by Donna Leon
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve heard about him,’ Vezzani said; then, in a different tone, ‘God, I’d like to have a few like him around here.’
‘That bad?’
Vezzani shrugged.
‘Or you don’t want to say?’ Brunetti asked.
Vezzani gave a humourless laugh. ‘If I saw a job opening for a street patrolman in Caltanissetta, I’d be tempted, I tell you.’
‘Why?’
Vezzani rubbed at his right cheek with the palm of his hand: his beard was so heavy that, by this time of day, Brunetti could hear a grating noise. ‘Because so little happens, combined with the fact that, when it does, there’s so little we can do.’ Then, as if the subject were too annoying, Vezzani got quickly to his feet, taking the photo with him. ‘Let me take this downstairs and show it to the boys. See if anyone recognizes him.’ At Brunetti’s nod, he left the room.
Brunetti got to his feet and walked over to a bulletin board on which were pinned notices bearing the seal of the Ministry of the Interior. He read a few of them and found they were the same memos and reports that flowed into and out of his own office. Perhaps he should put theirs in suitcases, take them to the railway station, and leave them unattended for a few minutes or until they were stolen. There seemed no other way they would ever be disposed of effectively. Should he propose it to Patta? he wondered. He stood and looked at them, inventing his conversation with Patta.
Vezzani came quickly into the room. ‘He’s a veterinarian,’ he said.
As if he were channelling the voice of the young woman in the shoe shop, Brunetti said, ‘Likes animals and knows something about dogs.’ Then he asked, ‘Who told you that?’
‘One of our men. He’d seen him at his son’s school.’ Vezzani came farther into the room. ‘There was some sort of special day when parents were invited to the school and told the kids about their jobs or their professions. He said they do it every year, and last year this guy talked about being a vet and taking care of animals.’
‘Is he sure?’ Brunetti asked.
Vezzani nodded.
‘What’s his name?’
‘He didn’t remember, said he heard only the last part of his talk. But only parents are invited, so if he talked at the school, they’ve got to know who he is.’
‘Which school is it?’
‘San Giovanni Bosco. I can call them,’ Vezzani said, moving towards his desk. ‘Or we can go and talk to them.’
Brunetti’s answer was immediate. ‘I don’t want to show up there in a police car, especially if his kid’s still enrolled there. People always talk, and it’s no way for him to find out about his father.’
Vezzani agreed, and Vianello, who had children in school and, like the others, worked in a potentially dangerous profession, nodded.
The call was quickly made, and after being passed to two different offices, Vezzani learned the dead man’s name. Dottor Andrea Nava, his son still at the school, though there had been some family trouble and the father hadn’t come to the most recent parent meeting. Yes, he had been there last year and had talked about household pets and how best to take care of them. He’d suggested that the children bring their pets with them, and he’d used them as examples. The children had enjoyed his talk more than any of the others, and it was a real pity Dr Nava hadn’t been able to come back this year.
Vezzani wrote down the address and phone number listed in the boy’s contact information, thanked the person speaking without explaining why the police were looking for the doctor, and hung up.
‘Well?’ Vezzani said, looking from one to the other.
‘God, I hate this,’ Vianello muttered.
‘Your man was sure?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Vezzani answered. Then, after a pause, he asked, ‘Do we call first?’
‘How far is it?’ Brunetti asked, indicating the paper in Vezzani’s hand.
He looked at it again. ‘Clear on the other side of the city.’
‘Then we call,’ Brunetti said, not wanting to spend time sitting in traffic, only to find that the man’s wife or fidanzata or companion, or whoever it was men lived with these days, was not at home.
Vezzani picked up the phone, hesitated a moment, then handed it to Brunetti. ‘You speak to them. It’s your case.’ He dialled for an outside line, and punched in the number.
A woman’s voice answered on the third ring. ‘Pronto,’ she said, but provided no name.
‘Buon giorno, Signora,’ Brunetti said. ‘Could you tell me if this is the home of Dottor Andrea Nava?’
