Authors: Donna Leon
‘I see, I see,’ Brunetti said, then, ‘Did Lieutenant Scarpa come in?’
‘No, sir. He and Landi talked. But he didn’t give any orders, just left it to us to do it the normal way.’
Brunetti almost said there probably was no normal way to arrest the wife of a commissario of police, but instead he stood and glanced down at Paola, addressing her for the first time. ‘I think we can go now, Paola.’
She didn’t answer, but immediately got to her feet.
‘I’ll take her home, Pucetti. We’ll be back here in the morning. If Lieutenant Scarpa asks any questions, tell him that, would you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ Pucetti answered. He started to add something, but Brunetti cut him off with an upraised hand.
‘It’s all right, Pucetti. You had no choice.’ He glanced at Paola and added, ‘And besides, it would have happened sooner or later.’ He tried to smile at the man.
When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they found the young policeman at the door, his hand already pulling it open. Brunetti let Paola pass in front of him, raised a hand without actually looking at him, and walked out into the night. The liquid air surrounded them, instantly turning their breath into soft clouds. They walked side by side, the sword of discord as palpable between them as their breath was visible in the air.
* * * *
7
Neither of them spoke on the way home, nor did they sleep for the rest of the night, save for odd patches of troubled dreams. A few times, as they drifted between waking and moments of forgetting, their bodies rolled together, but there was none of the ease of long familiarity in the contact. Quite the opposite: the touch could have been that of a stranger and each responded by moving away. They had the grace not to make it a sudden move, not to start in shock and horror at the touch of this stranger who had invaded their marriage bed. Perhaps that would have been more honest, to let the flesh give voice to the mind and the spirit, but both of them managed to control that impulse, to beat it down out of some idea of loyalty due to memory or the love both of them feared had been damaged or somehow changed.
Brunetti forced himself to wait for the seven o’clock bells from San Polo, refused to let himself get out of bed until then, but they had not finished sounding before he was into the bathroom, where he stood under the shower for a long time, washing away the night and the thought of Landi and Scarpa, and what was bound to be waiting for him when he got to work that morning.
As he stood under the water, he told himself that he would have to say something to Paola before he left the house, but he had no idea what that would be. He decided to let it depend upon how she behaved when he went back into the bedroom, but when he did she was no longer there. He heard her in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of water, coffee pot, a chair scraping on the floor. Knotting his tie, he went along there and, as he saw her sitting at her regular place, noticed that two large cups were placed at their normal places on the table. He finished with his tie, bent and kissed the top of her head.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked, reaching backwards with her right arm and wrapping it around his thigh. She pulled him towards her.
He leaned against her, but he did not touch her with his hand. ‘Habit, I suppose.’
‘Habit?’ she asked, already on the way to being offended.
‘The habit of loving you.’
‘Ah,’ she said, but anything further was cut off by the hiss of the coffee pot. She poured coffee, added steaming milk and stirred sugar into both cups. He didn’t sit, drank his standing.
‘What will happen?’ she asked after the first sip.
‘As it’s your first offence, I suppose there will be a fine.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s enough,’ Brunetti said.
‘And what about you?’
‘That depends on how the papers play it. There are a few journalists who have waited years for something like this.’
Before he could list the possible headlines she said, ‘I know. I know,’ and so he spared them both that.
‘But there’s an equal chance that you’ll be turned into a heroine, the Rosa Luxemburg of the sex industry.’
Both of them smiled, but there was no attempt at sarcasm.
‘That’s not what I’m after, Guido. You know that.’ Before he could ask her what it
was
she was after she said, ‘I just want them to stop it. I want them to be so shamed by what they do that they’ll stop it.’
‘Who, the travel agents?’
‘Them, yes,’ she said and returned to her coffee for a while. When it was almost gone she set down the cup and said, ‘But I’d like them all to be shamed by what they do.’
‘The men who go as sex-tourists?’
‘Yes, all of them.’
‘That’s not going to happen, Paola, no matter what you do.’
‘I know.’ She finished her coffee and got up to make some more.
‘No,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’ll stop at a bar and get some on the way.’
‘It’s early.’
‘There’s always a bar,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
There was, and he stopped for more coffee, lingering over it so as to delay his arrival at the Questura. He bought the
Gazzettino,
even though he knew it was impossible that anything could appear until the next day. Still he looked at the first page of the first section, then at the second, the part dedicated to local news, but there was nothing.
There was a different officer at the front door of the Questura: because it was still before eight he had to unlock the door for Brunetti and saluted him as he walked past.
‘Is Vianello here yet?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No, sir. I haven’t seen him.’
‘Tell him I’d like him to come up to my office when he gets in, would you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said and saluted again.
