Brunetti moved around Rossi and pushed open the door to the pathology department. Inside, the scene was remarkably like that outside: people stood in small groups and talked, heads close together. All of these people, however, were dressed in the white jackets of the hospital staff. Words and phrases floated across the room to him. ‘Impazzita’, ‘terribile’, ‘che paura’, ‘vecchiaccia’. That certainly corresponded with what Rossi had said, but it didn’t give Brunetti any idea of what had gone on.
He started towards the door that led back into the examining rooms. Seeing this, one of the orderlies broke away from the people he was talking to and moved in front of him. ‘You can’t go in there. The police are here.’
‘I’m police,’ Brunetti said and moved around him.
‘Not until you show me some identification,’ the man said, putting a restraining hand on Brunetti’s chest.
The man’s opposition reignited all of the rage Brunetti had felt at Viscardi; he pulled his hand back, fingers closing in an involuntary fist. The man moved back a step from him, and this slight motion was enough to bring Brunetti back to his senses. He forced his fingers open, reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and showed his warrant card to the orderly. The man was just doing his job.
‘I’m just doing my job, sir,’ he said and turned to open the door for Brunetti.
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti told him as he walked past, but without meeting his eyes.
Inside, he saw Vianello and Miotti on the other side of the room. They were both leaning over a short man who was sitting on a chair, holding a white towel to his head. Vianello had his notebook in his hand and appeared to be questioning him. When Brunetti approached, all three looked at him. He recognized the third man then, Doctor Ottavio Bonaventura, Rizzardi’s assistant. The young doctor nodded in greeting, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back, pressing the towel to his forehead.
‘What’s going on?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir,’ Vianello answered, nodding down at Bonaventura. ‘We got a call about half an hour ago, from the nurse at the desk out there,’ he said, apparently meaning the outer office. ‘She said that a madwoman had attacked one of the doctors, so we came over here as fast as we could. Apparently, the orderlies couldn’t restrain her, even though there were two of them.’
‘Three,’ Bonaventura said, eyes still closed.
‘What happened?’
‘We don’t know, sir. That’s what we’re trying to find out. She was gone by the time we got here, but we don’t know if the orderlies took her away. We don’t know anything,’ he said, making no attempt to disguise his exasperation. Three men and they couldn’t restrain a woman.
‘Dottor Bonaventura,’ Brunetti said, ‘could you tell us what happened here? Are you all right?’
Bonaventura gave a small nod. He pulled the towel away from his head, and Brunetti saw a deep, bloody gouge that ran from his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline just above his ear. The doctor turned the towel to expose a fresh clean place and pressed it against the wound.
‘I was at the desk over there,’ he began, not bothering to point to the only desk in the room, ‘doing some paperwork, and suddenly this old woman was in the room, screaming, out of her mind. She came at me with something in her hand. I don’t know what it was; it might just have been her purse. She was screaming, but I don’t know what she said. I couldn’t understand her, or maybe I was too surprised. Or frightened.’ He turned the towel again; the bleeding refused to stop.
‘She came up to the desk, and she hit me, then she started tearing at all the papers on the desk. That was when the orderlies came in, but she was wild, hysterical. She knocked one of them down, and then another one of them tripped over him. I don’t know what happened then because I had blood in my eye. But when I wiped it away, she was gone. Two of the orderlies were still here, on the floor, but she was gone.’
Brunetti looked at Vianello, who answered, ‘No, sir. She’s not outside. She just disappeared. I spoke to two of the orderlies, but they don’t know what happened to her. We called over to the Casa di Riposo to see if any of their patients are missing, but they said no. It was lunch time, so it was easy for them to count them all.’
Brunetti turned his attention back to Bonaventura. ‘Do you have any idea who she might be, Dottore?’
‘No. None. I’d never seen her before. I don’t have any idea how she got in here.’
‘Were you seeing patients?’
‘No, I told you, I was doing paperwork, writing up my notes. And I don’t think she came in from the waiting room. I think she came in from there,’ he said, pointing to the door at the other side of the room.
