Blood from a stone

he pressed his palm back on the seat beside him. ‘It is the involvement of either one of these ministries that makes me think — I might even say fear — that this could be a very dangerous situation.’

Before Brunetti could answer, the Count went on, ‘No, don’t tell me that it has already been shown to be dangerous because that man is dead. I mean for you, Guido, for you and for anyone they perceive as being in their way.’

A taxi passed them going faster than it should and slammed its motor into reverse just metres from the dock. Its wake caught them broadside, flinging Brunetti forward so that he had to brace himself on the edge of the seat opposite him.

‘Come, it’s impossible to stay here,’ the Count said. He went forward, stooping, and tapped on the glass of the door. Massimo engaged the motor and slid the boat alongside the dock, grabbed a rope and jumped ashore. He held the boat tight to the side while the Count stepped up on to the dock. Leaning back down, he said, ‘No, Guido, don’t bother. Massimo will take you back.’

As Brunetti waited, the Count said, ‘I’ll make some calls and let you know whatever I can.’

A sudden wave slapped the side of the boat, and Brunetti looked down to check where he had placed his feet. When he looked back up at the Count, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform was standing next to him, and at the kerb stood a dark grey Lancia, its back door open and its motor running.

Massimo jumped back into the boat and backed quickly away from the dock. ‘Shall I take you to the Questura, Dottore, or would you like to go home?’

‘Take me home, please, Massimo,’ he said. When he looked back at the land, the car was pulling slowly away from the kerb to take the Count the three minutes to the terminal.

As Massimo took him back towards the city, Brunetti recalled the Count’s precise words. He had not said that he would make calls and tell Brunetti whatever he learned, but that he would tell him whatever he could. Brunetti felt suddenly uneasy and wondered if, like Claudio, he was a man who put too much trust in his friends.

23

The next morning, as Brunetti stood alone in the living room, drinking his second coffee, the brightness of the day lured him out on to the terrace. Though it was hardly springlike, it was easily warm enough to allow him to stand there for a few minutes and watch the light reflected on the wet tiles of the roofs around and below him. There was no sign of a cloud; in fact, the light hurt his eyes, even at this hour. Much as he had welcomed the rain, he prayed that this brilliant day would last and give them all a chance to shake off the gloom of the previous days.

When he felt the cold begin to penetrate his jacket, he went back inside, set his cup and saucer on the table in the living room, then thought better of it and took it into the kitchen and put it in the sink. He considered taking scarf and gloves, but he decided to invest in hope for the day and so left them and put on only his overcoat before he let himself out of the apartment.

The weather seemed to have infected people on the street; even the newsagent, whose face was usually as grim as the headlines, managed a gruff ‘grazie’ as he gave Brunetti his change. Brunetti decided to walk: if this was the global warming that Vianello was always banging on about, then surely there were worse things facing the world.

He turned right along the Canale di San Lorenzo and paused to study the scaffolding on the old men’s home, searching for signs of progress. It appeared that the windows were finally in place on the third floor: Brunetti could not remember having seen them before. A workman climbed down the scaffolding and walked across the campo and Brunetti, his mind idling, followed him with his eyes. As the workman let himself into a wooden shack, Brunetti noticed two men sitting on one of the benches in the campo, two black men. The bench was set parallel to the canal and thus permitted the men to look across at the facade of the Questura.

It was too far for him to be sure, but he thought the men were the one he had defined as the leader and the very thin young man who had raised his hand to Brunetti. Brunetti continued towards the bridge. He stopped there and gazed across the canal. He was sure the two men recognized him. Their heads moved closer together, and he watched them talk, saw their hands move as first one, then the other, gestured across the canal, either at him or at the Questura. The young man used his left hand to point; his right hand sat useless in his lap. No sound of voices came across the canal, and so it was rather like watching a television with the volume turned down. The older man turned away from the other and raised a hand in Brunetti’s direction, then waved his fingers quickly down towards the ground and then again, signalling Brunetti to come and join them. The man then turned back to the other, placed his hand on his knee, and spoke to him.

The younger man nodded, either in agreement or resignation.

A noise to his right caught Brunetti’s attention and he turned towards it. Beyond the other bridge, a police launch was turning into the canal, its blue light flashing. Heedless of the waves it created on either side, it came towards him, shot under the first bridge, and pulled noisily up to the Questura.

The pilot, the one who had taken him home for lunch, jumped on to the dock and secured the rope to a hawser, then stood back and saluted. First to step up on to the dock were two guards, both wearing bulletproof vests, machine-guns held across their chests. Then in quick succession came the Questore and then Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta. A moment later a man in a business suit whose face was vaguely familiar to Brunetti emerged from the cabin and followed the others. The guards seemed to pay scant attention to the men alighting from the boat, their eyes busy roaming up and down the calle and then across to the campo on the other side of the canal. Brunetti allowed his eyes to follow theirs and was not at all surprised to see that the two black men had disappeared.

He did not recognize either of the guards with the machine-guns and so remained where he was, making no attempt to approach the door of the Questura. The two guards went to the building, and one of them held open the door. When the three civilians were inside, the guards followed them. The door closed.

Brunetti went over to the pilot, who was securing the stern of the boat with a second rope. He noticed Brunetti approaching and saluted.

‘What’s that all about, Foa?’ Brunetti asked, hands in his pockets, tilting his head back towards the Questura.

‘I’m not sure, sir. I had to pick up the Vice-Questore at home at eight-thirty, and then we went to the home of the Questore and got him.’

‘And the guys with the guns?’ Brunetti asked.

‘They were with the one who gave me the order, sir, the civilian. He showed up here at about eight and handed me a letter.’

‘You still have it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, he took it back right after I read it.’

‘Who was it from?’

‘I didn’t recognize the signature, or even the title: it was some sort of under-secretary to a secretary of a committee. But I certainly understood the letterhead: it was from the Ministry of the Interior.’

‘Ah,’ Brunetti sighed, but softly, more to himself than to Foa. ‘What did it tell you to do?’

‘To follow the orders of the person who gave me the letter. And he told me who to pick up, and in what order.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, doing his best to make it sound as though the news Foa gave him was of no particular interest to him. He thanked the young man and went back to the Questura and, once inside, up to Signorina Elettra’s office. When he went in, she looked up and asked, ‘You weren’t invited to the party?’

‘Hardly. Only the grown-ups.’ Then, after a pause, ‘You got any idea?’

‘None. The Vice-Questore called me from the launch and told me he’d be in a meeting with the Questore for a good part of the morning and to explain that to anyone who phoned for him.’

‘Did he mention anyone else?’ Brunetti asked, sure that Patta would not have missed the opportunity to drop the name, or at least the title, of any important person he had a meeting with.

‘No, sir, he didn’t.’