Blood from a stone

16

Brunetti woke the next morning to bright sunlight. For the last week, the fog had been trying to transform itself into rain but had managed to do nothing more than drape a slick film on the pavements. During the night the rain had finally come – Brunetti had a vague memory of hearing it slash against the windows while he slept – but some time before dawn it had given up and left the day to the sun.
He lay in bed, made happy by the strip of light that spread across the bottom of the covers. He turned on to his back and stretched to his full length and, yes, his feet found that, at the very bottom of the bed, where the sun had been shining for some time, it was warm.
A half-hour later he woke again, this time suddenly, remembering that Christmas was only four days away, and he had, once again, done nothing about getting gifts for anyone. His first impulse was to blame Paola for not having reminded him, but the instant he caught himself thinking that, he cringed away, embarrassed, from the idea. A few minutes later, she came into the room, carrying a large cup of caffè latte. She wore a green woollen dress he did not remember having seen before. She set the cup and saucer on the table beside him, sat on the edge of the bed, and said, ‘I wanted to be sure you were up before I left.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To meet my mother and take her shopping.’
He picked up the cup and pulled it close to his mouth before asking, ‘Christmas shopping?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what to get my father.’
He took three small sips, drawing in life with each one. ‘I don’t know what to get anyone.’
‘You never do,’ she said mildly and with great affection. ‘If you meet me at four at San Bortolo, we can go and get some things together.’
‘You’re not home for lunch?’ he asked, trying not to sound aggrieved.
‘I told you last night, Guido. My mother and I are invited to Aunt Federica’s for lunch today.’
That explained the dress, then. He drank more coffee and stifled the impulse to ask her how she could stand the thought of two hours in the company of her aunt. But if she was willing to go shopping with him, something she loathed even more than he did, then he would forgo comment on her family.
‘We go every year; you know that,’ she said. She saw the face he made when she spoke of certain members of her family, and it prompted her to say, ‘Remember that she’s the one who brought a successful case against the diocese of Messina for fraud.’
He covered his eyes with his left hand and asked, ‘Must you always brag about your family?’ When Paola made no reply, he looked out at her from between his fingers. She did not smile.
He set the cup on the saucer, chose the noble path and said, as if he approved of her destination, ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten you told me you were going. Four o’clock is fine. I’ll try to think of what I’d like to get everyone.’
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘I love it when you lie to me.’ She pushed herself away from him and was about to get up from the bed when he lunged and seized her in both arms.
He pulled her towards him, watching her astonishment, delighted by it. He squeezed. She laughed. He squeezed again. She giggled. Suddenly he let her go and she jumped to her feet.
‘Will you do that to Patta the next time he accuses you of lying to him?’ she asked.
He looked her up and down. ‘Only if he wears a dress as short as that one.’ He pushed the covers aside and got out of bed.
Strangely enough, the sun appeared to have had no effect on the temperature: when Brunetti left the house, it felt even colder than it had the day before. By the time he got to Rialto, he felt the cold in his ears and nose, and he regretted the light-hearted optimism that had encouraged him to leave his gloves and scarf at home. As if the fog of the previous week had also dropped from his eyes, he registered for the first time that the city was ready for Christmas: tinsel and bulbs hung in almost every shop window.
He looked up and saw that strings of lights crossed above his head: how could he have walked home in the dark for weeks and not have noticed this? His thoughts turned to Paola’s Aunt Federica. Brunetti knew that she had taken Paola aside, years ago, and warned her that her marriage to a man ‘of his class’ would be her ruination, not only personally but also, and far more importantly, socially. It was not until the birth of their second child that Paola had told him about her aunt’s remark, and he had been so drunk with joy at the sight of Chiara’s toes that he had said only, ‘Socially?’ and laughed: a Falier could marry the dustman and suffer no social consequences.
He was glad to enter the Questura if only for the warmth to be found in some parts of the building. In his office he shed his overcoat and headed back down towards Signorina Elettra’s office. Unfortunately, he ran into Patta on the stairs. ‘Good morning, Commissario,’ he said. ‘I’d like a word with you.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Brunetti answered, falling into step with him and giving every indication that he was a man who had been in the office for hours, was already well entrenched in his work for the day. He resisted the temptation to ask what it was that Patta wanted or to display his surprise at finding Patta at work so early and followed him into the small anteroom where Signorina Elettra and her computer held court.
