Fatal Remedies

by Donna Leon

  Before he answered, Brunetti stood away from the sofa and waved his hand towards his former place. She took it automatically and only then did the two men sit, Vianello where he had been and Brunetti in a velvet-covered easy chair that faced the window.

  ‘Signora, I’d like to know if your husband ever spoke to you of enemies or of someone who would wish to do him harm.’

  She started to shake her head in denial even before Brunetti had finished asking the question, but she did not speak, letting the gesture serve as response.

  ‘He never mentioned disagreements with other people, business associates? Perhaps of some arrangement or contract that didn’t go as planned?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ she finally said.

  ‘On the personal level, then. Did he ever have trouble with neighbours, perhaps with a friend?’

  She shook her head at this question but again uttered no words.

  ‘Signora, I ask you to excuse my ignorance, but I know almost nothing about your husband.’ She didn’t respond to this. ‘Would you tell me where he worked?’ She seemed surprised at this, as if Brunetti had suggested Mitri clocked in for eight hours at a factory, so he explained, ‘That is, in which of his factories he had his office or where he spent most of his time.’

  ‘There’s a chemical plant in Marghera. He has an office there.’

  Brunetti nodded, but didn’t ask for the address. He knew they could find it easily. ‘Have you any idea of how much he was involved in the various factories and businesses he owned?’

  ‘Involved?’

  ‘Directly, I mean, in the day-to-day running of them.’

  ‘You’d have to ask his secretary,’ she said.

  ‘In Marghera?’

  She nodded.

  As they spoke, however brief her answers, Brunetti watched her for signs of distress or mourning. The impassivity of her face made it difficult to tell, but he thought he detected traces of sadness, though it was more in the way she continually looked down at her own folded hands than anything she said or the tone of her voice.

  ‘How many years were you married, Signora?’

  ‘Thirty-five,’ she said without hesitation.

  ‘And is that your granddaughter who let us in?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, the faintest of smiles breaking the surface of her immobility. ‘Giovanna. My daughter lives in Rome, but Giovanna said she wanted to come and stay with me. Now.’

  Brunetti nodded his understanding, though the granddaughter’s concern for her grandmother made the girl’s calm demeanour seem even stranger. ‘I’m sure it’s a great comfort to have her here,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Signora Mitri agreed and this time her face softened in a real smile. ‘It would be terrible to be here alone.’

  Brunetti bowed his head at this and waited a few seconds before looking up and back at her. ‘Just a few more questions, Signora, then you can be with your granddaughter again.’ He didn’t wait for her to respond, but went on without preamble, ‘Are you your husband’s heir?’

  Her surprise was evident in her eyes - the first time anything appeared to have touched her. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said without hesitation.

  ‘Has your husband other family?’

  ‘A brother and a sister, and one cousin, but he emigrated to Argentina years ago.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘No, no one in the direct family.’

  ‘Is Signor Zambino a friend of your husband’s?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Awocato Giuliano Zambino.’

  ‘Not that I know of, no.’

  ‘I believe he was your husband’s lawyer.’

  ‘I’m afraid I know very little about my husband’s business,’ she said and Brunetti was forced to wonder how many women he had heard tell him the same thing over the course of the years. Very few of them turned out to have been telling the truth, so it was an answer he never believed. At times he was uncomfortable about how very much Paola knew about his own business dealings, if that’s what one called the identities of suspected rapists, the results of gruesome autopsies, and the surnames of the various suspects who appeared in the newspapers as ‘Giovanni S, 39, bus driver, of Mestre’ or ‘Federico G, 59, mason, of San Dona di Piave’. Few secrets resisted the marriage pillow, Brunetti knew, so he was sceptical about Signora Mini’s professed ignorance. Nevertheless, he let it pass unquestioned.

  They already had the names of the people she had been at dinner with the night her husband was murdered, so there was no need to pursue that now. Instead, he asked, ‘Had your husband’s behaviour changed in any way during the last weeks? Or days?’

  She shook her head in strong denial. ‘No, he was just the same as always.’

  Brunetti wanted to ask her exactly what that was, but he resisted and instead got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Signora, for your time and help. I’m afraid I will have to speak to you again when we have more information.’ He saw that she took no pleasure in that prospect but thought she wouldn’t deny a request for further information. His last words came unsummoned: ‘I hope this time is not too painful for you and that you find the courage to bear it.’

  She smiled at the audible sincerity of his words, and again he saw sweetness in that smile.

  Vianello stood, took his overcoat, and handed Brunetti his. Both men put them on and Brunetti led the way to the door. Signora Mitri got up and followed them to the threshold of the apartment.

  There, Brunetti and Vianello took their leave of her and made their way downstairs to the atrium, where the palm trees still flourished.

