Wilful behaviour

enough girls get themselves stabbed to death in other places and no one pays attention. But it's still something of a sensation here, so I suppose we have to prepare ourselves for some bad publicity, at least until people forget about it’ Sighing as if in resignation to yet another of the cares of office, Patta pulled some folders toward him and said, That will be all, Commissario.' Brunetti stood but found himself unable to leave. He stood so long that Patta finally looked up at him and said, ‘Yes, what is it?'

'If s nothing sir. All this bad publicity is a shame, though.'

'Yes, it is, isn't it?' Patta agreed and turned his attention to the first folder. Brunetti devoted his to getting out of Patta's office without opening his mouth.

He recalled, then, something he had seen with Paola, it must have been four years ago. They'd been at an exhibition of the paintings of the Colombian painter, Botero, she drawn to the wild exuberance of his portraits of fat, pie-faced men and women, all possessed of the same tiny rosebud mouth. In front of them was a teacher with a class of children who couldn't have been more than eight or nine. As he and Paola came into the last room of the exhibition, they heard the teacher say, ‘Now, ragazzi, we're going to leave, but there are a lot of people here who don't want to be disturbed by our noise or talking. So what we're all going to do,' she went on, pointing to her own mouth, which she pursed up into a tight, tiny circle, 'is make la bocca di Botero.' Delighted, the children all placed single fingers on their lips and drew their mouths into tight imitations of those in the paintings as they tiptoed giggling from the room. Since then, whenever either he or Paola knew that to speak might be indiscreet, they invoked 'la bocca di Botero', and no doubt thus saved themselves a great deal of trouble, to make no mention of time and wasted energy.

Signorina Elettra had apparently finished the magazine, for he found her leafing through the papers in a file. 'Signorina’ he began, 'I've a number of things I'd like you to do.'

'Yes, sir?' she said, closing the file and making no attempt to cover either the CONFIDENTIAL sticker that ran in bold red letters down the left side of the front cover nor Lieutenant Scarpa's name, which appeared across the top.

'A little light reading?' he inquired.

'Very’ she said with audible disdain, pushing the file to the side of her desk. 'What is it you'd like me to do, sir?'

'Ask your friend at Telecom to see if he can get you a list of calls to and from their phone, and see if either she or Lucia Mazzotti - the flatmate - has a telefonino. And see what you can find out about Claudia: if she has a credit card or a bank account. Any financial information would help.'

'Did you search her apartment?' she interrupted to ask.

'Not well, not then. But a team will take care of it this afternoon.'

'Good, then I'll have them bring me any papers they find.' 'Yes. Good,' he said. 'Anything else?' she asked.

'No, not that I can think of now. We don't know much yet. If you find anything interesting in the papers, follow it up.' He read her expression and explained, 'Letters from a boyfriend. If people write letters any more, that is.' Even before she could ask, he said, 'Yes, tell them to bring you her computer, as well.'

'And you, sir?' she asked.

Instead of answering, he looked at his watch, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. 'I'm going to call my wife’ he said. He turned away, saying, Then I'll be in my office, waiting for Rizzardi.'

The doctor didn't call until well after five, by which time Brunetti was cranky from hunger and annoyed at sitting and waiting.

‘It’s me, Guido,' Rizzardi said.

Speaking without impatience, Brunetti asked only, 'And?'

Two of the stab wounds would have killed her: both of them nicked the heart. She would have died almost instantly.'

'And the killer? Do you still think it was someone short?'

'Well, not someone tall, certainly not as tall as you or I. Perhaps a bit taller than the girl herself. And right handed.'

'Does this mean it could have been a woman?' Brunetti asked.

'Of course, though women usually don't kill like this.' After a moment's reflection, the pathologist added, 'Women don't usually kill at all, do they?'

Brunetti grunted in agreement, wondering if Rizzardi's remark could be interpreted as a compliment to the sex, and, if so, what that said about human nature. The doctor's next remark called him back from these reflections. ‘I think she was a virgin.'

'What?' Brunetti asked.

'You heard me, Guido. A virgin.'

There was silence as they considered this, then Brunetti asked, 'Anything else?'

'She didn't smoke, appeared to be in excellent health.' He paused here and Brunetti had an instant to hope that Rizzardi wouldn't say it. But he did. 'She could have lived another sixty years.'

'Thanks, Ettore,' Brunetti said and replaced the receiver.

Irritable once again, Brunetti felt he could relieve his feelings only by activity, so he walked down to the crime lab, where he asked to see the things brought in from Claudia Leonardo's apartment.

'Signorina Elettra has her address book,' said Bocchese, the chief technician, placing a number of plastic bags on his desk.

As Brunetti picked the bags up by the corners, Bocchese said dismissively, ‘You can touch anything you want. I've dusted the lot, but there's only two sets of prints on everything, hers and her flatmate's.'

Brunetti opened a large envelope which itself contained a number of papers and smaller envelopes. There were the usual things: gas and electric bills, an invitation to a gallery opening, phone bills, credit card receipts. Toward the back of the small packet of papers he found a bank statement, and he read down through the column of deposits. On the first of each month, ten million lire was deposited in Claudia's account. He checked, and there was the same deposit every month since the beginning of the year. It took little skill in arithmetic to arrive at the annual total, a staggering amount to find in a student's account. Yet it wasn't in the account: her current balance was little more than three million lire, which meant that this young girl had, during the course of the last ten months, disposed of almost a hundred million lire.

He studied the statement: on the third of every month, money was transferred from Claudia's account to that of Loredana Gallante, the landlady. The utilities were paid by direct debit. And, each month, with no particular pattern in the date or amount, large transfers in varying amounts were made, though they were listed only as 'Foreign transfers'.

The monthly deposits were explained as 'Transfer from foreign source'. Nothing more. He extracted the bank statement from the stack of papers and asked Bocchese, 'Do I have to sign for this?'

‘I think you better, Commissario,' Bocchese replied, opening a drawer and pulling out a thick ledger. He flipped it open, wrote something, then turned the book towards Brunetti. 'Sign here, sir. With the date, as well, if you don't mind.' Neither of them commented on Bocchese's continuing, but unsuccessful, attempts to have a photocopy machine assigned to his office.

Brunetti did as he was told, folded the bank statement and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

The banks were already closed, and when he went back to her office he saw that Signorina Elettra had already left. Her magazine was lying closed and face down on her desk, but Brunetti could not bring himself to flip it over to read the cover. He did, however, move around her desk and bend over to read the title on the spine. Vogue. He smiled, glad to see this small piece of evidence that Signorina Elettra was once again devoting to Vice-Questore Patta precisely the amount of attention she judged him to deserve.

13

It wasn't until next morning that Brunetti could begin to satisfy his curiosity about the flow of money into and out of Claudia Leonardo's account. This was quickly handled by a phone call to the local office of the Banca di Perugia. For years, Brunetti had been intrigued to observe that, of all the people made nervous by a phone call from the police, bankers seemed to suffer the most. It led him to wonder what it was they got up to behind their broad