Beastly Things

had no licence. Is this correct, Signor Meucci?’

‘Yes.’

‘They knew you had no licence?’

‘Yes,’ Meucci said, then he snapped, ‘I just told you that. How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘As many as you like, Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said amiably. ‘Hearing it repeated might serve to remind you that such an interesting fact needs some explanation.’

When Meucci did not speak, Brunetti asked, ‘You said that the opening for the job was announced. Could you tell me how you learned of that announcement?’

Here it came, Brunetti knew: the moment when the person being questioned began to weigh the relative risk of little lies. Forget something here, leave out a name, change a date or a number, pass over a meeting as having been insignificant.

‘Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said, ‘I’d like to remind you how very important it is that you tell us everything you remember: all of the names and where and when you met the people, and what was said in your conversations. To the best of your ability.’

‘And if I can’t remember?’ Meucci asked, but Brunetti heard fear in the question, not sarcasm.

‘Then I’ll give you time until you do remember, Signor Meucci.’

Meucci nodded again, and again Brunetti let the gesture serve in place of assent.

‘How did you learn about the job at the macello?’

There was no hesitation in Meucci’s voice as he said, ‘The man who had it before I did called me one night – we were friends at university – and said he was going to quit, and he asked me if I would be interested in taking the job.’

‘Did this friend know that you had not finished your studies?’ Brunetti asked.

He saw Meucci prepare to lie and held up his right forefinger in a gesture his elementary religion teacher used to make.

‘Probably,’ Meucci finally said, and Brunetti gave him some credit for not wanting to shop a friend.

‘And how did this occur, that you replaced him?’

‘He spoke to someone there, and then I went out to the macello one day for an interview. It was explained what I had to do.’

‘Was any mention made of your missing qualifications?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have to submit a curriculum vitae?’

After the briefest of hesitations, Meucci said, ‘Yes.’

‘Did you say in it that you had a degree in veterinarian medicine?’

Voice softer, Meucci repeated, ‘Yes.’

‘Did you have to submit proof – photocopies of your degree?’

‘I was told that wasn’t necessary.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘Who told you this?’

Meucci, apparently unaware of what he was doing, took a cigarette out of the pack and put it in his mouth. He took out a lighter and lit the cigarette. Years ago, Brunetti had seen an old man step down from a train that had stopped at a station and light up, take three incredibly deep drags on a cigarette, then, at the sound of the conductor’s whistle, pinch it out and put it back in the packet. Dragon breath issuing from his mouth, the old man had pulled himself back into the train just as it started to move. He sat and watched Meucci smoke the entire cigarette with the same blind avidity. When there was only the smallest stub left and the front of his jacket was covered with spilled ash, Meucci looked across at Brunetti.

Brunetti opened his middle drawer, took out a box of Fisherman’s Friend, and poured them out. He shoved the box across to Meucci and watched as he stubbed out the cigarette.

‘Who was it that told you the degree wasn’t necessary?’

‘Signorina Borelli,’ Meucci said and lit another cigarette.

29

‘SHE’S PAPETTI’S ASSISTANT, isn’t she?’ Brunetti asked, as if unfamiliar with her.

‘Yes,’ Meucci said.

‘Who brought up the subject of your degree?’

‘I did,’ Meucci said, removing his cigarette from his mouth. ‘I suppose I was nervous that she would find out, though Rub…’ he stopped before pronouncing his predecessor’s full name, as if too stunned by what was happening to realize his name would be public information. ‘My colleague assured me it wouldn’t matter. But I couldn’t believe it. So I asked her if she had checked my file and if it was satisfactory.’ He gave Brunetti a look that asked for his comprehension. ‘I suppose I needed to know, really, that they knew I didn’t have the licence, and that it didn’t matter and wouldn’t come back to haunt me.’ Meucci looked away from Brunetti and out the window.

‘And did it?’ Brunetti asked with what sounded like real concern.

Meucci shrugged, crushed out his cigarette and reached for another, only to be stopped by Brunetti’s glance.

‘What do you mean?’ Meucci asked, stalling.

‘Did anyone at the macello ever try to make use of that information?’

Again Brunetti watched the fat man consider lying, saw him weigh the alternatives: which was the greater danger? Which would cost him less, the truth or a lie?

Like a drunkard who pours a bottle of whisky down the kitchen sink as proof of reformation, Meucci placed the crumpled packet of cigarettes on Brunetti’s desk and lined it up carefully beside the tape recorder. ‘It happened during my first week,’ he said. ‘A farmer from Treviso brought in some cows: I don’t remember now how many: maybe six. Two of them were more dead than alive. One looked like it was dying of cancer: it had an open sore on its back. I didn’t even bother to do an exam: anyone could see it was sick: skin and bones and saliva dripping from its mouth. The other one had viral diarrhoea.’

Meucci looked at the cigarettes, and went on. ‘I told the knacker, Bianchi, that the farmer would have to take those two cows back and destroy them.’ He looked at Brunetti and raised one of his hands towards him. ‘After all, it was my job. To inspect them.’ He stopped and made a heaving motion that could have been a shrug or an attempt to extricate himself from the constriction of the chair.

‘What happened?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Bianchi told me to wait there with the cows and went to get Signorina Borelli. When she came and asked me what was going on, I told her to look at the cows and tell me if she thought they were healthy enough to be slaughtered.’ His voice was filled with the sarcasm he could not use with Brunetti.

‘And what did she say?’

‘She barely looked at them.’ Meucci, Brunetti could see, was back there, at the macello, having this conversation again. ‘And she said,’ he began, moving forward to bring his mouth closer to the tape recorder, ‘she said, “They’re as healthy as your application, Signor Meucci.”’ He closed his eyes at the memory. ‘She’d always called me Dottor Meucci before that. So I knew she knew.’

‘And?’ Brunetti asked after some time.

‘And I knew that it had,’ Meucci answered.

‘Had what?’

‘Come back to haunt me.’

‘What did you do about the cows?’ Brunetti asked.

‘What do you think I did?’ Meucci demanded indignantly. ‘I certified them.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, forbidding himself to allow the words ‘safe for human consumption’ to pass his lips. He remembered then that Nava’s wife had said her husband ate fruit and vegetables. ‘And after that?’ he asked calmly.

‘After that I did what I was told to do. What else did you expect me to do?’

Ignoring that, Brunetti asked, ‘Who told you what that was?’