Suffer the Little Children

fought together, didn't they?' Then, stunned by the realization, he added, 'Besides, nothing you did was actually illegal, was it?'

'No, it wasn't, was it?' Marcolini asked with a sly smile, obviously having long since arrived at this truth. He reached over and gave Brunetti's shoulder a friendly, manly squeeze.

Brunetti was suddenly conscious of how easy it would be, now, to keep Marcolini talking. All he would have to do was ask him more questions, and Marcolini was sure to answer them, perhaps even honestly. It was a common enough phenomenon, though Brunetti had most frequently observed it among the people he was questioning in regard to crimes they were accused of having committed. The point came when the subject believed he had won the sympathy of his questioner and, in return, placed his trust in him. After this, people would even confess to crimes about which no questions had been asked, almost as if there was no length to which they would not go in order to maintain the good will of their listener. But Marcolini, as the man himself had agreed with great pleasure, had committed no crime. Indeed, he had acted as would any conscientious citizen and had reported one to the police.

It was this thought that forced Brunetti to his feet. He clung to the remnants of the role he was playing as he said, ‘I’m very grateful for your time, Signor Marcolini’ He forced himself to extend his hand and said, ‘I’ll report to the Questore what you've told me.'

The older man stood and took Brunetti's extended hand. He smiled in a friendly manner, then turned and moved towards the door. At the sight of Marcolini's thick, expensively clothed back, Brunetti found himself overcome by the desire to strike him. He saw himself knocking the older man to the floor, but that would serve no purpose unless he were also able to kick the man, and he knew he could not do that. So he followed Marcolini across the room.

The older man opened the door and stood aside to let Brunetti pass. Marcolini raised a hand, and Brunetti knew he was going to clap him on the shoulder or pat him on the arm. The thought filled him with something close to horror; he knew he could not stand that. He quickened his pace and slipped past Marcolini, took two steps and then turned, as though surprised that the other man had not followed close behind him.

Thank you for your time, Signore’ Brunetti said, squeezing out a last smile.

'Not at all,' Marcolini said, rocking back on his heels and folding his arms across his chest. 'Always happy to be of help to the police.'

Brunetti tasted something metallic, muttered words even he did not understand, and left the building.

23

Outside, Brunetti felt himself assailed by a chorus of Furies whispering, 'Eighteen months, eighteen months, eighteen months.' They had had the child for eighteen months, and then Bianca Marcolini had asked her father to arrange to have it taken away, as though the little boy were an unwanted piece of furniture or a kitchen appliance she had bought on warranty and had decided to return.

By the time either one of his children was eighteen months old, Paola could have told Brunetti they resulted from her union with the postman, the garbage man, the parish priest, for all he cared, and he would have loved them none the less. Brunetti pulled himself up short; here he went again, judging the entire world by his own experience, as if there were no other standard with which to measure human behaviour.

He continued walking towards the Questura, but however much he tried to rid himself of the sound of these voices, he failed to do so. He was so distracted that he almost bumped into Patta, who was coming out of the main door.

'Ah, Brunetti’ the Vice-Questore said, 'coming back from a meeting, are you?'

Brunetti slapped an expression of distracted busyness on his face. ‘Yes, Dottore, I am, but don't let me keep you from yours.' How else to make polite note of the fact that the Vice-Questore was leaving for home two hours early?

Brunetti felt it best that Patta should not learn what he was up to, especially not that he had just been asking questions of the leader of a political party of growing significance in the Veneto. Patta believed that only waiters had the right to ask questions of politicians; everyone else should only stand and wait.

'What sort of meeting?' Patta asked.

Brunetti recalled the description the Marquis de Custine had given of the customs officers at the port of St Petersburg and said, 'Someone was complaining about the port, that the customs officers were taking bribes or making it difficult for people who didn't pay them.'

'Nothing new there’ Patta said with little patience, pulled on his gloves, and turned away.

When Brunetti reached the first floor, he went to the officers' room and was relieved to see Vianello and Pucetti. He gave no thought to whether they had discovered anything about the pharmacist, nor whether they could help him resolve this case: Brunetti was simply happy to be in their company and to know that they were men who would share his visceral disgust at what Marcolini had just told him.

He came into the office quietly. Vianello looked up and smiled, then Pucetti did the same. Their desks were covered with papers and files; an ink smear ran across Pucetti's chin. Strangely, Brunetti found himself too moved at the sight of them to speak: two entirely normal men, sitting at their desks and doing their jobs.

Vianello's smile, however, was that of a predator that has just glimpsed the dappled brown coat of a fawn at the edge of the forest glade. 'What is it?' Brunetti asked.

'Have you seen Signorina Elettra?' the Inspector enquired. Brunetti noticed that Pucetti was looking at him with much the same grin.

'No. Why?'

'Signor Brunini's companion had a phone call last night.'

It took Brunetti a moment to process this information: the telefonino he had bought and the number he had given at the clinic, the number of Signor Brunini, the phone Signorina Elettra had said she would see to answering.

'And?' asked Brunetti.

'And the caller said he thought he might be able to be of help to Signor Brunini and, of course, to the Signorina.'

'That's all?' Brunetti asked.

'Signorina Elettra could not help becoming emotional when he gave her the news.' Brunetti did not respond, so the Inspector went on. 'She kept saying, 'a baby, a baby,' until the man said that, yes, he was talking about a baby.'

'And now what? Did he leave a number?'

Vianello's smile grew broader. 'Better. He agreed to meet her and Signor Brunini. She told me that, even when he told her where and when they should meet, she was still unable to stop her tears.'

Brunetti could not help smiling. 'And?'

'And I wondered what you wanted to do,' Vianello said.

Marvilli had behaved honestly, even generously, towards them: the least they could do was return the favour with a piece of information that might help advance his career. Besides, it could never hurt to have another friend among the Carabinieri. He could call Marvilli himself, but it would be more subtle if the call came from Vianello: that would appear less like what it was: repayment of a personal favour. 'It belongs to the Carabinieri,' Brunetti finally said. 'Would you call Marvilli?'

'And the meeting?'

'Tell him about it. If they want us to go, we will. But it's theirs: they decide.'

'All right,' Vianello said but made no move for the phone. 'It's not until the day after tomorrow,' he said.

Brunetti cleared his throat and addressed himself to the reason he had come. You finished with the names that were on Franchi's computer?'

‘Justnow’ Vianello said. 'We've gone through the files and found about a dozen with information that someone-might be interested in.'

How wonderfully diplomatic the Inspector was being today, Brunetti thought. 'You mean blackmail them about?' he asked.

Pucetti laughed, turned to Vianello and said, ‘I told you it was better just to say it.'

Vianello went on. 'I think we should divide the files among the three of us and go and talk to them.'