down from Pordenone or in from Padova. It seems business is better for them there, but I don’t know why.’ The first place was the nearest big city to both American and Italian military installations: that would account for Pordenone. But Padova? The university? If so, things had changed since Brunetti took his law degree.
‘I’d like to take a look at those files tonight. Can you make me copies of them?’
‘I’ve already had that done, sir,’ Gallo said, handing him a thick blue file that lay on his desk.
As he took the folder from the sergeant, Brunetti realized that, even here in Mestre, less than twenty kilometres from home, he was likely to be treated as a foreigner, so he sought for some common ground that would establish him as a member of a working unit, not the commissario come in from out of town. ‘But you’re Venetian, aren’t you, Sergeant?’ Gallo nodded and Brunetti added, ‘Castello?’ Again, Gallo nodded, but this time with a smile, as if he knew the accent would follow him, no matter where he went.
‘What are you doing out here in Mestre?’ Brunetti asked.
‘You know how it is, sir,’ he began. ‘I got tired of trying to find an apartment in Venice. My wife and I looked for two years, but it’s impossible. No one wants to rent to a Venetian, afraid you’ll get in and they’ll never be able to get you out. And the prices if you want to buy – five million a square metre. Who can afford that? So we came out here.’
‘You sound like you regret it, Sergeant.’
Gallo shrugged. It was a common enough fate among Venetians, driven out of the city by skyrocketing rents and prices. ‘It’s always hard to leave home, Commissario,’ he said, but it seemed to Brunetti that his voice, when he said it, was somewhat warmer.
Returning to the issue at hand, Brunetti tapped a finger on the file. ‘Do you have anyone here they talk to, that they trust?’
‘We used to have an officer, Benvenuti, but he retired last year.’
‘No one else?’
‘No, sir.’ Gallo paused for a moment, as if considering whether he could risk his next statement. ‘I’m afraid many of the younger officers, well, I’m afraid they treat these guys as something of a joke.’
‘Why do you say that, Sergeant Gallo?’
‘If any of them makes a complaint, you know, about being beat up by a client – not about not being paid, you understand. That’s not something we have any control over – but about being beat up, well, no one wants to be sent to investigate it, even if we have the name of the man who did it. Or if they do go to question him, usually nothing happens.’
‘I got a taste of that, even something stronger, from Sergeant Buffo,’ Brunetti said.
At the name, Gallo compressed his lips but said nothing.
‘What about the women?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The whores?’
‘Yes. Is there much contact between them and the transvestites?’
‘There’s never been any trouble, not that I know of, but I don’t know how well they get on. I don’t think they’re in competition over clients, if that’s what you mean.’
Brunetti wasn’t sure what he meant and realized that his questions would have no clear focus until he read the files in the blue folder or until someone could identify the body of the dead man. Until they had that, there could be no talk of motive and, until that, there could be no understanding what had happened.
He stood, glanced at his watch. ‘I’d like your driver to pick me up at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. And I’d like the artist to have the sketch ready by then. As soon as you have it, even if it’s tonight, get at least two officers to start making the rounds of the other transvestites, to see if any of them know who he is or if they’ve heard that anyone from Pordenone or Padova is missing. I’d also like your men to ask the whores – the women, that is, if the transvestites use the area where he was found or if they know of any of them who ever has in the past.’ He picked up the file. ‘I’ll read through this tonight.’
Gallo had been taking notes of what Brunetti said, but now he stood and walked with him to the door.
‘I’ll see you then tomorrow morning, Commissario.’ He headed back towards his desk and reached for the phone. ‘When you get downstairs, there’ll be a driver waiting to take you back to Piazzale Roma.’
As the police car sped back over the causeway towards Venice, Brunetti looked out to the right, at the clouds of grey, white, green, yellow smoke billowing up from the forest of smokestacks in Marghera. As far as the eye could see, the pall of smoke enveloped the vast industrial complex, and the rays from the declining sun turned it all into a radiant vision of the next century. Saddened by the thought, he turned away and looked off towards Murano and, beyond it, the distant tower of the basilica of Torcello, where, some historians said, the whole idea of Venice had begun more than a thousand years ago, when the people of the coast fled into the marshes to avoid the invading Huns.
The driver swerved wildly to avoid an immense camper-van with German plates that suddenly cut in front of them then swerved off to the parking island of Tronchetto, and Brunetti was pulled back to the present. More Huns, and now no place to hide.
He walked home from Piazzale Roma, paying little attention to what or whom he passed, his mind hovering over that bleak field, still seeing the flies that swarmed around the spot under the grass where the body had been. Tomorrow, he would go and see the body, talk to the pathologist, and see what secrets it might reveal.
He got home just before eight, still early enough for it to seem like he was returning from a normal day. Paola was in the kitchen when he let himself into the apartment, but there were none of the usual smells or sounds of cooking. Curious, he went down the corridor and stuck his head into the kitchen; she was at the counter, slicing tomatoes.
He tossed the blue folder on the kitchen counter, walked over to Paola, and kissed the back of her neck.
‘In this heat?’ she asked, but she leaned back against him as she said it.
He licked delicately at her skin.
‘Salt depletion,’ he said, licking again.
‘I think they sell salt pills in the pharmacies. Probably more hygienic,’ she said, leaning forward, but only to take another ripe tomato from the sink. She cut it into thick slices and added them to the ones already arranged in a circle around the edge of a large ceramic plate.
He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of
From the bottom shelf, he removed a bottle of Prosecco. He ripped the silver foil from the cap, then slowly pushed the cork up with both thumbs, moving it slowly and working it back and forth gently. As soon as the cork popped from the bottle, he tilted it to one side to prevent the bubbles from spilling out. ‘How is it that you knew how to keep champagne from spilling when I married you and I didn’t?’ he asked as he poured some of the sparkling wine into his glass.
‘Mario taught me about it,’ she explained, and he knew immediately that, from the twenty or so Marios they knew, she was talking about her cousin, the vintner.
‘Want some?’ he asked.
‘Just give me a sip of yours. I don’t like to drink in this heat; it goes right to my head.’ He reached his arm around her and held his glass to her lips while she took a small sip. ‘
‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘Where are the kids?’
‘Chiara’s out on the balcony. Reading.’ Did Chiara ever do anything else? Except maths problems and beg for a computer?
‘And Raffi?’ He’d be with Sara, but Brunetti always asked.
‘With Sara. He’s eating dinner at her house, and then they’re going to a movie.’ She laughed with amusement at Raffi’s doglike devotion to Sara Paganuzzi, the girl two floors down. ‘I hope he’s going to be able to pry himself away from her for two weeks to come to the mountains with us,’ Paola said, not meaning it at all: two weeks in the mountains above Bolzano, an escape from the grinding heat of the city, were enough to lure even Raffi away from the delights of new love. Besides, Sara’s parents had said she could join Raffaele’s family for a weekend of that vacation.
Brunetti said nothing to this, poured himself another half glass of wine. ‘
