Beastly Things

‘When would you like me to come in?’ she said with sudden docility.

‘As soon as you can, Signorina,’ Brunetti replied.

‘I could come in after lunch,’ she conceded. ‘About four?’

‘Very good.’ Brunetti was careful not to thank her. ‘I’ll expect you then.’

He went immediately down to Patta’s office and told him about Signorina Borelli’s apartment on the canal where the dead man was found. Recalling the missing shoe and the scrapes on the back of Nava’s heel, Brunetti said, ‘The scientific boys might want to go over the place.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Patta said, quite as though he was just about to suggest it.

Leaving it to his superior to get the magistrate’s order, Brunetti excused himself and returned to his own office.

When the man at the front door called Brunetti at ten minutes after four to tell him he had a visitor, Brunetti said that Vianello would go down to meet her, having arranged it this way to ensure the Inspector’s presence during their conversation.

Brunetti looked up when he saw them at the door: the large man and the small woman. He wondered about that, had wondered about that ever since the idea had first come to him. He had taken another look at Rizzardi’s report and seen that there were holes in Nava’s shirt and traces of cotton fibres in the wounds. So it had not been a lovers’ quarrel, or at least not one that had taken place in bed. The trajectory of the wounds – Brunetti doubted that was the correct word – had been upward, so the person standing behind him had been shorter than he.

Habit brought Brunetti to his feet. He said good afternoon and waved them to the chairs in front of him; Vianello waited and when she was seated took the other chair and pulled out his notebook. She looked at the tape recorder, then at Brunetti

Brunetti switched the machine on and said, ‘Thank you for coming in, Signorina Borelli.’

‘You didn’t leave me much choice, did you, Commissario?’ she asked, her tone halfway between anger and light-heartedness.

Brunetti ignored the tone, just as he ignored the idea that this woman could have any lightness of heart, and said, ‘I explained the choices open to you, Signorina.’

‘And do you think I’ve made the right one?’ she asked, almost as if she could not break herself of the habit of flirtatiousness.

‘We’ll see,’ Brunetti responded.

Vianello crossed his legs and riffled through the pages of his notebook.

‘Could you tell me where you were on Sunday evening?’

‘I was at my home.’

‘Which is where, Signorina?’

‘Mestre, Via Mantovani 17.’

‘Was anyone with you?’

‘No.’

‘Could you tell me what you did that evening?’

She looked at him, then off towards the window, while memory returned to her. ‘I went to the cinema, an early showing.’

‘What film, Signorina?’

‘Citta aperta,’ she said. ‘It was part of a Rossellini retrospective.’

‘Did anyone go with you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes. Maria Costantini. She lives in the building next to mine.’

‘And after that?’

‘I went home.’

‘With Signora Costantini?’

‘No. Maria was going to have dinner with her sister, so I went home alone. I had some dinner, then I watched television, and I went to bed early. I have to be at work early: at six.’

‘Did anyone call you that evening?’

She considered that, then said, ‘No, not that I recall.’

‘Could you give me an idea of your duties at the macello in Preganziol?’ Brunetti asked, as if he’d heard enough about her activities on Sunday evening.

‘I’m Dottor Papetti’s assistant.’

‘And your duties, Signorina?’

Vianello filled the room with the sound of a turning page.

‘I plan the timetable for the workers, both the knackers and the cleaning crew; I keep track of the numbers of animals brought in to the macello, of the total quantity of meat that is produced each day; I keep the farmers current with the directives that come down from Brussels.’

‘What sort of directives?’ Brunetti interrupted to ask.

‘Methods of slaughtering, how the animals are to be brought in to the macello, where and how they are to be kept if they have to wait a day, or more, before slaughter.’ She looked at him and tilted her head to one side as if asking him if she should continue.

‘The matter of price, Signorina, of what a kilo of a particular cut of meat is worth: who determines that?’

‘The market,’ she answered immediately. ‘The market and the season and the quantity of meat available at any given time.’

‘And the quality?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said.

‘The quality of the meat, Signorina,’ Brunetti said. ‘Whether an animal is healthy and can be slaughtered. Who determines that?’

‘The veterinarian,’ she said, ‘not me.’

‘And how does he judge the health of an animal?’ Brunetti asked as Vianello turned another page.

‘That’s what he went to university for, presumably,’ she said, and Brunetti realized he had goaded her or come close to doing so, surprised at himself for choosing this word.

‘So that he can identify animals that are too sick to be slaughtered?’

‘I should certainly hope so,’ she said, but she said it too forcefully, making it sound false, not only to Brunetti but, he suspected, to herself.

‘What happens if he judges that an animal is not suitable to be slaughtered?’

‘Do you mean not healthy enough?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then the animal is given back to the farmer who brought it, and he is responsible for disposing of it.’

‘Could you tell me how that is done?’

‘The animal has to be slaughtered and destroyed.’

‘Destroyed?’

‘Burned.’

‘How much does this cost?’

‘I have no…’ she started to say, then realized how hollow that would sound and changed her sentence. ‘… way to give you a fixed sum for that. It would depend on the weight of the animal.’

‘But, presumably, it would be a significant sum?’ he asked.

‘I would think so,’ she agreed. Then, reluctantly, ‘As much as four hundred Euros.’

‘So it’s in the best interests of the farmers to bring only healthy animals to the macello?’ Brunetti asked, making it a question, though it really was not.

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Dottor Andrea Nava was employed as the veterinarian at the macello,’ Brunetti began.

‘Is that a question?’ she interrupted.

‘No, it is a statement,’ Brunetti said. ‘My question is what your relationship with him was.’

The question seemed not to surprise her in the least, but she paused a bit before she answered. ‘He was employed by the macello, as I was, so I suppose you would say we were colleagues.’