‘Pretty girl,’ Brunetti comented, only then realizing this was the first time he had seen a photo of her.
‘Yes, she was, wasn’t she?’ Signorina Elettra asked.
‘ “Was?” ’ Brunetti inquired.
‘It was a long time ago; maybe she’s changed,’ Signorina Elettra said, then, ‘Read the articles.’
The first, which was dated two days after the previous one, gave the name of Pietro Cavanis, Venetian, as the man who had saved the girl’s life, and named her parents, both of whom were at the girl’s bedside, waiting for her to emerge from the coma in which she had been since being pulled from the water.
The next had appeared the same day in the other local paper and described the girl as a promising equestrian – which explained the photo with the horse. Manuela was well known at her riding club near Treviso, although for some time she had not participated in competitions.
‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked as he looked away from the screen.
‘Yes,’ Signorina Elettra answered. ‘What do you make of it?’
He couldn’t let this go on any longer. ‘I’ve spoken to her grandmother.’
‘What?’
‘I was at dinner with her – she’s a friend of my mother-in-law – and she said she wanted to talk to me.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘About her.’
‘When did you see her?’
‘Yesterday. I came up to tell you about it.’ It seemed strange to Brunetti to be sitting at her computer, she at his usual place, but he didn’t want to break the mood of their conversation by suggesting they move.
‘What did she tell you?’
‘About the accident,’ he said, waving at the screen, where the barest facts of the story were given. ‘The girl’s never been the same. She was under the water so long the oxygen to her brain was cut off.’ Brunetti let her consider that and then added, ‘The word she used was “damaged”.’
‘Poor girl,’ Signorina Elettra whispered.
‘Poor everyone,’ Brunetti added and then went on with his story. ‘The man who dived into the canal and pulled her out was drunk when he did it. Didn’t think about it, just went in after her.’ He remembered what the Contessa had told him and added, ‘It sounds like he was the local drunk.’
‘The article didn’t say he was drunk,’ she said. ‘But I suppose they wouldn’t.’
‘She said the police told her about him. She also said that when the police arrived, he reported that he’d seen a man throw Manuela into the water, but he was so drunk they paid no attention to him. And they were probably right because the next morning, when he woke up, he had no memory of it.’
Signorina Elettra hopped down from the windowsill and came over to her desk. She picked up a notebook and pencil and immediately went back to where she had been sitting and asked, ‘What’s his name? I saw it in the article, but I don’t remember it.’
‘Pietro Cavanis.’
She nodded and wrote it down. ‘Did she say anything else about him?’ she asked.
‘Only that she gave him some money, and he stayed drunk for a month on it.’
‘I see,’ she said, writing in the notebook. ‘What do you think we did?’
‘We?’
‘The police.’
It could have been anything, Brunetti realized, but it was more likely nothing. The uncorroborated story of a man known to be the local drunk, given at a time of great stress, a story he retracted the day after: no one would have paid attention to it. Brunetti shrugged.
She jabbed at her computer with the eraser on the pencil. ‘The date’s there. I’ll see if I can find a record of the incident.’ She wrote a bit more and stopped to look across at him. ‘What do you make of it?’ she asked.
Brunetti had been considering this since the Contessa spoke to him. A drunken witness who didn’t remember his own story? ‘I don’t know. If he didn’t remember anything the next morning, there was nothing for them to do.’ She waited, forcing him to admit he had not answered her question. ‘The most likely thing is that the girl fell into the water,’ he continued. ‘Or it would be if it weren’t for her phobia.’ Her glance was a question; he went on. ‘Her grandmother told me the girl almost drowned when she was a child: after that, she was terrified of the water and never went anywhere near it, which means she wouldn’t be walking along a riva, especially alone and especially in the dark.’ Before she could ask, he continued, ‘Her grandmother said she managed to live in the city by knowing which calli didn’t run along a canal. And she looked at the pavement when she had to go over bridges.’ Her expression showed that she, as any Venetian would, found this improbable if not impossible.
‘More importantly, she told me the girl had grown reserved and unhappy in the months before the incident, so there’s the possibility of drugs or drink,’ Brunetti added. ‘If she were using them, then she might have walked along the riva,’ he added.
‘Ummm,’ was Signorina Elettra’s response as she continued to write. ‘What about the fact that she hadn’t ridden in competitions for some time?’ Was that an inquisitorial note in her voice?
‘She still had the horse,’ he answered. ‘Her grandmother was paying for it.’ He was conscious of how inadequate this sounded, even to himself.
Signorina Elettra raised a hand in a gesture that could mean anything. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking down at her feet. She swung them away from the wall one by one, then looked over at Brunetti. ‘The story’s caught you, hasn’t it?’
