‘He asked me where I’d been, and I told him I’d been ordered not to speak about it to anyone.’
‘Did he ask who gave you the order?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Pucetti’s voice was calm. ‘I told him you did, and he said he’d speak to you about it.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, sir. That’s all he said.’
Though Brunetti had himself considered summoning Pucetti back to Venice, he could not stand the fact that Scarpa had gone over his head.
‘I’m sorry sir,’ Pucetti said, then turned away for a moment to stare at a heavily bearded man whose voice was raised in protest at the man behind him in the line. A look from Pucetti sufficed to quiet them both, and he turned back to Brunetti.
‘Did you have the chance to speak to Signorina Elettra?’ Brunetti asked casually.
‘Once or twice, sir, when she came in for a coffee, but there were always people there, so we just played our roles and talked about the weather or the fishing.’
‘That young man,’ Brunetti began. ‘Do you have any idea who he is?’ It didn’t occur to Brunetti that he left it to Pucetti to infer which man he meant, nor did he consider the significance of the fact that Pucetti knew exactly whom he intended.
‘He’s the nephew of one of the fishermen out there.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Who, the man or his uncle?’
‘The man. What’s his name?’ Brunetti realized how eager he sounded, so he slipped one hand into the pocket of his jacket and shifted his weight, to stand in a more relaxed posture. ‘If you know, that is,’ he added lamely.
‘Targhetta,’ Pucetti answered, with no indication that he found Brunetti’s interest at all out of the ordinary. ‘Carlo.’
Brunetti was about to ask more about the young man and what he was doing on Pellestrina when he sensed Pucetti’s increasing curiosity as to his interest in Signorina Elettra’s personal life. ‘Good, thank you, Pucetti. You can put yourself back on the usual duty roster,’ he said, quite forgetting that they had been using the same roster for two weeks now in the absence of Signorina Elettra to oversee the rotation of staff.
Back in his office, he did allow for her absence and phoned the office of the Guardia di Finanza himself, asking for Maresciallo Resto.
The Maresciallo, he was told, was momentarily out of the office, and would he like to speak to someone else? His refusal was instantaneous and automatic, and when he hung up he was assailed by the full significance of his response. Even in something like this, an ordinary phone call from one agency of the state to another, he was unwilling to reveal the reason for his call to anyone, regardless of their rank or position, unless that person were vouched for by someone he knew and trusted. What saddened him was not so much the fact that the people he dealt with might be in the pay of the Mafia or unreliable for some other reason, as the fact that distrust was an instinct, one so strong as to preclude a priori any chance of cooperation among the fragmented forces of public order. And Maresciallo Resto, he realized, had earned his trust only by having earned Signorina Elettra’s. This reflection brought him back to Pellestrina, the now-identified young man, and thoughts of Signorina Elettra. He dwelt upon those for a quarter of an hour and then called the Finanza again.
‘Resto,’ a light voice answered.
‘Maresciallo,’ Brunetti began, ‘this is Commissario Guido Brunetti, at the Questura. I’m calling to ask you for some information.’
‘Are you Elettra’s boss?’ the man asked, surprising Brunetti not by the question but by the casual use of her first name.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Then ask anything.’ Brunetti waited, though he waited in vain, for the usual encomia to Signorina Elettra’s many virtues.
‘I’m curious about a case you handled two years ago. A fishing boat was sequestered from a fisherman on Burano, Vittorio Spadini.’ He waited for Resto to comment, but the other man was silent, and so Brunetti went on. ‘I’d like to know whatever you can tell me about the case, or about him.’
‘Is this about the murders?’ Resto asked, surprising him with the question.
‘Why do you ask?’
Resto gave a small laugh. ‘There’ve been three deaths on Pellestrina in the last ten days, two of them fishermen, and now the police call and ask me about a fisherman. I’d have to be a Carabiniere not to wonder about the connection.’
