Wilful Behaviour

  ‘I tried to think of what Td want to happen if it were one of my granddaughters, and then it was easy’

  Brunetti couldn't stop himself from glancing towards the door of the bedroom. 'What did the doctor say?'

  'When I told him that her parents were coming, he said he wouldn't give her a sedative, but he asked me to give her some linden tea with lots of honey. To work against the shock,' she added.

  ‘Yes, that's a good idea,' Brunetti said, hearing footsteps outside the apartment and eager to speak to the medical examiner. ‘Perhaps the Ispettore can stay here with you while you do that,' he said, with a significant glance at Vianello, who needed no urging to see to questioning Signora Gallante about Claudia or about anyone who might have visited her in her apartment.

  With a polite goodbye, Brunetti left the apartment and went back upstairs. Dottor Rizzardi was already kneeling beside the dead girl, plastic-gloved fingers wrapped around her out-thrust wrist. He glanced up when he heard Brunetti come in and said, 'Not that there's any hope, but it's what the regulations require.' He looked down at the dead girl, removed his hand, and said, 'She's dead.' He allowed silence to expand from those terrible words, then got to his feet. A photographer, who had come in with the doctor, stepped close to the body and shot a few pictures, then moved in a slow circle around her, taking photos from every angle. He moved away and took one last shot from the doorway, then slipped his camera inside its case and went outside to wait for the doctor.

  Knowing Rizzardi better than to suggest anything or to point to the colour of the dried blood, Brunetti asked, 'When would you say?'

  ‘Probably some time last night, but it could have been almost any time. I won't know until I have a look at her.' Rizzardi meant 'inside her'. Both of the men knew that, but neither of them could or would say it.

  Looking at her again, the doctor asked, 'Presumably, you want to know what did it?'

  ‘Yes,' Brunetti said, moving automatically to stand beside the doctor. Rizzardi handed him a pair of transparent gloves and waited while Brunetti slipped them on.

  Working together, the two men knelt and slid their hands under her body. Slowly, with the sort of gentleness with which large men usually handle babies, they raised her shoulder and then her hip and turned her over on to her back.

  No knife, no instrument or implement, lay beneath her body, but the sticky holes in the front of her cotton blouse made the cause of death shockingly visible. There were, Brunetti thought at first, four of them, but then he noticed another higher up, near her shoulder. The wounds were all on the left side of her body.

  Rizzardi opened the two top buttons of her shirt and pulled it aside. He glanced at the wounds, actually pulled one of them open, reminding Brunetti of some perverse poem Paola had once read to him about the wounds in Christ's body looking like lips. 'Some of these look bad enough,' Rizzardi said. 'Once I've done the autopsy, I'll be able to tell you for sure, but there's little doubt.' He closed the blouse and carefully rebuttoned it. He nodded to Brunetti and they got to their feet.

  ‘I know it’s only stupid superstition, but I'm glad her eyes are closed,' Rizzardi said. Then, with no preparation, 'I'd say you're looking for a person who isn't very tall, not much taller than she was.'

  'Why?'

  The angle. It looks as if they went in more or less horizontally. If it had been a taller person, they would have gone downward at an angle, depending on how tall the killer was. I can make a rough calculation after I measure them, but that's my first guess.' Thanks.'

  It's precious little, I'm afraid.'

  Rizzardi moved towards the door, and Brunetti followed in his wake. There won't be much more to tell you, but I'll call your office when I'm finished.'

  'Do you have the number of Vianello's telefonino?’

  'Yes,' Rizzardi answered. 'Why don't you have your own?'

  ’I do. But I keep leaving it at work or at home.'

  'Why doesn't Vianello just give you his?'

  'He's afraid I'll lose it.'

  "My, my, hasn't the sergeant come up in the world since he became an ispettore?' Rizzardi asked, but affection glistened through the apparent sarcasm.

  'It took long enough,' Brunetti said with the residual anger he felt at the years it had taken Vianello to be given what he had so long deserved.

  'Scarpa?' Rizzardo asked, naming Vice-Questore Patta's personal assistant and showing just how intimate he was with the real workings of the Questura.

