When not in the grip of these sudden, spectacular moods, he was a quiet man, much given to silence and solitude. Repeatedly wounded in the war, he had been granted a military pension, on which the family tried to live. Brunetti had never understood him and, in a certain sense, had never know him, for his wife always insisted that the real man was the one who marched off to war and not the one who came home. She, by the grace of God or love, or both, loved both of them.
Only once had Brunetti seen evidence of the man his father must have been, the day he came home to announce that he was the only student in his class to have been accepted into the Liceo Classico. When he told his parents, doing his best to hide his bursting pride and fearful how his father would take this news, the older man pushed himself up from the table, where he was helping his wife shell peas, and came to stand beside his son. Placing his hand on Brunetti's cheek, he said, ‘You make me a man again, Guido. Thank you.' The memory of his father's smile was enough to call down the stars, and for the first time since his childhood Brunetti had felt himself melt with love for this gentle, decent man.
'Are you listening to me, Guido?' Paola asked, calling him back to her room and her presence.
'Yes, yes. I was just thinking about something.'
'So,' she went on as though there had been no interruption, 'I know as little about what my father did as you know about yours. They fought and they came back, and neither of them wanted to talk about what happened while they were away.'
'Do you think it was so awful, what they had to do?'
'Or what was done to them,' Paola answered.
There was a difference, though,' he said.
‘What?'
‘Your father came back to fight voluntarily. Or he must have. Lele said,the family got safely to England, so he must have chosen to come back.'
'And your father?'
'My mother always told me he never wanted to join the Army. But he had no choice. They rounded them up, and after they'd trained them to march together without falling over one another, they sent them off to campaign in Africa and Greece and Albania and Russia, sent them off with shoes made out of cardboard because some friend of some friend of someone in the government made a fortune on the contract.'
'He really never talked about it?' Paola asked.
'Not to me, and not to Sergio, no,' Brunetti said.
'Do you think he might have talked to his friends?'
'I don't think he had any friends,' Brunetti said, admitting to what he had always thought of as the great tragedy of his father's life.
'Most men don't, do they?' she asked, but there was only sadness in her tone.
'What do you mean? Of course we have friends.' In the face of her visible sympathy, Brunetti could not keep the indignation from his voice.
‘I think most men don't, Guido, but you know that’ s what I think because I've said it so many times. You have what the Americans call "pals", men you can talk to about sports or politics or cars.' She considered what she had said. 'Well, since you live in Venice and work for the police, I guess you can substitute guns and boats for cars. Things, always things. But in the end it's the same: you never talk about what you feel or fear, not the way women do’
'Are we talking about lack of friends or the fact that we don't talk about the same things women do? I'm not sure they're the same’
This was an old battle, and Paola apparently was in no mood to fight it again that evening, not with Brunetti in so fragile a mood and not with a long class to prepare for the following morning. 'There aren't going to be too many evenings like this one left, do you think?' she asked, holding the remark out as a flag of truce. 'Shall we get a glass of wine and go out and sit on the terrace?'
The sun's already set’ he said, not willing to give in so easily and still stung by the implication that he had no friends.
'We can watch the glow, then. And I'd like to sit beside you and hold your hand.' 'Goose’ he said, moved.
Claudia did not appear in class the following day, a fact which Paola noted but to which she paid little attention. Students were by definition unreliable, though she had to admit that Claudia had seemed not to be. The reason for her absence was made clear to her in a phone call from Brunetti, which reached her at her office at the university later that same afternoon.
‘I have bad news for you’ he began, filling her with instant terror for the safety of her family. Sensing that, Brunetti said, voice as calm as he could make it, 'No, it's not the children’ He gave her a moment to register that and then went on, 'It's Claudia Leonardo. She's dead’
Paola had a flash of memory of Claudia's turning back from the door of the classroom and saying that Lily Bart's death had broken her heart. Please let someone's heart be broken by Claudia's death, she had time to think, before Brunetti went on: There was a burglary in her apartment, and she was killed.'
'When?'
'Last night.'
'How?'
'She was stabbed.' 'What happened?'
'What I was told was that her flatmate came back this morning and found her. Claudia was on the floor: it looks as if she came in and found whoever it was and he panicked.'
'With a knife in his hand?' Paola asked.
‘I don't know. I'm just telling you what it sounds like for now.'
'Where are you?'
There. I just got here. I've got Vianello's telefonino.' 'Why did you call?'
'Because you knew her and I didn't want you to hear about it some other way.'
Paola let a long silence stretch out between them. 'Was it quick?'
1 hope so,' was the only answer he could give. 'Her family?'
'I don't know. I told you I just got here. We haven't even looked at the place yet.' There was a noise in the background, a voice, two voices, and then Brunetti said, 'I've got to go. Don't expect me before tonight.' And then he was gone.
Gone perhaps from the sound of his wife's voice but not from the presence of death, an apartment in Dorsoduro, not far from the Pensione Seguso but back two streets from the Canale della Giudecca.
