‘I’ve had a lot of work to finish, so I often take it home with me,’ Vittori said. Then, in the manner of one overburdened bureaucrat speaking to another, he said, ‘You know what it’s like.’
Ignoring the question, Brunetti asked, ‘Do you remember speaking to Signor Cavanis?’
Vittori stared at him as though Brunetti had somehow gained access to his brain.
‘I might have, although I have no clear memory of it,’ he answered, with no attempt to hide what he attempted to make look like mild indignation.
‘This was a call that lasted six minutes,’ Brunetti added, as if hoping to prod his memory.
Vittori studied his hands again, searching for a plausible answer. Brunetti used this opportunity to glance at Griffoni. There could have been a wall between her and Vittori, so little attention did she pay him.
‘I might have,’ Vittori finally answered. ‘People feel free to call me very early.’
‘When?’ Brunetti inquired.
‘Oh,’ Vittori exclaimed, ‘didn’t you say?’
‘No, but if it might help you remember, it came at 8.43, which is indeed early,’ Brunetti said.
‘Yes, yes,’ Vittori answered, dragging out the two words. ‘It is.’ He kept his attention on Brunetti, as if afraid of what would happen to him if he looked at Griffoni.
Brunetti was put in mind of a television programme he had watched ages ago, must be thirty years: Visitors, which featured man-sized reptiles disguised as humans. When they were killed, their human carapace fell away, exposing the giant reptile within that was already shrinking into death. Vittori was losing his carapace of casual arrogance and seemed, even as Brunetti observed him, to be growing smaller, as if withering away.
Vittori took a deep breath, started to speak, and then took another. He remained silent for a long time, carefully attentive to his joined hands, which were clasped tight, fingers enmeshed.
When he decided that Vittori was not going to speak, Brunetti changed the subject and said, ‘Signor Vittori, we know about your job at the stables, and the letter from Signor degli Specchi.’
Vittori, who had been motionless, froze. Brunetti thought he heard a soft noise, like the sound a man makes when he picks up something heavy.
‘People who were working there at the time,’ Brunetti proceeded calmly, ‘are sure to remember you and anything . . . peculiar about your behaviour.’ He watched these words thud into Vittori.
Vittori continued in close communion with his hands for some time, then looked back at Brunetti. ‘Someone saw me on television,’ he finally said. ‘And he called with some crazy story and said he wanted money from me or he’d call you and tell you.’
‘The police?’ Brunetti asked. He watched Vittori as he spoke, amazed at how fear could change the face of a person, exaggerating the bones and shrinking the eyes. ‘Tell us what?’ he prompted.
Brunetti had the feeling that Vittori was working out just how to tell his story. Finally he said, ‘He told me if I didn’t give him money, he’d call you and say he saw me throw Manuela into the canal.’ He waited for Brunetti’s response, then added, ‘He’d destroy my honour,’ and Brunetti heard a small intake of breath from Griffoni, as though she’d touched something nasty in the dark.
‘What did you do?’ Brunetti asked.
Indignation splashed across Vittori’s face. ‘What could I do? This was a madman, making a false accusation. I didn’t know who he was. His threats were insane.’
Brunetti watched the other man continue to shift the gears of his story until Vittori said, ‘I hung up on him.’
Brunetti looked at Vittori, who was again studying his folded hands, then at Griffoni, who shook her head.
‘And then?’ Brunetti asked.
‘And then nothing. He never called back.’
‘You didn’t try to trace the call?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Use reverse dialling?’
‘No. I was terrified. Accusations like this could destroy my reputation, my career. I’d be dragged through the courts, and that woman would scream her crazy accusations at me. I’d have no chance. Everyone would believe her.’
Brunetti thought it wise not to point out to Vittori that Manuela had not screamed accusations at him, had only screamed. Instead, he asked mildly, ‘Should they believe her?’
‘Of course not,’ Vittori said, throwing his hands into the air. ‘She was always following me around, touching me when I helped her into the saddle. She was like one of the mares in heat, begging for it.’
Brunetti glanced quickly at Griffoni, who had grabbed the sides of her chair, as if that were the only way she could keep her hands from reaching for Vittori.
Speaking as though he were a friend of Vittori’s, surprised that he had failed to recognize the turn-off to his own street, Brunetti asked, ‘But what were you afraid of?’
‘A false accusation by a woman who was a minor at the time of the . . .’ he drew in his breath and spat out with contempt, ‘the supposed attack. Even that would cause me trouble.’