‘Why do we need so much stuff?’ Brunetti asked, turning to look at the buildings on the other side, equal in kind, variety, and size.
No one answered him. Perhaps because so many of us had second houses, he reflected, we had more space to fill with stuff, or perhaps people now had what was called ‘disposable income’, while his parents had barely had an income.
‘It’s only another couple of kilometres,’ the driver said.
‘You know the place?’
The driver laughed at the thought. ‘I know about it, but I’ve never been there.’ He concentrated on passing another car and then said, ‘The only horse I ever touched was my father’s, and all that horse did was pull a wagon and eat a lot of grass.’
‘And you saw that?’ Brunetti asked, unable to stifle his reaction. ‘A wagon?’
‘Well, only for us kids. My parents never really used it, but every once in a while they’d hitch him up to it and take us all for a ride. We were mad for it. I was just a little kid, but I still remember.’
‘What happened to the horse?’ Griffoni asked.
‘Oh, he died.’
‘What did your parents do?’ Brunetti asked, curious to know how a dead horse could have been disposed of.
The driver waited a long time before he asked, ‘Can I tell the truth?’
‘Of course,’ they both answered.
‘My father dug a hole in the field with his backhoe, and then he picked him up with the front end of it and lowered him into the grave, and we kids all threw flowers on him, and then he covered him over and told us not to tell anyone what he’d done.’ The driver had slowed down while he told them this, and first one car, then another, passed them without his seeming to notice.
No one spoke until a wooden fence appeared and ran beside them on the right. ‘That’s it,’ the driver said, leaning forward to tap his finger on the screen of the GPS.
Not far ahead of them, they saw a gate set back about ten metres from the road. The driver pulled up to it and stopped. There was a hand-printed sign saying to close the gate after entering, so he got out, drove through, and then went back to close it. Brunetti noticed a speakerphone system in place on the left side of the gate, but the handset was cracked and hung from a wire.
When he was behind the wheel again, the driver started up the narrow road running between twin wooden-fenced paddocks on either side. ‘Just like Texas,’ he said.
Neither of them answered. They drove forward on an asphalt road that had seen better times. Leaves from the plane trees on both sides lay thick but failed to buffer them from the holes into which the car drove, bouncing them about on the seat. They followed a curve in the road and drew to a stop in front of a low stone building with arched windows and a tiled roof.
An old brown dog of indeterminate ancestry ambled around the corner of the building and approached the car. He ignored them and didn’t bother to bark, moved to the driver’s door and flopped down on the ground. The driver opened the door very slowly and climbed over the dog. He looked up at the driver, put his head down and appeared to go to sleep.
Brunetti and Griffoni got out and all three of them closed their doors very quietly. A woman with short wispy grey hair came out of the front door of the house, looking worried. ‘Hector didn’t frighten you, did he?’ she asked with real concern. Her eyes were hazel and seemed lighter in contrast to her tan, the permanent sort common to people who spend most of their time outdoors. She smiled as she approached them. Small, well into her sixties by the look of her, she was wiry and quick-moving, and wore jeans, riding boots, and a thick man’s sweater a few sizes too large for her.
‘You must be the police,’ she said, sounding delighted, as though the name cards on the dinner table said ‘Police’ and, now that they were there, dinner could finally begin. She smiled again, smoothing out for a moment the barcode wrinkles above her lips.
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, taking her extended hand. ‘I’m Commissario Brunetti.’ Her grip burst two of the blisters on his right palm and, had he been of weaker stuff, would have brought him to his knees.
As it was, he sucked in some air and turned to his colleague, saying, ‘And this is Commissario Griffoni.’ The woman released his hand and took Griffoni’s, saying, ‘I’m Enrichetta degli Specchi. Thank you for coming.’
Griffoni showed delight at her greeting and asked, ‘Are you Giovanni’s cousin?’
The woman stepped back and took another look at Griffoni. ‘Yes, I am. Do you know him?’
Griffoni’s face radiated her own pleasure. ‘We rode together, years ago,’ she said, then, after she’d spent a few seconds counting them, added, ‘almost twenty.’ And immediately, ‘He often spoke of you.’
‘Tell me your name again, please,’ the woman asked, tilting her head and staring at Griffoni with great interest.