They found a kid buried in the woods.’
‘Shit, so it’s him …’
‘Try to be ready outside the front door.’
Bordelli got dressed in a hurry and went out without even drinking a cup of coffee. After a night of rain the sky was a clear, intense blue. The San Frediano quarter was beginning to wake up, and by now a few shops already had their rolling metal shutters half raised.
He stepped on the accelerator and was in Via Gioberti a few minutes later. Piras was already out on the pavement, eyes ringed with fatigue. He got into the car, frowning, and after a gesture of greeting, Bordelli drove off. The Beetle’s persistent rumble echoed in the semi-deserted streets. Every so often they crossed paths with a scooter or another car. Dishevelled women appeared at the small balconies of their flats, coats over their nightgowns.
Leaving the city, they drove through Grassina. The Chiantigiana 3 was filling up with lorries and tiny, noisy three-wheeled vans filled with vegetables. The peasants were already out in the fields, toiling behind pairs of oxen or sitting atop modern tractors. The city was just round the corner, but out here it seemed farther away than the moon. The more or less smartly dressed, noisy and hedonistic youths who every evening poured into the streets downtown had nothing whatsoever in common with the wrinkled faces and dark gazes of a humanity that broke its back turning the earth.
They crossed Strada in Chianti and turned in the direction of Cintoia. After a mile or so, the road was unpaved, and the Beetle began to dance. To their left they saw forested hills standing out against the greenish sky. Past Cintoia Bassa, the curves grew tighter and tighter, and they had to slow down. A three-wheeled Ape van was struggling up the hill, spewing white smoke, and it wasn’t easy to overtake it.
At last they arrived at La Panca, a hamlet of four houses around a bend in the road. They asked an old peasant woman for the road to Monte Scalari, and soon they were climbing a steep path. It was covered with rocks, and the car bounced this way and that. Wisps of fog gleamed white between the tree trunks. Some two or three hundred yards ahead, the main trail made a sharp turn to the right and continued upwards to Cintoia Alta, but they followed their directions and proceeded straight up through the woods. They came across a few busybodies climbing on foot, and Bordelli unceremoniously sent them back down. They ploughed on for another mile or so, sliding in the mud all the while. Round a bend appeared the squad car, parked in a clearing. The policeman on duty, Tapinassi, was standing by the car door, waiting. He came towards the inspector and stood to attention.
‘Where’s the little boy?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Over here, sir.’
Tapinassi gestured vaguely at Piras in greeting and led them towards the spot where the body had been found.
‘Have you got a spade?’ Bordelli asked.
‘There’s one already there,’ Tapinassi replied.
They advanced another hundred feet along the path, then turned into the woods and continued climbing with effort through the trees. Every so often a strong gust of wind blew. In the spots where the carpet of dead leaves was thinnest, the sludge stuck to their shoes. The silence was beautiful, and Bordelli couldn’t help but think of his walk with Botta.
‘Tapinassi, do you know this area well?’
‘No, sir. I’m not from around here, I was born at La Rufina.’
Moments later they saw the other policeman, Calosi, in the distance. Beside him was a man of about fifty with a double-barrelled shotgun slung over his shoulder and an Irish setter on a lead.
‘Go back down and wait for Diotivede,’ Bordelli ordered Tapinassi.
‘Yes, sir.’
The young policeman headed back down towards the car. When Piras and the inspector reached the spot, Calosi leapt to attention and gave a military salute. Bordelli didn’t even look at him. Together with Piras he went up to the freshly dug