and begged her to believe him.’
‘What about the burns?’ Brunetti asked. When she seemed not to understand, he said, ‘From the pasta water?’
She ran her fingernail up and down one of the deep furrows in the wood of the tabletop. ‘Costanza said he still limped, but he didn’t say anything about it.’
She got to her feet, then walked to the bar and came back with two glasses of water, set one in front of him, and sat down again.
‘When was this, Signora?’ he asked.
She drank half of the water and set the glass on the table. She gave Brunetti a long look before saying, ‘The day before Costanza died.’
‘How do you know about this?’ he asked, ignoring the glass in front of him.
‘She called me. Costanza. She called me when she went home after talking to the man, and she asked me – told me, really – to come to her place.’ Her breathing grew quicker again. ‘I went there, and she made me read the articles and look at the police reports.’
‘Where did the man go?’
‘She told me he said he just wanted to warn her and show her the danger, and once he did that he thanked her for listening to him and left. That was all. It was enough for him to see that she believed him. He said many people didn’t because he’s Sicilian.’ She allowed, as did Brunetti, a long silence to stretch out after this until finally she said, ‘She told me he seemed like a kind man.’
Her face was leaden and Brunetti had the sense not to say anything. Instead, he asked, ‘What happened?’
‘Costanza told me to call the woman and tell her I had to talk to her.’
‘And did you?’
Her anger flashed out. ‘Of course I did. I didn’t have any choice, did I?’ She got herself under control and continued. ‘I’d got her a day job spending time with an old woman. Not doing anything, really, just preparing her lunch and being there in case anything happened.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘And then?’
‘I asked her to come back when the old woman’s daughter got home from work at four, and she said she would.’
‘And?’
‘When she came back, I told her we had to move her to another city.’
‘Did she believe you?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What happened?’
‘She went to her room and packed.’
‘Did you go with her?’
‘No. We stayed in the living room. She went to her room and packed her suitcase.’ She started to say something else, but whatever she read in Brunetti’s face appeared to silence her.
‘She didn’t suspect anything?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘She came in with her suitcase, said goodbye to Costanza, gave her the key, and we left the apartment.’
‘Then what?’
‘We took the vaporetto to the train station and went to the ticket window together, and I asked her where she wanted to go.’
‘So she realized by then what had happened?’
‘I suppose so,’ Signora Orsoni said, and Brunetti felt a surge of irritation at her evasiveness.
‘And?’
‘And I got her a ticket on the last train to Rome. It leaves just before seven-thirty.’
‘Did you see her get on the train?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you wait until it left?’
She made no attempt to disguise her mounting anger. ‘Of course I did. But she could have got off in Mestre for all I know.’
‘But she’d given the key back?’
‘Costanza didn’t even have to ask for it,’ she said, then added, almost with satisfaction, ‘but she could have had a copy made.’
Brunetti said nothing about this.
‘What’s her name?’ he asked.
He watched her hesitate, and he knew he’d take her in for questioning if she refused to answer. Before she could say anything, he added, ‘And the man’s. The Sicilian.’
‘Gabriela Pavon and Nico Martucci.’
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said and got to his feet. ‘If I need any other information, I’ll call you and ask you to come to the Questura.’
‘And if I refuse?’ she asked.
Brunetti didn’t bother to answer her question.
21
Brunetti was relieved to be quit of her, accepting only then how little he had warmed to this woman. Her half- truths, delays, and attempts to manipulate him had annoyed him; worse, she seemed concerned with Signora Altavilla’s death only to the degree that it was a source of guilt for herself or potential danger for her ridiculously named Alba Libera. How little they care about people, those people who wanted to help humanity.
He mulled over these things while starting on his way back to the Questura, but then, as if emerging from a dream, he suddenly noticed how much light had departed the day. He glanced at his watch and was astonished to see that it was almost five. He judged it foolish to return to the Questura but did not change the direction of his steps, seeing himself from above as he plodded along like an animal on its way back to the barn. At the Questura, he went to Signorina Elettra’s office and found her at her desk, reading what appeared to be the same book he had noticed the last time. She looked up when she heard him come in and casually closed it and slid it aside. ‘You have the look of someone who has brought more work,’ she said, smiling.
‘I just spoke to the leader of Alba Libera,’ he said.
‘Ah, Maddalena. What did you think of her?’ she asked with complete neutrality, offering no clue to what her own opinion might be.
‘That she likes helping people,’ Brunetti answered with equal neutrality.
‘That certainly seems a worthy desire,’ Signorina Elettra allowed.
Brunetti wondered when one of them would give in and express an opinion.
‘She reminds me a bit of those women in nineteenth-century novels, interested in the moral improvement of their inferiors,’ she said.
For a moment, Brunetti weighed the possibility that more than a decade’s exposure to his view of the world had affected hers, but then he realized how self-flattering this was: Signorina Elettra surely had her own ample reserves of scepticism.
Suddenly impatient with sparring, he said, ‘One of the women she helped was staying with Signora Altavilla up until the evening before her death, but it turns out this woman has stayed in other houses, in similar circumstances…’
‘And has made off with the silver?’ Signorina Elettra joked.
‘Something like that.’ He watched her surprise register and liked the fact that she was surprised.
‘Her name?’ she enquired.
