About Face

‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, not mollified: Guarino had been a long time about it. ‘But I never read more than what was in the papers.’

‘Whoever did it,’ Guarino went on, ‘had already searched his office, or went through it after they killed him. They tried to open a wall safe — failed — went through his pockets and took whatever money he had on him. And his watch.’

‘So it looked like a robbery?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Suspects?’

‘No.’

‘Family?’

‘Wife, two grown children.’

‘They involved with the company?’

Guarino shook his head. ‘The son’s a doctor in Vicenza. The daughter’s an accountant and works in Rome. The wife’s a teacher, due to retire in a couple of years. With him gone, it all fell apart. The business didn’t survive him by a week.’ He saw Brunetti’s raised eyebrows. ‘I know it sounds incredible, in the age of the computer, but none of our people could find a list of orders, or routes, or pick-ups and deliveries, not even a list of drivers. He must have kept everything in his head. All of the records were a mess.’

‘So what did the widow do?’ Brunetti asked blandly.

‘She had no choice: she closed it down.’

‘Just like that?’ Brunetti asked.

‘What else could she do?’ Guarino answered, almost as if he were pleading with Brunetti to have patience with the woman’s inexperience. ‘I told you, she’s a teacher. Elementary school. She didn’t have a clue. It was one of those one-man businesses we’re so good at running.’

‘Until that one man dies,’ Brunetti said ruefully.

‘Yes,’ Guarino said and sighed. ‘She wants to sell it, but no one’s interested. The trucks are old, and now there aren’t any clients. The best she can hope for is that another company will buy up the trucks and she’ll be able to find someone to take over the lease for the garage, but she’ll still end up selling it all for nothing.’Guarino stopped speaking, almost as if he had given all the information he was prepared to give. He had not said a thing, Brunetti realized, about whatever might have passed between the two of them during the time they knew one another and, in a certain sense, worked together.

‘Am I correct in assuming,’ Brunetti asked, ‘that you discussed something other than the fact that he was cheating on his taxes?’ If not, then there was no reason for the man to be here, though he hardly had to point this out to Guarino.

Guarino measured out a single word. ‘Yes.’

‘And that he gave you information about something other than his tax situation?’ Brunetti found his voice growing tight. For God’s sake, why couldn’t the man just tell him what was going on and ask him whatever he wanted? For surely he had not come here to chat about the lovely silence of the city nor the charms of Signora Landi.

Guarino seemed content to say nothing further. Finally, making no attempt to disguise his irritation, Brunetti asked, ‘Perhaps you could stop wasting my time and explain why you’re here?’

3

It was obvious that Guarino had been waiting for Brunetti’s patience to expire, for his answer came without hesitation and quite calmly. ‘The police treated his death as a robbery that went bad and turned into murder.’ Before Brunetti could ask what the police made of the three shots, Guarino volunteered, ‘We suggested that approach. I don’t think they cared one way or the other. Doing it like that was probably easier for them.’

And, reflected Brunetti, probably ensured the murder’s swift passage out of the news, but instead of remarking on that, he asked, ‘What do you think happened?’

Again, that quick glance at the church, the flick at his knee, and then Guarino said, ‘I think whoever it was, one or more of them were waiting when he went in. There were no other signs of violence on his body.’

Brunetti imagined the waiting men, their unsuspecting victim, and their interest in learning what he knew. ‘Do you think he told them anything?’

Guarino’s glance was sharp, and he answered, ‘They could get it out of him without having to hurt him, you know.’ He paused, as if conjuring up the memory of the dead man, and added, with audible reluctance, ‘I was his contact, the person he talked to.’ This, Brunetti realized, explained Guarino’s edginess. The Carabiniere glanced away, as if uncomfortable at the memory of how easy it had been for him to make the murdered man talk. ‘He wouldn’t have been hard to frighten. If they had threatened his family, he would have told them whatever they wanted.’

‘And what would that have been?’

‘That he had been talking to us,’ Guarino said after only the faintest hesitation.

‘How did he get mixed up in this to begin with?’ Brunetti asked, fully aware that Guarino had not yet explained what it was the dead man had been involved with.

Guarino made a small grimace. ‘That was what I asked him the first time I talked to him. He said that when the business started to go bad, he used up their savings, his and his wife’s, then he went to the bank to try to take out a loan. Well, another loan: he already had a large one.

‘They turned him down, of course,’ Guarino went on. ‘That’s when he began not registering jobs or payments, even if he was paid by cheque or bank transfer.’ He shook his head in silent criticism of such folly. ‘As I told you, he was an amateur. Once he started to do that, it was only a question of time until he got caught.’ With clear regret, as if reproaching the dead man for some minor offence, he said, ‘He should have known.’

Absently, Guarino rubbed at his forehead and continued. ‘He said that he was frightened at the beginning. Because he knew he was no good at accounting. But he was desperate, and. .’ Guarino left that unfinished, then resumed. ‘A few weeks later — this is what he told me — a man came to see him at his office. He said he’d heard he might be interested in working privately, not bothering with receipts, and if so he had some work to offer him.’ Brunetti said nothing, so Guarino continued. ‘The man he talked to,’ he said, ‘lives here.’ He watched for Brunetti’s reaction, then said, ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Who is he?’

Guarino raised a hand, as if to push the question away. ‘We don’t know. He said the man never used a name and he never asked. There were bills of lading in case the trucks were stopped, but everything written on them was fake. He told me that. The destination, what was in the trucks.’

‘And what was in the trucks?’

‘That doesn’t matter. I’m here because he was murdered.’

‘Am I supposed to believe the two things aren’t related?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No. But I’m asking you to help me find his killer. The other case doesn’t concern you.’

‘And neither does his murder,’ Brunetti said mildly. ‘My superior saw to that when it happened: he decided it was a territorial matter, and the case belonged to Mestre, which has administrative control over Tessera.’ Brunetti filled his voice with deliberate punctiliousness.

Guarino got to his feet, but all he did was walk over to the window, as Brunetti did in moments of difficulty. He stared at the church, and Brunetti stared at the wall.

Guarino came back to his chair and sat down again. ‘The only thing he ever said about this man was that he was young — about thirty — good looking, and dressed like he had money. I think “flashy” was the word he used.’

Brunetti stopped himself from saying that most Italian men of thirty were good looking and dressed like they had money. He asked, instead, ‘How did he know he lives here?’ He was finding it difficult to disguise his mounting displeasure at Guarino’s reluctance to provide specific information.

‘Trust me. He lives here.’

‘I’m not sure they’re the same thing,’ Brunetti said.