Death in Sardinia

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Sergeant Baragli lay in the bed nearest the window, a small tube stuck in his arm. He was looking outside. Behind the hospital buildings he could just glimpse the tree-covered hills of Careggi. The small white clouds dotting the sky looked like a flock of sheep. According to the old wives’ tales, it would be raining cats and dogs in a couple of hours.

Baragli’s face was covered in sweat and very pale. He’d lost a good ten pounds in just a few days. He hadn’t yet noticed that he had a visitor. Bordelli brought a chair close to the bed and unbuttoned his jacket. It was very hot in the room.

‘How’s it going, Oreste?’ he asked.

‘Inspector! I didn’t see you come in. My wife left just a few minutes ago.’

‘I saw her downstairs. When are they going to send you home?’ Bordelli asked, pretending not to know that the doctors considered him a lost cause.

‘I don’t know anything yet,’ the sergeant said. He was short of breath and spoke with difficulty. Just over sixty years old, he’d spent his whole life on the police force and had had a rough time of it during the twenty-year reign of Fascism, given his lack of sympathy for the Mussolini regime. He’d retired three years before and fallen sick the following month. He’d had several operations on his stomach, the last only a few days before.

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