Via di Barbacane, several times. Giacomo knew the street well. It was just round the corner from home, and he liked to bicycle there with his friends …
At three o’clock the barrister had finally decided to call the police. Two patrolmen had gone to the Collegio alla Quercia to speak with the custodian, Oreste, a small man with very little hair and pink cheeks, who blanched upon hearing the news. They asked him to recount the sequence of events, and Oreste was very precise. After the usual chaos when school let out, he’d gone into the street to look at the rain. He’d found the boy in the doorway with his satchel between his feet, gazing anxiously out at Via della Piazzuola. He asked him whether he wanted to call his mother. Giacomo said yes and followed the caretaker to the porter’s desk. He dialled his home number several times, but the line was always engaged. He seemed afraid, and Oreste had tried to reassure him. Somebody’d be along soon to pick him up, he’d said to him, there was no need to worry, it was obviously because of the rain. The boy went out again to look down the street, with Oreste following behind him. And then, less than a minute later, Giacomo had run out into the rain, coat over his head, satchel bouncing on his back. Oreste shouted to him to wait, saying that he would walk him home himself, but the child didn’t listen and kept on running. The caretaker had tried dialling Giacomo’s parents’ phone number again, but the line was still busy. In the end he’d decided there was nothing to worry about, and he stopped thinking about it.
A squad of policemen had questioned the inhabitants of all the buildings and houses along the road that went from the Collegio to the Pelissaris’ villa, including Via Aldini. Only an old woman had seen from her window a young boy walking hurriedly in the rain at the corner of Viale Volta and Via della Piazzuola, around quarter past one. The clothes, the colour of the satchel, and the time left no room for doubt. The boy was Giacomo Pellissari. The old woman had been the last person to see him, and her testimony eliminated any shadow of a doubt as to the caretaker’s sincerity. Nothing else had come out since, but that was to be expected. When Giacomo had left the school, it was lunchtime and raining cats and dogs, and everyone else was minding his own business.
Photos of the boy had appeared in all the newspapers and been broadcast on the national news and that of Channel 2, but nobody had come forward as yet. How can a boy disappear into thin air?
When he parked the car in the station’s courtyard it was past 10.30. Mugnai popped out of the guardhouse and came up to him, looking as if his dog had just died.
‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Hello, Mugnai … Why so cheerful?’
‘The commissioner’s got a stick up his arse, if you’ll pardon my language.’
‘That’s nothing new,’ said Bordelli.
‘It’s not my fault the kid hasn’t turned up! He treated me like a blockhead.’ He was very offended.
‘Don’t take it so hard, Mugnai,’ said Bordelli.
‘The boss said he wants to see you at once.’
‘Fuckin’ hell …’ The inspector sighed.
‘Prepare yourself. He’s really pissed off today.’
‘Too bad for him. Find Piras for me, would you? And tell him to come to my office.’
He gestured goodbye to Mugnai and started up the stairs. He went up to the second floor with a cigarette in his mouth, promising himself he wouldn’t smoke it before noon. He knocked on Inzipone’s door and went in without waiting. The moment he saw him, the commissioner jumped to his feet, but certainly not out of politeness. His eyes looked like burnt chestnuts.
‘You must find that child, Inspector!’ he shouted, shaking his hands in the air.
‘I want to more than anyone else, sir,’ Bordelli said calmly.
‘Then what’s taking you so long? Have you read the papers? POLICE POWERLESS! LAW ENFORCEMENT ASLEEP! ’ He came towards Bordelli,
At three o’clock the barrister had finally decided to call the police. Two patrolmen had gone to the Collegio alla Quercia to speak with the custodian, Oreste, a small man with very little hair and pink cheeks, who blanched upon hearing the news. They asked him to recount the sequence of events, and Oreste was very precise. After the usual chaos when school let out, he’d gone into the street to look at the rain. He’d found the boy in the doorway with his satchel between his feet, gazing anxiously out at Via della Piazzuola. He asked him whether he wanted to call his mother. Giacomo said yes and followed the caretaker to the porter’s desk. He dialled his home number several times, but the line was always engaged. He seemed afraid, and Oreste had tried to reassure him. Somebody’d be along soon to pick him up, he’d said to him, there was no need to worry, it was obviously because of the rain. The boy went out again to look down the street, with Oreste following behind him. And then, less than a minute later, Giacomo had run out into the rain, coat over his head, satchel bouncing on his back. Oreste shouted to him to wait, saying that he would walk him home himself, but the child didn’t listen and kept on running. The caretaker had tried dialling Giacomo’s parents’ phone number again, but the line was still busy. In the end he’d decided there was nothing to worry about, and he stopped thinking about it.
A squad of policemen had questioned the inhabitants of all the buildings and houses along the road that went from the Collegio to the Pelissaris’ villa, including Via Aldini. Only an old woman had seen from her window a young boy walking hurriedly in the rain at the corner of Viale Volta and Via della Piazzuola, around quarter past one. The clothes, the colour of the satchel, and the time left no room for doubt. The boy was Giacomo Pellissari. The old woman had been the last person to see him, and her testimony eliminated any shadow of a doubt as to the caretaker’s sincerity. Nothing else had come out since, but that was to be expected. When Giacomo had left the school, it was lunchtime and raining cats and dogs, and everyone else was minding his own business.
Photos of the boy had appeared in all the newspapers and been broadcast on the national news and that of Channel 2, but nobody had come forward as yet. How can a boy disappear into thin air?
When he parked the car in the station’s courtyard it was past 10.30. Mugnai popped out of the guardhouse and came up to him, looking as if his dog had just died.
‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Hello, Mugnai … Why so cheerful?’
‘The commissioner’s got a stick up his arse, if you’ll pardon my language.’
‘That’s nothing new,’ said Bordelli.
‘It’s not my fault the kid hasn’t turned up! He treated me like a blockhead.’ He was very offended.
‘Don’t take it so hard, Mugnai,’ said Bordelli.
‘The boss said he wants to see you at once.’
‘Fuckin’ hell …’ The inspector sighed.
‘Prepare yourself. He’s really pissed off today.’
‘Too bad for him. Find Piras for me, would you? And tell him to come to my office.’
He gestured goodbye to Mugnai and started up the stairs. He went up to the second floor with a cigarette in his mouth, promising himself he wouldn’t smoke it before noon. He knocked on Inzipone’s door and went in without waiting. The moment he saw him, the commissioner jumped to his feet, but certainly not out of politeness. His eyes looked like burnt chestnuts.
‘You must find that child, Inspector!’ he shouted, shaking his hands in the air.
‘I want to more than anyone else, sir,’ Bordelli said calmly.
‘Then what’s taking you so long? Have you read the papers? POLICE POWERLESS! LAW ENFORCEMENT ASLEEP! ’ He came towards Bordelli,
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