She smiled at them but said good morning only to her superior before returning her attention to her computer screen. Patta went into his office; Brunetti turned at the door and looked back, but Signorina Elettra had time only to give a small shrug before he closed the door and followed Patta over to his desk. His superior removed his overcoat and laid it over the back of the second visitor’s chair, careful to fold it so that Brunetti could see the Ermenegildo Zegna label. Brunetti made an attempt to look suitably impressed and waited for Patta to take his seat before sitting down himself.
‘I want to talk to you about this vu cumprà thing,’ Patta announced.
Brunetti nodded but made sure to look inattentive, as if to suggest that he had heard about the vu cumprà some time in the past and would not mind being reminded just what they were.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Brunetti,’ Patta said irritably.
Brunetti nudged his expression a little closer to intelligence and asked, ‘Yes, sir?’
‘As you might recall, I told you I thought it would be too complex a case for us to handle,’ Patta began; Brunetti resisted the impulse to tell him that, no, he had not said that but had ordered him – without explanation – to stay away from the case. He contented himself with nodding, waiting to see what manoeuvre Patta had devised. ‘I was right,’ Patta said with every indication of modesty at what must to him have seemed embarrassing redundancy. ‘It has ramifications far beyond Venice, and so it’s been assigned to special investigators from the Ministry of the Interior, who will take over from you.’ He looked at Brunetti to assess his response.
When his subordinate said nothing, Patta went on, ‘They’re already here and have begun their investigation. I’ve had all the records and documents handed over to them.’ Again he stopped, but in the face of Brunetti’s continuing silence was forced to resume. ‘They believe the killing is related to another case they’re dealing with at the moment.’
‘And what case would that be, sir?’ asked a respectful Brunetti.
‘They are not at liberty to tell me that,’ Patta answered.
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, his imagination spawning possibilities as quickly as a cell divides.
‘I think this is a case of what the Americans call “need-to-know”,’ Patta said, unable to disguise his pride in having thought to use – and managed to pronounce – the foreign term. Then, as if concerned that Brunetti might not have understood, he added, ‘That is, only people who are directly involved in the case will have access to the information obtained.’
Brunetti nodded, silent.
Patta paused for so long that he began to give evidence of finding the silence embarrassing. He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his legs, trying to wait Brunetti out and force him to speak. The silence grew. Finally Patta could stand it no longer and asked, ‘Do you understand?’
In a completely neutral voice, Brunetti said, ‘I think I do,’ and then asked, ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes.’
Brunetti got to his feet and left the room. As he closed the door, he glanced in Signorina Elettra’s direction but left her office without speaking to her.
He went to the officers’ room and walked over to Vianello, who was at his desk. ‘Do you have copies of the files?’ Brunetti asked.
‘You mean about the African?’
‘Yes.’
Vianello got up and went over to the battered filing cabinet that stood between the windows of the far wall. He pulled open the top drawer and flicked through some folders until he reached the back of the drawer, then went back to the front and looked through them again. He pushed the drawer closed and returned to his desk. He looked into the two files that lay to the right of the telephone, then opened all of the desk drawers, one by one. He looked up at Brunetti and shook his head.
Together, without bothering to speak, they went upstairs to Brunetti’s office, but his own search for the files proved just as fruitless as Vianello’s. ‘Scarpa?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Probably,’ Vianello agreed. ‘But it’s so stupid to take them. She’s got them on her computer, so she can simply make more copies.’
Both of them considered this, then it occurred to Brunetti to wonder if this were indeed the case. He was reluctant to appear anywhere near Signorina Elettra so soon after having left Patta’s office, and he did not want to use the internal phone to ask her about them. ‘I’d like you to go down and ask her if she’s still got copies,’ he told Vianello.
