A Question of Belief

he could ever pay it back.’

‘Was the bank director Signor Fulgoni?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Who else?’ Penzo asked with a bitter laugh.

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘And then?’

‘And then, one day, like Venus arising from the seas or descending on a cloud, Judge Coltellini appeared in Araldo’s office — I think this was about three years ago — and told him she’d heard that he was looking for a new apartment.’

Penzo glanced at them to check that they had registered the significance of the name, then continued, ‘Araldo told her that he was not looking, not at all, and she said how very disappointed she was because a friend of hers had an apartment on the Misericordia that he wanted to rent to what he called “decent people”. She said he wasn’t interested in the rent, that he simply wanted people in the apartment who were reliable, good people.’

Penzo gave them a look that asked if they had ever heard of such a thing. ‘Before he spoke to me, Araldo made the mistake of talking to his mother about it.’

‘She wanted to move?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Their apartment was fifty metres: two rooms, for two people, one of them a sick woman. The boiler was at least forty years old, and Araldo said they were never sure when there would be hot water,’ Penzo said.

‘Did you ever see it?’ Vianello asked.

‘I never saw any of their apartments,’ Penzo answered in a voice that cut off discussion of that topic.

‘The apartment on the Misericordia had a lower rent, and it had been restored two years before: new heating system, and the utilities were included. The way she presented it to them, she made it sound like they would be doing the landlord a favour. Which was exactly the right tack to take with Araldo’s mother. She’s always considered herself a cut above everyone else.’ Penzo’s voice took on a bitter edge when he said, ‘Just the person to condescend to a landlord.’

‘So he took it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Once he told her about it,’ Penzo said with a resigned shake of his head, ‘he had no choice. She would have driven him mad if he hadn’t taken it.’

‘And when they’d moved?’

‘She was happy with it, at least at the beginning.’ Penzo looked at the sandwich he had abandoned. ‘But she was never able to be happy for long.’ He put one finger on the springy white bread and pressed down, then removed his finger. The bread remained compressed. He pushed the plate to the back of the counter and took a sip of water.

Brunetti and Vianello waited.

‘After they had been living there for about six months, Judge Coltellini gave a file back to Araldo after a hearing. He took the file back to his office and checked through the documents to see that they were all there. I think he’s the only one in the Tribunale who bothers — bothered — to do such a thing. A paper was missing, the deed to a house. So he took the file back to the judge and told her it was missing, and she said she knew nothing about it, that it had not been in the file when she read through it, or at least she had no memory of having seen it.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He believed her, of course. She was a judge, after all, and he had been raised to respect rank and authority.’

‘And then?’ prompted Vianello.

‘A few months later, the judge postponed a hearing because the file on the case was missing,’ he said and stopped.

‘And where was it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘On her desk, buried under some others. Araldo found it when he went back in the afternoon to retrieve the case files.’

‘Did he speak to her?’

‘Yes. And she apologized and said she hadn’t seen it there, that it must have been stuck inside one of the others.’

‘And this time?’ It was Vianello who asked.

‘He still thought nothing of it. Or that’s what he told me.’

‘And then?’ Brunetti asked.

‘And then he stopped telling me about it.’

‘How do you know there was anything to tell?’

‘I told you, Commissario. We went to liceo together. Forty years. You learn to know what a person is thinking in that time, when something’s bothering them.’

‘Did you ask about it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, a few times.’

‘And?’

‘And he told me to leave him alone, that it was something at work and he didn’t want to talk about it.’ Penzo returned his attention to his abandoned sandwich. This time, he used his thumbnail to score an X in the lingering fingerprint, then returned to Brunetti.

‘So I left the subject alone, and we tried to go on as if nothing were wrong.’

‘But?’

Penzo took the tall glass and swirled the remaining water around a few times, then drank the last of it. ‘You have to understand that Araldo was an honest man. A good man, and an honest man.’

‘Meaning?’ asked Brunetti.

‘Meaning that the idea that a judge was lying to him or lying about something would upset him. And then anger him.’

‘What would he do about it?’ Brunetti asked.

Penzo gave a shrug. ‘What could he do? He was in the honeytrap, wasn’t he? His mother was as happy as she was capable of being. Would he want to take that away?’

‘Was he sure they’d lose the apartment?’

Penzo did not bother to answer this.

‘Was the apartment that important to her?’

‘Yes,’ Penzo answered instantly. ‘Because she had the address and could invite her friends — the few she had — to come and visit her there and see how well she was doing, she and her son who was only a clerk. And not a lawyer.’

‘And so?’ Brunetti asked.

‘And so he didn’t talk about it. And I didn’t ask about it.’

‘And that was that?’ Brunetti asked.

Penzo’s glance was sudden and sober, as if he were deciding whether to be offended or not. ‘Yes. That was that,’ he said. In this heat, a light coating of perspiration lay upon everyone’s face and arms, so Brunetti at first did not notice that tears had begun to run down Penzo’s cheeks. He seemed not to notice them himself, certainly made no attempt to wipe them away. As Brunetti watched, they began to drip off his chin, splashing into invisibility on his white shirt.

‘I will go to my grave wishing I’d done something. Made him talk. Made him tell me what he was doing. What she was asking him to do,’ Penzo said and wiped at the tears absently. ‘I didn’t want to cause trouble.’

‘Did you see him that day?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Or speak to him?’

‘You mean the day he was killed?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I was in Belluno, seeing a client, and I didn’t get back until the following morning.’

‘Which hotel?’ Vianello asked mildly.

Penzo’s face froze, and it cost him an effort to turn to the Inspector. ‘Hotel Pineta,’ he said in a tight voice. He reached down and picked up his briefcase and walked out of the bar so quickly that neither Brunetti nor Vianello, had they had the will, would have had time to stop him.