The Temptation of Forgiveness

  After some moments, she asked, ‘Commissario of Police?’ as if other kinds of commissari were in the habit of phoning.

  ‘Yes. May I speak to the Director?

  This silence was longer, the result either of confusion or of reluctance. ‘One moment, please,’ she finally said. ‘I’ll pass you to Signora Direttrice Rallo.’

  The Director answered on the second ring. ‘Bianca Rallo,’ she said.

  ‘Signora Direttrice,’ Brunetti began, ‘this is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I’ve called to ask about one of your students.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be impertinent,’ she began in a well-educated voice, ‘but what assurance can you give me that you are who you say you are?’ She was distant, polite, almost ironic.

  ‘Signora Direttrice,’ Brunetti answered with equal politeness, ‘May I suggest a way around your doubts? If I might?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘Allow me to ask my question, and then call the Questura and ask to speak to Commissario Griffoni. You can give the answer to her.’ He allowed her to digest this, then added, ‘I’ll need a few minutes to call them and tell them to put you through to her immediately.’ After a shorter pause he asked, ‘Would this be acceptable, Signora Direttrice?’

  ‘It depends on what your question is,’ she answered in a pleasant voice.

  ‘We believe the father of two of your students, Tullio Gasparini, may have been attacked on the street last night. I’d like to know if Sandro came to school this morning.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her silence drifted out from the telefonino. Brunetti looked at the water in the canal beside him and saw how high it was.

  ‘All right,’ she answered. ‘I’ll call them in five minutes.’

  Wasting no time, Brunetti ended their call, dialled the central number of the Questura, and asked if Griffoni had come in yet. When he heard that she had, he told the operator that there’d soon be a call for her from a Signora Rallo. The operator was to phone Commissario Griffoni immediately and tell her to expect the call.

  He put his phone back in his pocket and continued towards the Questura. When he got there ten minutes later, he asked for Vianello but was told that the Inspector had come in but had been sent to Marghera to sit in on the questioning of a suspect in a case of domestic violence and wasn’t expected to be back that day. Brunetti went to Griffoni’s office. He noticed that she now wore a black skirt and jacket and had changed the telltale brown shoes.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked when he came in.

  Rather than answer her question, Brunetti asked his own. ‘Did she call?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The preside of the Albertini, to tell you whether the son was at school today.’

  ‘No.’

  When all Brunetti did was nod, Griffoni stood to reach over her desk to pull the second chair closer. ‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake, Guido, and tell me what happened.’

  Brunetti obeyed and told her about his conversation with Professoressa Crosera and what had happened in the hospital after Griffoni left. Her office was so small that their knees were close to touching under her desk, even though he was half sitting in the doorway. ‘She was stunned by it. She collapsed when she saw him.’

  ‘Real collapse or false collapse?’ she asked.

  ‘Real, I think.’

  ‘Did she know he had gone out?’

  ‘She said she didn’t, but I don’t believe her.’

  Griffoni, no stranger to lies, merely nodded. ‘What about the son? Was he there when you called her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ With some embarrassment, Brunetti added, ‘I didn’t think to ask her.’

  Griffoni smiled. ‘Hence the phone call from the preside.’ After a brief pause she added, ‘Good for her. You could have been anyone. A kidnapper.’

  ‘Claudia,’ Brunetti said, reaching across to tap the back of her hand with his index finger. ‘We are in Venice. We are not in …’ His voice trailed off. He thought for a moment and said, ‘Imagine that. I can’t name a city where there’s been a kidnapping in the last few years.’

  She looked at him and quickly looked away. After time for reflection she said, her surprise audible, ‘I can’t, either. It’s as if it’s gone out of fashion.’

  Brunetti had reservations about that. ‘It’s more likely that people don’t report it any more. Just pay and hope it works.’

  ‘But we’d hear, wouldn’t we, sooner or later?’ she asked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Brunetti admitted and, taken aback by his own savagery, added, ‘I hate it. More than any other crime. And I hate them.’