‘What’s back there?’
‘The mortuary. I’d finished in there about half an hour before and was writing up my notes.’
In the confusion of Bonaventura’s story, Brunetti had forgotten his rage. Now he was suddenly cold, chilled to the bone, but the emotion was not rage.
‘What did she look like, Dottore?’
‘Just a little fat old lady, all in black.’
‘What notes were you writing up, Dottore?’
‘I told you, from the autopsy.’
‘Which autopsy?’ Brunetti asked, though he knew there was no need for the question.
‘What was his name? That young man they brought in last night. Rigetti? Ribelli?’
‘No, Dottore. Ruffolo.’
‘Yes, that’s it. I’d just finished. He’s all sewn up. The family was supposed to come and get him at two, but I finished a little bit early, and I was trying to write up the notes before I began the next one.’
‘Can you remember anything she said, Dottore?’
‘I told you. I couldn’t understand her.’
‘Please try to think, Dottore,’ Brunetti said, voice straining for calm. ‘It might be important. Any words? Phrases.’ Bonaventura said nothing so Brunetti prompted, ‘Did she speak Italian, Dottore?’
‘Sort of. Some of the words were Italian, but the rest was dialect, worst I’ve ever heard.’ There were no more clean places on Bonaventura’s towel. ‘I think I’d like to go and get this taken care of,’ he said.
‘In just a moment, Dottore. Did you understand any words?’
‘Well, of course, she was screaming, “Bambino, bambino”, but that young man wasn’t her bambino. She must be too old.’ She wasn’t, but Brunetti saw no reason to tell him this.
‘Is there anything else you understood, Dottore?’ Brunetti asked again.
Bonaventura closed his eyes with the combined weight of pain and memory. ‘She said, “assassino”, but that’s what she was calling me, I think. She threatened to kill me, but all she did was hit me. None of it made any sense. No words or anything, just noise, like an animal. I think that’s when the orderlies came in.’
Turning away from him and nodding towards the door to the mortuary, Brunetti asked, ‘Is the body in there?’
‘Yes, I told you. The family was told to come and get it at two.’
Brunetti went over to the door and pushed it open. Inside, only a few metres into the room, the body of Ruffolo lay, naked and exposed, on a metal gurney. The sheet that had covered his body lay crumpled on the floor, as though it had been torn off and flung there.
Brunetti took a few steps into the room and looked across at the young man. The body lay with the head turned away, so Brunetti could see the ragged line that ran through the hair, showing where the crown of the head had been severed so that Bonaventura could examine the damage to the brain. The front of the body bore the long butterfly incision, the same horrible line that had run down the strong young body of the American. Like a line drawn with a compass, the circle of death had been drawn just and true, bringing Brunetti back to where he had begun.
He backed away from what had been Ruffolo into the office. Another man in a white jacket was bending down over Bonaventura, fingering delicately at the edges of the wound
. Brunetti nodded to Vianello and Miotti, but before either man could move, Bonaventura looked across at Brunetti and said, ‘There’s one strange thing.’
‘What is that, Dottore?’ Brunetti asked.
‘She thought I was from Milan.’
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘When she said she’d kill me, she called me ‘milanese traditore’, but all she did was hit me. She kept screaming she’d kill me, kept calling me ‘milanese traditore’. It doesn’t make any sense to me.’
Suddenly it made sense to Brunetti. ‘Vianello, have you got a boat?’
‘Yes, sir, it’s outside.’
‘Miotti, call the Questura and have them send the Squadra Mobile, right now, to Viscardi’s palazzo. Come on, Vianello.’
The police launch was tied up at the left of the hospital, engine idling. Brunetti leapt down onto the deck, Vianello close behind him. ‘Montisi,’ Brunetti said, glad to find him at the wheel, ‘over near San Stae, that new palazzo, by Palazzo Duodo.’
