‘What will you do?’
He looked off towards the bell tower of San Polo, the closest church. He had no idea. Patta would see this as an unrelated event or, if related, either an unfortunate accident or, at worst, a suicide. Since only Brunetti knew she had destroyed the postcard from Cairo, and only he had seen her reaction to the body of her lover, there was nothing to link the two of them together as anything other than colleagues, and that surely was no reason for suicide. Drugs and alcohol, and a woman living alone; that was enough to tell how the Press would treat this one - unless, unless the same sort of call that Brunetti was sure had been made to Patta were to be made to editors’ offices. In that case, the story would die a quick death, as many stories did. As Doctor Peters had.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, finally answering Paola’s question. ‘Patta’s warned me off, told me not to go back to Vicenza.’
‘But certainly this changes things.’
‘Not for Patta. It’s an overdose. The Carabinieri and the American military police will handle it. They’ll do an autopsy, then they’ll send her body back to America.’
‘Just like the other one,’ Paola said, giving voice to his thoughts. ‘Why kill them both?’
Brunetti shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’ But he knew. She had been silenced. Her casual remark that she wasn’t interested in drugs had not been a lie: the idea of an overdose was ludicrous. She’d been killed because of whatever she knew about Foster, because of whatever it was that had sent her careening across the room, away from her lover’s body. Killed by drugs. He wondered if that was meant to be a message to him but dismissed the idea as vainglorious. Whoever had killed her hadn’t had enough time to arrange an accident, and a second murder would have been too obvious, a suicide unexplained and therefore suspicious. So an accidental overdose was the perfect solution: she did it to herself, nowhere else to look, another dead end. And Brunetti didn’t even know if it was she who had called to say,
Paola came closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Guido. Sorry for her.’
‘She couldn’t have been thirty yet,’ he said. ‘All those years in school, all that work.’ It seemed to him that her death would have been less unfair if she had had time for more fun. ‘I hope her family doesn’t believe it.’
Paola spoke his thoughts. ‘If the police and the Army tell you something, you’re likely to believe it. And I’m sure it looked very real, very convincing.’
‘Poor people,’ he said.
‘Could you...’ she broke off, remembering that Patta had told him to stay clear of this.
‘If I can. It’s bad enough that she’s dead. They don’t need to believe this.’
‘That she was murdered isn’t going to be any better,’ Paola said.
‘At least she didn’t do that.’
Both of them stayed there in the late autumn sunshine, thinking about parents and being a parent, and what parents want and need to know about their children. He had no idea which would be better, worse. At least, if you knew that your child had been murdered, your life would have the grim hope of someday being able to kill the person who had done it, but that hardly seemed any sort of consolation.
‘I should have called her.’
‘Guido,’ she said, voice growing firm. ‘Don’t start that. Because all it means is that you should have been a mind-reader. And you’re not. So don’t even start thinking that.’ He was surprised by the real anger in her voice.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. They remained like that, without speaking, until the bells of San Marco boomed out ten o’clock.
‘What are you going to do? Will you go to Vicenza?’
‘No, not yet. I’m going to wait.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Whatever they knew, they knew because of where they worked. It’s the link they had. There have got to be other people who know or suspect or have access to what they learned. So I’m going to wait.’
‘Guido, now you’re asking other people to be mind-readers. How are they going to know to come to you?’
‘I’ll go out there, but not for a week, and then I’ll make myself conspicuous. Speak to that major, to the sergeant who worked with them, to other doctors. It’s a small world there. People will talk to one another; they’ll know something.’ And to hell with Patta.
‘Let’s forget Burano, all right, Guido?’
He nodded then got to his feet. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk. I’ll be back for lunch,’ He squeezed her arm. ‘I just need to walk.’ He glanced out over the rooftops of the city. How strange; the glory of the day was undiminished. Sparrows swooped and played tag with one another almost within his grasp, chirping for the joy of flight. And off in the far distance, the gold on the wings of the angel atop the bell tower of San Marco flashed in the sun, bathing the entire city in its glistening benediction.
* * * *
16
On Monday morning, he went into his office at the regular time and stood looking at the facade of the church of San Lorenzo for more than an hour. During that entire time, he saw no sign of motion or activity, neither on the scaffolding nor on the roof, which was stacked with neat rows of terracotta tiles. Twice he heard people come into his office, but when they didn’t speak to him, he didn’t bother to turn around, and they left, presumably after having placed things on his desk.
At ten-thirty, his phone rang, and he turned away from the window to answer it.
‘Good morning, Commissario. This is Maggiore Ambrogiani.’
‘Good morning, Maggiore. I’m glad you called. In fact, I was going to call you this afternoon.’
