He heard footsteps behind him; when he turned, the woman was back with papers in her hand. She went over to the table and laid them, only two of them, on the table: they were photos.
‘This is Manuela,’ she said. ‘The only thing my husband ever said was that she was as good as she was beautiful and what happened to her was horrible.’ After a long pause, she added, ‘He cried about it once.’ Then, pointing to the photos, she said, ‘You can see why.’
Brunetti and Griffoni joined her beside the table and looked at the photos, one in black and white and one in colour. It was the same girl he’d seen in the photo in the newspaper, looking just as young – or old. But here she sat on the fence where they had stood a half-hour before, her face raised to the sun, eyes closed, apparently unaware of the camera.
In the second, she was mounted, high boots and helmet, tight jeans, sweater and scarf. She was as radiant and as beautiful as in the other, her face a collection of perfections.
The horse was a dark chestnut, quite as beautiful – at least to Brunetti’s ignorant eye – as the girl. The hair on its left flank gleamed, the light creating shadows among the muscles and tendons of the leg. From under the saddle peeped the edge of a red saddle blanket. The girl looked serious, and the horse looked happy.
‘Is that her horse?’ Brunetti asked.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Griffoni said. Brunetti somehow knew she was talking about the horse.
‘Yes. My husband always liked her because she was so sweet-tempered, so when Manuela didn’t come back and the family said they didn’t want her any more, he kept her, and she became the beginners’ horse.’ Then, reflectively, she added, ‘She was here when I came, and she’s the only one left – horse or human – who was. Nobody much rides her now.’ In answer to their evident curiosity, she went on. ‘There’s not a lot of work for me today. I board a couple of horses, but the days are gone when people could afford lessons for their children. Or to keep a horse.’
‘But you still keep her?’ Griffoni asked.
The woman smiled. ‘She knew my husband.’
Griffoni nodded and said, ‘Of course.’ Then, ‘Could I ride her?’
‘Now?’ the woman asked, surprised.
‘No, some other time. If I came out.’
‘Of course. She’d love the company, I’m sure.’ Then, after a moment’s reflection, she added, ‘She’s a bit slow, I’m afraid, but it’s a joy to ride her. She’s not what she was.’
‘None of us is,’ Griffoni said, then laughed out loud. She got to her feet. ‘We have the number, so I’ll call, all right?’
‘Yes. Oh, she’ll be so happy.’
‘Me, too,’ Griffoni said and turned away to go back to the car.
When they emerged into the sunlight they saw the driver standing on the first railing and scratching the space between the eyes of a dark brown horse.
‘Let’s go,’ Brunetti called over to him.
The officer jumped down and came towards the car. Hector was still asleep and did not wake when the officer stepped over him. Brunetti and Griffoni gave their thanks to the woman and made their farewells. As they started to get into the car, Signora degli Specchi said, speaking to Griffoni, ‘You’ll really come back, won’t you?’
‘Is that her?’ Griffoni asked, pointing to the horse the driver had been scratching. Brunetti looked over at the horse, who was looking back at them. She was thinner than in her photo, her coat less glossy: he supposed this made horses look older, but he wasn’t sure.
‘Yes. Petunia.’ As if to prove it, she called over to the horse, ‘Petunia, who’s a pretty girl?’
The horse gave an answering whinny.
‘I’ll be back,’ Griffoni said and got into the car.
The return journey to Venice was subdued, but there was an atmosphere of satisfaction and complicity that made speech unnecessary. As they started across the bridge leading to Piazzale Roma, the driver said, ‘Petunia,’ and laughed at the memory. Neither of the people in the back said anything; the car pulled up in front of the landing, where the driver had ordered a boat to pick them up.
Away from the freedom provided by a day in the country, back into routine, the driver came around to open Griffoni’s door. As she got out, he raised a hand in what might have been a salute but might have been the friendly wave of one colleague to another.
She followed Brunetti down the steps and on to the police launch. When they were seated in the cabin, Brunetti said, ‘Do we bother to look for the people who were working there fifteen years ago?’
Her answer was immediate. ‘The fact that you didn’t ask her for a list of names means you don’t think it’s worth it, I’d say,’ but she said it with a smile, then asked, ‘What’s left for us to do?’
‘Talk to the mother,’ he said, already dialling the number the Contessa had given him.
‘Pronto,’ a woman’s voice answered on the seventh ring, sounding anything but pronto.
‘Signora Magello-Ronchi?’