Death in a Strange Country

the orderlies, but they don’t know what happened to her. We called over to the Casa di Riposo to see if any of their patients are missing, but they said no. It was lunch time, so it was easy for them to count them all.’

Brunetti turned his attention back to Bonaventura. ‘Do you have any idea who she might be, Dottore?’

‘No. None. I’d never seen her before. I don’t have any idea how she got in here.’

‘Were you seeing patients?’

‘No, I told you, I was doing paperwork, writing up my notes. And I don’t think she came in from the waiting room. I think she came in from there,’ he said, pointing to the door at the dither side of the room.

‘What’s back there?’

‘The mortuary. I’d finished in there about half an hour before and was writing up my notes.’

In the confusion of Bonaventura’s story, Brunetti had forgotten his rage. Now he was suddenly cold, chilled to the bone, but the emotion was not rage.

‘What did she look like, Dottore?’

‘Just a little fat old lady, all in black.’

‘What notes were you writing up, Dottore?’

‘I told you, from the autopsy.’

‘Which autopsy?’ Brunetti asked, though he knew there was no need for the question.

‘What was his name? That young man they brought in last night. Rigetti? Ribelli?’

‘No, Dottore. Ruffolo.’

‘Yes, that’s it. I’d just finished. He’s all sewn up. The family was supposed to come and get him at two, but I finished a little bit early, and I was trying to write up the notes before I began the next one.’

‘Can you remember anything she said, Dottore?’

‘I told you. I couldn’t understand her.’

‘Please try to think, Dottore,’ Brunetti said, voice straining for calm. ‘It might be important. Any words? Phrases.’ Bonaventura said nothing so Brunetti prompted, ‘Did she speak Italian, Dottore?’

‘Sort of. Some of the words were Italian, but the rest was dialect, worst I’ve ever heard.’ There were no more clean places on Bonaventura’s towel. ‘I think I’d like to go and get this taken care of,’ he said.

‘In just a moment, Dottore. Did you understand any words?’

‘Well, of course, she was screaming, “Bambino, bambino”, but that young man wasn’t her bambino. She must be too old.’ She wasn’t, but Brunetti saw no reason to tell him this.

‘Is there anything else you understood, Dottore?’ Brunetti asked again.

Bonaventura closed his eyes with the combined weight of pain and memory. ‘She said, “assassino”, but that’s what she was calling me, I think. She threatened to kill me, but all she did was hit me. None of it made any sense. No words or anything, just noise, like an animal. I think that’s when the orderlies came in.’

Turning away from him and nodding towards the door to the mortuary, Brunetti asked, ‘Is the body in there?’

‘Yes, I told you. The family was told to come and get it at two.’

Brunetti went over to the door and pushed it open. Inside, only a few metres into the room, the body of Ruffolo lay, naked and exposed, on a metal gurney. The sheet that had covered his body lay crumpled on the floor, as though it had been torn off and flung there.

Brunetti took a few steps into the room and looked across at the young man. The body lay with the head turned away, so Brunetti could see the ragged line that ran through the hair, showing where the crown of the head had been severed so that Bonaventura could examine the damage to the brain. The front of the body bore the long butterfly incision, the same horrible line that had run down the strong young body of the American. Like a line drawn with a compass, the circle of death had been drawn just and true, bringing Brunetti back to where he had begun.

He backed away from what had been Ruffolo into the office. Another man in a white jacket was bending down over Bonaventura, fingering delicately at the edges of the wound. Brunetti nodded to Vianello and Miotti, but before either man could move, Bonaventura looked across at Brunetti and said, ‘There’s one strange thing.’

‘What is that, Dottore?’ Brunetti asked.

‘She thought I was from Milan.’

‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

‘When she said she’d kill me, she called me ‘milanese traditore’, but all she did was hit me. She kept screaming she’d kill me, kept calling me ‘milanese traditore’. It doesn’t make any sense to me.’

Suddenly it made sense to Brunetti. ‘Vianello, have you got a boat?’

‘Yes, sir, It’s outside.’

‘Miotti, call the Questura and have them send the Squadra Mobile, right now, to Viscardi’s palazzo. Come on, Vianello.’

The police launch was tied up at the left of the hospital, engine idling. Brunetti leapt down onto the deck, Vianello close behind him. ‘Bonsuan,’ Brunetti said, glad to find him at the wheel, ‘over near San Stae, that new palazzo, by Palazzo Duodo.’