He handed the telefonino back to Vianello, who put it in the pocket of his jacket. Not for the first time, Brunetti found himself surprised by the sight of Vianello in civilian clothes, the result of his too-long-delayed promotion to Ispettore. Though the wrapping had changed, the contents were the same: reliable, honest, clever Vianello had responded to Brunetti's call, which had caught him at home, just about to spend his day off on a shopping expedition to the mainland with his wife. Brunetti was grateful for Vianello's instinctive willingness to join him: the solid, confident bulk of the man would help him with what was to come.
Vianello had overheard Brunetti's conversation and made no attempt to pretend that he had not. 'Your wife knew her, sir?'
'She was one of her students,' Brunetti explained.
If Vianello thought it strange that Brunetti knew this, he kept it to himself and suggested, 'Shall we go up, sir?'
A uniformed officer stood at the door to the street, another at the top of the second flight of steps, directly before the open door of the apartment. The rest of the building, in which there were three other apartments, might as well have been empty, so profound was the silence that radiated from all the closed doors. Yet Claudia's flatmate was in one of those apartments, he knew, for their landlady had said so when she phoned.
Brunetti did not hesitate at the door but went directly into the apartment. The first thing he saw was her hand, fingers clutched in a death grip among the pieces of fringe at the end of a dark red carpet. A Turkoman, its centre field was filled with hexagonal white ghuls on a deep red field. The design was neat and geometrical, the stylized flowers arranged in rows, white bars creating a border at top and bottom. The pattern was interrupted at one end, where her blood had flowed into the carpet, staining the white with a red just a bit lighter than the red of the carpet. Brunetti saw that one of the flowers had been blotted out; blotted out with her life.
He mo
ved his eyes to the left and saw the back of her head and her neck, white and defenceless. She was turned away, so he walked around to the other side of the room, careful where he set his feet, until he could look down and see her face. It too was white and seemed strangely relaxed. No expression could be read on it, just as no expression could be read on the face of a person who was sleeping. Brunetti wished there were some way he could make this make a difference.
Standing still, he looked around the apartment for signs of violence, but he saw none. A plate holding a few slices of apple, darkened and dry now, stood in the centre of a low table to one side of a print-covered easy chair. On one arm, a book lay face down. Brunetti moved over to the chair and glanced down at the title: The Faustian Bargain. It meant nothing to him, as meaningless as the apparent calm with which she had met her death.
This was no robbery’ Vianello said.
'No, it wasn't, was it?' Brunetti agreed. Then what?'
'Lovers' quarrel?' Vianello offered, though it was obvious he didn't believe this. There had been no quarrel here.
Brunetti went over to the door and asked the young officer there, 'Did the flatmate say anything about the door? Was it open or closed?' He noticed that the young man had nicked his chin shaving, though he seemed barely old enough to need to shave.
‘I don't know, sir. When I got here, one of the neighbours had already taken her downstairs.'
Brunetti nodded in acknowledgement, then asked. The knife? Or whatever it was?'
‘I didn't see anything, sir,' he said apologetically, then added, 'Maybe it's under her.'
‘Yes, that could be’ Brunetti said and turned back toward Vianello. 'Let’s take a look at the other rooms.'
Vianello stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers; Brunetti did the same. Both had forgotten to bring along disposable gloves but knew they could get them when the medical examiner showed up.
The bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom gave up no information other than that one of the girls was much neater than the other and that the neat one was a reader: Brunetti was in little doubt as to which would turn out to be which.
Back in the living room, Vianello asked, The flatmate?'
Again Brunetti went to the door. Pausing only long enough to tell the officer to come down and get him as soon as the medical examiner arrived, Brunetti led the way downstairs.
Obviously they were anticipated, for an elderly woman stood at the open door to one of the apartments below. 'She's in here, sir’ she said, stepping back and leaving room for Brunetti, and then Vianello, to enter.
Seeing that they were in a small foyer, Brunetti asked softly, 'How is she?'
'Very bad, sir. I've called for my doctor, and he'll come as soon as he can.' She was a short woman, somewhat given to stoutness, with light blue eyes and skin that looked as though it would be as cool and dry as a baby's to the touch.
'Have they lived here long?' Brunetti asked.
'Claudia came three years ago. The apartment's mine, and I rent it to students because I like to have the sound of them around me. Only to girls, though. They keep their music lower, and they stop in sometimes for a cup of tea in the afternoon. Boys don't’ she said in final explanation.
Brunetti had a son at university, so he knew all there was to know about the volume at which students liked to keep their music as well as the unlikelihood that they would stop in for a cup of tea in the afternoon.
Brunetti knew he would have to talk to this woman at length, but he wanted to speak to the girl first, to see if there was anything that would help them begin to look for the killer. 'What's her name, Signora?' he asked.
'Lucia Mazzotti’ she said. 'She's from Milano’ she added, as if this would help Brunetti in some way.
'Will you take me to her?' he asked, making a small signal with his hand for Vianello to stay behind. Even though
Vianello no longer wore his uniform, his size might be enough to make the girl nervous.