  'Of course. He managed to block it for years, ever since he got here.'

  'What changed things?'

  Brunetti gazed away evasively and began to say, 'Oh, I've no...' but Rizzardi cut him short. 'What did you do?'

  ‘I threatened Patta that I'd ask for a transfer to Treviso or Vicenza.' 'And?'

  'He caved in.'

  'Did you think that would happen?' 'No, quite the opposite. I thought he'd be happy to have the chance to get rid of me.'

  'And if Patta had refused to promote him, would you have gone?'

  Brunetti raised his eyebrows and pulled up the corner of his mouth in another evasion. 'Would you?'

  'Yes,' Brunetti said and walked towards the door. 'Call me when you're done, all right?'

  Back downstairs, Brunetti found Vianello in the kitchen, sitting opposite Signora Gallante, a white porcelain teapot and a jar of honey between them. Each had a cup of yellow tea. Signora Gallante started to get to her feet when she saw Brunetti, but Vianello leaned across the table and put a hand on her arm. 'Stay there, Signora. I'll get the Commissario a cup.'

  He got up and with the sort of ease that usually comes with long familiarity, opened a cabinet and pulled down a cup and saucer. He sat them in front of the now-seated Brunetti and turned back to open a drawer and get him a spoon. Silently, he poured out a cup of linden tea and took his place again across from the Signora.

  Vianello said, 'The Signora's just been telling me a bit about Signorina Leonardo, sir.' Signora Gallante nodded. 'She said she was a good girl, very considerate and thoughtful.'

  'Oh, yes, sir,' the old woman interrupted. 'She used to come down here for tea once in a while, and she always asked me about my grandchildren, even asked to see pictures of them. They never made any noise, she and Lucia: study, study, study; it seems that's all they ever did.'

  'Didn't friends ever visit them?' Vianello asked when Brunetti made no move to do so.

  'No. Once in a while I'd see a young person on the steps, a boy or a girl, but they never caused any trouble. You know how students like to study together. My sons always did that when they were in school, but they made a lot more noise, I'm afraid.' She started to smile, but then remembering just what had brought these two men to her table, her smile faded and she picked up her teacup.

  ‘You said you met Lucia's mother, Signora’ Brunetti began. 'Did you ever meet Signor and Signora Leonardo?'

  'No, that's impossible. They're both gone, you know.' When she saw Brunetti's confusion, she tried to explain. That is, her father's dead. She told me he died when she was just a little girl’

  When Signora Gallante said nothing else, Brunetti asked, 'And the mother?'

  'Oh, I don't know. Claudia never spoke about her, but I always had the sense that she was gone.'

  'Do you mean dead, Signora?'

  'No, no, not exactly. Oh, I don't know what I mean. It's just that Claudia never said she was dead; she just made it sound like she was gone, as if she was somewhere else and was never coming back.' She thought for a moment, as if trying to recall conversations with the girl. 'It was all very strange, now that I think about it. She usually used the past tense when she spoke about her mother, but once she spoke of her as though she were still alive’

  'Do you remember what she said?' Vianello asked.

  'No, no, I can't. I'm very sorry, gentlemen, but I just can't. It was something about liking something, a colour or a food or something like that. Not a specific thing like a book or a movie or an actor, just something gener
al; now that I think about it, it might have been a colour, and she said something like, "My mother likes..." and then she said the name of the colour, whatever it was, perhaps blue. I really don't remember, but I know I thought at the time how strange it was that she spoke of her as though she were still alive.'

  'Did you ask her about it?'

  'Oh, no. Claudia wasn't the sort of girl you could ask. If she wanted you to know something, she'd tell you. Otherwise, she spoke of other things or just ignored the question.'

  'Did that offend you?' Vianello asked.

  'Perhaps at first, but then I realized what she was like and that there was nothing I could do about it. Besides, I liked her so much it didn't matter, didn't matter at all.' Signora Gallante picked up her cup and held it to her mouth, lowering her face as if to drink from it, but then the tears got the better of her and she had to put the cup down and reach for a handkerchief. 'I don't think I want to talk about this any more, gentlemen.'

