Death in a Strange Country

padding. No hunting for these cats, though rats there were in plenty. They ignored him, knowing the precise hours of the people who came to feed them, certain that this stranger was not one of them.

He passed along the right side of the church of San Francesco della Vigna, then cut to the left and back to the Celestia vaporetto stop. Clearly outlined ahead of him he saw the metal-railed walkway and the steps leading up to it. He climbed them and when he got to the beginning of the walkway, he looked ahead at the bridge that rose up, like the hump on a camel, over the opening in the Arsenale wall that let the number five boat cut through the middle of the island and come out in the Bacino of San Marco.

The top of the bridge, he could see clearly, was empty. Not even Ruffolo would be so foolish as to make himself visible to any passing boat, not when the police were looking for him. He had probably jumped down onto the small beach on the other side of the bridge. Brunetti started towards the bridge, allowing himself a flash of irritation that he found himself here, walking around in the evening chill when any sensible person would be at home in bed. Why did crazy Ruffolo have to see an important person? He wants to see an important person, let him come into the Questura and talk to Patta.

He passed the first of the small beaches, no more than a few metres long, and glanced down onto it, looking for Ruffolo. In the ensilvering light of the moon, he could see that it was empty, but he could also see that its surface was covered with fragments of discarded bricks, shards of broken bottles, all covered with a layer of slimy green seaweed. Signorino Ruffolo had another thought coming if he believed that Brunetti was going to jump down onto that other filth-covered beach to have a little chat with him. He’d already lost one pair of shoes this week, and it wasn’t going to happen again. If Ruffolo wanted to talk, he could climb back up onto the walkway or he could stay down there and see that he spoke loud enough for Brunetti to hear.

He climbed the stairs on his side of the cement bridge, stood on the top for a moment, then walked down the stairs on the other side. Ahead of him, he saw the small beach, its far side hidden by a curve in the massive brick wall of the Arsenale that rose up ten metres above Brunetti’s head on his right.

A few metres from the island, he stopped and called in a low voice, ‘Ruffolo. It’s Brunetti.’ There was no answer. ‘Peppino, It’s Brunetti.’ Still no answer. The moonlight was so strong that it actually cast a shadow, hiding the part of the little island that lay under the walkway. But the foot was visible, one foot, wearing a brown leather shoe, and above it a leg. Brunetti leaned over the railing, but all he could see was the foot and the part of the leg that disappeared into the shadow under the walkway. He climbed over the railing, dropped to the stones below, slipped as he landed in seaweed, and broke his fall with both hands. When he stood, he could see the body more clearly, though fee head and shoulders rested in the shadows. That didn’t matter at all; he knew who it was. One arm lay flung out beyond the body, hand just at the edge of the water, tiny waves lapping at it delicately. The other arm was crumpled under the body. Brunetti bent down and felt at the wrist, but he could find no pulse. The flesh was cold, damp with the moisture that had risen up from the laguna. He moved a step closer, slipping into the shadow, and placed his hand at the base of the boy’s neck. There was no pulse. When he stepped back into the moonlight, Brunetti saw that there was blood on his fingers. He stooped down at the edge of the water and waved his hand back and forth quickly in the water of the laguna, water so filthy that the thought of it usually disgusted him

Standing, he dried his hand on his handkerchief, then took a small pencil flash from his pocket and bent back under the walkway. The blood came from a large open wound on the left side of Ruffolo’s head. Not far from him there lay a conveniently-placed rock. Just think of that; it looked precisely like he had jumped from the walkway, slipped on the slick rocks, and fallen backwards to smash his head in the fall. Brunetti had little doubt that there would be blood on the rock, Ruffolo’s blood.

Above him, he heard a soft footfall, and he ducked instinctively under the walkway. Even as he did, the stones and bricks shifted around under his feet, sending off a noise that deafened him. He crouched low, back placed tip against the seaweed-covered sea wall of the Arsenate. Again, he heard the footsteps, now directly above his head. He drew his pistol.

‘Commissario Brunetti?’

His panic receded, pushed back by that familiar voice. ‘Vianello,’ Brunetti said, coming out from under me walkway, ‘what the Devil are you doing here?’

Vianello’s head appeared above him, leaning over the railing and looking down to where Brunetti stood on the rubble that covered the surf ace of the beach.

‘I’ve been behind you, sir,’ since you went past the church, about fifteen minutes ago.’ Brunetti had heard and seen nothing, even though he had believed all his senses fully alert.

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No, sir. I’ve been down there, reading the timetable at the boat stop, trying to look like I missed the last boat and couldn’t understand when the next one came. I mean, I had to have some excuse to be here at this time of night.’ Vianello suddenly stopped speaking, and Brunetti knew he had seen the leg sticking out from under the walkway.

‘That Ruffolo?’ he asked, surprised. This was too much like those Hollywood movies.

‘Yes.’ Brunetti moved away from the body and a stood directly under Vianello.

‘What happened, sir?’

‘He’s dead. It looks like he fell.’ Brunetti grimaced at the precision of the words. That’s exactly what it looked like.

The policeman knelt and stretched his hand out to Brunetti. ‘You want a hand up, sir?’

Brunetti glanced up at him and then down at Ruffolo’s leg. ‘No, Vianello, I’ll stay here with him. There’s a phone down at the Celestia stop. Go and call for a boat.’

Vianello moved off quickly, amazing Brunetti with the racket his feet made, echoing all through the space under the walkway. How silently he must have come, if Brunetti hadn’t heard him until he was directly overhead.

Left alone, Brunetti took his flashlight out of his pocket again and bent back over Ruffolo’s body. He wore a heavy sweater, no jacket, so the only pockets were those in his jeans. In his back pocket, he had a wallet. It held the usual things: identity card (Ruffolo was only twenty-six), driver’s licence (not a Venetian, he had one), twenty thousand lire, and the usual assortment of plastic cards and scraps of paper with phone numbers scribbled on them. He’d look at them later. He wore a watch, but there was no change in his pockets. Brunetti slipped the wallet back into Ruffolo’s pocket and turned away from the body. He looked out over the shimmering water, off to where the lights of Murano and Burano were visible in the distance. The moonlight lay softly upon the waters of the laguna, and no boats moved upon it to disturb its peace. A single glimmering sheet of silver connected the mainland with the outer islands. It reminded him of something Paola had read to him once, the night she told him she was pregnant with Raffaele, something about gold being beaten to a fine thinness. No, not fine, airy; that was the way they loved one another. He hadn’t really understood it then, too excited with the news to try to understand the English. But the image struck him now, as the moonlight lay upon the laguna