by Donna Leon
Brunetti walked along the riva and turned into the calle that would take him to Borgato’s place of work. A middle-aged woman with a round face sat at a desk in a small office to the right of the main door and looked up when he came in. Brunetti wondered if this could have been the woman who met Marcello Vio in Campo Santa Margherita.
‘Good afternoon, Signora. I have an appointment with Signor Borgato,’ he said in Veneziano. He pushed up the worn cuff of his left sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘At four,’ he said and bent his wrist as though he were going to show the watch to her. Instead, he set the briefcase beside him on the floor, careful to knock it over, then stooped to pick it up. It dangled from his right hand.
‘He’s out back, helping the men unload a boat. If you go out there,’ she said, waving towards a door behind her and to the left, ‘maybe you can talk to him.’
Brunetti nodded, then spoke his thanks and started towards the door. He found himself in a large, cement-floored passage with padlocked wooden doors on both sides. It led towards the back of the building and, presumably, a canal.
Brunetti counted three doors on either side, placed about four metres apart: the distance suggested separate storage rooms of considerable size.
As Brunetti had expected, the corridor led out on to a landing dock that ran along the back of the entire building. A transport boat was tied up beside it, both sides of its prow bearing the wounds of many years of service: the strip of metal meant to protect the top of the sides was battered and dented in many places, the wooden sides scratched and streaked with the paint of other boats.
A crane anchored to the dock was just then raising a large wardrobe, secured by straps and bands, from the wooden boards that created the deck of the boat. Slowly, wrapped and cradled, it floated up and over the dock, where two men waited for it, one in a flannel shirt and an older man in a dark blue sweater. The one wearing the shirt turned the wooden wardrobe effortlessly until its feet were aligned correctly to fit on to a loading platform sticking out from a small cargo fork-lift. The man waved his arm, and the wardrobe stepped four-footed on to the platform. He freed the straps and bands, while the man in the sweater climbed behind the wheel of the the fork-lift, moved it backwards, turned, and came at full speed towards Brunetti.
Hurriedly Brunetti stepped aside, careful to raise his hands in fear, his briefcase waving on a level with his head. The man standing down in the boat laughed so hard at the sight of him that he had to bend over and prop his hands on his knees.
Brunetti lowered the hand holding the briefcase and hurried back into the corridor and back to the secretary, who looked up from some papers when he came in. ‘Is Signor Borgato wearing a dark blue sweater?’ he asked, hoping that he was.
‘Sì, Signore,’ she said.
‘Is there some place I can wait for him?’ Brunetti asked nervously.
‘He doesn’t let anyone into his office unless he’s there,’ she said. Then, pointing to a straight-backed chair on the other side of the room, she added, ‘You could wait for him there.’
Brunetti thanked her and went over to the chair. He set his briefcase beside it, took off his trench coat and draped it over the back, sat, and pulled up his briefcase. He opened it and removed some papers.
It was fifteen minutes before Borgato appeared, indeed the man in the blue sweater who had aimed the fork loader at Brunetti.
‘Pivato?’ he asked as Brunetti stood.
Brunetti put the papers in his briefcase, tried unsuccessfully to close it, grabbed up his trench coat, and stepped over to Borgato. Seeing Brunetti embroiled in coat and briefcase, Borgato extended his hand, which forced Brunetti to switch the briefcase to his left hand in order to shake Borgato’s. None of his bones were broken by Borgato’s handshake, but Brunetti made no attempt to muffle his groan.
Saying nothing, Borgato turned to the door on his left and opened it. ‘No calls, Gloria,’ he called back over his shoulder.
He closed the door after Brunetti and went to stand in front of his desk, leaning against it and facing Brunetti. He had the thickened nose of a drinker and the even thicker body of a man who had done hard physical work all his life. His eyes were a pale blue, striking in his sun-darkened face. Brunetti looked around and, seeing a chair, draped his coat over the back and stood his briefcase on the seat.
