‘I’ll count the minutes.’
Brunetti had thought to aid the scene with props and so had gone down to Signorina Elettra’s office earlier and asked for all of the files that he still had to read. He took them back to his office and set four or five to his right, with the rest of them in a pile just in front of him. He opened the first one; it stated the new regulations for the use of official automobiles for work-related travel and ran to five pages. He closed it and set it down, wondering why such a thing had been sent to the police in Venice.
There was a knock at his door. He opened the next file, called out, ‘Avanti ,’ and looked back at the first page. He counted three long seconds and looked up, noticed Vittori standing in the doorway. He was alone, had actually come without a lawyer: Brunetti could hardly believe it. He smiled.
‘Ah, Signor Vittori,’ Brunetti said, continuing to drop the second surname. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’ He stood but stayed behind his desk, a conscious manifestation of territorial supremacy he was careful to use with visitors who might register it as such, however unconsciously. ‘Please,’ he said, waving to the two chairs in front of his desk.
Vittori, who was wearing a dark grey suit with a yellow and red striped tie, kept his chin up and his eyes on Brunetti’s, but his feet moved reluctantly, and it took him some time to cross the room. The beard had camouflaged the plumpness of his face and covered his double chin: now that it was gone, Brunetti observed, he looked not only younger, but stouter. His mouth, in contrast, seemed thinner than it had been.
Vittori extended his hand across the desk, and Brunetti shook it quickly. His handshake was strong but tentatively so, as if he wanted to see if Brunetti would try to win – whatever that meant. Brunetti responded with a firm clasp that he quickly released.
Vittori sat and pulled the legs of his trousers up so as not to stretch the knees. Brunetti gave the lapels and shoulders a quick look and decided the suit was worth the trouble.
He waited a moment, but Vittori remained silent, something he had probably told himself to do. His look was attentive and interested, but also faintly confused, perhaps meant to indicate his perplexity as to why the police would want to talk to him, of all people.
‘The Contessa has spoken to me about you,’ Brunetti began, smiling amiably while managing to suggest that he and the Contessa were close friends. ‘She’s very pleased with your work and says you’re gifted.’
Vittori looked at his shoes in an affected gesture of modesty. ‘It’s kind of her to say that,’ Vittori said.
‘What is it you design for her?’ Brunetti asked with genuine interest.
‘The apartments that will be rented to young couples. The floors of the palazzi are being divided into smaller units, and we try to keep the size of the apartments and the design and fixtures similar.’
‘Why is that?’ Brunetti asked.
‘So that no one will feel cheated if they see the apartment of the person living next to them. There is no conspicuous difference between them.’
‘If I might admit to curiosity,’ Brunetti began, knowing that it was important to establish the pattern of question and answer early on in an interview, ‘what sort of rents do people pay, and how large are the apartments?’
‘They’re all about a hundred to a hundred and ten square metres,’ Vittori said. ‘Two bedrooms and two baths. The rent is about five hundred euros a month.’
‘But that’s nothing,’ Brunetti said, not having to pretend to be surprised.
‘That’s the purpose,’ Vittori said, with a proud smile. ‘To let young people remain in their city.’
‘Well, good for Demetriana,’ Brunetti exclaimed, using her first name casually, as though in the habit of doing so. ‘I knew the rents were low, but she never told me how low.’ That was certainly true enough. Then, with admiration, ‘It’s a worthy project.’
‘It’s a shame more people in the city don’t do it,’ Vittori said.
‘I couldn’t agree more strongly. ‘I think . . .’ Brunetti was interrupted by a knocking at the door of his office. ‘Avanti,’ he called. The door opened and in walked Griffoni. She had had time to freshen her lipstick, Brunetti noticed, and approved.
Vittori was on his feet and had turned towards her.
‘Ah, Signor Vittori,’ Brunetti said, ‘let me introduce my colleague, Commissario Griffoni.’
Claudia approached, her hand extended. Vittori took it and bent over it; he kissed the air just above it as Griffoni shot Brunetti a blazing smile. Vittori had obviously failed to recognize the hatted and dripping woman he had seen on the street.
‘Please have a seat, Claudia,’ Brunetti said. Vittori stood behind the second chair and pulled it back a few millimetres. Griffoni swept her skirt under her and sat, feet and knees modestly pressed together.