The Past is a Foreign Country by Gianrico Carofiglio Page B

sometimes liked to go backto the scene of the crime. It gave them a feeling of power, of being in control, to return to the place where they had committed their assault and go over what had happened in their mind. So he and his men had spent hours and days, showing photographs and talking to shopkeepers, caretakers, security guards, tenants, postmen, beggars.
    Nothing.
    They were searching for a phantom. A bloody phantom. There came a time – it was a bright, sunny morning in June, almost two months after the last assault, which made it the longest lull since this whole business had started – when Chiti thought they should wind down their inquiries for the moment. Although he didn’t like admitting it to himself, Chiti hoped that everything would end like this, as it had begun. The same way he always hoped his night-time headaches would pass by themselves.
    Two days later, the sixth assault took place.
    Chiti had left his office and the barracks at dinner time. He told the sentry that he would be back about midnight, and in any case he could always be reached by pager. He had gone for a pizza, as usual, then walked around the city. Alone, as always, and aimlessly.
    He had got back about midnight, a quarter of an hour after the 112 call had come in. A couple on their way home from the cinema had seen the girl coming out of an old municipal apartment block, crying. They had called the carabinieri and immediately two patrol cars had arrived on the scene. One had taken the victim to casualty , the other had brought the couple to the barracks to take their statements.
    The girl was still in casualty when Chiti got back, but they’d almost finished with her and she’d be brought to the barracks very soon.
    The couple – a husband and wife, both retired schoolteachers – hadn’t been able to tell them anything remotely useful. They had been on their way home from the cinema when they had heard sobscoming from a doorway – they had passed it a few moments earlier, the wife said – had looked back and had seen the girl come out.
    Had they noticed anyone immediately before that, or immediately after? No, they hadn’t noticed anyone. Of course, there’d been cars passing, and they couldn’t rule out the possibility that while they were attending to the girl, someone might have passed on foot. In fact, someone must have passed, the wife said – she was clearly the boss – but they couldn’t say they had noticed him, or were able to provide any kind of description.
    And that was it.
    As they were signing their pointless statement, the girl arrived, accompanied by a man of about fifty who looked as if he didn’t quite know what was going on. Her father.
    She was short and round, neither pretty nor ugly. Nondescript, Chiti thought, as he asked her to sit down in front of the desk.
    God knows the criteria he uses to choose them, he thought while Pellegrini positioned the paper for the statement in the new electronic typewriter – he was the only person who knew how it worked.
    ‘How are you feeling, signorina?’ Chiti asked, realising as he did so what a stupid question it was.
    ‘A little better now.’
    ‘Do you feel up to telling us what happened, what you remember?’
    The girl lowered her head and said nothing. Chiti looked around for Marshal Martinelli and made a sign with his eyes in the direction of the girl’s father, who was sitting on a small sofa. Martinelli understood. He asked the man if he wouldn’t mind going with him into the next room. Just for a few minutes.
    ‘I imagine you felt uncomfortable telling us what happened in front of your father.’
    The girl nodded but still said nothing.
    ‘And I realise you may also be embarrassed to talk to all these men. We could find a female psychologist or social worker and haveher sit in, if that’s any help.’ As he said this, he wondered where the hell he was going to find a psychologist or social worker at this hour. But the girl said, no, thanks, there