  ‘More than murderers?’ she asked.

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it replaces life with money or because they trade life for money.’ He failed to control the severity of his voice.

  ‘I’ve never heard you like this,’ she said.

  ‘I know. It’s worse than anything. I’d put them all in jail for ever: the kidnappers. Anyone who helped them, too. If they knew what they were going to do, and still helped them; even if it was only to give them a postage stamp so they could mail the ransom note, I’d put them in jail for the rest of their lives.’ By an act of great force of will, Brunetti stopped himself from saying more.

  ‘You worked on a case?’ Griffoni asked.

  ‘Yes, one of my first, more than twenty years ago.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘They took the daughter of a family from Naples.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘Sardinia. It was when I was stationed in Naples: three of us were sent.’

  ‘Did you find them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brunetti said gruffly.

  ‘How?’

  Brunetti waved this away with one hand. ‘They were stupid.’

  ‘But?’ she asked in response to something unspoken.

  ‘But the girl died.’

  ‘Did they kill her before they got the ransom?’

  ‘I sometimes wish they had,’ he answered. Griffoni did not prod him, but Brunetti still explained. ‘They buried her in a box. When the police arrested them – there were four of them – they told them where the box was. But by the time they dug it up, she was dead.’

  Griffoni said nothing.

  ‘Can we talk about something else, Claudia?’

  Before she could answer, her phone rang.

  ‘Griffoni,’ she said. She raised a hand to Brunetti, nodding as she did. ‘Yes, he told me, Signora.’ Then, after a pause, ‘No, we’re more or less equal, only he’s been here longer than I have. Yes, he is, originally from Castello, I think.’

  She looked at Brunetti, put her head back and closed her eyes, using her right hand to make rolling waves in the air as she listened. ‘Yes, he’s told me about the incident. He was in the hospital with the man this morning.’

  Griffoni covered her eyes with one hand, something she did when impatient. ‘Of course, I understand, Signora Direttrice.’ Then Griffoni was silent for a long time. She moved her hand to the top of her head without opening her eyes, as if she wanted to keep the lid on, and continued to listen, letting loose an occasional murmur of agreement.

  Finally she removed her hand, saying, ‘He’s there?’ She opened her eyes and glanced at Brunetti, let out a neutral ‘Hummmm’, and said, ‘Thank you, Signora Direttrice.’ Then, slipping into that particular descending cadence used to end a conversation, she said, ‘I’m sure my colleague will be very grateful to learn this.’

  A few more polite noises, and then she hung up the phone. ‘As you heard, he’s there. The school policy is to contact the parents immediately if a student fails to arrive for classes.’ In a different, more curious, voice, she said, ‘What do you know about the boy?’

  ‘Only what I’ve told you: fifteen, second year of liceo. Troubled, not doing well in school.’

  ‘And using drugs,’ Griffoni supplied.

  ‘His mother
was convinced enough to come and see me.’

  Griffoni, whose office did not have a window, went and stood with her back against the wall, arms folded. ‘Do you think the attack was the result?’ she asked, and Brunetti realized he was relieved that she did not question that it had been an attack.

  ‘The two things are related in time,’ Brunetti said. ‘What I want to do is find something that leads from one to the other.’

  Griffoni, following the path between the two events, said, ‘If Gasparini already knew who the dealer was but didn’t want to involve us, he could have approached him or threatened him somehow …’

  Brunetti nodded: he’d already been down that path.

  ‘We know who some of the dealers are, the ones at the schools,’ he said. ‘I know the names of at least two.’

  Griffoni nodded to show that she perhaps knew other names.

  ‘One of them owes me a favour,’ Brunetti began. ‘It’s time to call it in now.’

  Griffoni remained as she was, giving no sign of impatience or curiosity. She looked across at Brunetti as if it were quite normal for a man to sit in a chair in the middle of her doorway, its two back legs in the hallway, while she stood with her back against the wall and looked at him.

