Death in a Strange Country

didn’t sound like Viscardi had made a hit

‘What’s he like?’ Brunetti asked.

Vianello smiled, then grimaced. ‘You know. Typical Milanese. Wouldn’t say ‘R’ if he had a mouthful of them,’ he said, eliding all of the ‘R’s in the sentence, imitating perfectly this Milanese affectation in speech, so popular among the most arriviste politicians and the comedians who delighted in mocking them. ‘First thing he did was tell me how important the paintings are, which, I suppose, means how important he is. Then he complained about having to spend the night in a ward. I think that meant he was afraid of picking up some low- class disease.’

‘Did he give you a description of the men?’

‘He said that one of them was very tall, taller than I am.’ Vianello was one of the tallest men on the force. ‘And the other one had a beard.’

‘How many were there, two or three?’

‘He wasn’t sure. They grabbed him when he went in, and he was so surprised that he didn’t see, or he doesn’t remember.’

‘How badly is he hurt?’

‘Not bad enough for a private room,’ Vianello said, making no attempt to disguise his disapproval

‘Could you be a bit more specific?’ Brunetti asked with a smile.

Vianello took no offence and answered, ‘He’s got a black eye. That will get worse today. Someone really gave him a good shot there. And he’s got a cut lip, some bruises on his arms.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I agree; hardly seems like the sort of thing to require a private room. Or a hospital at all.’

Vianello responded immediately to Brunetti’s tone. ‘Are you thinking what I think you are, sir?’

‘Vice-Questore Patta knows what the three missing paintings are. What time did the call come in?’

‘Just a little past midnight, sir.’

Brunetti looked at his watch. ‘Twelve hours. The paintings are by Guardi, Monet, and Gauguin.’

‘Sorry, sir, I don’t know about that sort of thing. But do the names mean money?’

Brunetti gave a very affirmative nod. ‘Rossi told me that the place was insured. How’d he come to know that?’

‘The agent called us at about ten and asked if he could go and have a look at the palazzo.’

Vianello took a pack of cigarettes from his desk and lit one. ‘Rossi told me these Belgian kids think Ruffolo was there.’ Brunetti nodded. ‘Ruffolo’s just a little runt of a guy, isn’t he, sir? Not very tall at all.’ He blew out a thin stream of smoke, then waved it away.

‘And he certainly didn’t grow a beard while he was in prison,’ Brunetti observed.

‘So that means that neither of the men Viscardi says he saw could have been Ruffolo, doesn’t it, sir?’

‘That certainly would seem to be the case,’ Brunetti said. ‘I asked Rossi to go over to the hospital and ask Viscardi if he recognizes a picture of Ruffolo.’

‘Probably won’t,’ Vianello remarked laconically.

Brunetti pushed himself away from the desk. ‘I think I’ll go and make a few phone calls. If you’ll excuse me, officer.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Vianello said, then added, ‘Zero two,’ giving Brunetti the dialling prefix for Milan.

* * * *

14

In his office, Brunetti took a spiral-bound notebook from his desk and began to leaf through it. For years he had been telling himself, then promising himself, that he would take the names and numbers in this book and arrange them in some sort of order. He renewed the vow each time, such as now, he had to hunt through it for a number he had not called in months or years. In a way, paging through it was like strolling through a museum in which he saw many familiar paintings, allowing each to summon up the flash of memory before he passed on in search of the one he had come to see. Finally he found it, the home number of Riccardo Fosco, the Financial Editor of one of the major weekly news magazines.

Until a few years ago, Fosco had been the bright light of the news media, unearthing financial scandals in the most unlikely places, had been one of the first to begin asking questions about the Banco Ambrosiano. His office had become the centre of a web of information about the real nature of business in Italy, his columns the place to look for the first suggestions that something might not be right with a company, a buy-out, or a takeover. Two years ago, as he emerged from that same office at five in the afternoon, on his way to meet friends for a drink, someone in a parked car opened up with a machine gun, aimed carefully at his knees, shattering them both, and now Fosco’s home was his office, and walking was something he did only with the help of two canes, one knee permanently stiffened and the other with a range of motion of only thirty degrees. No arrest had ever been made in the crime.

‘Fosco,’ he said, answering as he always did.

‘Ciao, Riccardo. It’s Guido Brunetti.’

‘Ciao, Guido. I haven’t heard from you in a long time. Are you still trying to find out about the money that was supposed to save Venice?’