by Donna Leon
He had a momentary vision of the Battestini family gathered around their table or perhaps in front of the television. Papa Bear showed Mamma Bear what he and Baby Bear had brought home from work that day.
He shook away this vision, picked the letter up by a corner, and got to his feet.
‘What’s that, sir?’ Pucetti asked, pointing to the letter.
‘It’s the reason Signora Battestini was killed,’ Brunetti answered and went down the steps to wait for the crime team, still holding the letter by one corner.
Downstairs, he spoke to the Dutch couple, this time in English, and asked them if anyone had tried to get into the building since they had moved in. They said that the only person who had disturbed them was Signora Battestini’s son, who had asked them to let him in two days ago, saying he had forgotten his keys – at least that is what they thought he said, they added with embarrassed smiles – and had to go upstairs to check on the windows in the attic. No, they had not asked for identification: who else would want to go up into the attic? He had been up there for about twenty minutes when they left to go to their Italian lesson, but he had not been there when they got back, or at least they had not heard him come down the stairs. No, they had not gone up to the attic to check: they were renting only this apartment, and they did not think it correct to go into other parts of the building.
It took Brunetti a moment to realize that they were serious, but then he remembered that they were Dutch and believed them.
‘Could you describe her son to me?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Tall,’ the husband said.
‘And handsome,’ the wife added.
The husband gave her a sharp look but said nothing.
‘How old was he, would you say?’ he asked the wife.
‘Oh, in his forties,’ she said, ‘and tall. He looked very athletic,’ she concluded, then shot at her husband a look Brunetti could not decipher.
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, then switched topics and asked, ‘To whom do you pay your rent?’
‘Signora Maries . . .’ the wife began, but the husband cut her off by saying, ‘We’re staying here because it belongs to a friend, so we don’t pay anything, just the utilities.’
Brunetti let that lie register and asked, ‘Ah, so Graziella Simionato is a friend of yours?’
Both their faces remained blank at the mention of the name. The husband recovered first and said, ‘A friend of a friend, that is.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti answered, toyed with telling them that he didn’t care whether anyone paid taxes on their rent or not, but decided it was unimportant and let it go. ‘Would you recognize her son if you saw him again?’
He watched the struggle on both their faces, as their instinctive Northern European honesty and respect for law struggled with everything they had ever been told about the ways of these devious Latins. ‘Yes,’ both of them said at the same time, an answer which cheered Brunetti.
He thanked them, said he would contact them if the identification became necessary, and then went downstairs and outside. A police launch stood at the side of the canal, Bocchese and two technicians humping their heavy equipment on to the riva.
Brunetti walked towards the boat, the paper still dangling in front of him, as if it were a fresh fish he had just caught and wanted to give to Bocchese. When the technician saw Brunetti, he reached down and opened one of the cases on the pavement. From it he pulled a transparent plastic sleeve and held it open while Brunetti lowered the letter into it.
‘Up in the attic. Someone’s gone through it and tossed things all over the place. I’d like a complete check: fingerprints, whatever you might find that would allow us to identify him.’
‘You know who it was?’ Bocchese asked.
Brunetti nodded. ‘Can I take the boat?’ he asked Bocchese.
‘If you send it back for us afterwards. We’ve got all this stuff to carry,’ he said, gesturing down at the cases at his feet.
‘All right,’ Brunetti said. Before he stepped aboard, he turned back to Bocchese and said, ‘By the way, there are none of my fingerprints on any of the stuff in that attic.’
Bocchese gave him a long, speculative glance and then said, ‘Of course.’ He bent down and picked up one of the cases and started towards the door of what had been Signora Battestini’s house.
23
BRUNETTI RESISTED THE impulse to ask the pilot to take him to Ca’ Farsetti for an impromptu meeting with Rossi. The voice of good sense and restraint told him this was not the time for cowboy theatrics, one-to-one confrontations where there were no witnesses and no one to overhear save the two men involved. He had given in to that impulse in the past, and it had always worked against him, against the police, and ultimately against the victims, who had, if nothing else, the right to see their killers punished.
