When he had finished, he asked to be taken to Signora Mitri. After speaking to her that one time, Brunetti’s instinct had been to believe that she knew nothing about her husband’s death, so he had not sought to question her again. The fact that she had turned up here made him doubt the wisdom of that decision.
A uniformed officer met him at the door and took him down a corridor. He stopped in front of the room next to the one where Bonaventura was being held. ‘His lawyer’s in there with him,’ he said to Brunetti, pointing towards the adjacent door. ‘The woman’s in here,’ he added.
‘Did they come together?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No, sir. He came in a little after she did, but they didn’t recognize one another.’
Brunetti thanked him and stepped over to take a look through the one-way glass. A man sat facing Bonaventura, but all Brunetti could see was the back of his head and shoulders. He moved to the next door and stood a moment, studying the woman sitting inside.
He was struck, again, by her stoutness. Today she wore a woollen suit with a box-cut skirt that made no concession to fashion or style. It was the sort of suit women of her size, age and class had worn for decades, and it would probably be worn by them, or women like them, for decades to come. She wore little make-up and whatever lipstick she might have applied had been chewed away during the day. Her cheeks were rounded, as though she were puffing them up to make a funny face at a child.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, knees tightly together, looking across at the window in the top of the door. She looked older than she had the last time, but Brunetti didn’t know why that was so. His eyes met hers and he was disconcerted by the feeling that she was looking at him, though he knew very well that all she could see was a pane of seemingly black glass. Her eyes did not waver from his and he turned his away first.
He opened the door and went in. ‘Good-afternoon, Signora.’ He approached her and held out his hand.
She studied him, face neutral, eyes busy. She did not stand but extended her hand and shook his, neither lightly nor limply.
Brunetti sat opposite her. ‘You’ve come to see your brother, Signora?’
Her eyes were childlike and filled with a confusion Brunetti believed was genuine. Her mouth opened and her tongue protruded nervously, licked at her lips, then retreated. ‘I wanted to ask him…’ she began, but did not complete the sentence.
‘Ask him what, Signora?’ Brunetti prompted.
‘I don’t know if I should be saying this to a policeman.’
‘And why is that?’ Brunetti leaned towards her a bit.
‘Because,’ she began, then paused for a moment. Then, as if she’d explained something and he’d understood, she said, ‘I need to know.’
‘What is it you need to know, Signora?’ Brunetti nudged.
She pulled her lips tightly together and, as Brunetti watched, she turned herself into a toothless old woman. ‘I need to know if he did it,’ she finally said. Then, considering other possibilities, she added, ‘Or had it done.’
‘Are you speaking of your husband’s death, Signora?’
She nodded.
For the hidden microphones and the tape that was recording all that was said in this room, Brunetti asked again, ‘Do you think he might be responsible for his death?’
‘I don’t…’ she began, then changed her mind and whispered, ‘Yes,’ so low that the microphones might not have caught it.
‘Why do you think he was involved?’ Brunetti asked.
She moved awkwardly in her chair and he saw her make a motion that he’d been watching women make for more than four decades: she half stood and pulled at the underside of her skirt, yanking out the wrinkles. Then she sat down again and pressed her ankles and knees together.
It seemed for a moment as though she hoped the gesture would suffice by way of answer, so Brunetti repeated, ‘Why do you think he’s involved, Signora?’
‘They fought,’ she measured out by way of response.
‘About what?’
‘Business.’
‘Can you be more specific than that, Signora? What business?’
She shook her head a few times, insistent on displaying her ignorance. Finally she said, ‘My husband never told me anything about his businesses. He said I didn’t need to know.’
Again, Brunetti asked himself how many times he had heard this, and how many times it had been an answer structured to turn away guilt. But he believed this heavy-set woman was telling him the truth, found it entirely credible that her husband had not seen fit to share his professional life with her. He recalled the man he’d met in Patta’s office: elegant, well-spoken, one might even say sleek. How odd to pair him with this little woman with her dyed hair and tight-fitting suit. He glanced down at her feet and saw that she was wearing a pair of stout-heeled pumps, their toes narrowed to a painful point. On her left foot, a large bunion had pushed its way into the leather and sat there like a section of an egg, the leather stretched tight across it. Was marriage the ultimate mystery?
‘When did they fight, Signora?’
‘All the time. Especially during the last month. I think something happened that made Paolo angry. They’d never got on well, not really, but because of the family and because of business, well, they rubbed along somehow.’
‘Did anything particular happen during the last month?’ he asked.
‘I think there was an argument,’ she said, her voice so soft that Brunetti again thought of future listeners to the tape.
‘An argument between them, between your husband and your brother?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded repeatedly as she spoke.
‘Why do you think that, Signora?’
‘Paolo and he had a meeting at our apartment. It was two nights before it happened.’
‘Before what happened, Signora?’
‘Before my husband was… before he was killed.’
‘I see. And why do you think there was an argument? Did you hear them?’
‘Oh, no,’ she answered quickly, looking up at him as if surprised at the suggestion that there could ever be raised voices in the house of Mitri. ‘I could tell it from the way Paolo behaved when he came upstairs after they had talked.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Only that he was incompetent.’
‘Was he talking about your brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He said that Sandro was ruining the factory, ruining the business.’
‘Do you know what factory he was talking about, Signora?’
‘I thought he was talking about the one up here, in Castelfranco.’
‘And why would your husband be interested in that?’
‘There was money invested in it.’
‘His money?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Whose money, Signora?’
She paused, considering how best to answer this. ‘It was my money,’ she finally said.
‘Yours, Signora?’