Brunetti accepted that it had, but he had no idea what might have caught Signorina Elettra’s attention in this sorry tale: lost youth, lost possibility, bad luck? It might be no more than an interest in the unfortunate destinies of the noble names of her native city, or just as easily it could be her heightened sensibility to the fate of women. He switched the screen back to the photo of the girl and studied it for a while. ‘She could have been away from riding because of a fall,’ he suggested. ‘Or it could be – we don’t know how old she was when this photo was taken – that, like many girls, she forgot about horses when she discovered boys.’ He glanced over to see her response, but she seemed occupied with seeing just how high she could raise her feet.
‘Her horse could have been injured,’ Brunetti added. Paola having long ago declared their family an Animal Free Zone, he had no first-hand information about the relationships between young girls and their horses. He had read, however, that they could be very strong.
She pushed herself off the windowsill and landed silently. Brunetti got to his feet as she moved towards the desk, leaving the chair and computer to her. He thought he knew her well enough to ask, and so said, ‘Has it caught you, too?’
She turned to look at him. ‘Of course.’ She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then sat and tapped at the keyboard with one finger. ‘There’s something wrong about it all. Let me see if I can find the original reports and witness statements, for example.’
‘She’d be how old now – more than thirty?’
‘Yes, just a bit,’ Signorina Elettra said. ‘But if what her grandmother said is true, then she hasn’t had the last fifteen years in any real sense.’
‘The grandmother wasn’t precise,’ he explained, ‘but she spoke of Manuela as though she were a child.’
He watched her hit a few more keys, but she didn’t bother to look at the screen: it must be a nervous habit, the way a smoker rolls a pencil in his hand, just to keep his fingers nimble.
He stood there for a long time, but she said nothing. Finally he asked, ‘What are you going to do?’ as if she were another commissario, and they were planning strategy together.
‘I’ll start with the stables and see if anyone there remembers her. Same with her school.’
‘And when you’ve done that?’ he asked.
‘Then I tell you what I’ve learned.’
>
‘And then?’
‘And then we’ll see.’
That afternoon, Brunetti spent some hours writing ‘performance assessments’ for six members of the uniformed branch. When he was finished, he allowed himself to leave the Questura, took the Number One to the Lido, and went for a long walk on the beach. Autumn was in the air and visible on the whitecaps, and by the time he got home, he was tired and chilled and very hungry.
After dinner, he and Paola moved into the living room, and he told her about his conversation with Contessa Landi-Continui and her request – entreaty, really – that he find out what had happened to her granddaughter.
‘Even though this happened fifteen years ago?’ Paola asked.
‘The Contessa said she needs to know. Before she dies.’
Paola stopped to consider that. ‘Yes, I suppose she does. A person would, wouldn’t they?’
‘Would what?’
‘Need to know they weren’t responsible, if nothing else.’
She had chosen to sit in one of the armchairs that faced the sofa, leaving him to stretch out on it. It was late and they were drinking verbena tisane, Brunetti having opted not to have a grappa and Paola fighting a sore throat.
‘But why would she be responsible?’ he asked, moving around until his head and shoulder were at the perfect angle on the arm of the sofa. ‘The girl was living with her mother, and the Contessa didn’t see much of her in the last months before it happened.’
‘She probably thinks that she should have.’
‘She’s her grandmother, not her guardian angel.’
‘Guido,’ she said, putting hard emphasis on the first syllable, the way she did when she was calling the children to account.
‘What?’
‘You’re being heartless. The girl was her granddaughter.’ That said, Paola sipped at her tisane.
Brunetti realized her voice sounded rougher than it had at dinner. Apparently the verbena had not succeeded in helping her throat, which meant the centuries-old Falier remedy had been bested by the germ theory.
He took the empty cup from her hand, carried it into the kitchen and put it into the sink. When he came back, Paola sat with her head resting against the back of the chair, eyes closed, no book in her hands.
‘I think it’s time we went to bed,’ Brunetti said.
She made no response. He studied her face and noticed that her long nose was red at the end. With that and the two euro-coin-sized red circles on her cheekbones, Paola had the look of a clown, a very tired one. He leaned down and touched her shoulder. ‘That’s it for tonight,’ he said and helped her to her feet.
8
Brunetti passed a restless night. Paola, as was her wont, well or ill, slept the sleep of the heavily sedated beside him. At three, some urge to fear woke him and lifted him to his feet beside the bed. Fully awake, shaking, he tried to remember the dream that had shocked him, but it was gone: he remembered only fear and concern for Chiara’s safety.
He went down the corridor to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, then another, trying to remember any detail, however small, that might have chilled his soul to this degree. Leaving the light on in the corridor and telling himself he was not behaving like a superstitious fool, he went to Chiara’s room and pushed open the door. Having done this countless times when she was a child, Brunetti knew exactly how far he could open it without having the light shine on her pillow. He stuck his head around the edge of the door. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he saw her ruffled head, lying where it was supposed to lie, her jeans lying where they were not meant to lie, the rest of her clothes in a joy-inducing heap on the chair at the end of her bed.
