Acqua Alta

‘What is it?’

‘About two years ago, a dealer in Chinese art in Paris, a certain Philippe Bernadotte, was killed in a mugging while he was out walking his dog one night. His wallet was taken, and his keys. The keys were used to get into his house, but, strangely enough, nothing was stolen. But his papers had been gone through, and it looked like a number of them had been removed.’

‘And La Capra?’

‘The man’s partner could remember only that, a few days before he was killed, Monsieur Bernadotte had referred to a serious argument with a client who had accused him of selling a piece he knew was false.’

‘Was the client Signor La Capra?’

‘The partner didn’t know. All he remembered was that Monsieur Bernadotte repeatedly referred to the client as “the goat”, but at the time his partner thought it was a joke.’

‘Were Monsieur Bernadotte and his partner capable of selling a piece they knew to be false?’ Brunetti asked.

‘The partner, not. But it appears that Bernadotte had been involved in a number of sales, and purchases, that were open to question.’

‘By the art theft police?’

‘Yes. The Paris office had a growing file on him.’

‘But nothing was taken from his home after he was killed?’

‘It would seem not, but whoever killed him also had the time to remove whatever they wanted from his files and from his inventory lists.’

‘So it’s possible that Signer La Capra was the goat that he mentioned to his partner?’

‘So it would seem,’ agreed Carrara.

‘Anything else?’

‘No, but we’d appreciate learning anything else you have to tell about him.’

‘I’ll have my secretary send you what we’ve got, and I’ll let you know anything we find out about him and Semenzato.’

‘Thanks, Guido.’ And Carrara was gone.

What was it Count Almaviva sang? ‘E mi far a il destino ritrovar questo paggio in ogni loco! Just so, it seemed to be Brunetti’s destiny to find La Capra everywhere he looked. Somehow, though, Cherubino seemed significantly more innocent than did Signor La Capra. Brunetti had learned more than enough to convince him that La Capra was involved with Semenzato, possibly in his death. But all of it was entirely circumstantial; none of it would have the least value in a court of law.

He heard a knock at his door and called, ‘Avanti! A uniformed policeman opened the door, stood back and allowed Flavia Petrelli to enter. As she passed in front of the policeman, Brunetti saw the flash of the officer’s hand moving in a smart salute before he closed the door. Brunetti had not the least doubt about whom the gesture was intended to honour.

She wore a dark brown raincoat lined with fur. The chill of the early evening had brought colour to her face, which, again, was bare of make-up. She came quickly across the room and took his outstretched hand. ‘So this is where you work?’ she asked.

He came around his desk and took the coat which the heat in the room rendered unnecessary. While she looked about her, he put the coat on a hanger on the back of his door. He saw that the outside of the coat was wet, glanced back at her, and saw that her hair was wet as well. ‘Don’t you have an umbrella?’ he asked.

Unconsciously, she put her hand up to her hair and pulled it away, surprised to find it wet. ‘No, it wasn’t raining when I left the house.’

‘When was that?’ he asked, coming back across die room towards her.

‘After lunch. After two, I suppose.’ Her answer was vague, suggesting that she really couldn’t remember.

He pulled a second chair up beside the one that faced his desk and waited for her to sit before sitting opposite her. Even though he had seen her only a few hours ago, Brunetti was struck by the change in her appearance. This morning, she had seemed calm and relaxed, ready to join with him in an Italianate attempt to convince Brett to consider her own safety. But now she seemed stiff and on edge, and the tension showed in the lines around her mouth that, he was sure, hadn’t been there this morning.

‘How’s Brett?’ he asked.

She sighed and swept the fingers of one hand to the side in a dismissive gesture. ‘At times, it’s like talking to one of my children. She agrees with everything I say, admits that everything I say is right, and then decides to do precisely what she wants.’

‘Which, in this case, is what?’ Brunetti asked.

‘To stay here and not go to Milan with me.’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Tomorrow. There’s an evening flight that gets in at nine. That gives me time to go and open up the apartment and then go back to the airport to meet the children in the morning.’

‘Does she say why she doesn’t want to go?’

Flavia shrugged, as if what Brett said and what was true were two separate things. ‘She says she won’t be frightened away from her own house, that she won’t run away and hide with me.’

‘Isn’t that her real reason?’