  'Of course, Signora,' Brunetti said, finishing his tea, which had grown cold while they talked. ‘I’ll just see if the doctor's finished and have a word with Lucia if that's possible.'

  Signora Gallante clearly disapproved of this, but she said nothing and busied herself with wiping away her tears.

  Brunetti went to the door of the bedroom and knocked, then knocked again. After a time, the door was opened by the doctor, who put his head out and asked, 'Yes?'

  ’I’d like to speak to Signorina Mazzotti, Dottore, if that's possible.'

  ‘I’ll ask her,' the doctor said and closed the door in Brunetti's face. After a few minutes he pulled the door open and his head appeared again. 'She doesn't want to talk to anyone.'

  'Dottore, would you explain to her that what we want to do is find the person who killed her friend. I know Signorina Mazzotti's parents are on their way from Milano to take her home, and as soon as that happens it will be very difficult to speak to her.' Brunetti didn't mention the fact that he had the legal right to forbid her to leave the city. Instead, he added, 'We'd be very grateful if she'd agree to talk to us now. It would help us a great deal.'

  The doctor nodded his understanding and, Brunetti thought, his sympathy and closed the door again.

  When, at least five minutes later, the doctor opened the door again, Lucia Mazzotti stood behind him. She was taller and thinner than he'd thought and now, seeing her full face.

  he saw just how pretty she was. The doctor held the door for her and she stepped out into the corridor. Brunetti led her into the sitting room and waited while she took a seat on a straight-backed chair. 'Would you like the doctor to stay here while we talk, Signorina?' he asked.

  She nodded, then said yes in a very soft voice.

  The doctor sat on the edge of a sofa. He set his bag on the floor at his feet and leaned back, silent and still.

  Brunetti took another straight-backed chair and placed it about a metre from Lucia's chair, careful to arrange it so that she remained in shadow and his face in the light that came in from the window behind her. He wanted to create as much of an atmosphere of openness as he could between them to relax her into speaking easily. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. She had the green eyes so common to redheads, red-rimmed now from crying.

  ‘I want to tell you how very sorry I am about this, Signorina,' he began. 'Signora Gallante has been telling us what a sweet girl Claudia was. I'm sure it’s very painful for you to lose such a good friend’

  Lucia bowed her head and nodded.

  'Could you tell me a little bit about your friendship? How long have you shared the apartment?'

  The girl's voice was soft, almost inaudible, but Brunetti, by leaning forward, managed to hear. 'I moved in about a year ago. Claudia and I were enrolled in the same faculty, so we took some classes together, and so when her other flatmate decided to leave school, she asked me if I wanted to take over her room’

  ‘How long had Claudia been here?'

  'I don't know. A year or two before I came.'

  'From Milano, is that correct?'

  The girl was still looking at the floor, but she nodded in assent.

  ‘Do you know where Claudia came from?'

  ‘I think from here’

  At first Brunetti wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. 'Venice?' he asked.

  'Yes, sir. But she was in school in Rome before she came here.'

  'But she was renting her own apartment, not living with her parents?'

  'I don't think she had any parents,' Lucia said but then, as if aware of how strange that must sound, she looked directly at Brunetti for the first time and added, 'I mean, I think they're dead.'

  'Both of them?'

  'Her father, yes. I know that because she told me.' 'And her mother?'

  Lucia had to consider this. 'I'm not sure about her mother. I always assumed she was dead, too, but Claudia never said.'

  'Did it ever strike you as strange that people as young as her parents probably were could both be dead?'

  Lucia shook her head.

  'Did Claudia have many friends?'

  'Friends?'

  'Classmates, people who came here to study or perhaps to have a meal or just talk.'

  'Some kids from our faculty would come over to study sometimes, but there was no one special.'

  'Did she have a boyfriend?'

  'You mean a fidanzato?’ Lucia asked in a tone that made it clear she had not.

  'That, or just a boyfriend she went out with occasionally.'

  Again, a negative motion of her head.

  'Is there anyone at all you can think of that she was close to?'

