Inside, a grey-haired man of about his own age sat behind a desk, talking on the phone and not looking very happy at what he was hearing. He saw Brunetti and Vianello, nodded but held up a hand, suggesting he’d be with them as soon as he finished the call.
They retreated from the doorway but not before they heard him say, ‘But we need to stay open until two, Direttore. There’s no way we can reduce our hours.’
There was no air conditioning, only one large ceiling fan that moved the air from place to place with no effect on the temperature. They stood and watched the old people collect their pensions or pay their bills, and Brunetti was struck by how slow each transaction was. On both sides of the counter, only first names were used, and there prevailed a sense of long familiarity. There was even a strong resemblance in body type and clothing. Indeed, they could all easily be members of the same family.
Ten minutes passed, and still one of the old women remained at the counter. Brunetti started towards the open door just as the man inside appeared on the threshold and waved them inside. Closer to him now, Brunetti saw the soft roundness of his face with an accumulation of flesh under his chin that was very soon to declare itself a separate entity. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a strangely wide tie that attempted to conceal the straining buttons beneath it. When the man reached his desk, he turned and asked, ‘Signori, how can I be of use to you?’
‘Signor Borelli, a pleasure to meet you.’ Brunetti, who had seen the sign to the left of the door, extended his hand and gave his name and rank. Then he introduced Vianello.
‘We’re here,’ Brunetti said, ‘about one of your customers. Well,’ he amended, lowering his voice and speaking more slowly, ‘a former customer.’
‘Yes?’ the man inquired, apparently not connecting the term with Casati’s death.
‘Davide Casati,’ Brunetti said.
‘Ah,’ Borelli breathed, ‘I heard about it. Poor man.’
‘Did you know him?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Perhaps,’ he surprised Brunetti by answering. ‘I see people in here all the time and recognize many of them, but I don’t know the names of all of them. If he came often, then the women at the counter would know him. They’re the ones who have direct contact with our clients.’
‘In that case, I’d like to speak to them,’ Brunetti said. ‘If I might.’
‘Nothing easier,’ the Director said, moving towards the door. The old woman had disappeared and the two women were chatting amicably.
The Director walked over to the counter and said, addressing the woman on the left, who looked older than the other, ‘Maria, these gentlemen would like to speak to you and Dorotea about someone who might have been one of our clients.’ That captured their attention, and they both looked at Brunetti and Vianello to see what this might be about. ‘I’ll be in my office,’ Signor Borelli said to no one in particular, nodded to Brunetti and Vianello but made no move to shake their hands or to explain to the women who they were. He went back to his office. This time he closed the door.
The women’s eyes turned to Brunetti, then to Vianello, and the older one shifted some papers to the right, as if a clear desk would make it easier to answer questions. The one named Dorotea continued to look back and forth between Vianello and Brunetti, trying to assess which of the two men was in charge. To make it easier for her, Vianello took a step backward, leaving Brunetti in the front line.
‘It’s about Davide Casati,’ Brunetti began. He could see that both of them recognized the name.
‘Did you know him, either of you?’ Brunetti asked, trying to sound like an insurance adjuster or a friend of the family.
The younger one raised her hand in a timid gesture, like a child in elementary school who had the answer but was afraid to speak until the teacher called on her.
‘Did you, Signora?’ Brunetti asked in his softest voice.
She cleared her throat and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Was he a client here?’
‘Yes,’ she said, then hesitated as though to signal that this was only half of the answer she wanted to give and Brunetti would have to question her to get the other half.
‘Was he someone you knew, as well, not just a client?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask how that was, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, tilted his chin, and smiled to show his innocent curiosity.
‘I went to school with his brother’s grandson,’ she said. ‘When we were kids.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Brunetti said, smiling at this happy coincidence. ‘The islands are so close.’ He might have been speaking of geography, but he might as well have been commenting on the fact that everyone knew everyone. And their business, and their private life. He nodded in satisfaction and he could see her slowly begin to relax.
‘He married a friend of my sister,’ she added, as if Brunetti had asked about her childhood friend and not Casati.
‘I see,’ Brunetti said and forced his entire body to relax. ‘And Signor Casati, did you know him?’
She turned in evident distress to her older colleague, who took this as a request that she answer for her. ‘Dorotea handles parcels, so she knew him. I take care of pensions.’ Then, as if she feared being accused of having provided insufficient information, she added, ‘We both can do pensions.’ Having said this, she placed her hand on the pile of papers, as though taking an oath upon them.
‘Ah, parcels,’ Brunetti said, returning his attention to Dorotea. ‘So if he received a parcel or sent one, he’d have had your help?’ Even as he phrased it, Brunetti knew he would have to travel widely in the country to find anyone who would pose the question in this way when referring to the service doled out by the Ufficio Postale. But she smiled and nodded, so perhaps that was how she envisioned her work.
‘Yes, I helped him a number of times,’ she said proudly.
‘Ah,’ came Brunetti’s polite expression of surprise. ‘Did he receive a lot of parcels?’
‘No, but he sent some, especially in the last few months.’ She glanced aside at her colleague, who gave a small nod of approval, and went on, her voice taking on a confiding tone. ‘He told me he tried to do it with DHL, but after he spent a half-hour on the phone without getting in touch with them, he gave up and decided to come to us.’
‘I see, I see,’ Brunetti muttered. Then, seeming to recall that they had been talking about parcels, he asked, ‘Were they big things he was sending?’
‘No. Small. Less than half a kilo. And as long as it’s small, we’re really much cheaper than DHL. And just as fast most of the time,’ she added quickly, perhaps hoping that Brunetti had something small in his pocket he wanted to send.
Brunetti nodded thanks to her implied offer while he tried to think of a country where the scientific testing of insects and soil might be done. ‘Are those the ones he sent to Germany?’