  Brunetti heard someone walk by in the corridor behind him but did not turn around. When the footsteps disappeared, he finally said, ‘I’ll ask him who’s in charge at the Albertini.’ He was struck by how casual he had made it sound, as if a dealer had a licence to sell drugs to the students at the school.

  ‘Will he tell you?’ Griffoni asked.

  Brunetti nodded. ‘A long time ago, my brother wrote a letter of recommendation for his son, who was applying for medical school in England.’

  ‘Medical school?’ she asked.

  ‘Radiology. My brother’s chief technician at the hospital in Mestre. The boy worked with him for two years: he said he was the best assistant he ever had. Why shouldn’t he write him a reference?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Griffoni agreed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s Assistant Chief Radiologist in a hospital in Birmingham.’

  ‘And the father pushes drugs?’ Griffoni asked in bewilderment.

  ‘And the father pushes drugs.’

  ‘Evviva l’Italia,’ Griffoni said.

  11

  They remained like that, in easy companionship, for a while until Brunetti got to his feet and moved the chair back to its usual place against the wall, where, instead of blocking the door, it now blocked any attempt Griffoni might make to reach her desk from the right.

  He paused at the door, but before he could speak, Griffoni asked, ‘And when your informant gives you his name?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘When you do, would you like me to come along?’ she asked.

  He had thought of taking Vianello. Griffoni was certainly very good at playing the role of good cop: she could suggest with a glance that she disagreed with Brunetti, could ask him a question in such a way as to show solidarity with the person who was being questioned, and could, upon occasion, oppose Brunetti’s decisions or conclusions in such a way as to show the suspect that she was completely persuaded by the story he or she was telling. But she was a woman, and a man who dealt drugs would better be visited by a man.

  ‘Thanks for offering, Claudia,’ he said. ‘It’s always a joy to work with a person as cold-blooded as you can be, but in these circumstances, I think it would be better if I went alone.’

  She smiled. ‘To be called cold-blooded is a compliment any woman would be pleased to have, Guido.’

  He went back to his own office, again amazed that she tolerated the shoebox which Lieutenant Scarpa had somehow persuaded Vice-Questore Patta to assign her. In Patta’s defence, Brunetti imagined only that the Vice-Questore had never considered it sufficiently important to climb the steps to take a look at her office and thus had no idea what six square metres looked like or what remained after a desk and two chairs were placed into that space. He had no doubt that Griffoni would somehow make the Lieutenant regret his actions. She was Neapolitan, so it would happen. It would take some time, but it would happen. Brunetti smiled at the thought.

  He closed the door when he entered his office and took out his telefonino. From memory – he had never written it down – he dialled the number of his dealer friend, who answered with his name.

  ‘Good morning, Manrico,’ Brunetti said with the affection he could not help feeling for this man; at least for part of him. He was reluctant to let that part of him dominate the conversation, so he kept his voice cool and asked, pointedly, ‘How’s Bruno?’

  ‘Ah, Dottore,’ Manrico said, recognizing the voice after all this time. ‘Tragedy has struck my family.’ The words wept, but the tone of voice chirped.

  ‘I hope it’s a happy tragedy,’ Brunetti replied.

  ‘The happiest. Bruno’s getting married. In July.’

  ‘And the girl’s father’s a policeman?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Oh, far worse than that,’ Manrico answered in sombre tones.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘She’s Scottish.’

  ‘No,’ Brunetti allowed himself to gasp. ‘And Protestant?’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter any more, Commissario. But there’s more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s a doctor.’

  ‘Your son’s marrying a professional woman who’s Scottish?’ Brunetti made a long, deep humming noise. ‘I can understand your pain, Manrico.’

  ‘Thank you, Dottore; I knew you would.’ Then, as if to prove that he was not really a clown, Manrico said, ‘Since you began by mentioning Bruno, I suppose you want to remind me that I owe you a favour.’

  ‘I’ve never done it before, Manrico,’ Brunetti said, as though he felt obliged to defend his reputation. ‘Not in six years.’

  ‘Seven. What is it?’

  ‘I’d like to know who’s in charge of the Albertini.’