  Lucia gave this some thought before she answered, The only person I ever heard her talk about, or talk to on the phone, was a woman she called her grandmother, but who wasn't.'

  Is this the woman called Hedi?' Brunetti asked, wondering what Lucia's response would be to learning that the police already knew about this woman.

  Obviously, Lucia found it not at all strange that the police should know, for she answered, 'Yes, I think she was German, or Austrian. That's what they spoke when they talked on the phone.'

  'Do you speak German, Lucia?' he asked, using her name for the first time and hoping that his familiarity would sooth her into answering more easily.

  'No, sir. I never knew what they were talking about.'

  'Were you curious?'

  She seemed surprised at the question: whatever could be interesting in conversation between her flatmate and an old foreign woman?

  'Did you ever see this woman?'

  'No. Claudia went to see her, though. Sometimes she'd bring home cookies or a kind of cake with almonds in it. I never asked about it, just assumed she'd brought it from her.'

  'Why did you think that, Lucia?'

  'Oh, I don't know. Maybe because no one I know bakes things like that. With cinnamon and nuts.' Brunetti nodded.

  'Can you remember anything Claudia might ever have said about her?'

  'What sort of thing?'

  'About how it was that she was her, well, her adoptive grandmother? Or where she lived?' ‘I think she must live in the city.' Why, Lucia?'

  'Because the times she brought back the things to eat, she was never gone for a long time. I mean, not time to get to somewhere else and come back.' She considered this for a while and then said, 'It couldn't even have been the Lido. I mean, it could have been, because you can get to the Lido and back in a short time, but I remember Claudia once said - I forget what we were talking about - that she hadn't been to the Lido for years.'

  Brunetti started to ask another question, but suddenly Lucia turned to the doctor and asked, 'Doctor, do I have to answer any more questions?'

  Without consulting Brunetti for an answer, the young man said, 'Not unless you want to, Signorina.'

  'I don't want to,' she said. That's all I want to say.' She looked at the doctor when she spoke, ignoring Brunetti entirely.

  Resigning himself to the fact that any further
questioning would have to be done in Milano or by phone, Brunetti got to his feet and said, ‘I’m very grateful for your help.' Then turning to the doctor, ‘For yours, too, Dottore.'

  To both of them together, he said, 'Signora Gallante has made tea, and I'm sure she'd be very happy to give you some.' He walked towards the door of the apartment, turned back briefly as if about to say something, but changed his mind and left.

  11

  Vianello joined him on the stairway. 'Shall we go back to the apartment, sir?' he asked.

  By way of an answer, Brunetti started back upstairs. The uniformed officer was still at the door when they arrived and said, when they reached the top of the steps, They've taken her away, sir.'

  'You can go back to the Questura, then,' Brunetti told him and went inside. The rug was still there in the centre of the room, the discoloured fringe lying smooth now, as though someone had combed it. Brunetti took the gloves from the pocket of his jacket and slipped them on again. The grey puffs of powder that covered the surfaces of the furniture offered silent evidence that the technical squad had been through the apartment and had dusted for prints.

  No matter how many times Brunetti had gone through the artefacts that no longer belonged to the dead, he could never free himself of the uneasiness with which it filled him. He poked and prodded, fingered, plucked and pried into the material secrets left behind by those taken off by sudden death, and no matter how much he willed himself to remain dispassionate about what he did, he never managed to avoid the rush of excitement that came with the discovery of what he sought: is this what a voyeur feels? he wondered.

  Vianello disappeared in the direction of the bedrooms, and Brunetti remained in the living room, conscious of how reluctantly he turned his back on the place where she had lain. Just where it should have been, he found a small book of telephone numbers placed neatly on top of the city phone book and to the left of the telephone. He opened it and began to read. It was not until he got to the Js that he found what might be what he was looking for: 'Jacobs'. He paged through the rest of the book but, aside from listings for 'plumber’ and 'computers', Jacobs' was the only listing that was not a surname ending in a vowel. Further, the number began with 52 and had no out-of-city prefix written in front of it, as had some of the other numbers. He toyed for a moment with the idea of calling the number, but if Claudia had been dear to this woman, then the telephone was not the way to do it.