There was no need for Montisi to ask for more: Brunetti’s fear was contagious. He hit the switch for the two-pitched siren, shoved the throttle forward, and swung the boat out into the canal. At the end, he turned into Rio San Giovanni Crisostomo, siren wailing, and towards the Grand Canal. Minutes later, the boat shot out into the broad waters of the Grand Canal, narrowly missing a taxi and sending out on either side a violent wake that slapped at boats and buildings. They sped past a vaporetto that was just docking at San Stae, their wake slamming it into the imbarcadero and causing more than one tourist to dance about, footing temporarily lost.
Just beyond Palazzo Duodo, Montisi pulled the boat to the riva, and Brunetti and Vianello leapt ashore, leaving it to the pilot to moor the boat. Brunetti ran up the narrow calle, paused for a moment to orient himself to this unexpected arrival from the waterside, and then turned towards the left and the palazzo.
When he saw the heavy wooden door to the courtyard standing open, he knew it would be too late: too late for Viscardi, and too late for Signora Concetta. He found her there, at the bottom of the steps that led up from the courtyard, her arms held behind her back by two of Viscardi’s luncheon guests, one of them, Brunetti noticed, still with his napkin stuffed into the neck of his shirt.
They were both very large men, Signor Viscardi’s guests, and it seemed to Brunetti that it was not necessary for them to hold Signora Concetta’s arms like that, pulled roughly behind her back. For one thing, it was too late, and for another, she offered them no resistance, was content, one would almost say happy, to look down at what lay at her feet in the courtyard. Viscardi had fallen on his face, so the gaping holes the shotgun had blasted in his chest were hidden, though the blood could not be stopped from seeping out across the granite paving stones. Beside his body, but closer to Signora Concetta, the shotgun lay where she had dropped it. Her late husband’s lupara had served its purpose and avenged the family honour.
Brunetti approached the woman. She looked up at him, recognized him, but did not smile: her face could have been made of steel. Brunetti spoke to the men. ‘Let her go.’ They did nothing, so he repeated, voice still neutral, ‘Let her go.’ This time, they obeyed him and released her arms, both careful to step away from her as they did so.
‘Signora Concetta,’ Brunetti said, ‘how did you know?’ To ask her why she had done it was unnecessary.
Awkwardly, as though it hurt her to move them, she brought her arms forward and crossed them over her chest. ‘My Peppino told me everything.’
‘What did he tell you, Signora?’
‘That this time he would make enough money for us to go home. To go home. It’s been so long since I’ve been home.’
‘What else did he tell you, Signora? Did he tell you about the pictures?’
The man with the napkin in his shirt interrupted him, speaking in a high-pitched, insistent voice. ‘Whoever you are, I want to warn you that I am Signor Viscardi’s lawyer. And I warn you that you are giving information to this woman. I’m a witness to this crime, and she is not to be spoken to until the police arrive.’
Brunetti glanced at him briefly and then down at Viscardi. ‘He doesn’t need a lawyer any more.’ He turned his attention back to Signora Concetta. ‘What did Peppino tell you, Signora?’
She struggled to speak clearly, forcing herself away from dialect. These, after all, were the police. ‘I knew everything. The pictures. Everything. I knew my Peppino was going to meet you. He was very frightened, my Peppino. He was afraid of that man,’ she said pointing down to Viscardi. ‘He found something that made him have much fear.’ She looked away from Viscardi and up at Brunetti. ‘Can I go away from here now, Dottore? My work is finished.’
The man with the napkin spoke again. ‘You are asking leading questions of this woman, and I’m a witness to that fact.’
Brunetti put out his hand and placed it under Signora Concetta’s elbow. ‘Come with me, Signora.’ He nodded to Vianello, who was quickly beside him. ‘Go with this man, Signora. He has a boat, and he’ll take you to the Questura.’
‘Not on a boat,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid of the water.’
‘It’s a very safe boat, Signora,’ Vianello offered.
She turned to Brunetti. ‘Will you come with us, Dottore?’
‘No, Signora, I must stay here.’
She pointed to Vianello, spoke to Brunetti. ‘Can I trust him?’
‘Yes, Signora, you can trust him.’
‘You swear?’
‘Yes, Signora. I swear.’
