He moved his eyes back to Pozzi and saw that the man had been watching him as he discovered the titles of the books. Their eyes met, and Brunetti gave a relaxed smile and small nod of approval.
Griffoni was drawing breath, no doubt to repeat her question, when Brunetti cut her off by saying, ‘I didn’t know the Hughes book had been translated into Italian.’
Pozzi answered in an entirely conversational voice. ‘It hasn’t been, as far as I know. I read the English text.’ When Brunetti said nothing, Pozzi added, ‘I’ve always liked the way he writes, ever since The Shock of the New.’
‘It’s been a long time since I read it,’ Brunetti said, ‘but I still remember my surprise when he explained the change in the way people perceived landscape once they could move through it smoothly in a machine.’
‘And fast, without the viewer being joggled along by a carriage or a horse,’ Pozzi added. ‘It’s so obvious, isn’t it? But, as you say, so surprising to realize.’
‘It’s nice to see the Moroni,’ Brunetti added. ‘I’ve always liked his work.’
‘It must be wonderful to see the real paintings,’ Pozzi said with the wide-eyed wonder of a lover of art and without a hair’s breadth of self-pity. ‘I wish …’
Brunetti thought a long time before he risked saying, ‘I think there are two or three in Milano, but not in the same museum. And the Accademia Carrara in Bergamo is full of them. Can’t you get them to take you there?’
‘It’s not so easy,’ Pozzi said.
‘Why?’ Brunetti asked, his question implying something – laziness, perhaps – on the part of the staff or perhaps on Pozzi’s part. ‘They must have some sort of van here, so all they’d have to do is put you in a wheelchair and take you there.’ He smiled as at a sudden revelation. ‘With the handicapped sticker, they can park just about anywhere, so they don’t have to worry about that. And you’d probably be right in front of the building. Nothing’s easier.’
It came to Brunetti that for this man nothing was easy, so his remark must have seemed a taunt or a provocation. ‘I mean nothing’s easier than to arrange it, Signore; not to do it. Only you know how difficult that is.’
Pozzi raised his eyebrows, as though in appreciation of Brunetti’s frankness, and returned his attention to Griffoni. ‘You asked me if I was working for GCM Holdings, Signorina. May I ask you the reason for your curiosity?’ How had Pozzi learned to speak like that? Brunetti wondered. A factory worker certainly had not learned it from the people with whom he had worked, and Signorina Segalin said he spoke very little here. Brunetti glanced around and saw no television, nor was there sign of a radio; not that either provided much in the way of an example of how to speak. Books, then?
‘Because we are not from the social services, Signor Pozzi,’ Griffoni said, speaking in her normal voice and not that of the fresh-faced woman from the social services she had been impersonating until now. ‘Signora Segalin has confused things. We’re from the police.’
Pozzi watched Griffoni for a long time, his now indisputably intelligent face changing, as though he were considering the possibility of returning to the listless creature he had been when they came in. Brunetti saw the man’s attention appear to go in and out of focus, his expression dull-witted and then astute, only to lapse again into complete apathy. Finally Pozzi asked, ‘Are you here about the fire?’ in a voice so neutral it could have been that of a machine.
Surprised, Griffoni asked, ‘Did Signor Bianchi tell you?’
Surprised in his turn, Pozzi asked, ‘You spoke to him?’
‘Yes. Yesterday.’
‘What did he tell you?’
Griffoni turned and gave Brunetti an inquisitive look: it was his investigation, after all.
The man liked Moroni, Brunetti reflected. He nodded to Griffoni.
‘He told us what happened in the fire,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ Pozzi said, prolonging his response until it was a sustained, low noise. ‘That he tried to stop Casati from lighting a cigarette?’
‘Yes,’ Griffoni answered.
‘And Casati carried him from the building?’ Pozzi asked, as though he were now the person conducting the investigation.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, at least that’s true,’ Pozzi said.
‘What isn’t?’ Griffoni asked.
Pozzi gave a weak smile. ‘I probably spoke too soon. It’s more likely that he asked Casati for a light: they both smoked in places where it was prohibited. I caught them a number of times.’
‘And reported it?’ Griffoni broke in to ask.
‘Yes. Always.’
‘Did it stop them?’ she asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Pozzi said with the air of someone explaining a simple human truth to an even more simple-minded person. ‘But I wasn’t with them when the fire started, and one should never jump to conclusions, should one?’
‘If they didn’t start it, what could have caused the fire?’ Brunetti asked.
Pozzi appeared to think about this before he said, ‘Carelessness, neglect, negligence, contempt for safety standards and for the workers.’ He saw their surprise. ‘But above all, a desire to spend less money: always and ever. That was their goal.’
‘Of the company?’ Griffoni asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you worked for them?’
‘Yes,’ Pozzi said, looking down at the blanket and pulling it closer to his chest, as though eager for the warmth it provided. The gesture made Brunetti suddenly conscious of the sweat soaking into the back of his jacket and under his arms.
‘What were you doing for them?’ Brunetti asked.
‘We had a contract to dispose of some of the materials used in the petrochemical plants,’ Pozzi began. ‘Once the materials were collected and put into barrels, they were shipped to the various plants that would treat them. I was the logistical engineer in charge of the project.’
‘Contaminating materials?’ Brunetti asked.
Pozzi looked at the back of his right hand and carefully spread out the fingers, as though he’d been asked to prove that they were all there and was proud to be able to show that they were. Looking back at Brunetti, he added, ‘Whatever was on the list of what had to be removed.’
‘Such as?’
‘Molybdenum, chrome, dioxin, arsenic, mercury,’ he said, banging down on each word as though his voice were a hammer. ‘Many more, I’m sure; those are the ones that come to mind after all these years. And, of course, a great deal of highly flammable liquids.’
Brunetti, struck by the ease with which he pronounced the last two words, asked, ‘You don’t think about it any more?’
Pozzi tilted his head to one side as he considered this, then said, ‘No, I suppose I don’t; not any more. I try to think about paintings and lines and colours and how objects are placed to create perspective and how difficult it is to paint eyes.’
‘And where did these materials go?’ Brunetti asked, not interested in the problems of perspective.
‘They were supposed to go to Germany and Sweden, and Austria, all countries which had, and have, far better facilities for processing them than we do.’