Through a glass, darkly

or something, then they soldered a kind of flange thing on to the back, so the circle could be swung back and forth over the opening of the pipe to open and close it. But they didn't know what they were doing when they put the pipe in: they didn't use enough solder, and so it had started to leak.'

'And what did you do?' Brunetti asked.

'I closed it off.'

'How?' Brunetti asked.

'I pried off the circle thing and covered over the hole in the pipe. I used plastic and a good adhesive, so it'll last as long as that tank will’ Biaggi said proudly.

'And the other tanks? Did they have the same problem?'

Biaggi shrugged. 'I got called to fix a leak, not to check their whole system.'

'Just where was this hole?' Brunetti asked.

Biaggi repeated his gesture in attempting to recall the tanks, then said, 'About forty centimetres down, maybe a little less.'

'What sort of liquid would there be at that depth, Signor Biaggi?' Brunetti asked.

'Well, if they're at full production, and a lot of water is coming in,' he began, then added for clarification, 'that would be if the water was running for three or more people in the molatura—in that case, with full flow, it would be water with a lot of sediment in it.'

'And if there were less work going on?' Brunetti asked.

Again, Biaggi made that very feminine pursing of his lips. 'There'd still be a fair amount of sediment in it.'

'Where did the old pipe go?' Brunetti asked.

Again, Biaggi played the scene back, then said, 'The angle was bad from where I had to stand, so I couldn't see into it, how far it went or where it went. Into the back wall. That's all I'm sure of. But it's sealed now. There's no chance it will leak again.

'Could you say how long ago the original work was done?' Brunetti asked.

'You mean the soldering?'

'Yes.'

'No, not exactly. Ten years ago. Maybe more, but that's just a guess. No way to tell, really.'

Biaggi glanced at his wristwatch, leading Brunetti to say. 'Just one more question, Signore. Would it be possible for someone to find that pipe?'

The question confused the man and he asked, 'You mean the opening in the tank?'

'Yes.'

'But why would anyone want to do that?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Brunetti answered easily. 'But if they wanted to, could they find it there in the tank?'

Biaggi looked at his employer, who nodded. He looked at his watch again, rubbed his hands together, making a dry, sandpapery noise, and finally said, 'If he knew it was there, I suppose he could find it with his hand, by hunting around. The water's off at both ends at night, so I guess if he opened the drain at the end and let the water run out, he could have a look, at least down to the level of the sediment. Then, when he wanted to fill it up again, all he'd have to do is close the drain again and go into the other room and turn the water on and wait until the tanks were full again. Easy.'

With a smile he attempted to make reassuring, Brunetti said, I'm sorry, but I've just thought of another last question, but I promise it really will be the last.'

Biaggi nodded, and Brunetti said, 'Did they give you any idea of how long the tank had been leaking?'

'A month or so, I'd say’ came Biaggi's quick response.

'You seem very sure of that’ Brunetti observed.

'I am. It looked like someone tried to fix it. That is, it looks like someone tried to solder the disc into place over the hole in the pipe, but there was no way that was going to work. When I asked about it, the manager said the guys had been complaining about the wet floor for a couple of weeks.' He gave Brunetti an interrogative smile, as if to ask if he'd answered enough questions, and Brunetti smiled in return, got to his feet, and held out his hand.

'You've been very helpful, Signor Biaggi. It's always nice to talk to a man who knows his job.'

When Biaggi, made faintly uncomfortable by praise, had left, Repeta asked, making no attempt to disguise the curiosity Brunetti's questions had provoked in him, 'Are you a man who knows your job, Commissario?'

'I'm beginning to think so’ Brunetti said, thanked him, and went back to the Questura.

25

Brunetti's mind turned to tactics. Patta was sure to reject the idea that a man like Fasano—already possessed of some political clout and on his way to acquiring more—could be involved in crime. Nor was he likely to authorize Brunetti to conduct a full investigation based on nothing more than bits and pieces of information and the patterns into which they might be made to fit. Evidence? Brunetti sniffed at the very word. He had nothing more than suspicions and events that could be interpreted in a particular way.

He dialled Bocchese's internal number. The technician answered with his name.

'You have time to look at that sample yet?' Brunetti asked.

'Sample?'

'That Foa brought you.'

'No. I forgot. Tomorrow?'

'Yes.'

Brunetti knew he should stop thinking about this until he had the results of Bocchese's analyses: before that, he could have no certain idea of what had gone on or what had gone into the field behind the two factories. De Cal grew wild at the thought that his son-in-law, the environmentalist, would some day be involved with his factory and would sooner sell it than let it pass to his daughter and thus to her husband. Sell it instead to Gianluca Fasano, rising star in the polluted firmament of local politics, his advance heralded by his deep concern for the environmental degradation of his native city. Some environmentalists were apparently more equal than others to De Cal.

None of this would have merited a second glance, were it not for Giorgio Tassini, a man whom the random forces of life had driven into an erratic orbit. Searching for proof that would free him of the guilt of having destroyed his daughter's life, what had he stumbled upon?

Brunetti tried to recall his conversation with Tassini, unsettled by the realization that it had taken place only a few days before. When Brunetti had asked him if De Cal knew about the pollution, Tassini had replied that both of them knew what was going on, leaving Brunetti to draw the obvious conclusion that he meant De Cal's daughter. But that was before Foa had given Brunetti a detailed map of Murano, one that provided latitude and longitude readings as well as the location of all buildings, and confirmed that the last coordinates on Tassini's paper indicated a point within Fasano's factory.

His phone rang as he sat at his desk, staring at the map and shifting and reshifting the pieces of information in his mind. Distracted, he answered with his name.

'Guido?' asked a voice he recognized.

'Yes.'

Something in his tone provoked a long pause. 'It's me, Guido. Paola. Your wife. Remember me?'

Brunetti grunted.

'Then food? You remember food, Guido, don't you? Something called lunch?'

He looked at his watch, amazed to see that it was after two. 'Oh, my God’ he said. I'm sorry. I forgot.'

'To come home or to eat?' she asked.

'Both.'

'Are you all right?' she asked with real concern.

'It's this thing with Tassini’ he said. 'I can't figure it out, or I can't find any proof of what I think is true.'

'You will’ she said’and then added, 'or else you won't. In either case, you will always remain the bright star of my life.'

He took this as it was meant. 'Thank you, my dear. I need to be told that once in a while.'