‘Va bene, we go in the boat.’
She started to walk away, led by Vianello, who had to bend down to keep his hand under her elbow. She took two steps, stopped, and turned back to Brunetti. ‘Dottore?’
‘Yes, Signora Concetta?’
‘The paintings are at my house.’ She turned away and continued towards the door with Vianello.
Later, Brunetti was to discover that, after twenty years in Venice, she had never been on a boat: like many people from the mountains of Sicily, she had a deadly fear of the water, and in twenty years, she had never overcome it. But before that he was to learn what she had done with the paintings. When the police got to her apartment that afternoon, they found the three paintings, the Monet, the Gauguin, and the Guardi, hacked to pieces with the same scissors with which she had tried to attack Brunetti, years ago. This time, there had been no Peppino to stop her, and she had destroyed them utterly, leaving only jagged tatters of canvas and colour in the wake of her grief. It came as no surprise to Brunetti to learn that many people considered this the sure proof of her madness: anyone could kill a man; only a madwoman would destroy a Guardi.
Two nights later, after dinner, Paola answered the ringing phone. He could tell from the warmth of her voice and the frequent laughter with which she greeted what she heard that it was her parents. After a long time, almost half an hour, she came out onto the terrace and said, ‘Guido, my father would like to speak to you for a moment.’
He went back into the living room and picked up the phone. ‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Good evening, Guido,’ the Count said. ‘I’ve got some news for you.’
‘About the dump?’
‘Dump?’ the Count repeated, managing to sound confused.
‘The dump by Lake Barcis.’
‘Ah, you mean the building site. A private hauling contractor was up there earlier this week. The whole site has been cleaned up, everything removed, earth bulldozed over it.’
‘Building site?’
‘Yes, the Army has decided to conduct tests on radon emissions in the area. So they’re going to close off the area and build some sort of testing facility there. Unmanned, of course.’
‘Whose army, theirs or ours?’
‘Why ours, of course.’
‘Where was the material taken?’
‘I believe the trucks went to Genoa. But the friend who told me about it wasn’t too clear.’
‘You knew Viscardi was involved in this, didn’t you?’
‘Guido, I don’t like your accusatory tone,’ the Count said sharply. Brunetti didn’t apologize and the Count continued, ‘I knew a great deal about Signor Viscardi, Guido, but he was beyond my reach.’
‘He’s beyond everyone’s reach now,’ Brunetti said, but he took no satisfaction in being able to say it.
‘I attempted to tell you.’
‘I didn’t realize he was so powerful.’
‘He was. And his uncle,’ the Count named a cabinet minister, ‘remains even more so. Do you understand?’
He understood more than he wanted to. ‘I have another favour.’
‘I’ve done a lot for you this week, Guido. Much of it has been against my own best interests.’
‘It’s not for me.’
‘Guido, favours are always for ourselves. Especially when we ask for things for other people.’
Brunetti said nothing for so long that the Count finally asked, ‘What is it?’
‘There’s a Carabiniere officer, Ambrogiani. He’s just been reassigned to Sicily. Can you see that nothing happens to him while he’s there?’
‘Ambrogiani?’ the Count asked, as if interested in knowing no more than the name.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Guido.’
‘I’d be very grateful.’
‘So, I imagine, will Maggiore Ambrogiani.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Guido. We’ll be home next week.’
‘Good. Have a nice holiday.’
‘Yes, I shall. Good night, Guido.’
‘Good night.’
As he replaced the phone, a detail of the conversation came flashing into Brunetti’s mind, and he stood frozen in place, staring down at his hand, unable to pry it loose from the receiver. The Count had known Ambrogiani’s rank. He had called him an officer, but the Count had called him ‘Maggiore Ambrogiani’. The Count knew about Gamberetto. He had business dealings with Viscardi. And now he knew Ambrogiani’s rank. What else did the Count know? And in what else was he involved?
Paola had replaced him on the terrace. He opened the door and went out to stand beside her, putting his arm over her shoulder. ‘The sky in the West gave off the last glimmerings of light; it would soon be dark.