The inspector left the office. During the time Vianello was gone, Brunetti considered the situation. He knew how easy it would be to remove a file, any file, multiple files, from the various cabinets or offices in the Questura, but he failed to understand how, or if, information could be removed from Signorina Elettra’s computer. Instinct and past experience suggested that Lieutenant Scarpa was the person most likely to have been involved in the removal of the actual documents, but Patta’s reference to the Ministry of the Interior meant that there was now a different level of competence to be reckoned with. To pass the case over to them would effectively end it in Venice and would enable Patta to reach safety; Scarpa, had he been the one to remove the files, would earn the gratitude of his superior. But, beyond the two of them, who gained – and what was to be gained – by suppressing the investigation of the death?
A week ago he had used false identification to buy a second telefonino in the name of Roberto Rossi: he had given the number to no one, not even Paola. He took it out now and dialled the number of Rizzardi’s office. When the doctor answered with his name, Brunetti said only, ‘It’s me, Bruno. Carlo.’ He paused, giving the doctor time to register the name and the warning of caution it contained. ‘I wondered if by any chance you saw that report your office sent me?’
‘Ah, yes, Carlo,’ Rizzardi answered after the shortest of pauses, ‘how nice to hear your voice. I didn’t see it until this morning and I’ve already called once, but you weren’t there. I’ve got a few photos of that, ah, new line in sweaters. I’m not sure you’re going to like them, but I think they’re something you might want to have a look at. I think we do have a few patterns you’ll really want to see.’ Rizzardi paused, then added, ‘I thought it might be more convenient if you could stop by to pick them up yourself.’
‘Ah, thanks,’ Brunetti answered. ‘I don’t think I can do it myself today. You know how busy we always are at the beginning of a season, but I’ll send one of my salesmen over to pick them up. In about half an hour, say?’
‘Fine,’ Rizzardi answered. ‘I’ll just get them ready and put them in an envelope. Tell your salesman I’ll have them with me, and he can come to my office and get them.’
‘I’ll do that, and thanks. I look forward to seeing them.’
‘Yes, I thought you would. They’re very interesting. I’ll put a price list in with them, shall I?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Bruno.’
He thought he heard a muffled laugh, or perhaps it was nothing more than a snort of disgust from Rizzardi that they had to resort to this sort of cloak and dagger caution, but whatever it was, it was over as soon as heard, and Rizzardi put the phone down.
Knowing Vianello would wait when he came back from Elettra’s office and found Brunetti’s office empty, Brunetti went down to the officers’ room and asked Pucetti to go over to the Ospedale Civile to pick up an envelope from Dottor Rizzardi. ‘But you better go home first,’ Brunetti cautioned him, ‘and change out of your uniform.’
‘I’ve got clothes in my locker, sir,’ Pucetti said, getting to his feet. ‘So I can go over now, soon as I’ve changed.’
Brunetti went back to his office, burdened by the weight of what he was forced to do. Secret phone calls, coded messages, policemen shedding their uniforms in order to do their jobs. ‘We’re all mad, we’re all mad,’ he caught himself muttering as he climbed the steps. Next thing he knew, he’d be wearing a disguise to come to work and setting up bank accounts in the Channel Islands. It helped, he realized, to expand it all to the reductio ad absurdum, for to consider their behaviour objectively would be to summon despair.
Vianello came in, saying as he entered, ‘She said someone managed to get into her computer and destroy things.’ Before Brunetti could ask, he said, ‘No, not her physical computer, but into her files. She said whoever did it was very sophisticated.’
‘What was destroyed?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The autopsy report that was attached to the email. And the original report of the crime.’
‘And the other things? The addresses of Bertolli and Cuzzoni?’ Brunetti asked, alarmed that whoever had destroyed the other files would have found these and known where their investigation was heading. Which, he reflected with sudden cynicism, was considerably more than he knew.
Vianello shook his head in what Brunetti interpreted as a gesture of relief. ‘She said she had it all hidden, not only the addresses, but copies of the original report and the one from the pathologist – God knows where: in a folder of recipes, for all I know. She said the autopsy report and the original crime report were the only things on her computer that anyone could find.’
Brunetti had no option but to believe her and hope that she was right.
