Death in a Strange Country

beyond that, nothing.’ Signor Viscardi smiled when he heard this, and Brunetti knew he didn’t want him to learn about Ruffolo’s attempt to speak to the police.

‘But haven’t you,’ Patta interrupted, ‘got a suspect? I remember reading something in your report about Vianello, that he was going to talk to him last weekend. What happened?’

‘A suspect?’ Viscardi asked, eyes bright with interest.

‘It turned out to be nothing, sir,’ Brunetti said, addressing Patta. ‘A false lead.’

‘I thought it was that man in the photograph,’ Patta insisted. ‘I read his name in the report, but I forget it.’

‘Would that be the same man your sergeant showed me a picture of?’ Viscardi asked.

‘It seems it was a false lead,’ Brunetti said, smiling apologetically. ‘It turns out he couldn’t have had anything to do with it. At least we’re convinced that he couldn’t have.’

‘It seems you were right, Augusto,’ Patta said, insistent upon the repetition of his first name. He turned to Brunetti and made his voice firm. ‘What have you got on the two men whose descriptions you do have?’

‘Unfortunately, nothing, sir.’

‘Have you checked...’ Patta began, and Brunetti gave him his undivided attention, waiting to see what concrete suggestions would follow. ‘Have you checked the usual sources?’ Underlings knew details.

‘Oh, yes, sir. It was the first thing we did.’

Viscardi shot back his starched cuff, glanced down at a gleaming fleck of gold, and said, turning to Patta, ‘I don’t want to keep you from your lunch appointment, Pippo.’ As soon as Brunetti heard the nickname, he found himself turning it in his mind like a mantra: Pippo Patta, Pippo Patta, Pippo Patta.

‘Perhaps you’ll join us, Augusto,’ he asked, ignoring Brunetti.

‘No, no, I’ve got to get to the airport. My wife expects me for cocktails, and then, as I told you, we have guests for dinner.’ He must have told Patta the names of these guests, as well, for the mere reminder of their magic power was enough to cause Patta to smile broadly and clasp his hands together, as if in vicarious enjoyment of their presence, here in his office.

Patta glanced at his own watch, and Brunetti was witness to his agony, having to leave one rich and powerful man to go and dine with others. ‘Yes, I really must go. Can’t keep the minister waiting,’ He didn’t bother to waste the minister’s name on Brunetti and Brunetti wondered if it was because Patta assumed he wouldn’t be impressed or because he wouldn’t recognize it. Little matter, he was not to learn it.

Patta went to the fifteenth-century Tuscan armadio that stood beside the door and took his Burberry from it. He slipped it on, then helped Viscardi into his coat. ‘Are you leaving now?’ Viscardi asked Brunetti, who answered that he was. ‘The Vice-Questore is going to Corte Sconta for lunch, but I’m going up towards San Marco, where I can get a boat to the airport. Are you walking that way, by any chance?’

‘Why, yes, I am, Signer Viscardi,’ Brunetti lied.

Patta walked ahead with Viscardi until they got to the front door of the Questura. There, the two men shook hands, and Patta said something about seeing Brunetti after lunch. Outside, Patta turned up the collar of his raincoat and hurried off to the left. Viscardi turned right, waited a moment for Brunetti to position himself beside him, and started towards Ponte dei Greci and, beyond it, San Marco,

‘I certainly hope this case can be quickly ended,’ Viscardi said by way of beginning.

‘Yes, so do I,’ Brunetti agreed.

‘I had hoped to find a safer city here, after Milan.’

‘It certainly was an unusual crime.’ Brunetti offered.

Viscardi paused for a moment, glanced sideways at Brunetti, then continued walking. ‘Before I moved here, I had believed that all crime would be unusual in Venice.’

‘It’s certainly less common here than in other cities, but we do have crime,’ Brunetti explained, and then added, ‘and we have criminals.’

‘Could I offer you a drink, Commissario. What do you Venetians call it, “un’ ombra”?’

‘Yes, “un’ ombra”, and yes, I’d like one.’ Together, they turned into a bar they were passing, and Viscardi ordered them two glasses of white wine. When they came, he handed one to Brunetti and lifted his own. He tilted up his glass and said, ‘Cin, cin.’ Brunetti responded with a nod.

The wine was sharp, not good at all. Had he been alone, Brunetti would have left it. Instead, he took another sip, met Viscardi’s glance, and smiled.

‘I spoke to your father-in-law last week,’ Viscardi said.

Brunetti had wondered how long it would take him to get around to this. He took another sip. ‘Yes?’

‘There were a number of matters we had to discuss.’

‘Yes?’

‘When we finished with our discussion of business, the Count mentioned his relationship with you. I admit that I was at first surprised.’ Viscardi’s tone suggested that his surprise was the result of his discovery that the Count would have allowed his daughter to marry a policeman, especially this one. ‘By the coincidence, you understand,’ Viscardi added, just a beat too late, and smiled again.

‘Of course.’

‘I was, quite frankly, encouraged to learn that you were related to the Count.’ Brunetti gave him an inquiring look. ‘I mean, that offered me the possibility of speaking frankly to you. That is, if I might.’