The boat took him back to the Questura, where he went up to the officers’ room. Vianello looked up as his superior came in, and his face broadened in a smile that at first spoke of embarrassment, but then, when he saw Brunetti’s answering grin, of relief. The inspector got to his feet and came towards the door.
Signalling him to follow, Brunetti started up towards his office, then slowed his steps to allow Vianello to walk beside him. ‘It’s Rossi,’ he said.
‘The man from the school board?’ a surprised Vianello asked.
‘Yes. I found the reason.’
It was not until they were seated in Brunetti’s office that he said, ‘I went up and took another look at the junk in her attic. There was a letter from the University of Padova hidden in one of Signora Battestini’s statues; rolled up and stuck inside. I stumbled on it,’ he concluded, giving no further explanation. Vianello watched him but said nothing. ‘It was dated about twelve years ago and said that no one named Mauro Rossi had ever studied in the Department of Economics, had certainly never earned a doctorate.’
Vianello’s eyebrows pulled together in unmistakable confusion. ‘But so what?’
‘It means he lied when he applied for the job, said he had a doctorate when he didn’t,’ Brunetti explained.
‘I understand that,’ said a patient Vianello, ‘but I don’t see how it makes any difference.’
‘The whole thing, his job, his career, his future, all of them would be lost if Battestini showed anyone the letter,’ Brunetti explained, puzzled that Vianello seemed not to understand.
Vianello made a gesture as though he hoped to scare away flies. ‘I understand all of that. But why is it so important? It’s only a job, for God’s sake. Important enough to kill someone?’
The answer came from his conversation with Paola, surprising Brunetti as it came back to him: ‘Pride,’ he declared. ‘Not lust and not greed. But pride. We’ve followed the wrong vice throughout,’ he said to a completely perplexed Vianello.
It was clear that Vianello had no idea what Brunetti meant. Finally, he repeated, ‘I still don’t understand,’ and then, ‘Are we going to go and get him or not?’
Brunetti saw no reason for haste. Signor – no longer Dottor – Rossi was not going to abandon his position and family. Instinct told him that Rossi was the kind of man who would brave it out, who would maintain up to the very last that he had no idea what any of this was about or how his name possibly came to be associated with that of an old woman who had the misfortune to be murdered. Brunetti could all but hear his explanations and was sure they would, chameleon-like, change as more and more incriminating evidence was presented by the police. Rossi had fooled people for more than a decade: surely he would try to continue to do so now.
Vianello shifted restlessly in his seat, and Brunetti attempted to calm him by saying, ‘We need his fingerprints to be on the things in the attic. As soon as Bocchese has them, we can think about bringing him in for questioning.’
‘And if he refuses to give us a sample on his own?’
‘He won’t refuse, not once we have him here,’ Brunetti said with absolute certainty. ‘It would create a scandal: the ne
wspapers would eat him alive.’
‘And killing the old woman won’t create a scandal?’
‘Yes, but a different sort, one he thinks he can talk his way out of. He’ll claim that he was a victim, that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he was not himself when he killed her.’ Before Vianello could ask, he went on, ‘Refusing to be fingerprinted, when he knows it’s inescapable – that would look cowardly, so he’ll avoid that.’ He glanced away from Vianello and out of the window for a moment, then returned his attention to his colleague and said, ‘Think about it: he created a false person years ago, this false doctor, and he won’t move from that role, no matter what we do or can prove about him. He’s lived within it so long he probably believes it by now or at least believes that he has earned the right to special treatment because of his position.’
‘And so?’ Vianello asked, apparently bored with all of this speculation and in need of practical information.
‘And so we wait for Bocchese.’
Vianello got to his feet, thought about saying something but decided not to, and left.
