She nodded, her face growing even redder.
‘Is it still there, Signora?’
Again, she nodded.
‘Could you get it for me, Signora?’ She didn’t acknowledge having heard him, so he repeated, ‘Could you get it for me? Or tell me where it is?’
She put one hand over her eyes, but the tears continued to spill out from under it.
Brunetti waited. Finally, with her other hand, she pointed over her left shoulder, towards the back of the apartment. Quickly, before she had time to change her mind, Brunetti got up and went out into the hall. He walked down the corridor, past a kitchen on one side, a dining-room on the other. At the back, he glanced into one room and saw a man’s suit rack standing against the wall. He opened the door opposite and found himself in a teenager’s dream room: white chiffon flounces surrounded the lower part of the bed and dressing-table; one wall was entirely covered with mirrors.
Beside the bed stood an elaborate brass phone, its receiver resting on top of a large square box, the round dial a memento from an earlier time. He approached it, knelt and pushed aside the billows of chiffon. Two wires led from the base, one to the phone jack and the other to a small black recorder no larger than a Walkman. He recognized it as one he’d used in the past, when speaking to suspects: voice-activated, its clarity of sound was remarkable for something so small.
He detached the recorder and went back into the sitting-room. When he entered she still had her hand over her eyes, but she looked up when she heard him coming in.
He set the machine on the table in front of her. ‘Is this the tape recorder, Signora?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘May I listen to what’s on here?’ he asked.
He’d once watched a television programme, one that showed the way snakes could mesmerize their prey. As her head moved back and forth, following him as he leaned down towards the recorder, he thought of it and the thought made him uncomfortable.
She nodded in agreement and, her head again following his gesture, he leaned down and pressed the ‘Rewind’ button and, when that clicked to show the tape was rewound, he pushed ‘Play’.
Together they listened, as other voices, one of them that of a dead man, filled the room. Mitri spoke to an old school friend and made a date for dinner; Signora Mitri ordered new drapes; Signor Mitri called a woman and told her how eager he was to see her again. At this, Signora Mitri turned away her face in shame and the tears came again.
There followed minutes of the same mixture of calls, all equal in their banality and inconsequence. And nothing, now that he had embraced death, seemed more inconsequential than the vocal expression of Mitri’s lust. Then he heard Bonaventura’s voice, asking Mitri if he would have time to look at some papers the next evening. When Mitri agreed, Bonaventura said he’d stop by at about nine or perhaps send one of the drivers over with the documents he wanted Mitri to see. Then he heard it, the call he had prayed would be there. The phone rang twice, Bonaventura answered with a nervous
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m still here.’
The pause that followed this was evidence of Bonaventura’s shock at this rashness. ‘Get out. Now.’
‘When can I see you?’
‘Tomorrow. In my office. I’ll give you the rest.’ Then they both heard the phone put down.
The next thing they listened to was the shaken voice of a man asking for the police. Brunetti reached over to the recorder and pressed ‘Stop’. When he looked across at her, all emotion had been blasted from her face, all tears forgotten. ‘Your brother?’
Like the victim of a bombing, she could do nothing but nod, eyes wide and staring.
Brunetti got to his feet and reached down to pick up the recorder. He slipped it into his pocket. ‘I have no words to tell you how sorry I am, Signora,’ he said.
28
He walked home, the small tape-recorder heavier in his pocket than any pistol or other instrument of death had ever been. It pulled him down, and the messages it contained weighed on his spirit. So easily had Bonaventura been able to prepare his brother-in-law to meet his death: no more than a phone call and the message that the driver would pass by with some papers he wanted him to read. Mitri, unsuspecting, had let his killer in, had perhaps taken papers from him, turned away to put them on a table or desk. Thus had he given Palmieri the opportunity he needed to slip the fatal wire over his head and draw it tight around his neck.
To a man as strong and practised as Palmieri, it would have been the work of an instant, and then perhaps another minute, even less, to pull the ends tight and hold them until Mitri’s life was choked out of him. The traces of skin under Mitri’s fingernails proved that he had tried to resist, but it had been hopeless from the moment Bonaventura called to talk about delivering the papers, from the instant, whenever that was and for whatever reason, Bonaventura decided to free himself of the man who endangered his factory and its squalid business.
Brunetti had no idea how many times he’d said that there was little in human evil that could surprise him, yet each time he stumbled or pounced upon it, it did. He’d seen men killed for a few thousand lire and for a few million dollars, but it never made any sense to him, regardless of the amount, for it still put a price on human life and said that the acquisition of wealth was a greater good – a first principle he could not grasp. Nor, he realized, could he ever fully comprehend how anyone could do it. He could understand why they did it. That was easy enough and the motives were as clear as they were varied: greed, lust, jealousy. But how bring themselves actually to do the deed? His imagination failed him; the action seemed too profound, its consequences utterly beyond his powers to know.
He arrived back at his apartment with this confusion filling his mind. When she heard him Paola, left her study and came down the corridor towards him. She saw the expression on his face and said, ‘I’ll make us some tisane.’
He hung up his coat and went into the bathroom, where he washed his hands and face, and looked at himself in the mirror. How could he know such things, he wondered, and not see some sign of them in his face? He remembered a poem Paola had once read to him, something about the way the world looked on disaster and was not shaken by it. The dogs, he thought he remembered the poet writing, continued to go about their doggy business. He went about his.
In the kitchen, his grandmother’s teapot stood on a raffia mat in the centre of the table, two mugs beside it, a large jar of honey to the left. He sat down and Paola poured out the aromatic tea.
‘Is linden all right?’ she asked as she opened the honey and spooned some into his mug. He nodded and she slid it across the table, leaving the spoon inside. He stirred it round and round, glad of the scent and the steam that rose to his nostrils.
With no introduction he said, ‘He sent someone to kill him and, after it was done, the killer phoned him from Mitri’s house.’ Paola said nothing, but went through the same ritual of adding honey, this time a bit less, to her own tisane. As she stirred it Brunetti continued, ‘His wife – Mitri’s – was taping his calls from other women. And to them.’ He blew across the top of the mug and sipped. Having set it down he went on, ‘There’s a tape of the call. From the killer to Bonaventura. He says he’ll give him the rest of the money the next day.’
Paola continued stirring, as if she’d quite forgotten she was meant to drink it. When she sensed that Brunetti had nothing else to say she asked, ‘Is this enough? Enough to convict him?’
Brunetti nodded. ‘I hope so. I think so. They should be able to get a voice print from the tape. The machine’s very sophisticated.’
‘And the conversation?’
‘There’s no mistaking what they mean.’
