She walked quickly to the gazebo and climbed its three steps. Brunetti watched her approach a man in a white wicker chair, a small dog sitting alertly at his side: he, unlike his owner, watched Signora Segalin draw close. One parent had apparently been a Jack Russell; the other was anyone’s guess, so long as it was a dog with very long legs. The dog stood and went over to Signora Segalin, who bent down and scratched at one of its ears.
Brunetti and Griffoni exchanged glances: a dog in a nursing home. The dog turned his attention to the other humans and studied them as they studied the man in the chair. The man, too, had had at least one parent with very long legs, for his knees rose high in front of him, creating a slanted lap on which they could see an old-fashioned transistor radio in his left hand.
Bianchi, for this must be Zeno Bianchi, wore large dark glasses that covered his eyes and much of his upper face but failed to cover the slick red scar that began at the left hairline, appeared to trail under the glasses, then slithered straight down his right cheek and beneath the open collar of his shirt. There was another patch of tight red skin on the right side of his forehead, beginning at his temple and cutting a jagged line upward through his short white hair.
Brunetti knew him to be close in age to Casati, but he seemed years older, with deep hollows in his cheeks and a great deal of wattled skin to the left of the scar under his chin. Even in the cloying heat of July he wore a wool tweed jacket, white shirt, and tie. The upper part of his body curved forward, emphasizing the way his shoulders pushed at the shoulders of his jacket. A woollen plaid blanket bearing signs that it was shared by the dog lay across his lap. He wore light woollen trousers and dark brown shoes.
‘Signor Bianchi,’ Signora Segalin announced, ‘you have visitors. From the social services.’ She bent to the dog and said, ‘Bardo, you have guests.’ The dog wagged his tail at the news. Bianchi gave no response.
Brunetti and Griffoni approached the man and the dog. Because Bianchi could not see them, Brunetti did not extend his hand, but Bianchi put his left one out in an entirely normal manner, and they both shook it; and, in turn, told him their names.
‘Please,’ Signora Segalin said, moving quickly to some wicker chairs and sliding two of them to face Bianchi. ‘Sit down. Be comfortable,’ she told them as they took their places in the chairs. ‘I’ve got to go back to the office, but you can come and tell me when you’ve solved Signor Bianchi’s problems for him.’ Long experience with the blind man had apparently taught her not to waste her smiles on him, but she did give a small flash, really little more than a spark, to Bardo, who failed to see it, so eager was he to sniff the shoes and ankles of the new people.
‘Is he behaving himself?’ Bianchi asked, turning his face in their direction. His voice was weak and high-pitched; Brunetti wondered if he had breathed in fire all those years ago and damaged his vocal cords.
‘Yes, he is,’ Griffoni said, patting at her lap. Bardo needed little more than that and sprang up, turned a few tight circles before curling himself into another one, careful to place his head where he could keep an eye on Bianchi.
Absently, Griffoni put her hand on the dog’s head and, as if milking a cow, began to pull at his ears. Bardo made a small noise and Bianchi said, ‘He doesn’t like to have his ears touched. Try his neck.’
When Griffoni did, the noise changed: it was surprisingly like the purring of a cat. ‘Good,’ Bianchi said. ‘He likes that.’ Brunetti heard a far-off woman’s voice: perhaps there was someone walking in the rose garden behind them.
‘What is it you’d like from me?’ Bianchi startled them by asking.
Griffoni shot a glance at Brunetti; the remark had been made in a very curt voice. ‘I’m afraid Signora Segalin confused things,’ she said. ‘I told her I’d taken a degree in Public Administration, and she drew the wrong conclusion.’
‘And the right conclusion?’ Bianchi asked, speaking above the woman’s voice.
‘We’re from the police.’
Bianchi said nothing, and Griffoni returned to scratching Bardo’s head. The purring noise started again, managing to block out the invisible woman’s voice.
‘And what is it you want?’ Bianchi asked.
‘We’d like you to tell us about your friendship with Davide Casati,’ Brunetti said. Bianchi turned sharply in the direction of Brunetti’s voice but turned too far: his sunglasses were directed to the left of Brunetti’s shoulder.
Bardo shifted on to his side, exposing his neck. ‘He likes to be scratched there,’ Bianchi repeated.
‘Most dogs don’t,’ Griffoni said.
After a long pause, Bianchi answered, ‘He’s very trusting.’ Then, using the past tense to make it clear he was not talking about Bardo, he went on, ‘We were friends for a long time. Best friends. I’m very sorry for his death.’
‘His daughter told us you spoke to him often,’ Brunetti said.
Bianchi didn’t answer. He moved his hand a bit, and it was then that Brunetti realized the woman’s voice was coming from the radio he held. He hadn’t seen one like it for years: black, rectangular, the size of the old Walkman, with a small metal antenna poking out of one corner. As he watched, Bianchi brought his right hand out from under the blanket and used what remained of it to anchor the radio while he moved a dial with the intact fingers of the other hand. The voice of a woman speaking with militant cheerfulness grew louder: ‘The Blessed Virgin asks us to join her in the worship of her beloved Son. By reciting the rosary together, we earn her grace and favour. Today we recite the Joyful Mysteries, so let us begin with contemplation of the Annunciation and declare that the time for the Incarnation is at hand.’
The maimed hand put Brunetti in mind of the front end of a crab, a hard pink carapace with two pincers made of thumb and pinkie. He tore his eyes away and looked helplessly at Griffoni: what could they do if Bianchi chose to have them listen to the recitation of the rosary? It began, a chorus of female voices murmuring the incantation he recalled from his childhood.
‘That’s Radio Maria, isn’t it, Signor Bianchi?’ Griffoni asked in a friendly, interested voice.
Bianchi’s head swivelled until he was facing in her direction. His left hand moved again, and the voice lowered and almost disappeared. ‘Do you know the programme?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Griffoni said with raw delight. ‘My mother listens to it every day.’
‘She’s a believer?’ the blind man asked.
‘Of course,’ Griffoni said again, strongly, proudly.
‘Are you?’
Griffoni turned to Brunetti, raised her eyebrows, and shrugged. ‘Yes,’ she said, then added with audible regret, ‘Perhaps I don’t do as much as I should – Mass – but I believe.’ Then, with sudden force, ‘It’s a good thing. I can’t imagine how …’ She let her voice fall off. Anyone who didn’t know her would be entirely persuaded of her sincerity.
Brunetti heard a click, and the droning voice of the women reciting the rosary was silenced.