Brunetti remained at his desk, thinking of power and the privileges many of those who had it believed accrued to them because of it. He ran through the people he worked with, hunting for this quality, and when his train of thought brought him into company with Lieutenant Scarpa, he pushed himself to his feet and went down to the lieutenant’s office.
‘Avanti,’ Scarpa called out in response to Brunetti’s knock.
Brunetti went in, leaving the door open. When he saw his superior, the lieutenant half stood, a movement that might as well have been an attempt to find a more comfortable position in his seat as a sign of respect. ‘May I help you, Commissario?’ he asked, lowering himself again into his chair.
‘What’s happening with Signora Gismondi?’ Brunetti asked.
Scarpa’s smile made a mockery of mirth. ‘May I ask the reason for your concern, sir?’ Scarpa asked.
‘No,’ Brunetti answered in a tone so peremptory that Scarpa failed to disguise his surprise. ‘What’s happening with your investigation of Signora Gismondi?’
‘I assume you’ve spoken to the Vice-Questore and he’s given you his permission to involve yourself in this, sir,’ Scarpa said blandly.
‘Lieutenant, I asked you a question,’ Brunetti said.
Perhaps Scarpa thought he could stall for time; perhaps he was curious to see how far he could push Brunetti. ‘I’ve spoken to some of her neighbours about her whereabouts on the morning of the murder, sir,’ he said, glancing at Brunetti. When Brunetti failed to react, Scarpa went on, ‘And I’ve called her employers to ask if this story about being in London at the time is true.’
‘And is that how you phrased it, Lieutenant?’
Scarpa made a tentative little gesture with one hand and said, ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Commissario.’
‘Is that how you asked them: whether the story she’s been giving the police is true? Or did you merely ask where she was?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid I don’t remember that, sir. I was more concerned with discovering the truth than with niceties of language.’
‘And what answers did you get in your attempt to discover the truth, Lieutenant?’
‘I haven’t found anyone who contradicts her story, sir, and it seems she was in London when she said she was.’
‘So she was telling the truth?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It would appear so,’ Scarpa said with exaggerated reluctance, then added, ‘At least until I find someone who tells me that she is not.’
‘Well, Lieutenant, that’s not going to happen.’
Scarpa looked up, startled. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘It’s not going to happen, Lieutenant, because you are going to stop, as of now, asking questions about Signora Gismondi.’
‘I’m afraid my duty as . . .’ Scarpa began.
Brunetti cracked. He leaned over Scarpa’s desk and put his face a few centimetres from the lieutenant’s. He noted that the younger man’s breath smelled faintly of mint. ‘If you question another person about her, Lieutenant, I will break you.’
Scarpa yanked his head back in astonishment. His mouth fell open.
Leaning even farther over the desk, Brunetti thumped his palms flat on its surface and again moved his face close to Scarpa’s. ‘If I learn that you speak to anyone about her or insinuate that she had anything to do with this, I will have you out of here, Lieutenant.’ Brunetti raised his right hand and grabbed the lapel of Scarpa’s jacket, tightening his hand into a fist and yanking him forward.
Brunetti’s face was suffused with blood and rage. ‘Do you understand me, Lieutenant?’
Scarpa tried to speak, but all he could do was open his mouth, then close it.
Brunetti pushed him away and left the office. In the corridor he almost bumped into Pucetti, who was wheeling away from Scarpa’s door. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ the young officer said, his face a study in blandness, ‘I wanted to ask you about the duty rosters for next week, but I couldn’t help overhearing you settle them just now with Lieutenant Scarpa, so I won’t trouble you with them.’ His face sober and respectful, Pucetti gave a sharp salute, and Brunetti went back to his office.
There, he waited, sure that Bocchese would call him when he got back with news of whatever he had found in Signora Battestini’s attic. He called Lalli, Masiero and Desideri and told them they could call off the dogs, for he thought he had found the old woman’s killer. None of them asked who it was; all of them thanked him for calling.