  * * * *

  15

  Outside, neither man spoke for some time as they made their way back to the embarcadero. Just as they arrived, the 82 from the station was pulling in, so they took that, knowing it would make the wide sweep of the Grand Canal and take them to San Zaccaria, a short walk from the Questura.

  The afternoon having grown colder, they went inside and took seats towards the front half of the empty cabin. Ahead of them, two old women sat with their heads together, talking in loud Veneziano about the sudden cold.

  ‘Zambino?’ Vianello asked.

  Brunetti nodded. ‘I’d like to know why Mitri had a lawyer with him when he went to talk to Patta.’

  ‘And one who sometimes takes on criminal defence work,’ Vianello added unnecessarily. ‘It’s not as if he’d done anything, is it?’

  ‘Maybe he wanted advice on what sort of civil case he could bring against my wife if I managed to stop the police from proceeding with criminal charges the second time.’

  ‘There was never any chance of that, was there?’ Vianello asked in a voice that made evident his regret.

  ‘No, not once Landi and Scarpa were involved.’

  Vianello muttered something under his breath, but Brunetti neither heard it nor asked the sergeant to repeat what he had said. ‘I’m not sure what happens now.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The case. If Mitri’s dead, it’s unlikely that his heir will press civil charges against Paola. Although the manager might.’

  ‘What about…’ Vianello trailed off as he wondered what to call the police. He decided and called them, ‘our colleagues?’

  ‘That depends on the examining magistrate.’

  ‘Who is it? Do you know?’

  ‘Pagano, I think.’

  Vianello considered this, summoning up years of experience working with and for the magistrate, an elderly man in the last years of his career. ‘He’s not likely to ask for a prosecution, is he?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He’s never got on well with the Vice-Questore, so he’s not likely to be urged into it or to enjoy being cajoled.’

  ‘So what’ll happen? A fine?’ At Brunetti’s shrug, Vianello abandoned that question and asked instead, ‘What now?’

  ‘I’d like to see if anything’s come in, then go and talk to Zambino.’

  Vianello looked down at his watch. ‘Is there time?’
r />   As often happened, Brunetti had lost track entirely of how much time had passed and was surprised to see that it was well past six. ‘No, I suppose not. In fact, there’s not much sense in going back to the Questura, is there?’

  Vianello smiled at this, especially as the boat was still tied up at the Rialto landing. He got up and made for the door. Just as he got to it, he heard the boat’s engines shift into a different gear and saw the sailor flip the mooring rope off the stanchion and start to secure it to the boat. ‘Wait,’ he called out.

  The sailor didn’t respond, didn’t even look back at him, and the engine revved up even higher.

  ‘Wait.’ Vianello shouted louder, but still failed to achieve any result.

  He pushed his way through the people on deck and placed his hand lightly on the arm of the sailor. ‘It’s me, Marco,’ he said in an entirely normal voice. The other looked at him, saw the uniform, recognized his face and waved a hand at the captain, who was glancing back towards the confusion on deck through the glass window of his cabin.

  The sailor waved again and the captain slipped the boat suddenly into reverse. A few people on deck tottered as they tried to keep their balance. A woman fell heavily against Brunetti, who put out an arm and held her upright. He hardly wanted to be involved in a charge of police brutality or whatever would result if she fell, but he had grabbed her before he had time to think about this and, when he released her, was glad to see her grateful smile.

  Slowly, the boat reversed itself in the water and headed the half-metre back to the embarcadero. The sailor slid the gate open, and Vianello and Brunetti stepped across to the wooden platform of the landing dock. With a wave, Vianello thanked him; the engines surged and the boat pulled forward.

  ‘But why did you get off?’ Brunetti asked. It was his stop, but Vianello should have stayed on until he got down to Castello.

  ‘I’ll take the next one. What about Zambino?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Brunetti answered. ‘But late. I’d like to have Signorina Elettra see if she can find out anything she might have missed so far.’

  Vianello nodded in approval of this. ‘She’s a miracle,’ he said. ‘If I knew him well, I’d say Lieutenant Scarpa is afraid of her.’

  ‘I do know him well,’ Brunetti answered, ‘and he is afraid of her. Because she isn’t, not in the least, frightened of him. And that makes her one of very few people at the Questura who aren’t.’ Since he and Vianello were two more among those very few, he could speak like this. ‘It also makes him very dangerous. I’ve tried to say something to her, but she discounts him.’

  ‘She shouldn’t,’ Vianello said.

  Another boat appeared under the bridge and started towards the landing. When all the passengers had got off, Vianello stepped across the open space on to the deck. ‘A domani, capo,’ he said. Brunetti waved in acknowledgement and turned away even before the other passengers started to board the boat.

  He stopped at one of the public phones in front of the landing and, from memory, dialled the number of Rizzardi’s office at the hospital. Rizzardi had gone for the day but had left a message with his assistant for Commissario Brunetti if he called. Everything was as the doctor had assumed it would be. It was a single cord, plastic-covered and about six millimetres thick. Nothing more. Brunetti thanked the assistant and headed home.

