‘Millions,’ Griffoni said, freed by Brunetti’s question to launch her own attack. She’d interrupted as though she’d just seen that amount flying past and called out its name to catch its attention. ‘I’m sure they’d like to stop paying all that money.’ She smiled amiably.
Pozzi’s mouth gaped in surprise. He joined his hands together and then separated them and pressed them flat on his thighs. Brunetti averted his eyes and his curiosity from those thighs.
Never tease a cripple. ‘If they thought the information came from you or Signor Bianchi, then I suppose you’d have to content yourself with whatever facility your state pension would permit you,’ Brunetti mused aloud.
Griffoni smiled and added, ‘I’m sure they’d let you take the prosthetic legs with you, Signore.’
As though she’d struck him a blow in the chest, Pozzi gasped and bent forward, one hand clutched to his heart.
‘And since you’d both be coming from the same place, and you’d been colleagues at work, years ago, they’d probably try to put you and Signor Bianchi in the same room,’ Brunetti added. This was the way mobs worked, he realized: one person started it, and then the others joined in, always an escalation, always harder blows, a few kicks once they were down, surround them, and then go in for the kill.
Pozzi’s hand was still on his heart but his breathing had slowed. ‘What do you want?’
Griffoni glanced at Brunetti, an expression of innocent surprise on her face. She said nothing; now, Brunetti saw, they were slowly walking around their prey, looking to find the weak point where they could begin.
‘You said, “This little piggy stayed home”, Signor Pozzi. Do you think you could tell me exactly where it stayed?’ Brunetti asked in a friendly voice, quite as though he were asking where he might find the barber who had given this man such a good haircut.
‘I don’t remember saying that,’ Pozzi said.
‘How strange,’ Griffoni said. ‘I remember hearing you say it.’
Brunetti looked at her. ‘So do I.’ He waved a hand towards what he knew to be the empty pocket of her skirt and asked, ‘Was the tape recorder on?’
She glanced at her watch and pushed at the dial on the right. ‘Yes, Commissario. It was.’
Brunetti smiled across at Pozzi and said, ‘What a relief we have the recording, Signore, should there be any question about our conversation.’ He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and said, ‘Now, as I was saying, just where was it the little piggy stayed?’
Pozzi turned his head and looked towards his bedroom, and Brunetti realized he was probably looking for his legs and regretting that they were in the other room. Pushing aside shame, Brunetti said, ‘We’d also like to know what happened between you and Signor Bianchi.’
Like a goaded animal, Pozzi squealed even before the stick hit him. ‘How do you know about that?’ he demanded, not even bothering to deny it.
Brunetti shrugged; Griffoni sat quietly and said nothing.
Pozzi looked at the door that he would have been able to reach had he been wearing his legs. His hand moved to the right pocket of his dressing gown, but he merely patted the telefonino that must be there; he did not pull it out. Perhaps he feared that these people would take it from him?
When it became evident that neither of them was going to answer him, Pozzi said, sounding like a grumpy child, ‘He told me about his conversation with Casati. Casati had told Bianchi he was going to call the police.’
‘Why would Casati do a thing like that, Signor Pozzi?’ Brunetti asked.
Pozzi considered the question, looked past Brunetti and out the window at the roses. When Brunetti saw the tightness around his eyes disappear, he knew he was going to lie: after so long a pause, only the truth would be stressful, a lie a relief.
‘Bianchi told me he didn’t say,’ Pozzi answered.
‘Why would Casati do a thing like that?’ Brunetti repeated softly, as though Pozzi had not answered.
Pozzi was taken aback by the question, as though he had never thought about what another person might desire. He made no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘How would I know what went on in his head?’
‘I thought you knew him, that you’d been friends.’
Pozzi snorted at the idea. ‘We worked together, years ago. That’s not friendship.’
‘What is?’ Griffoni interrupted to ask.
When Brunetti glanced at her, he could tell that the question was a real one, and for some reason it was important to her. He decided to see if Pozzi would answer her.
Pozzi returned to his study of the roses, and Brunetti began to feel overcome by the heat of the room and the sight of this man covered and draped in wool. He found himself thinking about the cause: did the loss of his legs slow down his circulation and thus make him more vulnerable to the cold? What did he do in the winter?
‘I don’t know,’ Pozzi finally said. ‘Bianchi was his friend. Why don’t you go and ask him?’
‘Maybe we’d better,’ Brunetti said, and got to his feet.
29
Neither of them wanted to deal with Signora Segalin, so by common consent they let themselves into the rose garden and started across the grass towards the gazebo, where a man sat in a wicker chair, back turned to them, his attention and voice directed at someone they could not see. When they recognized Signor Bianchi’s voice, they found themselves in the embarrassing position of seeming to sneak up on him.
Before they could announce themselves, however, Bianchi said, in an artificially loud voice, ‘I think our guests have come back, Bardo. Why don’t you go and say hello to them?’ The head of the dog appeared under the back of Bianchi’s chair, and when the rest of his body arrived, he trotted down the stairs to greet them. Either he had recognized their smell, or Bianchi’s voice had established the tone, for he came to them quite cheerfully and sat.
Griffoni stooped down and rubbed his head and neck. The dog’s tail stirred the gravel. He got up, moved to Brunetti and sat down again. Brunetti bent and patted his head a few times, saying, ‘It’s good to see you again, Bardo,’ then pressed a knuckle to his lips, hearing himself using that verb.
‘You’ve come back to ask more questions?’ Bianchi asked, speaking loudly enough for them to hear him clearly.
‘Yes, we have,’ Brunetti answered. ‘We’ve just been speaking to your colleague, Signor Pozzi.’
Bianchi turned in his chair to face them. ‘I imagine he wasn’t much help to you.’ He called to the dog, who ran up the steps and jumped into his lap. ‘He’s a very evasive man,’ Bianchi said. Then, sounding almost hospitable, he added, ‘Bardo seems to like you both, so why don’t you come up here and sit with me? That woman’s left the chairs where they were yesterday.’
While they were coming up the steps, Bianchi said, taking a childlike pride in it, ‘No one manages to sneak up on me,’ not explaining whether it was his hearing or Bardo’s that had detected and identified them.
‘But he didn’t bark,’ Brunetti, who had taken the seat facing Bianchi, said.