‘Who’s calling, please?’ she asked in a voice with a lower temperature.
‘Commissario Guido Brunetti, Signora. Of the Venice police.’
After a pause that did not seem inordinately long to Brunetti, she asked, ‘Could you tell me why you’re calling?’
‘We’re trying to locate Dottor Nava, Signora, and this is the only number we have for him.’
‘How did you get it?’ she asked.
‘The Mestre police gave it to us,’ he said, hoping she would not ask why the Mestre police should have it.
‘He doesn’t live here any more,’ she said.
‘May I ask with whom I’m speaking, Signora?’
This time the pause was inordinately long. ‘I’m his wife,’ she said.
‘I see. Would it be possible for me to come and speak to you, Signora?’
‘Why?’
‘Because we need to speak to you about your husband, Signora,’ Brunetti said, hoping the seriousness of his tone would warn her of what was coming.
‘He hasn’t done anything, has he?’ she asked, sounding more surprised than worried.
‘No,’ Brunetti said.
‘Then what is it?’ she asked, and he heard the mounting irritation in her voice.
‘I’d prefer to speak to you in person, if I might, Signora.’ This had dragged on too long, and it was now impossible for Brunetti to tell her on the telephone.
‘My son is here,’ she said.
That stopped Brunetti cold. How to distract a child while you tell his mother that her husband is dead? ‘One of my officers will be with me, Signora,’ he said, not explaining why this would make a difference.
‘How long will it take you to get here?’
‘Twenty minutes,’ Brunetti invented.
‘All right, I’ll be here,’ she said, clearly bringing the conversation to a close.
‘Could I confirm the address, Signora?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Via Enrico Toti 26,’ she said. ‘Is that the address you have?’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti confirmed. ‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said again, thanked her, and replaced the phone.
Turning to Vezzani, Brunetti asked, ‘Twenty minutes?’
‘Not even,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to come?’
‘Two of us is enough, I think. I’ll take Vianello because we’ve done these things together before.’
Vezzani got to his feet. ‘I’ll take you in my car. You can tell your driver to go back. This way, there won’t be a police car parked outside.’ Seeing Brunetti about to protest, he said, ‘I don’t want to come in with you. I’ll go across the street and have a coffee and wait for you.’
15
NUMBER 26 WAS one of the first in a row of duplex houses on a street leading away from a small cluster of shops on the outskirts of Mestre. They passed the house; Vezzani parked the unmarked car a hundred metres ahead. As the three men got out of the car, Vezzani pointed to a bar on the other side of the road. ‘I’ll be in there,’ he said.
Brunetti and Vianello walked along the row of houses and climbed the steps of number 26. There were two doors and two bells, beneath both of which were slots holding the names of the residents. One, the script faded by the light, bore the names ‘Cerulli’ and ‘Fabretti’; the other, handwriting fresh and dark, read ‘Doni’. Brunetti pressed that bell.
A few moments later, the door was opened by a dar
k-haired boy of about eight. He was thin and blue-eyed, his expression surprisingly serious for so young a child. ‘Are you the policemen?’ he asked. In one hand he held some sort of futuristic plastic weapon: a ray gun, perhaps. From the other hand hung a faded teddy bear with a large bald spot on his stomach.
‘Yes, we are,’ Brunetti said. ‘Could you tell us who you are?’
‘Teodoro,’ he said and stepped back from the door, saying, ‘My mamma is in the big room.’ They asked permission and entered; the boy closed the door behind them. At the end of a corridor that seemed to bisect the house, they entered a room that looked out on an explosively disordered garden. In this suburban setting, Brunetti expected to see gardens of military rigidity, with straight lines of growing things, whether flowers or vegetables, and, regardless of the season, everything kept well pruned and clean. This one, however, spoke of neglect, with vines overgrowing what might once have been neat rows of bushes or plants. Brunetti saw the wooden poles that had supported tomatoes and beans gobbled up and tipped aside by the slow invasion of vines and brambles, as if someone had abandoned the garden at the end of summer and had completely lost interest by springtime.