‘What’s this all about?’ Borgato asked in a not very friendly voice. He walked around his desk and sat.
Brunetti opened the briefcase, searched for a few moments, and pulled out two papers. He walked to the desk, leaned over it, and passed the first paper to Borgato. ‘This is the registration of your boat,’ he said.
Borgato took it and glanced at it. He read out a series of letters and numbers and said, ‘That’s my topo. It’s registered to me, under this number’ – he slapped the back of his fingers against the paper for emphasis – ‘for seven years.’ He thrust the paper back towards Brunetti, who took it and handed another paper to Borgato, one that Signorina Elettra had managed to falsify that morning. This one stated that there existed another boat of the same type and size, with the same registration number and licence plate number as Borgato’s boat. The only difference was the owner’s name.
‘What is this shit?’ Borgato demanded, then jumped from his seat and tossed the paper in Brunetti’s direction.
‘I’m not sure that word is justified, Signor Borgato,’ Brunetti said in his most pedantic tone as he picked up the paper.
‘It’s justified if I’ve got a copy of the registration in my files.’ Then, the idea suddenly occurring to him, he turned to Brunetti and demanded, ‘Have you spoken to this Chiogiotto?’ he asked, reading out the name as though it were an insult: ‘Samuele Tantucci.’
‘Who?’ Brunetti asked, looking at the other man with a perplexity sure to push him closer to the edge of his patience.
Borgato turned, grabbed the second paper from Brunetti’s hand and shook it under his nose. ‘This one, you idiot, this Chiogiotto who has the same number. Have you even bothered to look at these papers? Have you spoken to him?’
Brunetti took the paper from Borgato and spent some time trying to remove the wrinkles the other man’s hand had made. When that was done, he returned to his chair and slipped both papers carefully back into his briefcase. He looked at Borgato and said, ‘I came here to try to do you a favour, Signore, not to be abused by you. If you don’t want my help to settle this matter now, then you can wait until the process goes a little bit further, and then, when the Guardia Costiera comes to ask the same questions, you might be sorry you didn’t pay attention when you had the chance.’ He took his trench coat and folded it carefully over his arm, took a firm grasp on the handle of his briefcase, and turned to the door.
He’d taken three steps when Borgato said, ‘Wait a minute.’
Brunetti took another step and reached for the handle of the door.
‘Please, Signore,’ Borgato said in an entirely different voice, all anger, all arrogance, gone.
Brunetti stopped. He turned back to him and asked, ‘Are you going to be reasonable?’
‘Yes,’ Borgato said. He walked to Brunetti’s chair and pulled it over to his desk. With something resembling a smile, he waved Brunetti towards it. ‘Have a seat and let’s go over this again.’ He tried to make his voice friendly, but it was clear this did not come easily to him.
Brunetti sat on the edge, trench coat over one arm, briefcase in his lap. Borgato went behind his desk and sat, looking at Brunetti.
‘What is it you want to know?’ Borgato asked.
‘Do you know this man in Chioggia – Samuele Tantucci?’
‘No.’ Borgato almost shouted the word but quickly got himself under control and repeated it in a lower voice. ‘No.’
Brunetti set his briefcase on the floor and said, ‘I see no reason why you can’t be told this. A boat with this number has been seen
off the coast, at night, and reported to the Guardia Costiera.’
‘Who did that?’ Borgato snapped.
‘I’m not at liberty to say, Signore,’ Brunetti answered in his most officious voice. ‘All we were told is that your transport boat, this one,’ he said, leaning down to tap at the side of the briefcase where the information was, ‘was seen off the coast at night two months ago, and because it was not a fishing boat, it was reported to the Guardia Costiera.’
‘Fucking fishermen, can’t mind their own business,’ Borgato said angrily.