Brunetti took the back steps. Marinoni, the woman just returned from maternity leave, greeted him on the steps, but said only that she’d heard about the man in Treviso and was sorry.
In his office, he hung up his coat, sat at his desk, and opened the
Gazzettino.
There was the usual: magistrates investigating other magistrates, former ministers making accusations against other former ministers, riots in the capital of Albania, the Minister of Health asking for an investigation of the illegal manufacture of false pharmaceuticals for the Third World.
He turned to the second section and, on the third page, found the story about the death of Signora Iacovantuono.
‘Casalinga muore cadendo per le scale
(Housewife dies by falling down the stairs).’ Sure.
He’d heard it all the day before: she fell, the neighbour found her at the foot of the steps, the paramedics declared her dead. The funeral would take place tomorrow.
He had just finished reading the article when Vianello knocked on his door and came in. All Brunetti needed was a glance at his face. He asked, ‘What are they saying?’
‘Landi started talking about it as soon as people began to come in, but Ruberti and Bellini haven’t said a word. And the papers haven’t called.’
‘Scarpa?’ Brunetti asked.
‘He’s not in yet.’
‘What’s Landi saying?’
‘That he brought your wife down here last night after she broke a window in the travel agency in Campo Manin. And that you came down and took her home without filling out the paperwork. He’s turning into a jailhouse lawyer, saying she’s technically a fugitive from justice.’
Brunetti folded the paper in half, then in half again. He recalled telling Pucetti that he would bring his wife with him that morning, but he hardly thought her absence was sufficient to turn her into a fugitive from justice. ‘I see,’ he said. He paused for a long time and finally asked, ‘How many people know about the last time?’
Vianello considered the question for a moment and answered, ‘Officially, no one knows. Officially, nothing happened.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I don’t think anyone knows who shouldn’t know,’ Vianello said, obviously unwilling to explain more than that.
Brunetti didn’t know whether he should thank the sergeant, or thank Ruberti and Bellini. Instead, he asked, ‘Has there been anything from the Treviso police this morning?’
‘Iacovantuono went to their office to say he couldn’t be certain about the identification he made last week. He thinks he was mistaken. Because he was so afraid. And now he’s sure the robber had red hair. It seems he remembered that a few days ago, but never got around to telling the police.’
‘Until his wife died?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello didn’t answer at first. After a while, he asked, ‘What would you do, sir?’
‘If what?’
‘If you were in his place.’
‘I’d probably remember the red hair, too.’
Vianello stuffed his hands into the pockets of his uniform jacket and nodded. ‘I suppose we all would, wouldn’t we, especially if we had a family?’
Brunetti’s intercom rang. ‘Yes,’ he said when he’d picked it up. He listened for a moment, then put the phone down and got to his feet. ‘It’s the Vice-Questore. He wants to see me.’
Vianello pushed back his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Quarter past nine. I suppose that explains what Lieutenant Scarpa’s been doing.’
Brunetti carefully centred the newspaper on his desk before he left the office. Outside Patta’s door, Signorina Elettra sat at her computer, but the screen was blank. She looked up when Brunetti came in, caught her lower lip between her teeth and raised her eyebrows. It could have been surprise, but it could just as easily have been the sort of encouragement one student gives another who has been called to see the principal.
Brunetti closed his eyes for a moment and felt his lips pulling together. He didn’t say anything to the secretary, but knocked at the door and opened it at the shouted, ‘
Avanti’.
Brunetti had expected to find only the Vice-Questore in the office, so he failed to hide his surprise when he saw four persons: Vice-Questore Patta; Lieutenant Scarpa, seated to the left of his superior, the same as the seat always given to Judas in paintings of the Last Supper; and two men, one in his late fifties, the other about ten years younger. Brunetti had no time to study them, save to get the sense that the older man was somehow in command, though the younger was more attentive.
Patta began without preamble. ‘Commissario Brunetti, this is Dottor Paolo Mitri.’ He indicated the older man with a graceful wave of his hand. ‘And his lawyer, Awocato Giuliano Zambino. We’ve called you here to discuss the events of last night.’
There was a fifth chair, a bit to the left of the lawyer, but no one suggested Brunetti take it. He nodded to the two men.
‘Perhaps the Commissario could join us?’ suggested Dottor Mitri, motioning to the empty chair with his hand.
Patta nodded and Brunetti sat.
‘You know why you’re here, I suppose,’ Patta said.
‘I’d like to hear it stated clearly,’ Brunetti answered.
Patta waved to his lieutenant, who began. ‘Last night, at about midnight, I received a call from one of my men that the window of the travel agency in Campo Manin - the travel agency owned by Dottor Mitri,’ he added, with a small inclination of his head in his direction, ‘had again been destroyed by vandals. He told me that a suspect had been taken to the Questura and that the suspect was the wife of Commissario Brunetti.’