  ‘I assume you’re not speaking of the preside.’ Manrico’s voice had lost all sense of fun or raillery.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Brunetti answered.

  Silence. Brunetti clutched his phone tighter and commanded himself not to speak. He walked to the window and looked down at the dock, where Foa stood, wiping the railings of the police launch.

  ‘This your official phone?’ Manrico asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you get home tonight,’ the dealer said in such a serious voice that Brunetti was prepared for him to hang up without explaining.

  But then Manrico’s usual cheerfulness returned and he said, ‘One more thing, Commissario.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The wedding’s the fifteenth. If I send you an invitation, will you come?’ Even his long pause sounded happy.

  ‘Will it be here?’ Brunetti asked, hoping the answer would be no because then he could legitimately refuse.

  ‘No. It’s at her father’s church.’

  ‘Does that mean what I think it does, Manrico? That things are really that bad?’

  ‘That’s right, Commissario; only it’s worse. Her father’s a bishop.’

  Brunetti congratulated Manrico again, wished him many grandchildren, and hung up. He couldn’t wait to tell Griffoni. But first he went to see Signorina Elettra and found her standing at the window. After Griffoni’s tiny cubicle, Signorina Elettra’s office seemed enormous, especially because of the three windows on one wall. Much of the room was taken up by her desk, on which stood a computer, and a table, which he had never known to hold anything save a large bouquet of flowers, as was the case today, and the current copy of Vogue, also there.

  She turned towards him when he came in. What light the day was willing to offer came from behind her, so he could not see her expression, but her posture – what he sometimes thought of as her aura – seemed tired and heavy-burdened. ‘Bon dì,’ Brunetti said. ‘I came down to see if you’ve had time to t
ake a look at Gasparini.’

  With a brief nod, Signorina Elettra returned to her desk. She sat and hit a few keys, summoned up a page and glanced at it, saying, ‘There isn’t very much about him. He’s an auditor for a chemical company; works in Verona. His residence is listed in Santa Croce, near San Stae; name and number are in the phone book. His name doesn’t appear in any police record in the Veneto, and I can’t find any trace of him on social media.’ She looked at Brunetti and added, ‘It’s strange the way a person seems non-existent if he’s not on any social media, isn’t it?’

  Brunetti, who was not on any of them, just as Paola was not, answered, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘There was no mention of a wife,’ she confessed.

  ‘Professoressa Crosera. I don’t know her first name,’ Brunetti said automatically. ‘She teaches architecture at the university and is a consultant in urban design – whatever that is – in Turkey and somewhere else.’

  Her eyes widened, as though she had to see more of him in order to believe that he could manage to find something she had failed to find. ‘How did you learn that?’

  ‘I asked her,’ Brunetti said laconically, then smiled and inquired, ‘Is that cheating?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Signorina Elettra had the honesty to answer. ‘It’s just that it seems such an old-fashioned way to get information.’

  ‘But you checked the phone book for “Gasparini”, didn’t you?’ Brunetti countered.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Online, though.’

  Disappointment made him ask, ‘That’s all you found?’

  ‘That’s all I found for the moment.’

  ‘If you have time, could you take a look at the wife, as well?’ he asked, trying to make it sound as though there were some sense in doing it. Changing his tone, he said, ‘I asked Vianello to call the papers and ask them to put the usual appeal for witnesses in their stories. It might have some effect.’

  Her right hand was halfway to the keyboard of her computer, but she paused and waved it vaguely in the air, then said, ‘You know people don’t like to get involved with us.’ For a moment she looked beyond him, as though checking something written on the wall, and added, ‘Not just us: the state in any way.’ She went on, her voice tentative, as though she had to speak this through before she’d understand what it was she wanted to say, ‘The contract’s been broken, between us and the state, or been dissolved, but no one wants to make the news public. We know there’s no contract any more, and they know we know. They don’t care what we want or have any real interest in what happens to us or in what we want.’ She turned to him and shrugged, then smiled. ‘And there’s nothing we can do.’