Death in Sicily

An Inspector Søren Farrugia story

The summer heat was overwhelming; had it been cholera, it would have wiped people out.

But that wasn’t the heat Inspector Søren Farrugia wanted to escape from. A short holiday in Sicily was his way of getting some respite from the heat of not putting heat on “persons of interest”. It was getting too much to bear. Circumstances pointed at the rot, yet certain quarters poured cold water on promising initiatives.

Inspector Farrugia landed at Fontanarossa, the airport that serves the filthy, thriving metropolis of Catania that lies at the foot of Mount Etna, and rented a car. He planned to drive down along the coast of eastern Sicily, until he got to Pachino, the village that grew out of the migration of some thirtysomething Gozitan families in the 1750s.

Along the way, Farrugia stopped at seaside towns to relish the views and, more importantly, the cuisine. Nobody cooks like the Sicilians.

The inspector was savouring fish in a restaurant overlooking a marina brimming with yachts that cost at least as much as any civil servant earns during their entire working lifetime, when something caught his eye. At first he wasn’t sure, then upon looking harder he recognised the family... the husband who still had the bodybuilder gait of his younger years, the beautiful wife, and the daughter who was running about shouting “Daddy! Daddy!” to draw his attention to her. Well, everybody had the right to rest. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Farrugia kept eating the fish and sipping the wine while his Danishblue eyes followed the happy trio as they meandered along the quay where the yachts ride at anchor. The three of them wore T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, their heads covered with brightly-coloured caps and their eyes shielded from the fierce sunrays by trendy sunglasses. Farrugia enjoyed the fish and the wine; much less the spectacle, as he was sure that any moment now some hidden amateur paparazzi would shoot pictures to have them splashed all over the tabloids. Politics gives no quarter, even when it’s family time.

Then a shot was heard in the distance: a real shot.

Farrugia stopped dead in his tracks, the fork in mid-air. Three men materialised out of nowhere, like ghosts, encircling the family and pointing pistols in different directions. Another shot was heard, again in the distance, and the three men spirited the family away.

More shots were heard, pandemonium ensued. The family and the three agents were nowhere to be seen. Farrugia came to after the momentary shock and realised that the restaurant was suddenly empty: patrons, waiters, and other staff members had legged it. He rose and exited the building slowly and cautiously, heading toward his car parked not too far off. Wailing sirens and the roar of approaching cars filled the air: the Polizia di Stato were on their way. People were desperately trying to find shelter anywhere they could, in shops or elsewhere. Farrugia stopped at the corner of a street and waited for the disorder to subside.

A few moments later, a flurry of shots erupted, again in the distance, inducing Farrugia to conclude that whoever had fired the first shots was now exchanging fire with the State Police. An ambulance whizzed by. Somebody must have been shot dead.

Then, silence.

Inspector Farrugia went back to the restaurant. It was still deserted. He walked to his table, sat down and calmly finished his meal amid the emptiness overlooking the yacht marina. One by one, the staff returned, warily. The inspector paid his bill, and left.

He got to the rented car and sped out of town. It was a red Alfa Romeo. The inspector loved the aggressive, throaty roar of Alfa engines but, more crucially, he always thought of Alfas as naughty ladies: not marriage material, but, man, if you know how to treat them, they know how to treat you. When you speed an Alfa along the highway, there’s a moment when her true nature kicks in and she transports you to another dimension. Nothing beats being behind the wheel of an

Alfa. Not even Sicilian cuisine.

The days rolled by – the holiday was over before you could say “knife”. Inspector Farrugia found himself back again behind his desk reviewing files, receiving calls, interviewing “persons of interest”, and wondering why he’s not like the cops in the movies.

Then somebody from HR at HQ called, informing him his boss wanted to talk to him. Nothing urgent, no rush, but within the hour would be greatly appreciated. So Inspector Farrugia got into his nondescript squad car and drove to his boss’ office.

“Søren, Søren, here we go again…” Those words left his boss’ lips marinated more in sorrow than in anger. “Sir?”

“Why on earth did you go to Sicily?” “Sir?”

“Were you following him?” “Sir…?!”

“Søren, no more of this nonsense! Please! I received a call from them guys yesterday evening…”

“Sir?”

“Yeah, you know whom I’m talking about!”

“Sir…?”

“Anyway, they saw you peeping from the restaurant, pretending to be eating fish and drinking wine!”

“I was eating fish and drinking wine, Sir…”

“Yeah, sure you were.”

“Sir…!”

“All of Malta knows that he goes there!”

“It was a coincidence, Sir.”

“Now you listen carefully: no more such coincidences from now onwards! Understood?”

“Sir…”

“Anyway, luckily it was a minor Mafia scuffle, and he was not the target.”

“That was immediately clear, Sir.” “Hmm. Ah, out of curiosity, did you take some chick with you on your ‘holiday’?” The boss couldn’t help the air quotes.

“Sir?”

“Ah, Søren, Søren, why don’t you take my secretary out for dinner, eh?” and he delivered the usual sermon on finding a wife, settling down, and the myriad benefits ensuing from such an arrangement. “One day, Søren, you’ll find out how right I am.”