Wilful behaviour

Vianello slowed his pace and glanced aside at Brunetti, waiting to see if he'd drawn the same conclusions. When Brunetti failed to speak, Vianello asked, 'Don't you see?'

'No. What?'

'A name like that - 'Biblioteca della Patria' - means they'll get money from both sides. No matter who these old men fought for in the war, they'll give their contributions to the Biblioteca, sure that it represents their ideals’ The inspector went silent and Brunetti could sense him following his idea to its various conclusions. Finally Vianello said, 'And they're probably listed as a charity, so no one will ask questions about where the money goes’ He made a spitting sound.

‘You can't be sure of that,' Brunetti said.

'Of course I can. She's a Filipetto.'

Lapsing into silence after that, Vianello matched his steps to Brunetti's as they walked along the narrow canals of Castello, back toward San Pietro di Castello and the Biblioteca. When they got there, Brunetti saw what he had not noticed the last time, a plaque to the side of the door that gave the opening hours. He rang the bell and a few seconds later the portone snapped open and they went in.

The door at the top of the stairs was not locked and they let themselves into the library. There was no sign of Ford, and the door to his office was closed. An old man, bent and looking faintly musty, sat at one of the long tables, a book open in the pool of light from the lamp. Another old man stood by the display cabinet, looking at the notebooks it held. Even at a distance of some metres Brunetti caught the characteristic odour of old men: dry, sour clothing and skin that had gone too long without washing. It was impossible to tell from which one of them the smell came, perhaps from both.

Neither man looked at them when they came in. Brunetti walked over to the man standing in front of the display case. The man looked up then. Careful to speak in Veneziano, Brunetti said, with no introduction, It's good to see that someone has respect for the old things,' and waved a hand above them at what looked like a regimental flag.

The old man smiled and nodded but said nothing.

'My father went to Africa and Russia,' Brunetti offered.

'Did he come back?' the old man asked. His dialect was purest Castello, and what he said would probably have been incomprehensible to a non-Venetian.

'Good. My brother didn't. Betrayed by the Allies. All of us. They tricked the King into surrendering. If he hadn't, if we'd fought on, we would have won.' Then looking round, he added, 'At least they know that here.'

'Absolutely,' Brunetti agreed, thinking of Vianello's convictions about how the Biblioteca was being used. 'And we'd be living in a better place if we had.' He put all the force of conviction into his voice.

'We'd have discipline,' the old man said.

'And order,' came the antiphon from the man at the table, he too speaking in dialect.

'That stupid girl didn't understand these things’ Brunetti said, voice rich with contempt. 'Always saying bad things about the past and the Duce and how we should take in these immigrants who come flooding in from everywhere to steal our jobs. First thing you know, there won't be anywhere for us any more.' He didn't bother to strive for coherence: cliche and prejudice would suffice.

The man standing next to him snorted in approval.

‘I don't know why he let her work here’ Brunetti said, nodding in the direction of Ford's office door. 'She was the 'wrong ...' he started to say, but the one at the table cut him off.

'You know what he's like’ the old man said, leering across at the two of them. 'All he had to do was see her tits and he lost his head. Couldn't keep his eyes off her, just like the last one. He certainly spent enough time looking at her tits until his wife chased her out.'

'God knows what they got up to in his office’ the one at the display case said, voice tight with secret hopes.

'It's a good thing his wife found out about this one, too’ Brunetti said, relief palpable in his voice, the sanctity of the family saved from the temptation offered by immoral young women.

'Did she?' the one at the table asked, curious.

'Of course. You should have seen the way she looked at her, with her tight jeans and her ass all over the place,' the other one explained.

'I know what I would have done with that ass,' the one at the table said, putting his hands under the table and moving them up and down in what Brunetti thought was meant to be a comic gesture but which seemed to him obscene. He thought of Claudia's ghost and hoped she'd forgive him, and these sad old fools, for spitting on her grave.

'Is he here, the Director?' Brunetti asked, as if he'd been called from this fascinating conversation to the reason he had come.

Both nodded. The one at the table pulled his hands back into sight and used them to prop up his head. Seeing that he'd somehow lost the attention of his audience, he bent his attention back to the pages of his book.

Brunetti made a quick gesture, signalling Vianello to remain in the reading room, and went over to the door to Ford's office. He knocked, and a voice from inside called out, 'Avanti'

He opened the door and went in.

'Ah, Commissario’ Ford said, getting to his feet. 'How pleasant to see you again.' He came closer and held out his hand. Brunetti took it and smiled. 'Are you any closer to finding the person responsible for Claudia's death?' Ford asked as he shook Brunetti's hand.

'I think I have a good idea of who's responsible for her death, but that's not the same as knowing as who it was that killed her,' Brunetti said with an Olympian calm that startled even himself.

Ford took his hand from Brunetti's and said, 'What do you mean by that?'

'Exactly what I said, Signore: the reason for her death is not far to seek, nor, I suspect, is the person who killed her. It's just that I haven't managed to satisfy myself how one led to the other; not just yet, that is.'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' Ford said, backing away from Brunetti and standing at the side of his desk, as though its wooden solidity would bolster his words.

'Perhaps your wife will. Is she here, Signore?'

'What do you want to speak to my wife about?'

The same thing, Signor Ford: Claudia Leonardo's death.'

That's ridiculous. How can my wife know anything about that?'

'How, indeed?' Brunetti asked, then added, 'Your wife is the other director of the Biblioteca, isn't she?' ‘Yes, of course.'

‘You didn't mention that the last time I was here,' Brunetti said.

'Of course I did. I told you she was co-director.'

'But you didn't tell me who your wife is, Signor Ford.'

'She's my wife. What more do you need to know about her than that?' Ford insisted. For a moment, Brunetti entertained the thought of what Paola's response would be if she were to hear him say the same thing about her. He did hot give voice to this speculation and instead asked again, 'Is she here?'

'That's none of your business.'

'Anything that has to do with Claudia Leonardo's death is my business.'

'You can't talk to her,' Ford said, almost shouting.

Brunetti stepped back from him, saying nothing, turned and started for the door.

'Where are you going?'

'Back to the Questura to get an order from a magistrate that your wife be brought there for questioning.'

'You can't do that,' Ford said, voice even louder.

Brunetti wheeled around and took one step towards him, his anger so palpable that the other man moved back. 'What I can and cannot do is determined by the law, Signor Ford, not by what you might or might not want. And I will talk to your wife’ He turned away from the Englishman, making it clear that he had nothing else to say. He thought Ford would call him back and give in, but he did not, and so Brunetti went out into the reading room, where Vianello had propped himself against one of the tables, a book open in his hands. Neither acknowledged the other, and Vianello looked immediately back at the book.

Brunetti was halfway through the door to the stairway when Ford came out of his office. 'Wait’ he called after