Drawing himself to his full height and taking one step into the small office, Brunetti waved a hand toward his ear, a gesture Lieutenant Scarpa could interpret as a salute and, if so, would have to stand up straight to return. The habit of obedience brought the Lieutenant forward and upright. He raised his right hand to his forehead, and as he did he gave a very knowing smile that showed how well he understood Brunetti’s attempt to impose his power and found it quaint, if not useless. ‘Commissario,’ he said, as if he’d only then noticed Brunetti.
‘Is that all you wanted, Lieutenant?’ Signorina Elettra asked, this time not wasting any energy in a smile.
‘For the moment, yes, Signorina,’ the Lieutenant said and took his leave.
When he was sure that Scarpa had started up the stairs, Brunetti asked, ‘Did he catch you reading his emails?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ she said, voice rich with astonishment at the very idea. ‘But someone else has been in there, looking around.’
‘Who?’ Brunetti inquired.
She shook his question away and said, ‘It might be the same person who’s been looking at the Vice-Questore’s.’
‘Someone from the Ministry?’ he asked, wondering what could be going on if the Ministry were spying on its own internal correspondence. ‘Is he good enough,’ Brunetti asked, tilting his head towards the door Scarpa had just used, ‘to detect it?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, and Brunetti had to confess that the admission came to her grudgingly.
‘Do you have any idea what they might be after?’
She raised her chin, as though to provide herself with a better view of the ceiling. Or the stars. The only sign that she had not lapsed into a profound coma was her mouth. Her lips drew together as though about to sip at a mountain pool, pulled back in a grimace of mild exasperation, then relaxed completely as she continued her communion with something Brunetti would never grasp.
Without warning, her Higher Power released her, and she looked across at Brunetti to say, ‘Giorgio will find out.’
Giorgio, Brunetti thought, the cyber equivalent of the deus ex machina. ‘Do you need his help for this?’
She propped her chin on her left palm and poked idly at her keyboard: a pianist in search of a better tune, a small bird pecking for something to eat.
‘Yes, I do, Commissario,’ she said and looked up at him. ‘It matters enough to involve him. What happened to the Vice-Questore’s mail was not a friendly thing: it was attempted burglary. So if we can find out who did it, we can perhaps get an idea of what they’re looking for. It’s always good to know what even the enemies of your enemies are after.’
‘Do you think the Vice-Questore and the Lieutenant have enemies?’ he asked, goading her into a startled look.
When she refused to answer, he asked, ‘Is there any reason they’d have enemies?’
She smiled. ‘Let me count the ways.’
7
‘And Contessa Lando-Continui?’ he asked,
Rather than answer, Signorina Elettra turned away from him and hit the keys of her computer, eyes riveted to the screen. ‘Have a look,’ she said eagerly, waving at Brunetti to come around and stand behind her.
He saw what looked like the first page of Il Gazzettino. The page layout was the one they’d long ago abandoned; the date was fifteen years before. ‘Young Noblewoman Injured in Accident,’ he read. ‘Last night, near midnight, Manuela Lando-Continui, daughter of Teodoro Lando-Continui and Barbara Magello-Ronchi and granddaughter of the late Conte Marcello Lando-Continui and Contessa Demetriana Lando-Continui, was rescued from the waters of the Rio San Boldo. A passer-by who saw her struggling dived into the dark waters of the canal and pulled the girl to safety before himself collapsing.
‘Another man rushed to the assistance of both and administered artificial respiration to the girl, who was later taken to the Ospedale Civile, where her prognosis is reported as “critical”. The police, who arrived at the scene, are treating the incident as an accident.’
Just as Brunetti finished reading it, Signorina Elettra, who had taken his position on the windowsill, said, ‘The next two articles continue the story.’
He scrolled the page down and saw the photo of a young girl dressed in a white shirt, perhaps a man’s, the bottom almost reaching the knees of her faded jeans. She stood with her left arm hanging loose in front of her, the ends of the reins woven around her fingers, her right arm draped over the shoulder of a dark horse whose head was lowered and pressed into her stomach, showing only one eye and ear. The horse’s mouth was open, and it appeared to be nibbling at one of the buttons on her shirt.
The girl’s hair, long and dark, was brushed back from a broad forehead. She smiled happily at the camera, fresh-faced, caught just at the point in her life when she would begin the change from a pretty girl to a beautiful woman. Her expression asked the person taking the photo if this weren’t perhaps the most wonderful day of their lives? She wore riding boots and stood on tiptoe the better to embrace her horse.
‘Pretty girl,’ Brunetti comented, only then realizing this was the first time he had seen a photo of her.
‘Yes, she was, wasn’t she?’ Signorina Elettra asked.
‘ “Was?” ’ Brunetti inquired.