It was said as a joke, but it was not a joke. ‘He’s said to have been involved with one of the victims,’ Brunetti offered by way of explanation.
‘Have you questioned him?’
‘There’s no sign of him. A neighbour says he’s not around.’
Resto paused, then said, ‘Wait a minute while I get the file.’ He was gone for a short time, then came back, picked up the phone, and said, ‘The file’s down in the archive. I’ll call you back,’ and hung up.
So Resto also wanted to be sure who he was talking to, Brunetti realized, suspecting that the Maresciallo had the file in his hand but thought it wisest to call the Questura and ask for Brunetti.
When the phone rang a moment later, he answered with his name and, as nothing was to be gained by provoking the man, resisted the temptation to ask Resto if he were sure now with whom he was dealing.
Brunetti heard pages being turned, and then Resto said, ‘We started the investigation in June, two years ago. We put a flag up at his bank and put a tap on his phone and his accountant’s phone and fax. We kept track of how much he sold at the fish market, then checked to see how much of that he declared.’
‘What else?’ Brunetti prodded.
‘And we ran the usual checks on him.’
‘Which are?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I’d rather not say,’ Resto answered. ‘But we eventually realized he was selling clams and fish for a value of almost a billion lire a year and declaring an income of less than a hundred million.’
‘And?’ Brunetti asked into the next silence.
‘And we kept an eye on him for a few months. And then we landed him.’
‘Like a fish?’
‘Exactly. Like a fish. But he turned into a clam once we had him. Nothing. No money, no idea where he’s got it. If he’s got it.’
‘How long do you think he was earning this much?’
‘No way of knowing. Could have been five years. Or more.’
‘And you’ve no idea where he’s got it hidden?’
‘He could have spent it.’
Brunetti, who had seen the state of Spadini’s house, doubted that, but he didn’t offer this information. He considered what he’d heard, then asked, ‘What put you on to him?’
‘One-one-seven.’
‘Excuse me?’ Brunetti said.
‘The number, the one for anonymous denuncie.’
Brunetti had heard, for years, about this number, 117, set up to allow citizens to make anonymous accusations of tax evasion. Though he had heard the story, he had never quite believed in it and had persisted in thinking of 117 as yet another urban myth. But here was a maresciallo of the very Finanza itself, telling him it was true: the number existed and it had been used to launch the investigation of Vittorio Spadini, one that led to the loss of his boat.
‘What sort of record is kept of these calls?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you, Commissario,’ Resto said, neither regret nor reluctance audible in his voice.
‘I see,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Were criminal charges pressed against him at the time?’
‘No. It was judged better to fine him.’
‘How much was the fine?’
‘Five hundred million lire,’ Resto said. ‘At the end, that is. It was higher at the beginning, but then it was reduced.’
‘Why?’
‘We examined his assets, and all he had was the boat and two small bank accounts.’
‘Yet you knew he was making half a billion a year?’
‘We had reason to believe that, yes. But it
was decided that, in the absence of equity on his part, we would settle for the lesser sum.’
‘Which represented?’
‘His boat, and the money in both of those accounts.’
‘And his house?’
‘The house is his wife’s. She brought it to the marriage, and so we had no right to it.’
‘Have you any idea where the money’s gone?’
‘None. But there are rumours that he gambles.’
‘Unluckily, it would seem,’ Brunetti observed.
‘Everyone who gambles gambles unluckily.’
Brunetti gave this the laugh it deserved, then asked, ‘And since then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Resto answered. ‘He’s not been reported to us since then, so there’s nothing else I can tell you about him.’
Brunetti asked, ‘Did you meet him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
Without hesitation, Resto said, ‘And he’s a very unpleasant man. Not because of what he did. Everyone cheats. We expect that. But there was a kind of frenzy in his resistance to us I’ve rarely seen before. I don’t think it had anything to do with the money he lost, though I could be wrong.’
‘If not the money, then what?’
