‘The usual thing. She wanted him to approve the animals so they could get their cut from the farmers. The way it worked with my friend.’
‘And with you,’ Brunetti reminded him.
Meucci did not respond.
‘But not with Nava?’ Brunetti asked.
The thought of that restored Meucci’s good humour and he said, ‘No, not with Nava. Bianchi told me she was like a hyena. She fucked him, even told Bianchi how he was: not so great. And then he wouldn’t do what she asked him to do. So she threatened to tell his wife. But it didn’t work: he told her to go ahead, he still wouldn’t – he said he couldn’t, can you imagine that? – do it.’
‘When did she threaten to tell his wife?’
Meucci closed his eyes to think. Opening them, he said, ‘I don’t remember exactly: at least a couple of months ago.’ Seeing Brunetti trying to work out the timing, he said, ‘She told Bianchi it took her almost two months to get him to fuck her, so it would have been after that that she asked him to approve the animals.’
Brunetti, deciding to change tack, said, ‘The animals that are brought in – the sick ones, that is – why did Signorina Borelli want you to declare these animals healthy?’
Meucci stared at him. ‘I just told you,’ he said. ‘Don’t you get it?’
‘I’d prefer that you explain it to me again, Signor Meucci,’ said an imperturbable Brunetti, conscious of the future use that might be made of this recording.
With a small snort of disbelief or contempt, Meucci said, ‘They pay her, of course. She and Papetti get a part of what they’re paid for the animals once they’re declared healthy. And since she works there, she knows exactly how much they get.’ Before Brunetti could ask, he said, ‘I have no idea, but from things I’ve heard, I’d guess their cut is about twenty-five per cent. Think about it. If the animal’s condemned, the owners lose everything they would have got for it, and they have to pay to have it destroyed and then disposed of.’ With an expression he probably supposed demonstrated virtue, Meucci said, ‘I think it’s a fair price, when you consider everything.’
After a reflective pause, Brunetti said, ‘Certainly,’ then, ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’
‘Well, maybe you should,’ Meucci said with the tone of the person who always had to have the last word.
Brunetti picked up his phone and dialled Pucetti’s
When the young man answered, Brunetti said, ‘Come up here, would you? I’d like you to take this witness downstairs to wait while a stenographer makes a copy of his statement. When it’s ready, have him read it and sign it, would you? You and Foa can witness it.’
‘Foa’s gone, sir. His shift ended an hour ago, and he’s gone home. But he gave me the list,’ Pucetti said.
‘What list?’ Brunetti had to ask, still lost in the world of animals.
‘The addresses of the houses along the canal, sir. That’s what he told me.’
‘Yes, good,’ Brunetti said, remembering. ‘Bring it up when you come, will you?’
‘Of course, Commissario,’ Pucetti said and hung up.
30
WHEN PUCETTI WAS gone, taking Meucci with him, Brunetti forced himself to resist the urge to open Foa’s list immediately. Better to start with a careful reading of the file Signorina Elettra had compiled on Signorina Borelli. Four years at Tekknomed, which firm she left suddenly and under a cloud, only to move effortlessly into a much more highly paid position as the assistant to the son of Tekknomed’s lawyer. Though he scorned the same prejudice in Patta and would confess his own only to Paola and then only when bamboo shoots were shoved under his fingernails, Brunetti considered a slaughterhouse an unseemly place for a woman to work, especially one as attractive as she. That being the case, one had then to consider what inducement might have taken her there.
Brunetti turned a page and studied the information on the properties she owned. Neither her salary at Tekknomed nor that at the slaughterhouse would have allowed her to buy even one of them, let alone all three. The apartment in the centre of Mestre was one hundred metres. The two apartments in Venice were slightly smaller but, if rented to tourists and well managed, would earn her a few thousand Euros a month. So long as this rental income was not reported to the tax authorities, the total sum would equal her salary at the
His mind fled to the scandal in Germany some years before of the dioxin-laden eggs that resulted from the deliberate contamination of livestock food. And then he remembered a dinner party soon thereafter at which the hostess, one of those upper-class women who grew more ingenuous with each passing year, had asked how people could possibly do such a thing. It had been with considerable restraint that Brunetti had stopped himself from shouting down the table at her: ‘Greed, you fool. Greed.’
Brunetti had always assumed that most people were strongly motivated by greed. Lust or jealousy might lead to impulsive actions or violence, but to explain most crimes, especially those that took place over time, greed was a better bet.
He set the file aside and picked up the list Pucetti had given him of the owners of the houses on either side of the Rio del Malpaga that corresponded with the water doors he had seen. The search for their names, Brunetti assumed, would have taken hours of patient research among the chaotic records in the Ufficio Catasto.
He ran his eye down the first page, not at all sure what he was looking for or, indeed, that he was looking for anything. Near the middle of the second page, his eye fell upon the name ‘Borelli’. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as a chill slithered across his flesh. He set the papers down very gently and spent some time aligning them with the front edge of his desk. When that was done to his satisfaction, he stared at the opposite wall and shifted pieces of information around, fitting them into different scenarios, leaving pieces out or shifting them to new places.
He reached for the phone and dialled the number on the front of the folder on his desk. She answered on the third ring.
‘Borelli.’ Direct, no nonsense, just like a man.
‘Signorina Borelli,’ he said, ‘this is Commissario Brunetti.’
‘Ah, Commissario, I hope you saw everything,’ she said in a voice entirely without nuance or suggestion of hidden meaning.
‘Yes, we stayed,’ Brunetti said. ‘But I doubt we saw everything that goes on there.’
That gave her pause, but after a moment she said, ‘I’m not sure I understand you entirely, Commissario.’
‘I meant that we still don’t have a full understanding of everything that goes on at the slaughterhouse, Signorina.’
‘Oh,’ was all she said.
‘I’d like you to come in to the Questura and talk about it.’
‘I’m very busy.’
‘I’m sure you can make time to come in and have a talk,’ Brunetti said, voice level.
‘But I’m not sure that I can, Signore,’ she insisted.
‘It might be easier,’ Brunetti suggested.
‘Than?’
‘Than my asking a magistrate for an arrest warrant and having you brought here under duress.’
‘Duress, Commissario?’ she asked with what she tried to make sound like a flirtatious laugh.
‘Duress.’ No flirting. No laugh.
After pausing long enough to allow Brunetti to add something if he chose, she finally said, ‘Your tone makes me wonder if I should bring a lawyer with me.’
‘As you please,’ Brunetti answered.
‘Oh my, as serious as all that?’ she said, but she didn’t have the gift of irony, and the question fell flat.
Brunetti knew what she would say and what she would do. Greed. Mindless, atavistic greed. Think what a lawyer would cost. If she could talk her way out of it, there would be no need of a lawyer, would there? So why pay one to come along? Surely she was smarter than some time-serving policeman, wasn’t she?