The room into which the boy led them, however, reflected none of this disorder. A machine-made Heriz covered most of the marble floor; a dark blue sofa stood against one wall. On a low table in front of it was a neat pile of magazines. Two easy chairs, covered in a flower print dominated by the same dark blue as the sofa, stood facing it. On the walls Brunetti saw dark-framed prints of the sort that are bought in furniture shops.
As the boy entered, he said, ‘Here are the policemen, Mamma.’ The woman got to her feet as they came in and took a step towards them, her hands at her sides. She was of moderate height, the rigidity of her posture making her appear taller than she was. She looked to be in her late thirties, with shoulder length dark hair. Rectangular glasses enforced the angularity of her face. Her skirt fell to just below her knee; her grey sweater might have been silk.
‘Thank you, Teodoro,’ she said. She nodded at them and said, ‘I’m Anna Doni.’ Her face softened, but she did not smile.
Brunetti gave both their names and thanked her for letting them come to speak with her.
The boy looked back and forth as the grown-ups talked. She turned to him and said, ‘I think you can go and do your homework now.’
Brunetti saw the boy begin to protest, then decide not to bother with it. He nodded and left the room without saying anything, taking both his weapon and his friend with him.
‘Please, gentlemen,’ the woman said, waving towards the sofa. She sat in one of the chairs, then rose halfway to straighten her skirt. When they were seated, she said, ‘I’d like you to tell me why you’ve come.’
‘It’s in relation to your husband, Signora,’ Brunetti said. He paused but she asked nothing. ‘Could you tell me the last time you saw him or heard from him?’
Instead of answering, she asked, ‘You know that we’re separated?’
Brunetti nodded as if he did know but did not ask about it. Eventually she said, ‘I saw him a bit more than a week ago when he brought Teodoro home.’ In explanation, she added, ‘He has visiting rights, and every second weekend he can take Teo to sleep at his house.’ Brunetti relaxed to hear her finally use the boy’s nickname.
‘Is yours an amicable separation, Signora?’ Vianello broke in to ask, signalling to Brunetti that he had decided to play the role of good cop, should that become necessary.
‘It’s a legal separation,’ she said tersely. ‘I don’t know how amicable they can ever be.’
‘How long were you married, Signora?’ Vianello asked with every sign of sympathy for what she had just said. Then, as if to suggest she had the right to refuse to answer, he added, ‘Excuse me for asking.’
That stopped her. She unfolded her hands and gripped the arms of her chair. ‘I think that’s enough, gentlemen,’ she said with sudden authority. ‘It’s time for you to tell me what this is all about, and then I’ll decide which of your questions I want to answer.’
Brunetti had hoped to delay telling her, but there was no chance of that now. ‘If you’ve read the papers, Signora,’ he began, ‘you know that the body of a man was found in the water in Venice.’ He paused for long enough for her to grasp what was bound to come next. Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair, and she nodded. Her mouth opened, as if the air around her had suddenly changed to water and she could no longer breathe.
‘It appears that the man was murdered. We have reason to believe that the man is your husband.’
She fainted. During all his years in the police, Brunetti had never seen a person faint. He had seen two suspects, a man and a woman and at separate times, pretend to faint, and both times he had known instantly that they were only trying to buy time. But she fainted. Her eyes rolled upwards; her head fell against the back of the chair. Then, like a sweater placed carelessly on a piece of furniture, she slithered to the floor at their feet.
Brunetti reacted before Vianello did, pushed her chair aside and knelt beside her. He grabbed a cushion from the sofa and placed it under her head and then – and only because he had seen it done in the movies – took her hand and felt for her pulse. It beat, slow and steady; her breathing seemed normal, as though she had simply fallen asleep.
Brunetti looked up at Vianello, who had come to stand above him. ‘Should we call an ambulance?’ the Inspector asked.
