She started to answer but thought better of it, opened her purse and pulled out one of the distinctive yellow bags from Mascari.
Not bothering to thank her, Brunetti went back and used his still-dry handkerchief to pick up the broken umbrella that Vittori-Ricciardi had abandoned. He carefully wrapped the handkerchief around the handle and stuffed the umbrella, handle first, inside the plastic bag then closed his hand over the top of the bag in order to keep more water from touching it. He went back to Griffoni, who was now talking to a calmer Manuela. ‘We’ll just go and see your grandmother now,’ he heard her say.
‘And the bad man?’ Manuela asked her.
Griffoni looked at Brunetti, who said, ‘Don’t worry, Manuela. He won’t bother you any more.’
25
When they reached the Contessa’s home, they gave their coats to the maid, who disappeared with them, then returned to lead them into the warmth of the sitting room, where the Contessa was shocked to see how soaked they were. All three of them had left damp footprints behind them on the floor. She held up her hands when Manuela tried to speak and told her and Griffoni to go and quickly find Gala and ask her to find dry clothing and warm slippers. She insisted that Brunetti remove his jacket, soaked through at the shoulders, and suggested he hang it on the back of a chair. He set the bag holding the umbrella beneath the chair and draped his jacket over the back. She stepped up beside him and moved the chair until the back of the jacket was close to the radiator.
Before she could ask him anything, he told the Contessa he had to make a phone call. Surprised by his brusqueness, she pointed to a door to a smaller room: Brunetti went in and closed the door. He retrieved his telefonino from his back pocket and called Bocchese, told him where he was, and asked him to send a man on a boat to pick up a piece of evidence in the Cavanis murder.
‘It can’t be the murder weapon,’ Bocchese observed drily.
‘It might have the same fingerprints,’ Brunetti said. ‘And the same DNA.’
‘My, my, my,’ said Bocchese, his admiration audible. ‘And just where did you find this piece of evidence?’
‘Lying in a puddle on Calle del Tintor.’
‘Of course,’ Bocchese exclaimed. ‘How silly of us not to have thought of going over to look for it there.’
‘It’s the handle of an umbrella that was lying in the rain,’ Brunetti said. ‘But I picked it up with my handkerchief – a fresh one – and put it in a plastic bag.’
‘When Patta finally fires you, Guido, you can come and work in the lab for me.’
‘Thanks,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘How long?’
‘Fingerprints by tomorrow: they’re easy. DNA not for some time. You know that.’
‘Fingerprints should be enough,’ Brunetti said.
‘I know lawyers,’ Bocchese said, ‘and his will say the rain changed them.’
‘Can it?’
Bocchese laughed, then said, ‘If they call me as an expert witness, I’ll eat them alive.’
‘Send the boat, all right?’
‘As soon as we’re off the phone.’
Brunetti hung up. When he returned to the other room, he found the Contessa sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs, her head resting against the back. She glanced at him without speaking, and in the dim light he saw how grey with tiredness she looked.
‘Someone’s coming to pick that up,’ he said, pointing to the destroyed umbrella in its yellow plastic bag.
‘If you give it to Gala, she’ll see that it’s handed over,’ she said. He picked up the bag, went out to the corridor and found the maid, small and friendly-looking. When she reached out to take the bag from him, he told her it was police evidence and should be touched only by the man who came to fetch it.
She gave Brunetti a strange look, the bag an even stranger one, then told him he could place it on the floor next to the door. She’d show the man who came for it where it was, she said, and told Brunetti not to worry. Then, from a small table next to her, she took a thick sweater and handed it to him, saying he might want to put it over his shoulders. Brunetti wanted.
He returned to the sitting room, where Griffoni and Manuela were now sitting at a large round table, each wearing an enormous woollen sweater instead of those they had been wearing when they arrived. Griffoni shot him a quick look. Manuela sat quietly, her eyes on her hands, which were clasped tightly together in her lap. She paid no attention to the people around the table or to what sat upon it.
This time, it was covered with mounds of crustless sandwiches, plum cake, biscuits, crème-filled eclairs, and an entire cream cake dappled with fresh strawberries.
The Contessa was sitting behind the cake, and so Brunetti took the last seat, beside her, where, he saw to his relief, there was a short crystal glass and, not far from it, an unopened bottle of the whisky he recalled.