chance they would make it back up.
Commissario Talaia shrugs on a raincoat, but otherwise seems oblivious to the rain and the mess the mud will make of his suit and shoes. Officer Paolo, though, is still sodden from his overnight vigil. Ric hardly cares; he is more concerned about the consequences of showing Talaia Claudio Maggiore’s body.
The three of them trudge down the winding track.
Though the wind is blowing the rain horizontally across the slender, pebbled beach, the lad at the beach bar leaves the cosy confines of his post to wave and watch them.
“It’s up there,” Ric points to the third floor of the derelict warehouse.
Talaia glances at Paolo and nods for him to follow Ric.
The two of them make their way gingerly up the side of the building, Ric showing the tall poliziotto where to put his feet and where to take hand-holds. The rain spits in their eyes and the pumice blocks are treacherously slimy.
A couple of times, Officer Paolo cups his hands and hoists Ric up to the next floor and he returns the favour with a helping hand up. They reach the third floor and walk to the far end, careful to place their feet squarely on the exposed beams.
The wooden door set into the rock is still in place, but it hangs slightly ajar.
He turns to Officer Paolo and indicates his head: “Attenzione, eh?”
“Si,” he replies and crouches.
Ric eases the door back and inches inside. He motions Officer Paolo to follow. The grey clouds cast a dim light and his eyes take a moment to adjust. The room seems crowded and even darker with the two of them in it, but it takes Ric only a couple of seconds to see that Claudio Maggiore is no longer in residence.