Wilful behaviour

That crime is always about money, sex or power.' And, indeed, he often did say that, simply because he had seen so little evidence of other motives. 'Well, if Claudia was a virgin and Signora Jacobs was over eighty, then I think we can exclude sex,' she went on. 'And I can't see how power could be an issue, can you?' He shook his head, and she concluded by asking, 'Well?'

He was still mulling over Paola's thoughts when he arrived at the Questura the following morning. He went directly to his office without bothering to tell anyone he was there. The first thing he did was call Lucia Mazzotti in Milano and was surprised when the girl answered the phone herself. She sounded like a different person, all timidity gone from her voice, and Brunetti marvelled at the ability of the young to recover from everything. He began with the usual platitudes but, aware that the girl's mother might be there, he quickly turned to the business of his call and asked if Claudia had ever said anything to her about someone who was too attentive to her or bothered her with his attentions. The line went silent. After a long time Lucia said, 'She got phone calls. A couple of times when I was there.'

'What sort of phone calls?' Brunetti asked.

'Oh, you know, from some guy who wants to go out with you or just talk to you. That you don't want to talk to or see.' She spoke with authority, her youth and her beauty ensuring that calls like this would be part of her normal experience. That’s what I thought from the way she talked.'

'Do you have any idea who this man might be, Lucia?'

There was a long silence, and Brunetti wondered why Lucia should be reluctant to tell him, but at last she said, ‘I don't think it was always a man.'

'Excuse me,' Brunetti said. Would you explain that to me, Lucia.'

Sounding a little impatient, Lucia said, ‘I told you. It wasn't always a man. One time, about two weeks ago, Claudia got a call, and the person who called was a woman. But it was the same kind of call, from someone she didn't want to talk to.'

Would you tell me about it?' Brunetti asked.

‘I answered the phone, and she asked for Claudia.'

Brunetti wondered why she hadn't told him this while he was questioning her, but then he remembered that the girl's flatmate lay dead above them when they spoke, and so he kept his voice calm and asked. What did she say?'

'She asked to speak to Claudia,' Lucia repeated simply in a tone that suggested only an idiot wouldn't recall what she had just said.

'Do you remember if she asked for Claudia or Signorina Leonardo?' Brunetti asked.

After a long pause, the girl said, ‘I don't remember, really, but it might have been Signorina Leonardo.' She thought again and then said, all impatience gone from her tone, ‘I'm sorry, I really don't remember. I didn't pay much attention since it was a woman. I thought it would be work or something.'

'Do you remember what time it was?'

'Before dinner some time.'

'Could it have been the Austrian woman?'

'No, she had an accent, and this woman didn't.'

Was she Italian?'

‘Yes.'

'Venetian?'

‘I didn't listen to her long enough to know. But I'm sure she was Italian. That’s why I thought it was about work.'

'You said it was someone she didn't want to talk to. What made you think that?'

'Oh, from the way Claudia spoke to her. Well, mostly listened to her. I was in the kitchen, making dinner, but I could hear Claudia and she sounded, well, she sounded sort of angry.'

'What did she say?'

'I don't know, really. I could only tell from her voice that she didn't like talking to this woman. I was frying onions so I couldn't hear her words, only that she didn't like the call or the caller. Finally she hung up.'

'Did she say anything to you about it?'

'No, not really. She came into the kitchen and she said something about people being so stupid she couldn't believe it, but she didn't want to talk about it, so we talked about school.'

'And then?'

'And then we ate dinner. And then both of us had a lot of reading to do.'

'Did she ever mention this again?' 'No, not that I remember.' 'Did she get any more calls?' 'Not that I know about.' 'And the man?'

'I never answered the phone when he called, so I can't tell you anything about him. Anyway, it's more a feeling I had than anything I know for certain. Someone called her, and she'd listen for a while, saying 'yes' or 'no', and then she'd say a couple of words, and then she'd hang up.'

'You never asked her about it?'

'No. You see, we weren't really friends, Claudia and I. I mean, we were friends, but not the sort of friends who tell one another things.'

'I see’ Brunetti said, sure that even though he did not understand the distinction his daughter certainly would.

'And she never said anything about these calls?'

'Not really. Besides, I was only there a couple of times when she got them.'

'Did she get other calls, when you knew who the caller was?'

'Once in a while. I knew the Austrian woman's voice, and her aunts.'

The one in England?' 'Yes.'

Brunetti could think of nothing else to ask the girl, and so he thanked her for her help and said he might have to call her again but hoped he wouldn't have to disturb her any more about this.

That's all right, Commissario. I'd like you to find the person who did it’ she said.

22

The next day when Brunetti got to the Questura, the guard at the door handed him an envelope as he came in. 'A man said to give this to you when you came in, Commissario’

'What kind of man?' Brunetti asked, looking down at the manila envelope in the man's hand and thinking of letter bombs, terrorists, sudden death.

'It’s all right, sir. He spoke Veneziano,' the guard said.

Brunetti accepted the envelope and started up the stairs. It was a bit larger than letter size and appeared to contain a package of some sort, perhaps a number of papers. He squeezed it, shook it, but waited until he got to his desk to open it. He flipped it over and looked at the front, where he saw his name written in block capital letters in purple ink.

Only one person he knew used ink that colour: Marco Erizzo had been the first one of their group to buy and use a Mont Blanc fountain pen, and to this day he carried two of them in the pocket of his jacket.

Brunetti's heart sank at the thought of what would be in the envelope: a package of papers could mean only one thing, and from his friend. He determined to say nothing, to give it to charity, never to speak to Marco again. The word 'disonorato' came into his mind, and he felt his throat tighten at the death of friendship.

He slipped his thumbnail under the flap, ripped the envelope open roughly, and took out a thick sheet of beige foolscap and a small, sealed envelope. He folded the page open and saw the same slanted letters and the same ink.

'In the other envelope is some of the rosemary Maria's son sends her from Sardinia. She said to use only about a half-teaspoon for a kilo of mussels and half a kilo of tomatoes and not to use any other spice.'

Brunetti held the smaller envelope to his nose and breathed in the odour of love.