He also phoned Signorina Elettra and told her the probable meaning of the phone call to the school board. ‘Why would she call him out of the blue like that, that last time?’ she asked when he told her. ‘Things had been continuing for more than a decade, and the only other time she contacted him in all those years was when we switched to the Euro.’ Before he could ask, she supplied, ‘Yes, I’ve checked her phone calls for the last ten years. Those were the only calls between them.’ She paused for a long time and then said, ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Maybe she got greedy,’ Brunetti suggested.
‘At eighty-three?’ Signorina Elettra asked. ‘Let me think about it,’ she said and hung up.
After another hour, he walked down to Bocchese’s office, but one of the technicians said his chief was still out at some crime scene over in Cannaregio. Brunetti drifted down to the bar near the bridge and had a glass of wine and a panino, then walked out to the riva and looked across at San Giorgio and, beyond it, the Redentore. Then he went back to his office.
He had been back little more than ten minutes, trying to impose order upon the accumulation of objects in the drawers of his desk, when Signorina Elettra appeared at his door. Her shoes were green, he had time to notice before she said, ‘You were right, Commissario.’ Then in answer to his unspoken question, she explained, ‘She got greedy.’ And before he could ask about that, she said, ‘You said all she did was sit and watch television, didn’t you?’
It took him a moment to return from the consideration of that green, but when he did he said, ‘Yes. Everyone in the neighbourhood talked about it.’
‘Then look at this,’ she said. Approaching his desk, she handed him a photocopy of the familiar television listings that appeared in the Gazzettino every day. ‘Look at 11 p.m., sir.’
He did and saw that the local channel was presenting a documentary called I Nostri Professionisti. ‘Our local professional what?’ he asked.
Ignoring his question, she said, ‘Now look at the date.’
The end of July, three days before the murder, the day before Signora Battestini’s phone call to the school board.
‘And?’ he asked, handing the paper back to her.
‘One of our “local professionals” was Dottor Mauro Rossi, the head of the school board, interviewed by Alessandra Duca.’
‘How did you find this?’ His surprise did not mask his admiration.
�
��I did a cross-reference search with his name and the television listings for the last few weeks,’ she said. ‘It seemed the only way she could ever have learned anything, since all she ever did was watch television.’
‘And?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I spoke to the journalist, who said it was just the usual puff piece: interviewing bureaucrats about their fascinating work in city administration – the sort of thing they show late at night and no one watches.’
This sounded to Brunetti like a blanket description of all local broadcasting, but he said only, ‘And? Did you ask her about Rossi?’
‘Yes. She said it was all predictable: he talked at great length and with false humility about his career and his success. But she did say he was so bad at disguising his arrogance that she let him talk more than she ordinarily would with one of these types, just to see how far he’d go.’
‘And how far was that?’
‘He talked – Duca said, with self-effacing humility – about the possibility of a transfer to the Ministry in Rome.’
Brunetti considered the implications of this and suggested, ‘And with the equal possibility of an enormous increase in salary?’
‘She said he only implied that. She remembered he said something about wanting to be of service to the future of the children of Italy.’ She waited for a few moments, then added, ‘She also said that, from what she knows of local politics, he has about as much chance of going to Rome as the Mayor does of being re-elected.’
After a long pause, Brunetti said, ‘Yes.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Greed. Even at eighty-three.’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘How sad.’
Bocchese, who was usually not to be seen in the Questura outside of his own office, appeared at the door. ‘I was looking for you,’ he reproached Brunetti. With a nod to Signorina Elettra, he walked into the office and set some things on the desk. Turning back to Brunetti, he said, ‘Let me get a sample.’
Brunetti looked and saw the standard piece of cardboard with spaces for the prints of the various fingers. Bocchese flipped open a flat tin and waved impatiently towards Brunetti, who walked over and gave him his right hand. Quickly, it was done, then the left.
