Maybe . . .’ Fazio stared at his toecaps. ‘Nobody sent it: I took it there myself,’ said Montalbano. Augello sat upright in his chair. ‘You?! How did you get it?’ ‘We found it by chance, Fazio and I did, the other night, when we went into the supermarket.’ ‘And what were you doing there?’ ‘To tell you the truth, I didn’t really know at the time.’ ‘But why didn’t you turn the recorder over to the prosecutor?’ ‘Mimì, think for a second. First of all, because we entered the supermarket illegally. Second, because the prosecutor would have told us that before deciding what to do with the recorder, he would have to discuss it with the chief procurator, then with the prefect, then with the bishop, then with the American ambassador, and in conclusion he would have informed us that the recording, having no evidentiary value in court, had to be destroyed.’ Mimì said nothing. Then Montalbano let his two men know what he’d been thinking: that the recorded discussion that preceded Mimì’s arrival might be about the burglary.