Signora Doni opened her eyes, then raised a hand to straighten her glasses, which had been knocked askew by her fall. Brunetti saw that she looked around her, as if to ascertain where she was. A full minute passed before she said, ‘If you’ll help me, I think I can sit.’
Vianello knelt on her other side, and together, holding her as though she were sure to collapse, they helped raise her to her feet. She thanked them and waited until they released her, then she lowered herself into her chair, supporting herself with one hand.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Brunetti asked, repeating what sounded like the script of a romantic comedy.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m all right. I just need to sit quietly for a moment.’
Both men turned from her when she said that and went to the window to stare out at the desolate garden. Time passed while they waited for some word or sound from the woman behind them.
Finally she said, ‘I’m all right now.’
They returned to the sofa. ‘Please don’t tell Teo,’ she said.
Brunetti nodded and Vianello shook his head, both meaning the same thing.
‘I don’t know how … about his father,’ she said, her voice growing unsteady. She took a few deep breaths, and Brunetti stifled the impulse to ask her again if she would like something to drink. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said.
Brunetti saw no way to dress it up to make it more palatable. ‘Your husband was stabbed and put in a canal. His body was found early on Monday morning, and he was taken to the Ospedale Civile. There was no identification: that’s why it’s taken us so long to find you.’
She nodded a number of times, then considered everything she had heard. ‘There was no description of him in the papers,’ she said. ‘Or his disease.’
‘We gave them the only information we had, Signora.’
‘I read that,’ she said angrily. ‘But it didn’t mention Madelung. Surely your pathologist would have recognized something like that.’ She had chosen not to hear him or not to believe him, Brunetti realized as her voice lost the fight against sarcasm. Then, speaking more to herself than to them, she said, ‘If I’d seen that, I would have called.’ Brunetti believed her.
‘I’m sorry, Signora. Sorry you had to learn it this way.’
‘There’s no way to learn it,’ she said coolly, but seeing his response, added, ‘is there?’
‘How long did he have the disease?’ Brunetti asked from simple curiosity.
‘That’s hard to say,’ she told him. ‘At first he thought he was just gai
ning weight. Nothing helped: no matter how little he ate, he kept getting heavier. It went on for almost a year. So he asked a friend. They’d been at university together, but Luigi went on to study medicine: human medicine, that is. He said what he thought it was, but we didn’t believe him at first. We couldn’t, really: Andrea never drank more than a glass or two of wine with dinner, often nothing, so it didn’t seem possible.’ She shifted her legs and moved around on her chair.
‘Then about six months ago, he had a biopsy and a scan. And that’s what it was.’ All emotion scoured from her voice, she said, ‘There’s no treatment and no cure.’ Then, with a false smile, she added, ‘But it’s not life-threatening. It turns you into a barrel, but it doesn’t kill you.’
The false smile now forgotten, she said, ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about that, did you?’
Brunetti tried to assess how much he could ask of her and decided to risk speaking frankly. ‘No, we didn’t, Signora.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Is there anyone who might have wanted to do your husband an injury?’
‘Besides me, you mean?’ she asked with absolute lack of humour. Brunetti was taken aback by her remark and, glancing at Vianello, saw that the Inspector was, as well.
‘Because of the separation?’ Brunetti asked.
She looked out of the window, studying the mess in the garden. ‘Because of what caused the separation,’ she finally answered.
‘Which was?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The oldest cliché in the world, Commissario. A woman where he worked, who is more than ten years younger than he is.’ Then, with real rancour, she added, ‘Or I am, which is perhaps closer to the point.’ She looked at Brunetti directly, as if to suggest that he lived with a woman, too, and was merely biding his time before doing the same thing.
‘He left you for her?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No. He had an affair with her, and when he told me about it – I suppose the right word here is “confessed” – he said he hadn’t wanted to do it, that she’d seduced him.’ Like a thermometer on to which the morning sun begins to shine, the bitterness in her voice rose as she spoke.