He pulled his head back and closed the door silently, rejoicing in the glimpse of her and of her desk, dripping papers and laden with abandoned books. Oh, thank heaven for the mess my children make. Give praise that they do not clean up after themselves but give proof of youth and energy by leaving a trail of objects, clothing, books, shoes, videos, everything and anything, all shouting out that they are alive.
Brunetti went back to the kitchen and leaned forward over the sink, his hands braced on the edge. He stood like that for some time, until the euphoria passed. When it did, he remained where and how he was, thinking about children and the terrifying cost of having them. When he had grown calm, he pushed himself back from the counter, turned off the light, and went back to the bedroom. He slipped noiselessly under the covers, though well he knew he could bring drummers and a band and Paola would sleep on. He turned to her and wrapped his left arm around her and saw again the photo of the girl with her arm draped over the shoulder of her horse. But then sleep had him, and the girl and the horse rode away into the night.
By the time he got to the Questura the next morning, the effect of the dream and his response to it had worn off, and he arrived in good spirits aided by having given in to weakness and stopped for coffee and a brioche at both Ballarin and Rosa Salva. He stopped to see Vianello in his office, intending to ask if he had managed to go over to Chiara’s school to have a look at what was going on.
The Inspector was at his desk, reading that morning’s Gazzettino. ‘You know, there should be a warning wrapper on that,’ Brunetti said, nodding towards the newspaper.
‘Saying what?’ Vianello asked.
‘That it could be harmful to your health,’ Brunetti answered, touching his head, then waving his fingers in front of his face to signal madness.
‘I’ve been reading it for thirty years,’ Vianello answered. ‘So I’m either crazy or immune.’
Brunetti refused to pay for a paper copy and seldom found time to read it online, and so he was leading a relatively Gazzettino-less life. Had he been asked, he would have said he regretted it. Certainly it, along with the other local paper, La Nuova di Venezia, was essential for a well-informed life, even if the information pertained to which pharmacies were open on Sunday or at night, what weather was predicted, the forecast of the level of acqua alta, and the deaths of local residents. There was also passing reference to the rest of the world.
‘My friend Bobo Ferruzzi always warned me: “Per diventar cretin’, leggi il Gazzetin’ ”,’ Brunetti said by way of comment.
He paused, remembering his late friend, ‘But it must not work because Bobo read it every day, and he never became a cretin.’
Vianello, apparently having exhausted his interest in the newspaper, said casually, ‘I went over to Chiara’s school yesterday. I stopped in a bar for a coffee and waited for the kids to get out of class.’ He smiled and added, ‘It was like a visit to my own schooldays: hanging around and waiting for the girls to walk by.’
Brunetti smiled but said nothing.
‘After I’d been there about ten minutes, an African appeared from the calle to the left of the school. About five minutes after he got there, the kids started coming out, and he started asking them – but only the girls – for money. At least that’s what it looked like to me.’
‘How’d they react?’
‘Most of them ignored him and continued walking as if he weren’t there. But some of them couldn’t avoid him.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He got very close to them, stood in their way. Once he touched a girl’s arm, but she pulled it away from him,’ Vianello said. ‘It looked to me as if he was only trying to get her attention.’
‘Did any of them give him money?’
‘No, not one.’
‘How long did this go on?’
‘About ten minutes. I stayed at the bar, watching. I wanted to see what he’d do. A couple of the boys said things to him, and he answered them, but there wasn’t any aggression or trouble. Finally, when there were no more kids coming out of the school, he turned back into the calle and walked away, heading towards Accademia.’
‘What did you
do?’
‘I followed him.’
‘And?’
‘When we got out into the campo, I walked up beside him and showed him my warrant card and asked to see his identification,’ Vianello began. ‘I could see him thinking about running, but then he said he’d left it in his room and it was all in order. He had only a few words in Italian, but he made that much clear.’
‘And then?’
‘I asked where he was from, and he said the Central African Republic. Then he tried to charm me with his big smile and calling me “amico”.’
Vianello sounded un-charmed, and Brunetti said nothing.
‘I told him I wasn’t his amico but la Polizia; then I told him to stay away from the school.’
‘Did he understand?’
‘I think I made it sufficiently clear,’ Vianello said.
‘You don’t sound very sympathetic,’ Brunetti observed.
‘Why should I be? He’s here, he has no job, so I’m paying his way with my taxes. The state’s given him a place to live and fifty euros a day . . .’
Before Vianello could continue, Brunetti asked, ‘How do you know it’s fifty euros?’
‘Everybody knows it,’ Vianello said.
‘Everybody might say it,’ Brunetti admitted, ‘but I’m not sure that anybody knows it. You ever multiply fifty by thirty?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Vianello asked defensively.
‘You ever multiply fifty by thirty?’
Before Vianello could say anything else, Brunetti said, ‘That’s how many days there are in a month. Times fifty.’
He watched Vianello work out the numbers. ‘It’s one thousand, five hundred euros,’ Vianello said, making no attempt to hide his surprise.
‘Do you think the government has that much to give to each one of them?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Plus a place to live?’