Brunetti allowed himself to nod. ‘The Guardia seems to be of the same mind and doesn’t want to be bothered about it, so they asked us to check on the licence plate duplication and let them know what’s going on. That way,’ Brunetti said with a softening of his voice, as though he were asking a colleague to understand and help him avoid spending more time on a bureaucratic tangle, ‘we can settle this and close the file.’ Then, speaking to himself, Brunetti muttered, ‘As if we don’t have enough to do.’
Borgato put his hands flat on his desk and held that position for a few seconds, then looked across at Brunetti and said, ‘Well, you can tell the Guardia that my boat was out at night because we had the motor overhauled at a place in Caorle, and when we got there in the afternoon to bring the boat back, it wasn’t ready, and we didn’t get it until after eleven – the fucking workers refused to miss their dinner – so we had to sit around in fucking Caorle until they ate and got back to work on the motors.’
‘Caorle?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Can’t people fix it here?’
‘The specialist for these motors is the company in Caorle: that’s where we bought them.’
‘Caorle?’ Brunetti repeated, making no attempt to disguise his astonishment. ‘That must take hours.’
As though it had just occurred to him, Borgato asked, ‘What time did this person say he saw the boat?’
Brunetti reached for his briefcase but pulled his hand back slowly. ‘I didn’t bring those reports with me. Do you remember when you started back?’
‘No,’ Borgato said. ‘Midnight? No later than that.’
Brunetti pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and hunted until he found a piece of paper. ‘Do you remember what day that was?’ he asked.
Borgato closed his eyes in thought and said, ‘I think it was during the second week of August, maybe the tenth because that’s when Lazio was playing, and we missed the game.’ Then, trying to make a joke, he added, ‘We didn’t stop to go fishing, that’s for sure.’
Brunetti gave a small laugh and wrote something on the back of the slip of paper – the receipt he’d received for a coffee in a bar the last time he’d worn the jacket – then stuffed it carelessly back in his pocket.
‘There’s just one more thing,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Could you show me the original registration?’
‘Of course,’ said a suddenly affable Borgato. He went and stood in front of a shelf filled with thick file holders of different colours. After a moment, he pulled down a white one and set it on his desk.
He paged through it until he found what he wanted, turned the book to show the page to Brunetti and said, ‘Here it is.’
Brunetti opened the briefcase and pulled out one of the papers and compared it with the one in the folder, saying, ‘Very good.’ He nodded and put the paper back, then asked Borgato, ‘May I take a photo?’
‘Of course,’ Borgato offered with a rather dramatic wave of his hand.
Brunetti took out his phone and, remaining true to his role, fumbled with it a bit before turning on the camera. He took a photo of the page, moved the lens back about ten centimetres and took another one.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘A colleague of mine is seeing Signor Tantucci today, so all we have to do is send the photos he takes, and these photos to the licence office and let them sort it out.’ He considered what he’d just said and added, ‘That should be the end of it for you, Signor Borgato.’
The other man smiled for the first time. It didn’t help his appearance much. He came around and stood next to Brunetti for a moment before accompanying him to the door. He opened it, gave a handshake that was less a proof of virility than the other had been, and closed the door.
As he walked across the small office, Brunetti said, ‘Thanks for your help, Signora.’
‘Will you be coming back?’
‘Oh, no, not at all, thank heaven,’ Brunetti said, a bureaucrat pleased at having so easily settled what might have become a problem.
She smiled, and Brunetti left the office to go and meet Foa, who was waiting for him in his sandalo, sitting on one of the cross-planks with the Gazzetta dello Sport open on his lap. Brunetti knew the boat, slow and patient.
Brunetti stepped aboard, sat opposite Foa, and pulled his trench coat over his legs. The pilot wore jeans, a heavy sweater, and a blue windbreaker. ‘Where would you like to go, sir?’
‘Back to my home, Foa. I don’t think I want to go back to the Questura looking like this.’
‘I assumed that, sir,’ he said, revved the engine, and launched them back towards the Giudecca Canal.
