Fatal Remedies

All these thoughts crowded into Brunetti’s mind as he saw the small man coming up the steps towards him, but they were too confused for him to be able to express them, even to himself, in words, so all he could do was nod in recognition as they passed, the little man made even smaller by the two policemen who towered above him.

As he continued up the stairs, Brunetti found himself thinking of the myth of Orfeo and Eurydice, of the man who lost his wife by looking behind to assure himself that she was still there, disobeying the gods’ command not to do so and thus condemning her to remain forever in Hades. The gods that govern Italy had commanded Iacovantuono not to look at something and when he did not obey, his wife had been taken from him for ever.

Luckily, Vianello was waiting at the top of the stairs, and Brunetti’s reflections were driven from him. ‘Commissario,’ the sergeant began as he saw him arrive, ‘we’ve had a phone call from a woman in Treviso. She said she lives in the same house as the Iacovantuonos, but from the way she spoke, I think she might live in the same building.’

Brunetti walked past the sergeant, signalling with his head that he was to follow and leading him down the corridor into his office. As he put his overcoat into the armadio, Brunetti asked, ‘What did she say?’

‘That they fought.’

Thinking of his own marriage, Brunetti answered, ‘Lots of people fight.’

‘He beat her.’

‘How does the woman know that?’ Brunetti asked with immediate curiosity.

‘She said the wife used to come down to her apartment and cry about it.’

‘Did she ever call the police?’

‘Who?’

‘The wife. Signora Iacovantuono.’

‘I don’t know. I just spoke to this woman,’ Vianello began, looking down at a slip of paper in his hand, ‘Signora Grassi, ten minutes ago. I was just hanging up when you came in. She said he’s pretty well known in the area, in the building.’

‘For what?’

‘Causing trouble with the neighbours. Yelling at their children.’

‘And the business with the wife?’ Brunetti asked, going to sit behind his desk. As he spoke, he pulled a small pile of papers and envelopes towards him, but did not begin to look at them.

‘I don’t know. Not yet. There’s been no time to talk to anyone.’

‘It’s not in our jurisdiction,’ Brunetti said.

‘I know. But Pucetti said they were bringing him in this morning to talk to the Vice-Questore about the bank robbery.’

‘Yes. I saw him.’ Brunetti looked down at the envelope on the top of the pile and stared at the stamp, so distracted by what Vianello had just told him that all he could perceive was a pale-green rectangle. Slowly, the pattern emerged: a Gaulish soldier, his expiring wife at his feet, the sword plunged deeply into his own body. ‘Roma Museo Nazionale Romano’ on one side, ‘Galatea Suicida’ on the other. And across the bottom, the number ‘750’.

‘Insurance?’ Brunetti finally asked.

‘I don’t know, sir. I just now took the call.’

Brunetti got to his feet. ‘I’ll go and ask him,’ he said and left the office alone, heading for the stairs that would take him down to Vice-Questore Patta’s office.

The outer room was empty and small toasters flew softly across the screen of Signorina Elettra’s computer. Brunetti knocked on Patta’s door and was told to enter.

Inside, there was a familiar enough scene: Patta sat behind his desk, its surface empty and all the more intimidating for that. Iacovantuono sat nervously on the edge of the chair that faced Patta, his hands wrapped around the sides of the seat and his elbows locked straight, propping up his weight.

Patta looked up at Brunetti, face impassive. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’

‘I’d like to ask Signor Iacovantuono something,’ Brunetti answered.

‘I think you’ll be wasting your time, Commissario,’ Patta said. Then, voice rising, he added, ‘Just as I’ve been wasting mine. Signor Iacovantuono seems to have forgotten what happened in the bank.’ Patta leaned forward – loomed might be a more accurate word – across his desk and brought his fist down on its surface, not hard, but with enough force to break the fist open and leave four fingers pointing at Iacovantuono.

When the cook didn’t respond at all, Patta glanced back at Brunetti. ‘What is it you want to ask him, Commissario? Whether he remembers seeing Stefano Gentile in the bank? Whether he remembers the first description he gave us? Or remembers identifying Gentile’s photo when he saw it?’ Patta reared back in his chair, his hand in the air in front of him, fingers still pointing at Iacovantuono. ‘No, I don’t think he remembers any of that. So I suggest you don’t waste your time asking him.’

‘That’s not what I wanted to ask him about, sir,’ Brunetti said, his soft tone in strange dissonance to Patta’s histrionic anger.

Iacovantuono turned to look at Brunetti.

‘Well, what is it?’ Patta demanded.

‘I wanted to know,’ Brunetti began, addressing Iacovantuono and ignoring Patta completely, ‘if your wife was insured.’

Iacovantuono’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. ‘Insured?’ he asked.

Brunetti nodded. ‘Life insurance.’

Iacovantuono looked back at Patta but, seeing no help there, he returned his attention to Brunetti. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ Brunetti turned to leave.

‘Is that all?’ Patta asked angrily from behind him.

‘Yes, sir,’ Brunetti said, turning to Patta but looking at Iacovantuono. The man was still perched on the edge of his chair, but now his hands were clasped in his lap. His head was lowered and he seemed to be examining his hands.

Brunetti turned back to the door and let himself out. The toasters continued in their endless migration to the right technological lemmings bent on their own destruction.

He went back up to his office and found Vianello waiting for him, standing at the window and looking out at the garden on the other side of the canal and to the facade of the church of San Lorenzo. The sergeant turned when he heard the door open. ‘And?’ he asked as Brunetti came in.

‘I asked about the insurance.’

‘And?’ Vianello repeated.

‘He didn’t know.’ Vianello made no comment, so Brunetti asked, ‘Does Nadia have an insurance policy?’

‘No.’ Then, after a moment’s pause, Vianello added, ‘At least I don’t think so.’ Both considered this, then Vianello enquired, ‘What will you do?’

‘The only thing I can do is tell the people in Treviso.’ It struck him then. ‘Why would she call us?’ he asked, suddenly turning to Vianello, one hand raised halfway to his mouth.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why would the neighbour call the police in Venice? The woman died in Treviso.’ Brunetti suddenly found himself blushing. Of course, of course. Iacovantuono’s reputation needed to be blackened only in Venice: if he decided to testify, that’s where he was going to do it. Were they watching him so closely that they knew when the police brought him in? Or, worse, did they know when the police were going to do it? ‘Gesu bambino,’ he whispered. ‘What did she say her name was?’

‘Grassi,’ Vianello answered.

Brunetti picked up the phone and asked to be connected to the police in Treviso. When he was put through, he identified himself and asked to talk to the person who was in charge of investigating the Iacovantuono case. It took a few minutes before the man he spoke to told him that it had been filed as an accidental death.

‘Do you have the name of the man who reported finding the body?’

The phone was put down for a while, then the officer was back. ‘Zanetti,’ he said. ‘Walter Zanetti.’

‘Who else lives in the building?’ Brunetti asked.