  * * * *

  The day had taken all warmth with it. He wished he’d thought to bring his scarf with him that morning but contented himself with pulling up the collar of his coat and hunching his neck down inside it. He walked quickly over the bridge, turning left at the bottom and choosing to walk along the water, drawn to the lights that streamed out from the many restaurants along the riva. He ducked right and hurried through the underpass into Campo San Silvestro, then left and up towards his apartment. At Biancat he was tempted by the irises in the window but remembered his anger with Paola and continued past. But then he recalled only Paola, turned back, went into the florist and bought a dozen of the purple ones.

  She was in the kitchen when he got home, stuck her head out to see whether it was he or one of the kids, and saw the package in his arms. She came down the corridor, a damp towel clutched in her hands. ‘What’s in the paper, Guido?’ she asked in real confusion.

  ‘Open it and see,’ he said, handing her the flowers.

  She flicked the towel across her shoulder and took them. He turned and removed his coat, hung it in the closet and heard the sound of paper rustling. Suddenly there was silence, dead silence, so he turned to look at her, worried he’d done something wrong. ‘What is it?’ he asked, seeing her stricken look.

  She wrapped both arms round the bouquet and pulled it to her breast. Whatever she said was lost in the noise from the crinkling wrapping.

  ‘What?’ he asked, bending down a little, for she had lowered her head and pressed her face into the petals.

  ‘I can’t stand the thought that something I did led to the death of that man.’ A sob choked off her voice, but she continued, ‘I’m sorry, Guido. I’m sorry for all the mess I’ve caused you. I do that to you and you can bring me flowers.’ She began to sob, face pressed into the soft petals of the irises, shoulders shaken by the power of her feelings.

  He took them from her and looked for a place to put them. There was none, so he lowered them to the floor and put his arms round her. She sobbed against his chest with an abandon his daughter had never shown, even as a small child. He held her protectively, as if afraid she would break apart from the force of her sobs. He bent and kissed the top of her head, drank in her smell, saw the short bits where her hair fell apart into two waves at the base of her skull. He held her and rocked a bit from side to side, saying her name time and again. He had never loved her as much as at this moment. He felt a flash of vindication, then as quickly sensed his face suffuse with a shame stronger than he had ever known. By force of will he pushed back all sense of right, all sense of victory, and found himself in a clean space where there was nothing but pain that his wife, the other half of his spirit, could be in such agony. He bent again and kissed her hair, then, realizing that her sobs were coming to an end, he pushed her away but still held her by the shoulders. ‘Are you all right, Paola?’

  She nodded, unable to speak, keeping her face turned down so that he couldn’t see her.

  He reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out his handkerchief. It wasn’t freshly laundered, but that hardly seemed to matter. He dabbed her face with it, under each eye, below her nose, then planted it firmly in her hand. She took it and wiped the rest of her face, then blew her nose with a resounding snort. She pressed it against her eyes, hiding from him.

  ‘Paola,’ he said in something that came close to his normal voice, though it wasn’t, ‘what you did is entirely honourable. I don’t like the fact that you did it, but you acted with honour.’

  For a moment, he thought that was going to set her off again, but it didn’t. She took the handkerchief away from her face and looked at him through reddened eyes. ‘If I had known…’ she began.

  But he cut her off with a raised palm. ‘Not now, Paola. Maybe later, when we both can talk about it. Now let’s go into the kitchen and see if we can find something to drink.’

  It took her no time at all to add, ‘And eat.’ She smiled, glad of the reprieve.

  * * * *

  16

  The next morning Brunetti got to the Questura at his regular time, stopping to buy three newspapers on the way. Il Gazzettino continued to devote whole pages to the Mitri murder, lamenting a loss to the city it never made clear, but the national papers appeared to have lost interest in it, only one of them bothering to mention it and then only in a two-paragraph article.

  Rizzardi’s final report was on his desk. The double mark on Mitri’s neck was, he had determined, a ‘hesitation mark’ on the part of the murderer, who had probably loosened the cord momentarily to tighten his grip, shifting it and thus leaving a second indentation in Mitri’s
flesh. The material under the nails of Mitri’s left hand was indeed human skin, as well as a few fibres of dark-brown wool, probably from a jacket or overcoat and in all likelihood the result of Mitri’s wild, and futile, attempt to fight off his attacker. ‘Find me a suspect and I’ll give you a match,’ Rizzardi had pencilled in the margin.

  At nine o’clock Brunetti decided it was not too early to call his father-in-law, Count Orazio Falier. He dialled the number of the Count’s office, gave his name, and was immediately connected.

  ‘Buon di, Guido,’ the Count said. ‘Che pasticcio, eh?’