‘Losing. Or being defeated,’ Resto suggested. ‘I’ve never seen a man so angry at having been caught, though it was impossible we wouldn’t catch him, he’d been so stupid.’ It sounded as though it was Spadini’s carelessness he disapproved of, not his dishonesty.
‘Would you say he’s violent?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Does that mean do I think he’s capable of those murders?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know. I suppose many people are, though they don’t realize it until they get into the right situation. Or the wrong one,’ Resto added quickly. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ When Brunetti said nothing, Resto said, ‘I’m sorry not to be able to answer that for you, but I just don’t know.’
‘That’s all right,’ Brunetti said. ‘Thank you for what you could tell me.’
‘Let me know what happens, will you?’ Resto said, surprising Brunetti with his request.
‘Of course. Why?’
‘Oh, just curious,’ Resto said, disguising something, though Brunetti couldn’t tell what. With a mutual exchange of pleasantries, the two men took their leave of each other.
21
BRUNETTI FOUND HIS family seated around the table when he came in, almost-empty dishes of lasagne before them. Chiara got up and kissed him, Raffi said, ‘Ciao, Papà’ before returning to his pasta, and Paola smiled in his direction. She went to the stove, bent and opened the oven, pulled from it a plate with a large rectangle of lasagne in the centre, and set it at his place.
He went to the bathroom, washed his hands, and came back, aware of how hungry he was and how happy to be home with them.
‘You look like you were in the sun today,’ Paola said, pouring him a glass of Cabernet.
He took a sip. ‘Is this the stuff that student of yours makes?’ he asked, raising the glass and studying the colour.
‘Yes. Do you like it?’
‘Yes. How much did we buy?’
‘Two cases.’
‘Good,’ he said and started to eat his pasta.
‘You look like you were in the sun today,’ Paola repeated.
Chewing, he swallowed, and said, ‘I was out on Burano.’
‘Papà, can I go out with you the next time you go?’ Chiara interrupted.
‘Chiara, I’m talking to your father,’ Paola said.
‘Can’t I talk to him at the same time?’ she asked with every evidence of offended pride.
‘When I’m finished.’
‘But we’re talking about the same thing, aren’t we?’ Chiara asked, smart enough to remove any sound of resentment from her voice.
Paola looked at her plate then set her fork very carefully beside her unfinished lasagne.
‘I asked your father,’ she began, and Brunetti was aware of her referring to him as ‘your father’. Beneath that linguistic distance, he suspected, lay some other.
Chiara started to speak, but Raffi gave her a sharp kick under the table, and her head swung towards him. He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at her, and she stopped.
Silence fell, then lay, on the table. ‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, clearing his throat and then continuing. ‘I went out to Burano to talk to someone, but he wasn’t there. I tried to eat at da Romano, but there were no tables.’ He finished his lasagne and looked across at Paola. ‘Is there any more? It’s delicious,’ he added.
‘What else is there, Mamma?’ Chiara demanded, appetite overcoming Raffi’s warning.
‘Beef stew with peppers,’ Paola said.
‘The one with potatoes?’ Raffi asked, his voice rich with feigned enthusiasm.
‘Yes,’ Paola said, getting to her feet and starting to stack the plates. The lasagne, to Brunetti’s diappointment, proved to be much like the Messiah: there was no second coming.
With Paola busy at the stove, Chiara waved a hand to get Brunetti’s attention, then tilted her head to one side, gaped her mouth open and stuck out her tongue. She crossed her eyes and tilted her head to the other side, then turned it into a metronome, shaking it quickly back and forth, her tongue lolling slackly from her mouth.
From her place at the stove, where she was busy serving the stew, Paola said, ‘If you think this beef will give you Mad Cow Disease, Chiara, perhaps you’d prefer not to eat any.’
Instantly, Chiara’s head was motionless, her hands folded neatly in front of her. ‘Oh, no, Mamma,’ she said with oily piety, ‘I’m very hungry, and you know it’s one of my favourites.’
