He put his phone in his pocket and turned to Brunetti. ‘I think there’s nothing for to us to do but have lunch.’
They went to a place Brunetti knew on Burano, though he had not been there for years. Inside, the décor – or what passed for décor – was the same and, mercifully, so was the food. The service was as he remembered it: brusque to the point of rudeness and no one encouraged to linger over the meal. Perhaps this is what’s kept the tourists at bay, Brunetti thought. Pity more restaurants don’t emulate them.
Dantone said little during the meal save to remark that the storm had been tanto fumo e poco arrosto, much smoke and little roast. ‘It must have looked frightening out here,’ he conceded when Brunetti protested, ‘but most of it was heat lightning, and the rain didn’t last very long at all.’
Then, before Brunetti could contradict him, Dantone said, ‘I know, I know, but I talked to our meteorologist before we came out here, and she said that’s what the radar showed.’ Then he added, as though to put an end to any doubts Brunetti might have about his competence, ‘I’ve been here twenty years, and I’ve spent most of my time in the laguna.’
Their waiter appeared and set down three plates of chicken roulade with carrot and onion, went back and returned with two more, saying nothing and apparently not very pleased to be serving them. Conversation ceased as they started to eat. How could something as banal as chicken breast taste so good, so sweet? Maybe it was the addition of the carrots that sweetened things.
They all heard it at the same time and raised their heads simultaneously, as if they could see through the ceiling and the roof of the building to what was approaching above them. The noise put an end to their lunch, and all of them stuffed the last bites into their mouths before getting to their feet. Dantone put fifty Euros on the table, finished his glass of mineral water, and turned towards the door. Brunetti reached for his wallet, but the Captain waved his hand at him, saying, ‘That’s more than enough.’
Thinking it impolite to resist, Brunetti thanked him and followed them back to the boat. Above their heads, a helicopter headed towards the north-east. The men walked to the boat, their sense of urgency quelled by the tides, which knew little of urgency and came and went in their own methodical fashion. They stepped on board, the lowest ranker cast off from the dock, and they headed straight north.
Dantone picked up the boat’s phone and pressed some numbers, waited, pressed again. Suddenly, all of them heard the sound of the rotors and a man’s voice giving their location. Dantone looked at the map of the laguna on the screen and said, ‘I’d like you to go up the Canale di Sant’Antonio and over to Valle La Cura and l’Isola di Santa Cristina.’
The voice from the helicopter said something Brunetti could not understand, though Dantone apparently did, for he answered, ‘All right. Good. Follow Canale Gaggian back down.’ He touched the shoulder of the pilot, and the boat slowed and pulled over to the right side of the canal and stopped.
Dantone turned to Brunetti and shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. From ahead of them, the motor of the helicopter drifted into audibility, and then they saw it, perhaps ten metres above the ground, coming slowly towards them, though still at some distance.
Dantone looked down at the map on the screen and spoke into the phone again, tracing a course with his right hand. ‘We got as far as where you are now, so start up San Felice, up to the top of Canale Cenesa and then back down Canale Balolli.’ There was a pause and then Dantone said, making no attempt to disguise his irritation, ‘Do what I tell you. I know the tides.’
Only Dantone could hear the pilot’s answer, but they could all see the helicopter swing around to the right and move off to the north-east. It maintained its height above the grass fields, growing smaller as it moved away from them.
‘What now?’ Brunetti asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
‘We wait for them to call in.’
‘And if they don’t find anything?’
Dantone gave a small smile. He pointed to the screen that showed a detailed map of the laguna. ‘I’ve read the meteorological reports and looked at the tide charts. There are very few places in the Laguna Nord where he could have gone. Or been driven.’ He spoke with the assurance with which men of the sea referred to winds and tides, the same assurance with which Casati had spoken, and Brunetti believed him.
He noticed that the noise of the helicopter had vanished, or at least diminished to the point where it was difficult to tell if what they heard was the engine or the dim hum of wind. Dantone’s phone rang, and the Captain answered immediately. He listened for a moment, then asked, ‘What? Who? Who is he?’ He was silent for a long time: there was no sound of the helicopter.
‘Is he sure? But who is he?’ Another silence, and then he asked, ‘On the back side, where they’re building? What was he doing there?’ Dantone bent to look at the map in front of him, and said, ‘We’ll go and have a look,’ broke the connection and put the phone back in his pocket. He put his hand on the pilot’s arm to capture his attention and said, ‘That was Minniti. They’ve had a call. Some guy from Murano was out rowing and just called to say he saw a capsized boat out behind the cemetery. I want to go and have a look.’
Brunetti turned from gazing north at the vast expanse of water.
‘Behind San Michele, where they’re expanding the island,’ Dantone added.
The pilot had already turned and was heading, at speed, back down Canale Scomenzera. As they approached Murano, the pilot hit the button on the dashboard that unleashed the siren. He veered around a small sailboat, dashed down Canale Ondello, and soon emerged into the wider canal in front of Murano.
The Island of San Michele was just opposite them. A man stood in a sanpierota and waved his arm as they approached.
‘Can you get to him?’ Dantone asked the pilot.
‘I doubt it, Capitano. The water’s very low out here, and I don’t want to risk getting any closer.’
‘All right,’ Dantone said. He went over to the railing and with a sweeping gesture of his right arm summoned the man in the other boat to come nearer.
Without acknowledging the signal, the man put his oar back in the fórcola. He came towards them with surprising speed, slid up beside them, and back-stroked neatly to bring the small boat to a stop.
Not more than twenty, he had the sun-burnished look of a boatman; not that Brunetti, after a look at him, was in any doubt about this.
Captain Dantone introduced himself.
‘Bartolomeo Penna,’ the young man said, adding, ‘At your service, Capitano.’ The smile with which he said it removed all hint of irony from the remark. He was a man of the sea, giving an officer the respect due to him.