Bianchi made a light, chuckling sound. ‘Probably about football. Davide was mad for it.’
Brunetti injected some testosterone into his voice and said, ‘And last Saturday Inter wiped the floor with Pescara, so if he was an Inter fan, he would have been especially excited.’
‘Yes, that’s what he talked about,’ Bianchi said, sounding distressed. ‘He always forgot how little I care about it now.’
As if in apology for his own enthusiasm, Brunetti said, ‘I think we all get a little carried away when there’s a victory like that: seven/zero. I can’t remember the last time Pescara was beaten that badly.’ He put a great deal of self-satisfied triumph into his last sentence.
‘Yes, that’s pretty much what Davide said.’
‘Commissario,’ Griffoni interrupted, ‘I hardly think Signor Bianchi needs to listen to the football news again. Or,’ she said, putting her hand on Bardo’s neck and giving a small tickle, ‘piccolo Bardo, either.’
‘Oh,’ Bianchi said, smiling, ‘He doesn’t know he’s small.’ Then, turning his head towards the wall, he added, ‘He’s not small to me.’
Brunetti got to his feet and, looking down at the claw that rested on Bardo’s back, decided not to try to shake hands with Bianchi again. ‘I’d like to thank you for your time, Signor Bianchi.’ He stopped there, not telling the other man whether he had been helpful or not.
Griffoni stood and said much the same thing, then bent down and patted Bardo on the head a few times as a way of saying farewell to both of them.
They went down the steps and crossed the space between the gazebo and the main building, both of them suddenly aware of the heat, which the shade and the plants inside the gazebo had lessened. ‘Well?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Nice invention,’ Griffoni said.
‘What?’ Brunetti asked, complimented but still embarrassed.
‘The football game. Inter and Pescara play in different leagues; any idiot knows that. Even I do. Anyone does, even if all they do is read headlines.’
‘Well, he doesn’t read them or have them read to him, does he?’
‘Apparently not, but apart from this he wanted us to believe Casati still called him on Sunday, and they chatted like old friends.’ She stopped, and turned to Brunetti to say, ‘Why would he do that?’
They started walking again, and at the main building, Brunetti held open the door to allow Griffoni to pass in ahead of him. Just inside, he paused, and when she turned to look at him, Brunetti said, ‘Isn’t it strange, the way we’re so willing to assume that what handicapped people tell us is true? As if their suffering had made them honest.’
‘You don’t think it does?’ she asked.
‘Is he honest?’ Brunetti asked with a flick of his head in the direction of the gazebo.
‘I doubt it,’ Griffoni said. ‘But he loves his dog.’
Brunetti stared at her as if she had tried to interest him in a copy of The Watchtower. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said.
‘He’s been blind all these years, and yet he can still love his dog.’
‘It seems very little to me,’ Brunetti said and turned away, starting back towards the main entrance, where he hoped to find Signora Segalin in her office.
Behind him he heard Griffoni’s steps and then her voice: ‘It’s still something.’
Signora Segalin’s eyes blinked out her delight in seeing them, these kind people who had come to visit Signor Bianchi. Without giving any explanation of why they wanted the information or with what authority they requested it, Brunetti managed to be given copies of the receipts for payment of Signor Bianchi’s bills for the last year.
Casually, he slipped the folder under his arm, as if this were a mere formality, and shook hands with Signora Segalin, thanking her for all her help. She accompanied them to the door, where their car and driver awaited them. Signora Segalin seemed to give this no special importance: perhaps she was accustomed to guests who arrived in cars with drivers.
Beyond the gates, they turned on to the state highway and returned to the real world. ‘But I still think he’s manipulative and dishonest,’ Griffoni said, as if she were finally completing her last sentence.
Brunetti smiled and opened the file that lay on his lap.
‘Who pays them?’ she asked.
‘GCM Holdings,’ he answered.
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Me neither,’ Brunetti said. He pulled out his phone.
‘Who are they?’
Brunetti pressed in one of the autodial numbers; both of them heard it ringing.
‘Who are they?’ Griffoni repeated; perhaps he had not heard her.
He turned aside from the phone and said, ‘We’ll know when we get back.’
The phone clicked, and a woman’s voice said, ‘Ah, Commissario, how can I help you?’
26
And so it was. They went directly to Signorina Elettra’s office from the boat and found her – it must be said – preening. A number of papers lay on her desk.
‘Casati’s employer?’ Brunetti asked when they entered, nodding in the direction of the papers.
‘Sì, Signore, in a way,’ she said with an easy smile. ‘In its current incarnation, it’s a construction company, owned by Gianclaudio Maschietto.’ She nodded towards the screen. ‘There’s more.’
Brunetti thought he had read the name of the owner, a successful entrepreneur in the north-east. ‘I know his name, but that’s all.’ A whiff of memory came, and he added, ‘Something about a church?’ He glanced aside at Griffoni. ‘You, Claudia? Anything?’
She tilted her head and stared at the wall. ‘No. Not even the name.’
Signorina Elettra nodded to confirm his memory. ‘I’ve made you each a copy of what I found. If you’d like to read it, I’ll make some calls.’
‘To friends?’ Brunetti asked.
‘To friends,’ she assented.
‘Come on, Claudia,’ Brunetti said and picked up the papers. Seeing how many there were, he suggested they go to his office to read them and leave Signorina Elettra to get on with her work.
The windows of his office had been closed for some time, and it took Brunetti a moment to decide whether it would be better to leave them closed or to let the air into the room. The windows faced east; he pulled them open and was enveloped in a Saharan wave of desiccated air.