‘And what else?’ he asked, so familiar with her manner that he knew there were still treats to be revealed.

‘Meucci. Not only has he made three phone calls to Signorina Borelli’s telefonino in the last two days, but it turns out that he is not a veterinarian at all.’

‘What?’

‘He spent four years at Padova, took and passed most of the exams, but seems not to have taken the last four, and there’s no record that he took his degree from the university or that he passed – or ever applied to take – the state exams.’

Brunetti was about to ask how it was possible for the provincial department of health to give him a job as a veterinarian at a slaughterhouse or by what means he had set up a private practice, but he stopped himself in time. Few weeks passed without the revelation of some fake doctor or dentist; why should the species of the patient make fraud any less likely?

He decided on the instant. ‘Call his office and find out if he’s there: ask if you can bring your cat in or something like that – just find out if he’s there. If he is, send Foa and Pucetti over to ask him if he’d like to come in to talk to me.’

‘I’d be delighted, sir,’ she said, then, ‘Have a look at the papers about Signorina Borelli, why don’t you?’

Brunetti took the folder, intending to go to his office to read through the papers, but instead he went to the officers’ room to give more precise instructions to Foa and Pucetti, telling Pucetti to be careful to address Meucci as ‘Signore’ and not ‘Dottore’. After that, still carrying the file, he went down to the bar at Ponte dei Greci and had a coffee and two tramezzini.

Back in the office, he called Paola and asked what they were going to have for dinner. To please her, he asked how she was feeling about having orchestrated the non-renewal of her colleague’s contract.

‘Like Lucrezia Borgia,’ she said and laughed.

Brunetti spent some time looking for a tape recorder, which he found in the back of his bottom drawer. He checked that it worked and placed it very conspicuously on his desk. He opened the file then and began to read but had got as far only as the prices paid for Signorina Borelli’s apartment in Mestre and the first one in Venice when he heard a sound at his door.

Looking up, he saw Pucetti and, beside him, Meucci. If he were a tyre, then some of the air had been let out of him; this was most evident in his face, where the eyes seemed to have grown larger. His cheeks had sagged and hung loose above the soft little mouth. Less flesh pressed against the retaining wall of his collar.

His body seemed smaller, as well, but that might have been because of the dark woollen jacket that had replaced his voluminous lab coat.

Pucetti waited at the door while Meucci entered. The door closed; the only sound was the officer’s retreating footsteps.

‘Come in, Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said coolly. He leaned across the desk and clicked on the tape recorder.

The man came slowly forward, as timidly as a young wildebeest forced to step into tall grass. As he approached Brunetti’s desk, his eyes moved around the room in search of the danger he knew was there. Slowly he lowered himself into a chair. Brunetti thought the noise was a sigh, but then he realized it was the sound of Meucci’s flesh-crammed clothing as it rubbed against the sides and back of the chair.

Brunetti observed the man’s hands, which remained fixed to the arms of the chair. The stained fingers were wrapped under the arms and so the hands looked like normal hands, however swollen with fat.

‘How did you obtain your job at the macello, Signor Meucci?’ Brunetti asked. No greeting, no politeness, only the simple question.

Brunetti watched Meucci consider various possibilities, and then the fat man said, ‘The opening was announced, and I applied for it.’

‘Were you asked to submit supporting documents with your application, Signore?’ Brunetti asked, giving special emphasis to the last word.

‘Yes,’ Meucci answered. The fact that he did not answer with an indignant ‘of course’ told Brunetti that he would have no trouble with this interview. Meucci was a defeated man who wanted only to limit the damage he was going to endure.

‘And the absence of evidence that you were a doctor of veterinary medicine did not serve as an obstacle to your application for that position?’ Brunetti asked with the mildest interest.

Meucci’s right hand moved to the pocket of his jacket, then slipped inside to take what comfort it could from the feel of his packet of cigarettes. He shook his head.

‘You have to speak, Signore. Your answers must be audible so that the stenographer can record them.’

‘No,’ Meucci said.

‘How was that possible, Signore?’

As he looked at Meucci, Brunetti was filled with the strange sensation that the man was melting. He sat lower in his chair, though he had made no motion that suggested he was shifting in his seat. His mouth seemed to have grown smaller before it pronounced that last monosyllable. His jacket hung loosely from his shoulders.

‘How was that possible, Signore?’

Brunetti heard the crunching sound as Meucci’s hand closed on the packet of cigarettes. ‘No one showed me any papers. I didn’t sign anything that said you could ask me these questions.’ Something resembling anger could be heard in Meucci’s voice.

Brunetti gave an understanding smile. ‘Of course, Signor Meucci. I understand that. You are here voluntarily, come in to aid the police in their investigations.’ Brunetti slid the tape recorder back towards him. ‘You’re free to go whenever you please.’ He clicked off the tape.

Eyes locked on the tape recorder, Meucci asked, the anger evaporated, ‘What happens if I do?’ It was a simple request for an answer, not a demand. Lost men had no demands to make.

‘Then you leave us with no choice but to inform the police in Mestre and the ULSS and, for good measure, the Guardia di Finanza, just in case you haven’t been bothering to pay taxes on what is probably – given your lack of a licence to function as a veterinarian – an illegal practice.’

Brunetti pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. Not being in a particularly theatrical vein that day, he failed to lean back and latch his fingers behind his head while staring at the ceiling. ‘Let me see what my various colleagues might make of this. Impersonation of a public official, to begin with.’ Then, seeing Meucci open his mouth to protest, ‘You serve as a public official at the macello, Signore, whether you know it or not.’ He saw Meucci register the truth of this.

‘Let’s see what else we have here, shall we? Illegal exercise of a profession. Fraud. Taking money under false pretences.’ Brunetti allowed a menacing smile to cross his face. ‘And if you’ve ever written a prescription for any of your patients, then there would be the illegal procurement of drugs; and if you’ve ever given an inoculation to an animal and been paid for it, there is also the illegal sale of and administration of drugs.’

‘But they’re animals,’ Meucci protested.

‘Indeed they are, Signor Meucci. Thus your lawyer will have an intriguing argument to present at your trial.’

‘Trial?’ Meucci asked.

‘Well, it’s likely to come to that, wouldn’t you say? You’ll be arrested, of course, and your practice closed, and I imagine your clients – to make no mention of the management of the macello – will all sue you to return the money you took from them illegally.’

‘But they knew,’ Meucci bleated.

‘Your clients?’ Brunetti asked with feigned astonishment. ‘But then why would they bring their animals to you?’

‘No, no, not them. The people at the macello. They knew. Of course they knew. That was all part of it.’

Brunetti leaned forward and held up his hand. ‘Shall I turn on the tape recorder before we continue this conversation, Signor Meucci?’

Meucci pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket and clasped his hands around the packet. He nodded.

Willing to accept a gesture as a response, Brunetti switched on the machine.

‘You’ve just told me that the people at the macello in Preganziol hired you even though they knew you were not a veterinarian. That is, they employed you as a veterinarian while knowing that you

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