‘It’s not a great deal,’ Vianello said, honestly sceptical.
It’s the best they’re going to get.’
20
The next hour was filled with phone calls to and from Padova as Brunetti contacted police and
He knew, as did all Italians, that many of these calls could be, perhaps were even now being, intercepted and recorded by various agencies of the State, so he never gave his name and always spoke in the most oblique way, saying only that a certain person in Venice was interested in the whereabouts of Ruggiero Palmieri but no, most decidedly no, he did not want to make contact, nor did he want Signor Palmieri to learn that questions were being asked about him. His sixth call, to a drug dealer whose son Brunetti had not arrested after being attacked by the boy the day after his father’s last conviction some years ago, said he would see what he could do.
‘And Luigino?’ Brunetti asked to show that there were no hard feelings.
‘I’ve sent him to America. To study business,’ the father said before he hung up. That probably meant Brunetti would have to arrest him the next time he met him. Or perhaps, empowered by his degree in business management from some prestigious American university, he would rise to great heights in the organization and thus pass into realms where he would hardly be likely to be subject to arrest by a humble
Using the last of his phone cards and reading her number from a piece of paper, Brunetti called Mitri’s widow and, as he had on the day after Mitri’s death, listened to a recorded message saying that the family, burdened with grief, was accepting no messages. He switched the phone to the other ear and searched in his pocket until he found a piece of paper with Mitri’s brother’s number, but there, too, he heard only a message. On a whim, he decided to pass by Mitri’s apartment and see if anyone else from the family was there.
He took the 82 to San Marcuola and easily found his way to the building. He rang the bell and soon heard a man’s voice on the intercom, asking who he was. He said he was from the police, gave his rank but not his name, heard nothing for a moment, then was told to come in. The salt was still busy with its corrosive work, and paint and plaster lay in small piles on the stairs as before.
At the top a man in a dark suit stood just inside the open door. He was tall and very thin, with a narrow face and short dark hair just going grey at the temples. When he saw Brunetti, he stepped back to allow him to enter and extended his hand. ‘I’m Sandro Bonaventura,’ he said, ‘Paolo’s brother-in-law.’ Like his sister, he chose to speak Italian, not Veneziano, though the underlying accent was audible.
Brunetti shook hands and, still not giving his name, entered the apartment. Bonaventura led him into a large room at the end of the short corridor. He noticed that the floor in this room was covered with what looked like the original oak boards, not parquet, and the curtains in front of the double windows appeared to be genuine Fortuny cloth.
Bonaventura motioned to a chair and, when Brunetti was seated, sat opposite him. ‘My sister isn’t here,’ he began. ‘She and her granddaughter have gone to stay a few days with my wife.’
‘I had hoped to speak to her,’ Brunetti said. ‘Have you any idea when she’ll be back?’
Bonaventura shook his head. ‘She and my wife are very close, as close as sisters, so we asked her to come and stay with us when… when this happened.’ He looked down at his hands and shook his head slowly, then up again and met Brunetti’s eyes. ‘I can’t believe it happened, not to Paolo. There was no reason, none at all.’
‘There very often isn’t any reason, if a person comes in on a robber and he panics…’
‘You think it was a robbery? What about the note?’ Bonaventura asked.
Brunetti paused before he answered, ‘It could be that the robber chose him because of the publicity caused by the travel agency. He could have had the note with him, planned to leave it there after the robbery.’
‘But why bother?’
Brunetti had no idea at all and found the suggestion ridiculous. ‘To divert us from looking for a professional thief,’ he invented.
‘That’s impossible,’ Bonaventura said. ‘Paolo was killed by some fanatic who thought he was responsible for something he had no idea was going on. My sister’s life has been ruined. It’s just crazy. Don’t talk to me about thieves who come equipped with notes and don’t waste your time going around looking for them. You should be looking for the crazy person who did this.’
‘Did your brother-in-law have any enemies?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No, of course not.’
‘I find that strange,’ Brunetti said.
‘What do you mean?’ Bonaventura demanded, leaning forward in his chair, putting himself into Brunetti’s space.
‘Please, don’t be offended, Signor Bonaventura.’ Brunetti put a placating palm between them. ‘I mean that Dottor Mitri was a businessman, and a successful one. I’m certain that in the course of his years he had to make decisions that displeased people, angered them.’
‘People don’t kill one another because of a bad business deal,’ Bonaventura insisted.
Brunetti, who knew how often they did, said nothing for a while. Then: ‘Can you think of anyone he might have had difficulty with?’
‘No,’ Bonaventura replied instantly and, after a longer period of reflection, added, ‘No one.’
‘I see. Are you familiar with your brother-in-law’s business? Do you work with him?’
‘No. I manage our factory in Castelfranco Veneto. Interfar. It’s mine, but it’s registered under my sister’s name.’ He saw that Brunetti was not satisfied with this and added, ‘For tax reasons.’
Brunetti nodded in what he thought was a very priestlike way. He sometimes believed that a person in Italy could be excused any horror, any enormity, simply by saying that it was done for tax reasons. Wipe out your family, shoot your dog, burn down the neighbour’s house: so long as you said you did it for tax reasons, no judge, no jury, would convict. ‘Did Dottor Mitri have any involvement in the factory?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘What kind of factory is it, if I might ask?’
Bonaventura didn’t seem to find the question strange. ‘Of course you might ask. Pharmaceuticals. Aspirin, insulin, many homeopathic products.’
‘And are you a pharmacist, to oversee the operations?’
Bonaventura hesitated before answering, ‘No, not at all. I’m just a businessman. I add up the columns of figures, listen to the scientists who prepare the formulas and try to figure out strategies for successful marketing.’
‘You don’t need a background in pharmacology?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of Mitri, who had been a chemist.
‘No. It’s just a question of making managerial decisions. The product is irrelevant: shoes, ships, sealing wax.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘Your brother-in-law was a chemist, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, I think so, originally, at the start of his career.’
‘But no longer?’
‘No, he hasn’t worked as one for years.’
‘What did he do, then, at his factories?’ Brunetti wondered if Mitri had also been a believer in managerial
