With that they set off, Brunetti taking the lead because he knew the way. He cut to the right without having to think about it, over the bridge, dodged a few tourists and turned back to be sure that the women were close behind him. A long, empty patch lay ahead of them, and he picked up speed, just as the rain picked up energy. Another bridge, another short stretch, quick right and then left, another bridge. To protect his back from the rain, he held his umbrella almost at the horizontal, the shaft resting on his shoulder. He heard an occasional whoop of laughter from behind him.
Two men wearing raincoats approached from the opposite direction. Their umbrellas were lowered against the fierce wind coming straight at them, so all he saw of them were their legs and large, thick shoes. The rain had already soaked the front of their trousers, as it had the backs of his own trousers below his raincoat.
Brunetti tilted his umbrella to the side and was quickly past them, when a perverse gust hit him in the face, soaking him and almost yanking the umbrella from his hands. From behind him, he heard a violent snap as an umbrella was torn inside out. There was a noise and then something slid into the back of his left foot. He turned and saw that an errant gust of him wind had blown an eviscerated umbrella into him. One of the men came back towards him to pick up his umbrella but, seeing it was broken, kicked it to the side of the street. The other saw his near his own feet and left it there. Both turned and continued on their way.
Brunetti shoved the umbrella out of the way with his foot, then heard a piercing scream like that of an animal in a trap. Manuela and Griffoni had been behind him. He dropped his umbrella at the sound, turned and started in their direction. He saw Manuela backed up against the window of a shop, hands thrust out in front, face mad with terror. ‘No,’ she screamed, turning the word into a siren. ‘No.’ She tried to move away, but all she could do was step up on the narrow stone ledge beneath the window of the grocery store and try to push herself flatter against the window.
And again, ‘No!’ Like the siren for acqua alta, the word grew higher with every second. Griffoni was beside her, holding on to her raised arms. Griffoni’s head whipped around and she saw the two men, motionless, hair soaked and their wet faces washed clean of emotion by shock.
‘Leave me alone. Don’t do that. Please.’ Again, Manuela’s voice grew shriller with every outburst. Brunetti manoeuvred hurriedly around the men and raised his hands to chest height, patting at them and backing them away from the two women.
‘Please. Gentlemen. Move back, please,’ he said. Only then did he look at their faces and recognize one as Sandro Vittori-Ricciardi, who stood looking at Manuela as if looking at a portrait of his own crucifixion. The second man seemed confused and pained, unable to make sense of anything. But Vittori-Ricciardi could not control the fear on his face as Manuela continued to scream, now past words and returned to her animal noises.
Brunetti put himself between the two men, taking the arm of each. He swivelled them round and started walking them away from the women. The rain continued to pound down; by now all three men were soaked and hardly noticed it.
Speaking to the man he did not recognize, Brunetti said, ‘Signore, I’m a police officer, and I’d like to see your identification.’ Brunetti pulled out his wallet and showed his warrant card, but it was hardly necessary: the other man was reaching for his own wallet.
‘Wait a minute,’ Vittori-Ricciardi said. ‘Neither of us has done anything. We don’t have to identify ourselves to anyone. If you want to do something useful, go back and deal with that crazy woman before she attacks someone.’ He turned and started to walk away.
His friend, however, said, ‘Hold on, Sandro. There’s no reason to cause trouble.’ That said, he handed his carta d’identità to Brunetti, who took out his notebook and a pen and, hunched over to keep the page dry, wrote down the name. Gianluca Bembo. Born and still resident in Venice.
‘Grazie, Signor Bembo,’ Brunetti said as he handed back his card. ‘That’s all I need.’ Behind him, he could still hear frantic sobbing and turned towards it. The two men walked away.
When he got back to Griffoni, he found her holding the sobbing Manuela against her chest. Griffoni bent down and kissed Manuela on the head, saying, ‘That’s all right, Manuela. We’ll go to your grandmother’s now and have something hot to drink.’ When Manuela, who had stopped crying, did not move, Griffoni gave her a few gentle shakes and said, ‘Come on. It’s close by. We’ll be there in a few minutes.’
Manuela mumbled something, but her face was pressed against Griffoni’s shoulder so it was impossible for Brunetti or Griffoni to make out what she said. ‘I can’t understand you, Tesoro,’ Griffoni said, moving slightly away from her to give her space, though still keeping her arm around her shoulder. ‘What did you say?’
‘He’s a bad man,’ Manuela said. ‘He hurt me.’
Griffoni flashed a glance at Brunetti, who was looking away, seeing not the stout Sandro Vittori-Ricciardi but suddenly remembering the younger, slimmer version in the photo on the wall of Enrichetta degli Specchi’s place: the long-haired and clean-shaven young man who had reminded him of someone.
‘Do you have a plastic bag?’ he asked Griffoni.