Suffer the Little Children

'So it was just bad luck for Pedrolli?'

'Yes, I suppose you could say that, Commissario.'

'And convenient for you, as well?'

'If you'll allow me to say this, Commissario, you sound as if you think we'd do something like that without being sure.'

'I'm afraid you're right. Captain.'

'We don't do these things rashly, Commissario. And for what it’s worth, I have a child, a girl. She's only one.'

'Mine are older.'

'I don't think that changes anything.' 'No, probably not. Is there any news of him?' 'Dottor Pedrolli?' 'The baby.'

'No, there isn't. And there can't be: you must know that. Once a child is in the care of the social services, we're not given any further information.'

I see ... Tell me one last thing. Captain, if you will.' If I can.'

'Is there any way that Dottor Pedrolli could ever ... ?'

'See the baby?' ‘Yes.'

'It’s not likely. I'd say impossible. The boy isn't his, you see.'

'How do you know that, Captain? If I might ask.'

'May I say something without risk of offending you, Commissario?' 'Yes. Certainly.'

'We're not a gang of jackbooted thugs here, you know.'

'I hardly meant to suggest...'

‘I’m sure you didn't, Commissario. I simply, wanted to make this clear, first.' 'And second?'

To tell you that, before the operation was authorized, the mother of the baby testified that the child was her husband's and not that of the man whose name was on the birth certificate.'

'So she could get her child back?'

'You have a very idealised vision of motherhood, Commissario, if I might make that observation. The woman made it clear that she did not want the baby back. In fact, this is one of the reasons my colleagues in Cosenza believed her.'

'Will it affect her chances of being allowed to stay here?'

'Probably not, no.'

'Ah.'

''Ah', indeed, Commissario. Believe me, the baby's not his. We knew that before we went in there that night.'

‘I see. Well, then ... thank you very much, Captain. You've been very helpful.'

‘I’m glad to learn you think so, Commissario. If it would put your mind at rest, I could send you a copy of our report. Shall I email it to you there?'

It would be a great kindness.' 'I'll do it now, Commissario.' 'Thank you. Captain.' 'You're welcome. Arrivederci.' 'Arrivederci, Capitano’

*   *   *

A copy of the deposition arrived less than an hour later. It had been made by the Albanian woman whose name was on the birth certificate of Pedrolli's son. It had been signed four days before the Carabinieri raid and had been compiled over two days of testimony. She had been located by a simple computer search, in Cosenza, where she had, two days after registering the birth of her child to an Italian father, been granted a permesso di soggiorno. When questioned, she originally maintained that her child had been sent back to Albania to live with his grandparents. It was, she insisted, sheer coincidence that her husband, also Albanian and illegally resident in Italy, had bought a car two days after she was released from the hospital: he had been working as a mason, she explained, and had been saving money for months in order to buy the car. Nor was there any connection between her son's disappearance and the three months' deposit her husband had paid on an apartment the same day he bought the car.

Later in the questioning, she began to insist that the Italian man, whose name she could not remember and whom she had a certain difficulty in describing, was the father of the child, but when she was threatened with arrest and deportation unless she told the truth, she changed her story and claimed that an Italian man who said his wife was unable to have a child had contacted her in the weeks just before she gave birth. Her first version suggested that the man had found her on his own; no one had introduced him to her. But when the possibility of extradition was mentioned to her again, she said that he had been introduced to her by one of the doctors in the hospital - she could not remember which - who said that the man who wanted to talk to her was also a doctor. After the child was born, she had agreed to let the doctor's name be on the birth certificate because she believed her son would have a better chance at a decent life if he were raised as an Italian, in an Italian family. She finally admitted that the man had given her some money, but as a gift, not a payment. No, she could not remember how much it had been.

The woman and her husband were now under house arrest, though the husband was allowed to continue to work: the question of her permesso di soggiorno was being examined by a magistrate. When he finished reading, Brunetti was left wondering why whoever had questioned her had so easily accepted her explanation of how Pedrolli had contacted her: he might just as easily have descended from a cloud. 'Had been introduced to her by one of the doctors in the hospital’ the woman had stated. But which one? And for what reason?

At a certain point, Brunetti realized that - in a manner frighteningly reminiscent of Bianca Marcolini - the woman had expressed no interest in the child or in what had happened to him. He slipped the papers into his desk drawer and went home.

*   *   *

Before dinner Brunetti managed to return to the travels of the Marquis de Custine. With the French aristocrat as guide and companion, he found himself in St Petersburg, contemplating the Russian soul, which de Custine observed was 'intoxicated with slavery'. Brunetti let the open book fall to his lap as he considered these words and was brought out of his reverie by Paola, who sat down beside him.

‘I forgot to tell you,' she said.

Brunetti dragged himself back from the Nevsky Prospekt and said. Tell me what?'

'About Bianca Marcolini.'

'Ah, thank you,' he said.

‘I asked around, but not a lot. Most people know the name because of the father, of course.'

Brunetti nodded.

‘I asked my father about him. I told you he knew him, didn't I?'

Brunetti nodded again. 'And?' he asked.

'And he said Marcolini is a man to be reckoned with. He made his fortune himself, you know.' She paused, then added, 'Some people still find that an intoxicating idea.' Her voice was rich with a disdain that only those born into great wealth can experience.

'My father says he has friends everywhere: in local government, in regional government, even in Rome. In the last few years, he's come to control an enormous number of votes.'

'Suppressing a news story would be easy for him, men?' Brunetti asked.

'Child's play’ she said, a phrase that struck Brunetti with an odd resonance. 'And the marriage?'

''Chiesa dei Miracoli garlanded with flowers': the usual. She works as a financial adviser for a bank; he's the assistant primario in pediatria at the Ospedale Civile.'

None of these statements seemed to have merited the excitement Brunetti thought he heard in her voice, something experience told him came from revelations still unspoken. 'And the non-official news?'he asked.

'The baby, of course’ she said, and he registered that she was finally in her stride.

'Of course,' he repeated and smiled.

'The gossip among their friends was that he had had a short affair with a woman - not even an affair: just a few days - when he was in Cosenza for a medical conference. I've asked a number of people who know them, and