‘Everything’s your favourite,’ Raffi said.
She stuck her tongue out again, but this time her head remained motionless.
Paola turned back to the table, placing a dish in front of Chiara, then Raffi. She set another in front of Brunetti and then served herself. She sat down.
‘What did you do at school today?’ Brunetti asked the children jointly, hoping that one of them would answer. As he ate, his attention drifted from the chunks of stewed beef to the cubes of carrot, the small slices of onion. Raffi was saying something about his Greek instructor. When he paused, Brunetti looked across at Paola and asked, ‘Did you put Barbera in this?’
She nodded, and he smiled, pleased he’d got it right. ‘Wonderful,’ he said, spearing another piece of beef. Raffi concluded his story about the Greek teacher, and Chiara cleared the table. ‘Little plates,’ Paola told her when she was done.
Paola went to the counter and removed the round top from the porcelain cake dish she had inherited from her Great-Aunt Ugolina in Parma. Inside it, as Brunetti had hardly dared hope, was her apple cake, the one with lemon and orange juice and enough Grand Marnier to permeate the whole thing and linger on the tongue for ever.
‘Your mother is a saint,’ he said to the children.
‘A saint,’ repeated Raffi.
‘A saint,’ intoned Chiara as an investment towards a second helping.
After dinner, Brunetti took a bottle of Calvados, intent on maintaining the apple theme introduced by the cake, and went out on to the terrace. He set the bottle down, then went back into the kitchen for two glasses and, he hoped, his wife. When he suggested to Chiara that she do the dishes, she made no objection.
‘Come on,’ he said to Paola and returned to the terrace.
He poured the two glasses, sat, put his feet up on the railing, and looked off at the clouds drifting in the far distance. When Paola sat down in the other chair, he nodded towards the clouds and asked, ‘You think it’ll rain?’
‘I hope so. I read today that there are fires in the mountains up above Belluno.’
‘Arson?’ he asked.
‘Probably,’ she answered. ‘How else can they build on it?’ It was a peculiarity of the law that undeveloped land upon which the construction of houses was forbidden lost that
protection as soon as the trees on it ceased to exist. And what more efficient means of removing trees than fire?
Neither of them much wanted to follow up this subject, and so Brunetti asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
One of the things Brunetti had always loved about Paola was what he persisted, in the face of all her objections to the term, in thinking of as the masculinity of her mind, and so she did not bother to feign confusion. Instead, she said, ‘I find your interest in Elettra strange. And I suppose if I were to think about it a bit longer, I’d probably find it offensive.’
It was Brunetti who echoed, innocently, ‘Offensive?’
‘Only if I thought about it much longer. At the moment, I find it only strange, worthy of comment, unusual.’
‘Why?’ he asked, setting his glass on the table and pouring some more Calvados.
She turned and looked at him, her face a study in open confusion. But she did not repeat his question; she attempted to answer it. ‘Because you have thought about little except her for the last week, and because I assume your trip to Burano today had something to do with her.’
Other qualities he had always admired in Paola were the fact that she was not a snoop and that jealousy was not part of her makeup. ‘Are you jealous?’ he asked before he had time to think.
Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him with eyes that might as well have been stuck out on stalks, so absolute was her attention. She turned away from him and said, addressing her remarks to the campanile of San Polo, ‘He wants to know if I’m jealous.’ When the campanile did not respond, she turned her eyes in the direction of San Marco.
As they sat, the silence lengthening between them, the tension of the scene drifted away as if the mere mention of the word ‘jealousy’ had sufficed to chase it off.
The half-hour struck, and Brunetti finally said, ‘There’s no need for it, you know, Paola. There’s nothing I want from her.’
‘You want her safety.’
‘That’s for her, not from her,’ he insisted.
She turned towards him then and asked, without any trace of her usual fierceness, ‘You really believe this, don’t you, that you don’t want anything from her?’
‘Of course,’ he insisted.