Beastly Things

of that or losing control over it. Where could she go? There was no indication that she spoke another language nor that she had some other passport, so she could not slip away to another country to establish a new life. She would stay and she would try to get away with it, even if it meant having to pay the huge costs of a defence lawyer. Brunetti did not doubt that she would attempt to embroil Papetti in the murder. But Papetti’s father-in-law, believing that the crime was only murder and not the far more heinous crime of betraying his daughter, would surely not baulk at hiring the best defence lawyers for his daughter’s husband.

Half an hour later, as Brunetti still stood at the window, his phone rang.

It was Bocchese. ‘We found a telefonino on the bottom step, Commissario. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he went into the water. Anyone could see it in the daylight, lying there.’

But not at night, Brunetti thought. ‘Is it his?’ he asked.

‘Probably.’

‘Is it still working?’

‘Of course not. The water would stop it instantly,’ Bocchese said.

‘Can you retrieve the information from it to tell when that happened?’

‘No,’ Bocchese said, dashing Brunetti’s hopes of constructing an accurate chronology of the events of the night of Nava’s murder.

‘But…’ Bocchese said in a voice that sounded, to Brunetti, almost flirtatious.

‘But what?’

‘You really don’t understand these things, do you?’ Bocchese asked.

‘What things?’ Brunetti asked, wondering what procedural possibility he had overlooked.

‘Everything.’ Bocchese made no attempt to disguise his exasperation. ‘Computers, telefonini. Everything.’

Brunetti refused to answer.

In a voice suddenly grown more accommodating, Bocchese said, ‘Then let me tell you. If his phone was connected to his network – and phones are – even yours – then his connection to it would have been broken within the first three minutes after the phone went into the water.’ Before Brunetti could suffer the embarrassment of having been so close, Bocchese went on, ‘But the network will have the records of all the calls he made, or received, up until that time.’ He let Brunetti think about that for a moment and then asked, ‘Will that be enough?’

Brunetti closed his eyes, flooded with gratitude though with no idea where to direct it. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Thanks.’

33

THE DAY AFTER Giulia Borelli was arrested for the murder of Dottor Andrea Nava, whose telefonino had stopped working ten minutes before Signorina Borelli telephoned to Alessandro Papetti, who was on the other side of Venice when he answered, Vianello and Brunetti drove out to Mestre to attend the funeral of Dottor Nava. Because there was heavy traffic, Brunetti and Vianello reached the church only a few minutes before the funeral was to begin. The driver slowed to a stop half a block away and the two men got out, then walked quickly to the church and up the stairs, hurrying under the gaze of the saints and angels looking down on them. Entering, it took them some time to adjust to the dimmer light; at the front of the church, six dark-suited men were just setting the coffin in place on the wooden trestles before the altar.

Propped up on either side of the coffin were two enormous wreaths of red and white flowers, each crossed by a purple sash bearing the name of the donor and the proper sentiment. Carpeting the steps of the altar were countless bouquets of spring flowers of all conceivable colours. Few appeared to be the careful confections produced by florists; instead they were simple bouquets of the sort of unruly flowers that grew at the side of the road. Many of them had a home-made quality to them: bows not neatly tied, simple field grasses used as background to the bright flowers.

The church was crowded, and the two men had to take places in the third aisle from the back. The people there moved quickly to the right to make room for them, and an old woman beside Brunetti smiled and nodded to them as they slipped in beside her.

The priest emerged from a door on the left, two white-robed altar girls and one boy behind him. He walked to the pulpit, pushed back the long white sleeves of his surplice, and tapped the microphone a few times. The thwank thwank thwank sounded through the church. He was a youngish man, with a full beard and some streaks of grey in his hair. He cast his eyes across the assembled mourners, raised both hands in a gesture either of welcome or blessing, and began.

‘Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, dear friends and companions: we are here today to say goodbye to our brother Andrea, who to many of us was far more than a friend. He was healer and helper, someone who comforted us when we were worried about our friends and who dedicated himself with love and devotion to taking care of them, and of us, for he knew that we are all children of the same God, who delights to see the love we bring to one another. He cured us all, he healed us all, and he helped us all, and in those instances when his powers could not heal our friends, it was Andrea who advised us when it was time to help our friends make their last journey, and who always stayed with us so that neither we, nor they, would be alone when they started on their way along that road. Just as he helped us bear the unhappiness of their parting from us, let us hope that our friends will help us bear the unhappiness of his parting from us.’

Brunetti looked away from the priest and began to study the profiles and the backs of the heads of the people in front of him. As he did so and as he allowed his mind to drift away from the voice of the priest, he was struck by how noisy this crowd was. Usually a church, no matter how large and no matter how many people, was silent in the presence and presentation of death. But this group was restless and made a great deal of noise moving about nervously in their pews. In the enclosed place, the restless scratching and scraping of the old was too easily heard.

And somewhere in the church, one of the mourners must have been fighting back tears: the muffled, grunting noises were unmistakable. Brunetti shifted his gaze to the people on the left side of the church and saw, near the front, someone who appeared to have bunched a sweater over his shoulder. But when he took a more careful look, Brunetti saw that it was a grey parrot, and then he noticed, four aisles behind, a bright green one, somewhat smaller. As if Brunetti’s attention had caught its attention, the grey one opened its beak and said, ‘Ciao, Laura,’ and then, in quick repetition, ‘Ciao, ciao, ciao.’

The green one, hearing that voice, called back, ‘Dammi schei,’ almost as if it believed the Venetians there, understanding him, would obey and give him money. Astonishing as Brunetti found the presence and voices of the birds, even more so was the fact that no one among that large number of people seemed to find it at all strange nor turned to look at either of the parrots.

He heard a noise from below him, and looked down to see the black paw of a large dog move across the floor and grow still just a few centimetres from his own left foot. Across the aisle, a beagle jumped up on the pew, put his front paws on the top of the one in front, and leaned out into the aisle to stare ahead of him.

He tuned back into the voice of the priest, who was now saying, ‘… examples of the love and wit of God, to give us these beautiful companions and enrich our lives with their love. We are enriched, as well, by the love we give to them, for to be able to love them is to be given a great gift, just as the love they have for us is a gift that comes ultimately from God, source of all love. And so, before we begin the ceremony that will help our brother Andrea begin his passage home to God, let us all exchange the sign of peace, not only with one another, but with the patients he cared for, who have come here today to join us as we pray for the soul of our brother Andrea. They too want to say their final farewells to the friend who for so long and with such kindness took such loving care of them.’

The priest left the pulpit and came down past the altar, the acolytes close behind him. He bent to kiss a woman in the first row and caressed the head of the cat she held on her shoulder. Next he crouched down to run his hand along the ear of an enormous black Great Dane, who climbed to his feet at the touch of the priest’s hand, the dog’s head now higher than his. The sound of his tail slapping the side of the pew resonated through the church. The