Doctored Evidence

7

It was almost lunchtime and Brunetti, long familiar with his wife's insistence on knowing how many people would be home for any meal, called to tell her he would not be.

'Wonderful’ she responded.

'I beg your pardon’ he said, not disguising his surprise.

'Oh, don't be a such baby, Guido. The kids are both at friends' houses for lunch, so I can read while I eat.'

'What are you going to eat?' he asked.

'Don't you want to know what I'm going to read?'

'No. I want to know what you're going to eat.' 'So you'll know what you're missing?' 'Yes.'

'And sulk?' 'No.'

There was a long pause and, even down the line, he could all but hear her mind working. Finally she asked, 'If I promise to eat only grissini and cheese and then eat the peach that has the spot on it, will you feel better?'

'Oh, don't be silly, Paola’ he insisted but he did so with a laugh.

'Done,' she declared. 'And in order to reward you for the lunch you miss, I promise to cook you swordfish steaks and shrimp for dinner.'

'In the tomato sauce?'

'Yes. And if I have time, I'll use the rest of the peaches and make ice-cream.'

'And maybe a little less garlic than you usually use?' he asked, taking advantage of what he thought was a strong bargaining position.

'In the ice-cream?'

He laughed and hung up, telling himself to remember when he got home to ask her what she was reading.

That left him free to go over to Signora Battestini's apartment, which he thought would be best done just after lunchtime, when most people would be in their houses, and the heat would have driven the tourists from the streets. As a reluctant alternative to a proper meal, he decided to have some tramezzini, and after serious reflection decided that Boldrin was the best place. Besides, it was more or less on the way if he decided to walk and would get him to the apartment at about one.

Olga, the boy cat, was lying asleep in his usual place on the floor in front of the bar, and Brunetti was pleased to see that his hair had finally grown back, though it lacked the grey silkiness of years before. The illness that had struck down the neighbourhood cat three years ago was already urban myth: one story claimed someone had poured acid on him, while another blamed his shocking baldness on a sudden allergy. Regardless of their belief, many people had helped pay the veterinary bills during Olga's long convalescence, Brunetti among them. Brunetti stepped over him and approached the bar.

Two tramezzini with prosciutto and zucchini, however excellent, and two glasses of white wine could not, even in a moment of delirium, be called lunch, but the thought of their superiority to Paola's bread sticks, cheese and mouldy peach allowed him to consider them as something less rigorous than a penance.

When he reached the address, he saw that the shutters were closed. The single doorbell bore the name 'Battestini', so he couldn't employ his ordinary ruse of ringing a bell at random and saying he was visiting someone else whose name was listed by the bells. If he spoke Veneziano, this always worked. Now, instead, he would have to use the picks. Resisting the urge to look around to check if anyone could see him, he put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the smallest of the picks. It was a simple lock and he was quickly inside, again careful not to look behind him as he pushed the door open.

The entrance was pleasantly cool after the heat outside: the walls were freshly whitewashed, and light streamed in from the windows above the door. He started up towards the second floor and found that the walls of the staircase were equally clean, the marble steps gleaming. The door to the apartment had no name beside it, though this would hardly be necessary if she owned the entire building. He bent to study the lock, saw that it was a simple Cisa, a model he'd opened a number of times before. He chose the medium-sized pick this time, inserted it into the lock, closed his eyes to give his full attention to his fingers, and started hunting for the first tumbler.

It took him less than a minute to turn the lock. He pushed open the door, felt on the wall until he found the light, and when he switched it on was at first puzzled that a woman such as Signora Battestini would have chosen to live in such cool simplicity: a pale, machine-made carpet on the floor, two spotless white easy chairs, a dark blue sofa that looked as though it had never been sat upon, and a low glass table with a shallow wooden platter at the centre. He realized then what must have happened: the crime scene tape had been removed, either by complacent police or eager relatives, and the place had been speedily redecorated. He took a closer look at the furniture and saw that what looked like maple was really cheap laminate, the sort of thing a landlord would put in an apartment meant to be rented by the week.

He walked towards the back of the apartment, and in all the rooms he saw the same cool hand at work: everywhere white furniture and walls and always one contrasting dark piece of furniture. Only the bathroom displayed any signs of what the apartment might once have been: new fixtures had been installed, but the pink tiles remained, some of them dull and opaque with age.

He opened closets and found new sheets and towels, some still in their plastic packaging; in the kitchen new dishes and cutlery. He looked under the beds and on the top shelves of the closets, but he found no evidence of the former owner. For fear of alerting the neighbours that someone was in the apartment, he left the shutters closed, and the trapped heat crawled over his body.

He left the apartment and went up the next flight of stairs. Ignoring the door he found at the landing, he climbed on up to the next floor. At the top was a door, the wood dry and splintery with age. Twin flanges were screwed into the door and jamb, and a padlock joined the metal rings on either side. He went back down the stairs and into what had been Signora Battestini's apartment, but no matter where he looked, he could find no tools. Finally he went into the kitchen and took one of the new, apparently unused, stainless steel kitchen knives and went back up to the attic door.

Though the wood of the door jamb was dry, it still took some effort to unscrew the flange and jerk it free. He pulled open the door and looked into the low attic. Luckily, there were two windows, neither very clean, at the other end, and they provided enough light to give some idea of the dimensions of the room and the objects scattered in it.

A double bed with a carved wooden frame, the sort he remembered from his grandmother's home, stood against one wall, beside it a matching marble-topped dresser, a leprous mirror attached to the back. Two easy chairs stood sideways to the wall, looking at one another, with between them a pink Formica clothing hamper.

A number of cardboard boxes were stacked just below the windows; as he crossed the room towards them, grime crunched under his feet. He pulled open the one on top of the first pile, relieved it was not taped shut, and found nothing but old shoes. He lifted it off the pile and set it on the floor, then opened the second. This seemed to hold the detritus of kitchen drawers: a carving knife with a mould-flecked bone handle, a corkscrew, a jumble of unmatched silverware, two dirty potholders, and pieces of metal the purpose of which he could not fathom. The third, heavier than the other two, was filled with small clumps of newspaper. He unwrapped one and saw that the date was from two weeks before. Inside, nestling in the sports pages, was a badly painted statue of the Madonna, appearing displeased that she was destined to spend at least the immediate future wrapped up in the latest cycling drug scandal. Beside her, in the first page of the Economy section of the Gazzettino, he found another triumph of what Paola called 'ChiesaKitsch', a Plexiglas sphere in which snow fell on a plastic Nativity scene. He rewrapped the ball and set the box aside.

The next box contained doilies and antimacassars, all bearing faint stains, cloths that must have come from the kitchen, as well as tea towels he was reluctant to touch. The one below that held a dozen or so cotton shirts, all white and all meticulously ironed and folded. Beneath them were six or seven dark coloured striped ties, each in a separate cellophane envelope. The next box was heavier and when he opened it he found papers of all sorts: old