victim or had been standing behind the seated woman. The enormous damage wrought by the repeated blows suggested this second possibility, for the difference in height would have created an arc of almost a metre for the descending blows.
As to the weapon, Rizzardi refused to speculate, and it was impossible to know if he had been told about the statue found near the body. His report said only that the weapon was a rough-edged object weighing anywhere from one to three kilos. It could have been wood; it could have been metal: beyond that the pathologist stated only that the pattern of shattered skull was indicative of an object with a series of edges or ridges running along it horizontally.
Attached to this page was the laboratory report stating that the ridges on the bronze statue matched the shatter pattern on Signora Battestini's skull and that the blood found on it was the same type as hers. There were no fingerprints.
Death had resulted from trauma and loss of blood; the extensive damage to brain tissue had caused so much neurological impairment that the affected organs would soon have ceased to function, even had she been found before she bled to death.
The police examination of the scene of death appeared to have been, at best, cursory. Only one room had been dusted for prints, and there were just four photos in the file, all of Signora Battestini's body. These gave little evidence of whatever else might have been in the room and none at all of the 'hurried search' the report said appeared to have taken place. Brunetti had no idea if this laxity resulted from the rapid conclusion that the Romanian woman must have been guilty: he hoped it had not become standard procedure. He checked for the signatures at the bottom of the written report describing the scene, but the initials were illegible.
Next was the passport Florinda Ghiorghiu had been carrying. If the document was false, then what was the real name of this woman buried in Villa Opicina? He didn't even know that much, since nothing in the report actually said where she had been buried. The photo showed dark eyes and dark hair, the face utterly devoid of a smile: she stared at the camera as though she feared it was going to harm her. In a way, it had: the photo had led to the passport, leading to the job, leading to the scene on the train and her doomed flight across the tracks.
The next sheet of paper was a photocopy of Florinda Ghiorghiu's residence and work permits. Repeated on them both was the information on the passport. She had been granted permission to remain in Italy for six months, though the date of entry into Italy stamped on her passport was more than a year ago. Signora Gismondi had said the woman had appeared in the late spring: that left eight or nine months unaccounted for.
That was all. There was no information about how Florinda Ghiorghiu had come to be working for Signora Battestini. There were no receipts acknowledging that she had been paid, neither from employer nor employee. Brunetti knew that this was standard and that most of these women worked in the black economy -indeed, most of those who took care of the steadily ageing population were undocumented women, either from Eastern Europe or the Philippines – so the absence of such papers did not surprise him.
He picked up the file and went downstairs, conscious of how unprofessional his behaviour was going to be. When he entered her office, Signorina Elettra glanced up calmly, as if expecting him.
‘I checked the records at the Ufficio Stranieri for the Veneto’ she began, then added, 'Don't worry. I did it legally. All that information is here in our computer.'
He ignored this. 'What did you find?'
'That Florinda Ghiorghiu had a completely legitimate work permit,' she said, but then she looked up at him and smiled.
'And what else?' he asked in response to her smile.
'That there are three women using the same passport.' 'What?'
'Three,' she repeated. 'One here in Venice, another in Milano, and a third in Trieste.' 'But that's impossible.'
'Well,' she conceded, 'it should be impossible, but apparently it's not.' Before he could ask if it was the same woman, applying for work in different cities, she explained, 'One of them started working in Trieste while the one registered here was working for Signora Battestini.'
'And the other?'
'I don't know. I have trouble with Milano.'
Rather than ask her to unravel the enigma of this remark, he said, 'Isn't there some central office or register for these things?'
'There's meant to be,' she agreed, 'but there's no cross-referencing between provinces. Our records include only the Veneto’
'Then how did you find out?' he asked with real curiosity and without a hint of uneasiness as to the legality of her methods.
She gave his question long consideration and finally answered, ‘I think I'd rather not say, Commissario. That is, I could easily invent an answer so technically complex you'd never understand it, but I think it would be more honest simply to say that I'd rather not tell you.'
'All right,' he agreed, knowing she was right. 'But you're sure?'
She nodded.
As if she'd read his mind, she said, 'The fingerprints’ referring to the government's boast that, within five years, it would have a complete fingerprint register of everyone living in the country, foreign or Italian. Brunetti had laughed when he first heard about the proposal: the railways can't keep the trains on the tracks, schools collapse at the faintest tremors of the earth, three people can use the same passport; and they want to collect more than fifty million sets of fingerprints.
An English friend of his had once remarked that living here was like living in something he called 'the loony bin'. Brunetti had had no idea of what the loony bin actually was, nor where it was located, but that hadn't prevented him from believing that his friend was correct: further, he thought it as precise a description of Italy as any he had ever heard.
'Do you know where they are, these other women? Do you have their addresses?'
'I do for the woman living in Trieste, but not for the one in Milano.'
'Have you checked the other provinces?'
'No. Just the North. It's not really worth the time to check the rest. No one much troubles with things like residence or work permits down there.'
As always, when his own prejudices were expressed he heard how they sounded and felt no small chagrin. 'Down there', The South.' How many times had he heard those phrases, how many times had he used them? He thought he had been careful and never spoken like that in front of the kids, at least not in the tone of contempt and distaste that he still so often heard. But Brunetti could not deny that he had long since come to the conclusion that the South was a problem with no solution, that it would remain a criminal netherworld long after he had ceased to have any professional interest in it.
These reflections were interrupted by his sense of fair play and by intruding memories of some of the things he'd recently witnessed here in the oh-so-superior North. He was pulled from these reflections by Signorina Elettra's voice, saying,'… can go and look at her apartment'.
'What was that?' he asked, ‘I was thinking about something else. What did you say?'
'That it might be an idea to see if you can have a look at the things in her apartment to try and get a sense of what might have happened.'
'Yes, by all means,' he agreed. He pointed to the file he'd placed on her desk and asked, 'Were her keys in the original?'
'No. Nothing.'
'There's no reference to them, either. Scarpa didn't say whether the apartment was still sealed, did he?'
'No.'
Brunetti considered this. If there were no keys, then he'd have to ask Scarpa for them, which he did not want to do. To request them from Signora Battestini's next of kin would alert people, who might well fall into the category of suspects, that the police were taking a renewed interest in the case, and that would be enough to alarm them into caution.
At last he turned to Signorina Elettra and asked, 'Could I borrow your picks?'
