A Friend Pays a Visit

As he put on his uniform, Inspector Søren Farrugia was definitely not looking forward to the day ahead of him. Usual routine expected: hard work pulverised by uninspired members of the judiciary. As usual, a few lower-quality judicial apples would spoil the bunch.

He kicked off a conversation with his imaginary friend about the new gender-neutral uniform supposed to render PCs and WPCs indistinguishable.

“It’s a theological leap,” said Farrugia. “From andras and gynaika to anthropos.”

“It’s all Greek to me,” replied the Imaginary Friend.

“That’s because it is Greek!”

“And what does it mean?” asked the Imaginary Friend.

“From man and woman to human being,” explained an annoyed Farrugia. “In a sense, it’s the culmination of the Liberal’s dream: the elevation of Man to God.”

By now the Imaginary Friend should have been impressed. Instead he dismissed it as show-offism, and Farrugia got even more annoyed.

But then the phone rang.

“’Allo! Montalbano sugnu!”

Montalbano?

Farrugia’s heart skipped a beat!

It was Commissario Andrea Montalbano, his dear old friend the tough Inspector from Tivaga, the foremost port-town on the western coast of Sicily. He was coming over to take part in a joint investigation with the Maltese police, and wanted to meet up with Farrugia.

They had last met some five years before – a lot of catching up was in order. Thing is, with a real friend, even if you meet again after a lifetime, it always seems like yesterday.

Søren caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall and approved of the big smile painted on his face.

Inspector Farrugia booked a table for two at the Ristorante Il Capo dei Capi in Paceville, where a Nepalese slave-chef prepared genuine Sicilian food.

As soon as they saw each other, they hugged, like two brothers Destiny had separated. Indeed it felt like a family reunion.

They sat, ordered (Montalbano behaved stoically as he knew what Malta’s Sicilian cuisine really was), and felt at the centre of the Universe. The deep bond forged by real friendship is hard to describe. Only those who have experienced it know what it feels like.

“Søren, carissimo, I cannot find the words to express my happiness at meeting you again!”

“It’s been a long, lonely, lonely time...”

“Let’s rock and roll, then!”

They chuckled. But then Søren felt the need to fine-tune. “Actually, it’s more Eric Clapton’s Cocaine over here in Malta than Zeppelin’s Rock and Roll...”

The evening sailed by smoothly, like a yacht on calm water.

“I’ve been busy,” said Montalbano. “A history professor died a couple of months back, unexpectedly and suddenly. But no foul play according to the dieners.”

Montalbano, the master fisherman, knew how to pique anybody’s interest. But Farrugia had long taken the hook.

“He had some connections over here, in Malta. I think he paired up with different Maltese to apply for EU funds.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“No, professors are usually small fry.”

“So what’s with this dead professor?”

“He was a professor by day and a pimp by night.” “I see. Expound.”

“In his spare time, he kept himself busy with a foundation run by some monks, devoted to medieval history. But he was also the go-between between the two Ms.”

“I see: dead professor but not dead fish.”

“Spot on, carissimo,” said Montalbano, with a grin and a twinkle in his eye as he sipped some more wine. “He participated a lot in the hankypanky. Served as courier between Cosa Nostra and one particular renegade Lodge that specialises in recruiting politicians and other top brass.”

“Is there a Malta connection?”

“That’s what I’m here to investigate. So far, we’ve established that he was most proficient in greasing dubious applications for projects on pristine nature spots.”

“The skunk.”

“Indeed. He would indicate to the guys at the Lodge which projects to approve, and the Mafia would build in what you here jocularly call ODZs, killing many birds with one stone.”

“Meaning?”

“They create upmarket real estate on cheap land while disposing of bodies during construction.” “It seems to me you read too much Sciascia.” “You mean, I read too much into Sciascia...?” “No, I mean what I said.”

“Then, my dear friend, you’re wrong,” Montalbano gently said. “Things might have changed in Sicily, but only for them to remain the same.”

Farrugia smiled. He adored these quasi-literary evenings with Montalbano.

“OK. So he helped corrupt politicians get their kickbacks to bend planning laws. It sounds familiar, believe you me. But what’s the Malta connection?”

As the clock struck midnight, the two friends decided it was time to hit the sack. They drank the obligatory postprandial liquor and Farrugia accompanied Montalbano back to his hotel. They agreed to meet the following evening (Montalbano’s last on the island) for Part II of their conversation.

The following morning, Farrugia woke up feeling recharged. The previous night’s conversation had rejuvenated him, refuelling his tank. His feet twinkled over the ground during his morning routine – a thorough shave, a cold shower, a quick coffee, and the funny dance as he put on his trousers while buttoning up his shirt – and then sped as he rushed to the lift to go down to the garage.

But then he froze in his steps as he opened the daily newspaper on his mobile and read the headlines, overwhelmed by disbelief.

The phone rang. It was from HQ: he was the last person to see Montalbano alive. The Italian Inspector’s body had been found in a pool of blood in his hotel room and there were many questions to be answered.

Søren suddenly felt a spell of dizziness – vertigo so strong it nearly knocked him out. He called Sergeant Laus to drive him to HQ, as he didn’t trust himself behind the wheel.

But, in reality, could he trust anyone?