Beastly Things

Still watching the place where she had been, he heard Vianello come back. ‘Well?’ the Inspector said.

‘I think it’s time we had another conversation with Dottor Papetti,’ Brunetti said. ‘But let’s do it here. He’s sure to be more uncomfortable.’

31

THE NEXT MORNING, Papetti, unlike his personal assistant, arrived in the company of his lawyer. Brunetti knew Avvocato Torinese, a solid, reliable criminal lawyer with a clean reputation. Brunetti had been expecting one of the many sharks which lurked in the waters of criminal justice in the city and in the wider world and was pleased to see Torinese, who, though clever and capable of legal surprises, played more or less by the book; one did not have to fear bribed witnesses or false medical claims.

The two men sat facing Brunetti, Vianello sitting on a wooden chair he carried over from beside the closet. Once again, there were both the tape recorder and Vianello’s notebook; and then Torinese took a tape recorder from his briefcase and placed it not far from Brunetti’s.

Brunetti studied the two men for a moment: even seated, Papetti towered over his lawyer, who was by no means a short man. Torinese snapped his briefcase closed and set it to the left of his chair. Brunetti and Torinese both leaned forward at the same moment and switched on their tape recorders.

‘Dottor Torinese,’ Brunetti began formally, ‘I’d like to thank you and your client, Dottor Papetti, Alessandro Papetti, for coming to see me so quickly. There are certain matters I would like to clarify, and I think your client can be of service to me in this.’

‘And those matters are?’ Torinese asked. He was about Brunetti’s age, though he looked older, with his horn- rimmed glasses and hair slicked back from a widow’s peak. No tailor in Venice had the talent to have made his suit, nor had any of the shoemakers made those shoes. The thought of expensive shoes brought Brunetti’s mind back to the matter at hand.

‘First, there is the murder of Dottor Andrea Nava, who worked at the slaughterhouse of which Dottor Papetti is the director,’ he supplied. ‘I’ve already spoken to Dottor Papetti about this, but since then I have come into possession of new information, and that makes it necessary for me to ask the Dottore more questions.’ Brunetti knew that the demon of formality had taken over his speech, but in his awareness that everything they said would eventually be printed out, signed, dated, and entered into the public record, he could not behave otherwise.

He saw Torinese preparing to speak and so went on, ‘Avvocato, I would like, if you would permit it, not to have to filter everything through you.’ Before the lawyer could object, Brunetti said, ‘I believe this would make things easier, both for me and for your client. You have the right, of course, to interrupt whenever you see fit to do so, but it would be better for your client – and I can ask only that you invest me with your confidence in this – if we could speak directly.’

As Torinese and Papetti exchanged a glance, Brunetti’s mind wandered to a phrase – he wondered why his thoughts kept retreating to the Bible – ‘You have been weighed in the balance.’ He waited, wondering whether the two men would find him wanting.

Apparently they did not, for Papetti, after a brief nod from his lawyer, said, ‘I’ll speak to you, Commissario. Though I must say it’s like speaking to a different man from the one who came to my office.’

‘I’m the same man, Dottore: I assure you of that. I’m merely better prepared than I was the last time we spoke.’ Presumably, if Papetti now believed he was not an incompetent, he would be better prepared, as well.

‘Prepared by what?’ Papetti asked.

‘As I told Avvocato Torinese, by new information.’

‘And prepared for what?’ Papetti asked.

Brunetti turned his attention to Torinese and said, ‘I will set the example for this conversation by telling you both the truth.’ And then to Papetti, ‘To find out the extent of your involvement in the death of Dottor Nava.’

Neither man showed surprise. Torinese, after decades of experience with sudden accusations of all sorts, was probably immune to surprise. Papetti, however, looked distressed but failed to disguise it.

Brunetti went on, speaking to Papetti, suspecting he had not had time to explain everything to Torinese. ‘We are by now aware of what was going on at the macello.’ Brunetti paused, to give Papetti the opportunity to ask for an explanation of that, but he did not.

‘And, given that we are now talking about murder, the legal consequences to anyone who attempts to obscure the truth of anything surrounding the murder are much more severe, something I’m sure needs no explaining to you.’ When he saw that they understood, he added, ‘I’m sure the men who work at the macello will understand this as well.’ Brunetti paused to let this register. ‘Thus I assume,’ he continued, ‘that the men who work there, especially Bianchi, will be willing to tell us what they know, either about the murder or the lesser crimes.’ Brunetti was careful not to name these lesser crimes, curious to see how Papetti would react.

Torinese, for all his training and experience, could not stop himself from glancing at his client. Papetti, however, ignored him, his attention on Brunetti, as if willing him to reveal more.

Brunetti slid the papers on his desk closer and studied them for a moment, then said, ‘I’d like to begin by asking you, Dottor Papetti, to tell me where you were on the night of the seventh.’ Then, just in case Papetti might have trouble recalling the date, he clarified by saying, ‘That’s the night between Sunday and Monday.’

Papetti glanced aside at Torinese, who said, ‘My client was at home, with his wife and children.’ The fact that Torinese was able to answer this question meant that Pacetti had both expected it and understood its importance.

‘I expect you can prove this,’ Brunetti observed mildly.

Both men nodded, and Brunetti did not bother to ask for details.

‘That, as you must know,’ he said, speaking directly to Papetti, ‘is the night Dottor Nava was killed.’ He let this register before saying, ‘We can, of course, confirm your statement by an examination of the records of your telefonino.’

‘I didn’t call anyone,’ Papetti said, and then, aware that his response had come too quickly, added, ‘At least I don’t remember calling anyone.’

‘As soon as we have the authorization from a magistrate, we can help you remember, Dottor Papetti. As well as whether you received any calls,’ Brunetti said with his blandest smile. ‘The records will also tell us where the phone was during that night, if it was moved away from your home for any reason.’ He watched Papetti as the realization smashed upon him: the computer chip in his phone left a geographic signal that could be traced and would be traced.

‘I might have had to go out,’ Papetti said; the look Torinese gave him was a confirmation to Brunetti of the lawyer’s ignorance. And a moment later, the hardening of his look was confirmation of his anger at this fact.

‘To Venice, by any chance?’ Brunetti inquired in a voice so light and friendly it held out the promise that he would follow an affirmative response with a series of suggestions for quaint points of artistic interest in the city.

Papetti seemed to disappear for a moment. He stared at the two tape recorders so intently that Brunetti all but heard the gears in his mind working as he tried to adjust to the new reality created by his telefonino’s betrayal.

Papetti began to cry but seemed unaware of it. The tears ran down his face and chin and under the collar of his freshly ironed white shirt as he continued to watch the red lights on the tape recorders.

Finally Torinese said, ‘Alessandro, stop it.’

Papetti looked at him, a man old enough to be his father, a man who was perhaps a professional colleague of his father, and nodded. He wiped his face with the inside of his sleeve and said, ‘She called me. On my telefonino.’

At this point, Torinese astonished Brunetti by saying, ‘The phone records will all have the exact times, Alessandro.’ The sadness in his voice made it clear to Brunetti that he must be a colleague, perhaps a friend, of Papetti’s father, perhaps of the man himself.

Papetti returned his attention to the tape recorder. As if speaking for the first time, he said, ‘I had dinner with a friend in Venice. It was for business. We were at Il Testiere and they know him, so they’ll remember us, that we