19
At home, Brunetti changed into jeans and a sweater. He packed the shoes, the suit, and the briefcase into one of the free shopping bags the city provided for paper garbage and set it by the door. Tomorrow morning, he could pass by the church of Santi Apostoli and leave the bag at the door to the used clothing shop the parish ran there.
He ambled to the kitchen, in search of he didn’t know what. It was just after six, so dinner was still a few hours away. He took the nutcracker from a kitchen drawer and selected a few walnuts from a bowl on the counter. After eating them, he needed something to drink, and what better than the Masetto Nero he had put to rest on its side a few nights ago? He opened it and poured himself a glass, left the bottle on the counter to drink with dinner, then went back to Paola’s study to reflect upon his meeting with Vio’s uncle.
It was not Brunetti’s habit to take notes when he interviewed people or questioned suspects. He let time pass after speaking to them and waited for something to present itself as the gravest concern of the person he’d spoken to. Borgato had been irritated by the mistake with the licence, but he had not been worried. His entire demeanour had changed, however, when Brunetti had mentioned the possibility of a visit from the Guardia Costiera. He had suddenly become accommodating, had even said ‘please’.
Borgato had hastily told the implausible story of maintenance that could be performed only in Caorle, hours away, and claimed that the work could not be done by anyone in Venice. Brunetti, even though his experience with boats was limited, could find three mechanics in an hour capable of fixing anything attached to a boat; Vianello could probably find ten. Or fix the motor himself. Only a fool like Pivato would believe the story.
Borgato had said that his trip to Caorle had taken place on or about the tenth: that he had offered it suggested that it was not true. Most liars didn’t go far from the truth, so it was likely to be one of the days before or after the tenth. Why had Borgato been in the sea between Caorle and Venice around that time?
He took a sip of the wine, enjoying the taste as it rolled around on his tongue. Ordinarily, having already spoken to him, Brunetti would call Capitano Alaimo and see what he knew about strange or unusual incidents in the Adriatic two months before. His trust in Griffoni’s instincts, however, made it impossible for him to call the Capitano: if her radar had detected something amiss, Brunetti would trust in that. It left him, however, with no reliable source working for the Guardia Costiera.
He took another sip of wine, kicked off his shoes, and put his feet on the low table in front of the sofa. He needed what Paola would call an Ancient Mariner, with stories to tell. He paused there and surprised himself by realizing Paola was wrong. He needed someone who knew about the Guardia Costiera as it was now, wh
o the good guys were, who the bad.
He went back to his jacket and retrieved his telefonino, found Capitano Nieddu’s number and dialled it.
After a few rings, her cello voice was on the line. ‘Nieddu.’
‘It’s Guido Brunetti,’ he said, giving his last name as well as his first, as seemed proper.
‘Ah, I’m glad you called, Guido,’ she said with something that sounded like relief.
‘Why is that?’
‘We agreed to share anything we learned. I’ve heard something you might be interested in.’ Her uncertainty was audible as she paused, as if to reflect on her own choice of words.
‘Was it in a pencilled note from someone in your crew?’ he asked, showing that he remembered that detail from their conversation.
‘No, it’s something I was told by someone I spoke to, two days ago.’ After a moment, she added, ‘A prostitute. Nigerian.’ After a considerable pause, Nieddu added, ‘I know her.’
Brunetti considered that for some time, then asked, ‘Did you believe her?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Sometimes what she says is . . . hard to understand.’ Her difficulty in finishing that sentence kept Brunetti from responding.
Nieddu said, ‘That’s why I didn’t call.’ She said nothing further for a while, then added, ‘She was in a bad state. She told me things.’
‘Is she in custody?’
‘No. You know how it is. We bring them in and then let them go.’
Brunetti resisted the temptation to comment and waited silently.
‘I thought of calling you yesterday,’ she said, ‘but things happened and I didn’t. I’m glad you called. Really.’
‘Can you talk, or can I come out there?’ he asked, only then realizing that what he heard in the background sounded like street noise, not the quiet of an office.
