While neither Brunetti nor the barman was paying attention to him, Vianello had taken out a notebook and pen. He asked the barman, ‘Do you know his address?’
The man gave Vianello a strange look, as if he’d suddenly found himself in a trap he hadn’t seen and didn’t know how to get out of. ‘He lives in San Giacomo dell’Orio, above the ex-Billa,’ he said, adding, ‘It’s still a supermarket, but it has a different name now.’ Then, without being asked, he opened a drawer and rooted around in it until he found a much-folded piece of paper and read dalla Lana’s telephone number from it.
‘Thanks,’ Vianello said and shoved his notebook aside, at the sight of which the man’s expression relaxed slightly.
‘You said Cavanis told you he’d remembered something,’ Brunetti began. The barman nodded. ‘Did he say anything else about it?’
The barman considered the question and picked up another glass. While he wiped it dry, he said, ‘And his luck was going to change. But,’ he added with a bittersweet smile that affirmed the vanity of human wishes, ‘his luck always was.’
Recalling the keys to the apartment, Brunetti asked, ‘Did many people come to get his keys?’
The barman laughed. ‘I think Pietro did that for effect, so he could play the vagabond with people. In the last year or so, you’re the only one who’s come.’
‘Did he work?’ Brunetti asked, aware that his professional responsibility was to check other possible motives for Cavanis’ murder and not only his long-ago act of courage.
‘Years ago. He was a baker, worked for that guy in Ruga degli Orefici. They closed last year; take-away food there now.’
‘Did he retire? Or quit?’
‘No, he had a bad liver, so he had to stop working and take his pension early; couple of years ago. That’s what he was living on.’
Vianello put on his slyest expression and asked, ‘A real liver problem, or one he and his doctor agreed on?’
‘No, no, Pietro liked his job, liked the people there. It was real; all the men in his family got sick: they’ve all been drinkers.’ A thoughtful expression crossed his face and he said, ‘He wasn’t a bad person; he was never a bad drunk, never loud. Or violent. I don’t know how much pension he could have had. Not much. But he was generous with his friends, and he never said bad things about anyone.’
‘Sounds as if you liked him,’ Vianello said.
‘Of course I liked him,’ the man said with real feeling. ‘You do this job long enough, you learn a lot about people. Some drunks are mean; some are nice people. Pietro was one of those; there was no way he could stop. It would have kil . . .’ he began but was unable to finish the sentence.
He reached into the now-cold water in the sink in front of him and pulled out a glass. He took a fresh towel from a drawer and began slowly to wipe the glass. Turning and turning it, he asked Vianello, ‘Was it very bad?’
Vianello and Brunetti exchanged a brief glance. Neither spoke, each waiting for the other to do it.
Finally, Brunetti said, ‘It was fast.’
Without a word, the barman set the glass on the shelf behind him.
21
Brunetti had sent Foa back to the Questura; now, because San Giacomo dell’Orio wasn’t very far from where they were, they decided to pass by the home of this Stefano dalla Lana. Chatting easily and paying no attention to where they were going, they made their way effortlessly to the large campo, so different now from what it had been when both of them had begun their police careers. Officers had patrolled it only in pairs then, when it was notorious as a centre for drug dealing, a place where the garbage men routinely complained about the number of used syringes on the pavement every morning. Gentrification had only just begun, but the signs were already evident: a new bar, tables still set outside, and inside everything slick and linear; a good restaurant just over the bridge towards Rialto; and the final proof for local residents of what was coming: three separate buildings wrapped in scaffolding.
‘I was down in Santa Giustina a few days ago to meet a friend for a drink,’ Vianello said with no introduction. ‘Man who runs the bar’s closing. They doubled his rent. Same with the guy who sells antiques.’ They walked another minute and then the Inspector exclaimed, half angry, half astonished, ‘Santa Giustina, for God’s sake. Who’d live down there?’
‘Foreigners, probably,’ Brunetti said as they came into the campo. They started to circle around the apse of the church and saw a tall, grey-haired man approaching them. ‘Are you the police?’ he asked as he drew near. It was a deep voice, speaking Italian clearly but with the give-away Venetian sibilance.