Blood from a stone

She paused, as if trying to visualize the scene, then added, ‘No, all I remember is a sense that he was very tall and very big. He was wearing an overcoat; it might have been grey or dark brown, I really don’t recall. And that hat.’

The waitress set Brunetti’s coffee in front of him and moved away. He left it untouched, smiled across at her and said, ‘Go on, please, Doctor.’

‘There was the overcoat, and he had a scarf; maybe it was grey and maybe it was black. Because there were so many people standing around, all I saw was the side of him.’

‘Could you give me an idea of his age?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Oh, I couldn’t be sure of that, no more than to say he was an adult, perhaps your age,’ she said. ‘I think his hair was dark, but it was hard to tell in that light, and with his hat on. And I wasn’t paying much attention to him at that point, not really, because I didn’t have any idea of what was going on.’

Brunetti thought of the victim and asked, conscious of how it would sound, ‘Was this man white, Doctor?’

‘Oh yes, he was European,’ she answered, then added, ‘but my sense of him was that he looked more Mediterranean than my husband and I do.’ She smiled to show she meant no offence, and Brunetti took none.

‘What, specifically, makes you say that, Doctor?’ he asked.

‘His skin was darker than ours, I think, and it looked like he had dark eyes. He was taller than you, officer, and much taller than either one of us.’ She considered all of this and then added, ‘And thicker. He wasn’t a thin man, officer.’

Brunetti turned his attention to the husband. ‘Do you have any memory of seeing this man, Doctor? Or of seeing someone who might have been the other one?’

The white-haired man shook his head. ‘No. As I told you, my only concern was my wife. When I heard her shout, everything else went out of my head, so I couldn’t even tell you which people from our group were there.’

Brunetti turned back to the woman and asked, ‘Do you remember who was there, Doctor?’

She closed her eyes, as if trying to recall the scene yet again. Finally she said, ‘There were the Petersons; they were standing to my left, and the man was behind me on the right. And I think Lydia Watts was on the other side of the Petersons.’ She kept her eyes closed. When she opened them she said, ‘No, I don’t remember anyone else. That is, I know that we were all there in a bunch, but those are the only ones I can remember seeing.’

‘How many people are in your group, Doctor?’

The husband answered, ‘Sixteen. Plus spouses, that is,’ he immediately corrected. ‘Most of us are retired or semi-retired doctors, all from the North-east.’

‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

‘At the Paganelli,’ he answered. Brunetti was surprised that a group that large could find room there, and that Americans would have the good sense to choose it.

‘And this evening, for dinner? Is the group scheduled to eat somewhere in particular?’ Brunetti wondered if he could perhaps locate them all and talk to them now, while whatever memories they had would still be fresh.

The Crowleys exchanged a glance. The man said, ‘No, not really. This is our last night in Venice, and some of us decided to eat on our own, so we don’t have any plans, not really.’ He gave an embarrassed smile and added, ‘I guess we’re sort of tired of eating with the same people every night.’

‘We were just going to walk around until we saw a place we liked and eat there,’ his wife added, smiling across at her husband as if proud of their decision. ‘But it’s awfully late now.’

‘And the group?’ Brunetti persisted.

‘They’re booked to eat at some place near San Marco,’ the woman said.

Her husband interrupted, ‘But we didn’t like the sound of it, all that local colour stuff.’

Brunetti had to admit they were probably right. ‘Do you remember the name?’ he asked.

Both shook their heads regretfully; the man spoke for them. ‘I’m sorry, officer, but I don’t.’

‘You said it was your last night here,’ he began, and they nodded. ‘What time do you leave tomorrow morning?’

‘Not until ten,’ she said. ‘We take the train to Rome, and then we fly out on Thursday. Home in time for Christmas.’

Brunetti pulled their bill towards him, added the cost of his own coffee to it, and put fifteen Euros on the table. The man started to object, but Brunetti said, ‘It’s police business,’ and that lie seemed to satisfy the doctor.

‘I can recommend a restaurant,’ he said, and then added, ‘I’d like to come and talk to you, and to these other people, in your hotel tomorrow morning.’

‘Breakfast’s at seven-thirty,’ she explained, ‘and the Petersons are always right on time. I’ll call Lydia Watts, when we get back if you like, and ask her to come down at eight so you can talk to her.’

‘Is your train at ten or do you leave the hotel at ten?’ Brunetti asked, hoping to be spared the need to be on the other side of San Marco by seven-thirty in the morning.

‘The train, so we have to leave the hotel at nine-fifteen. There’s a boat coming to take us to the station.’

Brunetti got to his feet and waited while the man helped his wife into her parka and then put on his own. Wearing them, the old people doubled in size. He led the way to the door, and held it open for them. Outside, in the campo, he pointed to the right and told them to walk along Calle della Mandorla to the Rosa Rossa and to tell the owner that Commissario Brunetti had sent them.

They both repeated his name, and the man said, ‘Sorry, Commissario. I didn’t hear your rank when you came in. I hope you didn’t mind being called officer.’

‘Not at all,’ Brunetti said with a smile. They shook hands, and Brunetti stood and watched them until they had disappeared beyond the corner of the church.

When he returned to the place where the man had been killed, he found a uniformed officer standing beside one of the stanchions. He saw Brunetti approach and saluted. ‘You alone here?’ Brunetti asked. He noticed that all of the sheets and the few bags that had remained had disappeared and wondered if the police had taken them back with them.

‘Yes, sir. Santini said to tell you he didn’t find anything.’ Brunetti assumed this meant not only shell casings, but any traces of whoever might have killed the man.

He looked at the enclosed area and only then noticed an oval mound of sawdust in the centre. Without thinking, he asked, nodding towards it with his chin, ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s the, er, blood, sir,’ the man answered. ‘Because of the cold.’

The image this conjured up was so grotesque that Brunetti refused to consider it; instead, he told the officer to call the Questura at midnight and remind them that he was to be relieved at one. He asked the young man if he wanted to go and have a coffee before the bar closed and then stood and waited for him.

When the uniformed man was back, Brunetti told him that, if he saw any of the other vu cumpra, he was to tell them that their colleague was dead and ask them to call the police if they had any information about him. He made a particular point of telling the officer to make it clear to them that they would not have to give their names or come to the Questura and that all the police wanted from them was information.

Brunetti used his telefonino to call the Questura. He gave his name, repeated what he had just told the crime scene officer, emphasizing that callers were not to be asked their names, and instructed that all calls relating to the shooting were to be recorded. He called the Carabinieri and, unsure of his authority, asked their cooperation in treating any relevant calls they might receive with the same discretion, and when the maresciallo agreed, asked if they would record their calls as well. The maresciallo observed he was very doubtful that any information would be volunteered by the vu cumpra but nevertheless agreed to do so.

There seemed little else for Brunetti to do, so he wished the young officer a good evening, hoped it would get no colder, and, having decided it would be faster to walk, turned towards Rialto and home.