The old woman turned and, favouring her right leg, led Brunetti back through a small sitting room, past the open door of the kitchen and the closed door of what must be the bathroom, to the one remaining door. ‘I made her lie down’ the woman said. ‘I don't think she's asleep. She wasn't just a few minutes ago, when I heard you on the stairs’
She tapped lightly on the door and, in response to a sound from inside, pushed the door open. 'Lucia,' she said softly, 'there's a man to see you, a policeman.'
She made to step aside, but Brunetti took her arm and said, ‘I think it would be better if you stayed with us, Signora.'
Confused, the old woman froze, glancing from Bruhetti into the room. I think it would be easier for her,' Brunetti whispered.
Persuaded, but still not fully agreeing, the woman stepped into the room and stood to one side of the door, allowing Brunetti to enter.
A young woman with bright red hair lay on top of the covers, leaning back on a plump pillow. Her hands extended on either side of her, palms upwards, and she stared at the ceiling.
Brunetti approached the bed, pulled a chair towards him, and sat, making himself smaller. 'Lucia,' he said, 'I'm Commissario Brunetti. I've been sent to find out what happened. I know that you found Claudia, and I know it must have been terrible for you, but I need to talk to you now because you might be able to help us.'
The girl turned her head and looked at him. Her fine-boned face was curiously slack. 'Help you how?' she asked.
'By telling us what happened when you came home, what you saw, what you remember.' Before she could say anything, he went on, 'And then I'll need for you to tell me anything you can about Claudia that you think might be in some way related to what’s happened’
‘You mean to her?'
Brunetti nodded.
The girl rolled her head away from him and returned her gaze to the yellow lampshade that hung suspended from the ceiling.
Brunetti allowed at least a full minute to pass, but the girl continued to stare at the lamp. He turned back to the old woman and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
She came to stand beside him, putting a firm hand on his shoulder and pushing him back into the chair when he attempted to stand. 'Lucia,' she said, ‘I think it would be a good thing if you'd speak to the policeman.'
Lucia turned towards the old woman, then towards Brunetti. 'Is she dead?'
'Yes’
'Did someone kill her?' 'Yes,'he said.
The girl considered this for some time and then said, 'I got home at about nine. I spent the night in Treviso and came home to change and get my books. I have a class this morning.' She blinked a few times and looked out the window. Is it still morning?' she asked.
‘It’s about eleven’ the old woman said. 'Would you like me to get you something to drink, Lucia?'
‘I think I'd like some water’ the girl said.
The woman gripped Brunetti's shoulder again and left the room, again favouring her right leg.
When she was gone, the girl went on, ‘I got back and went upstairs and opened the door to the apartment and went in, and I saw her on the floor. At first I thought she'd fallen or something, but then I saw the rug. I stood there and I didn't know what to do. I think I screamed. I must have because Signora Gallante came up and brought me down here. That's all I remember’
"Was the door locked?' Brunetti asked. The door to your apartment?'
She considered this for a moment, and Brunetti could sense her reluctance in having to keep returning to the memory of that scene. Finally she said, 'No, I don't think it was. That is, I don't remember using my key’ There was a long silence, and then she added, 'But I could be wrong’
'Did you see anyone outside?'
When?'
'When you got home.'
'No,' she said with a quick shake of her head. There wasn't anyone’
'Even people you know, neighbours,' Brunetti asked and then, at her quick, suspicious glance, he explained, They might have seen someone.'
Again she shook
her head. 'No, no one.'
These questions, Brunetti knew, were probably less than useless. He'd seen the colour of the blood on the carpet and knew it meant Claudia had been dead for a considerable time. The medical examiner would be able to tell him more accurately, but Brunetti would not be surprised to learn that she had lain there all night. He needed to establish in this girl's mind the importance of answering his questions so that, when he got to the ones that might lead to whoever had done this, she would answer without thinking of the consequences, perhaps for someone she knew.
Signora Gallante came back into the room, saying, The doctor's here, sir’
Brunetti got to his feet and said something he tried to make comforting to the girl, then left the room. Signora Gallante went in with a glass of water in her hand. Behind her came a man who looked far too young to be a doctor, the only proof that he was, the black leather bag, obviously new, that he carried in his right hand.
After a few minutes, Signora Gallante came out of the bedroom and approached Brunetti and Vianello. The doctor suggested she stay here with me until her parents can get here from Milano and take her home’
'Have you called them?'
'Yes. As soon as I called you.'
'Are they coming?'
'I spoke to her mother. She's been here a few times to visit Lucia, so she knew who I was. She said she'd call her husband at work, and then she called back and told me they were leaving immediately to come here.'
'How?'
'I didn't ask’ Signora Gallante said, surprised at such a question. 'But the other times they came by car, so I suppose that's how they'll come this time.'
'How long ago did you speak to them?' Brunetti asked.
'Oh, half an hour, perhaps an hour ago. It was right after I went up and found Lucia and brought her down here. I called the police first, and then I called her parents.'
Though this would limit the time Brunetti would have to speak to Lucia and complicate all future contact with her, he said, That was very kind of you, Signora’