‘Can she find out who did it?’ he asked.
‘I think that’s what she’s trying to do now.’
Brunetti went around his desk and sat down. ‘I think the only thing to do now is to make it look like we’ve stopped,’ he said.
‘Patta will never believe it,’ Vianello objected.
‘If there’s no sign that we’re doing anything, then he’ll have to believe it.’
Vianello’s glance displayed his scepticism, but he said nothing.
‘I called Rizzardi,’ Brunetti said. ‘He said he found something.’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t say. Only that it was interesting and I ought to see it. So I sent Pucetti over.’ Brunetti translated the rather childish code of his conversation with the pathologist.
‘You called him from here?’ Vianello asked, unable to disguise his astonishment.
Brunetti explained about Signor Rossi’s telefonino and gave the number to Vianello.
‘So this is what we’re reduced to?’ Vianello asked, just as Pucetti came in, wearing Doc Marten boots and a long leather coat.
Neither man commented on Pucetti’s attire. The young officer placed an envelope on Brunetti’s desk then stood there, looking uncertain what to do with himself. Brunetti waved him to a chair.
From the envelope Brunetti pulled out a sheet of paper folded around a few photos and one other sheet of paper, which, when opened, was revealed to be the form the police used to take a set of fingerprints. On the paper around the photos he recognized Rizzardi’s handwriting. ‘When I got to the operating theatre, I was told the autopsy had already been performed, but the report was not available. So I took some photos of the dead man’s body: my comments on the back of each. The fingerprints on the enclosed form are his: I took them. I suggest you compare them with the ones taken during the autopsy to see if they are the same.’
A thick horizontal line served as signature. And below this was written, ‘Dottor Venturi did the autopsy.’
Brunetti took the photos and dealt them out in a row on his desk. In the first of them, Brunetti recognized the man’s face, eyes closed, features relaxed in what, to those who have not seen the faces of the dead, appeared to be sleep.
The next photo took a moment to interpret, for initially it looked like two speckled sculptures wearing oddly symmetrical headdresses. As Brunetti looked, the image revealed itself as the soles of the dead man’s feet, the headdresses his toes. He bent nearer to examine the speckles, each of them circular and about the size of the tip of his finger and all of them pink in contrast to the pale soles of the man’s feet. He turned the photo over and read, ‘These are cigarette burns. They are fully healed, but my guess is that they are not much older than a year or two.’ Brunetti flipped the photo back; knowing now, they all saw it.
The next was of the inside of the man’s right thigh, where the same circular pattern ran from the knee to the point where the leg joined the trunk. There might have been twenty of them. ‘Oddio,’ Pucetti whispered in horror at the terrible vulnerability revealed by the photo.
The next photo was a mirror image, this time of the inside of the left thigh. The three men stood in a silent line in front of the photos, each reluctant to speak.
The last photo showed what appeared to be another scar; the neat hole beneath it placed it at the centre of the man’s stomach. Brunetti recognized the pattern: the same four triangles of the Maltese cross that was carved on the forehead of the wooden head from the man’s jeans. The thin lines of the raised flesh were darker than the skin that served as smooth background to the pattern, yet the scar was utterly without menace and spoke of ritual, not pain. He turned the photo over and read, ‘This scar is considerably older. Tribal scarification of some sort.’
Brunetti leaned forward and slipped the photos back into a pile. He took the fingerprint form and handed it to Pucetti, saying, ‘Take this down to the lab and give it to Bocchese – but only if he’s alone – and ask him to compare it to the set in the autopsy report.’ He remembered the missing files and added, ‘If he’s still got them.’
‘Do we know he was given a set of prints?’ Vianello interrupted.
Brunetti, who should have checked, had not. He nodded in acknowledgement of Vianello’s remark and added to Pucetti, ‘Ask him. If he never received any, then ask him to see if he can get an identification.’ As the young man turned away, Brunetti added, ‘Discreetly.’
When Pucetti was gone, Vianello looked at the photos Brunetti still held, and asked, ‘Torture?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? The diamonds?’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti agreed, then added, ‘Or whatever he was going to buy with them.’