there?'
'No, no one ever came to see her that I can recall,' the doctor said. He stood still as he searched his memory. 'Once or twice, as I said, she'd get phone calls, but she'd always say she was busy and tell whoever it was to call back.'
'Did she speak Veneziano to these people, do you remember, Dottore, when she talked to them?'
'I don't remember,' Carlotti answered. 'Probably Veneziano. She'd almost forgotten how to speak Italian. Some of them do.' Then, for the sake of clarity, he added, 'At least I never heard her speak it.' He put his hand back to his head. 'Once, ^bout three years ago, she was on the phone when I came in. I had a key by then, you see, and I could let myself in if she didn't hear the bell. The television was on – I could hear it down in the street – so I knew she wouldn't hear me if I did ring, so I didn't bother. I opened the door, but the sound had been lowered. The phone must have rung while I was coming up the steps, and she was talking to someone.' He paused for a moment, then added, ‘I suppose that whoever it was had called her. She often said it cost too much to make phone calls. At any rate, she had turned the television down a bit and was talking to someone.'
Brunetti waited beside him, saying nothing, allowing him space and time for memory.
'She said something about having hoped to hear from the person, whoever it was, but her voice was… oh, I don't know… cruel or sarcastic or something between the two. And then she said goodbye and called the person something. I can't remember now what it was.
When it was clear that the doctor had no more to say, Brunetti asked, 'Did you say anything about the conversation to her?'
'No, no, I didn't. In fact, the moment was so strange, perhaps because of her voice, or just some feeling I had about the way she was talking, that I stayed just outside the doorway and didn't go in. There was something so strange in the air that I pulled the door closed and then made a business of putting the key in the lock and making a lot of noise with it when I opened the door. And I called her name and asked her if she was there before I went in.'
'Could you explain why you did this?' Brunetti asked, puzzled that this seemingly practical man should have had such a strong reaction.
The doctor shook his head. 'No. It was just a feeling, something I picked up from the way she was speaking. I felt as though I'd come into the presence of… of something evil.'
The child's screams had intensified while they had been talking. The doctor opened the door. He put his head through the opening and said, 'Signora Ciapparelli, you can bring Piero in now.'
He stood back to let Brunetti leave and shook his hand; by the time Brunetti reached the door of the waiting room, the door to the office was closed and the child had stopped crying.
13
Back in his office, Brunetti dialled the number for Signorina Simionato, but again there was no answer. What puzzled him was the money in the four accounts. Not the total sum: many apparently poor people managed to accumulate hidden fortunes during long lives of daily privation: lira by lira, renunciation by renunciation, they amassed something to pass on to their relatives or to the Church. They must spend their lives counting, Brunetti realized, counting and saying no to anything that was not fundamentally necessary to physical survival. Pleasures went untasted, desires unheeded, as life passed by. Or worse, pleasure was transformed and could be had only by negation and the resultant accumulation, and desire was satisfied only by acquisition.
He'd observed this phenomenon sufficient times no longer to be surprised by it: what did surprise him was the sophistication of the money's removal from the banks and then from the country. The sophistication and the speed. The transfers had been made on the Monday after her death, long before any legal action could have been taken regarding the will. This suggested that one – or both – of the women had only to learn of Signora Battestini's death to make a move, and that in its turn suggested that the old woman had kept a close eye on the accounts and would have noticed any withdrawal when the monthly statements arrived.
He made a note to question the postman and check if the statements were delivered to her home. Though Brunetti had found no sign of them in the attic, four statements from different banks – five if he included her normal account at the Uni Credit – could certainly not have passed unobserved by even the most negligent of postmen.
In his youth, Brunetti had considered himself an intensely political man. He had joined and supported a party, rejoiced in its triumphs, convinced that its accession to power would bring his country closer to social justice. His disillusionment had not been swift, though it had been hastened by the presence of his wife, who had reached a state of political despair and black cynicism well before he allowed himself to follow her lead. He had denied, both in word and in belief, the first accusations of dishonesty and endemic corruption against the men he had been sure would lead the nation to a bright and just future. But then he had looked at the evidence against them, not as a true believer, but as a policeman, and his certainty of their guilt had been immediate.
Since then, he had stayed clear of politics entirely, bothering to vote only because to do so set an example for his children, not because he now believed it could make any difference. In the years during which his cynicism had grown, his former friendships with politicians had languished, and his dealings with them had become formal rather than cordial.
He tried to think of someone in the current administration whom he could trust and came up with no name. Shifting his attention to the magistracy, he did come up with one name, the judge in charge of the investigation into the environmental damage caused by the petrochemical complexes in Marghera. Not a young man, Judge Galvani was currently the object of a well-orchestrated campaign to force him into retirement.
Brunetti found his number in the list of city employees he had been issued some years ago and dialled it. A male secretary answered, said the judge was not available, then, when Brunetti informed him that it was a police matter, said he might be. When Brunetti said he was calling at the request of the Vice-Questore, the secretary admitted that the judge was there and transferred the call..
'Galvani’ a deep voice said.
'Dottore, this is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I'm calling to ask if you could spare some time to speak to me.'
'Brunetti?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I know your superior’ Judge Galvani surprised him by saying.
'Vice-Questore Patta, sir?' Brunetti asked.
'Yes. He seems to have no good opinion of you, Commissario.'
'That's unfortunate, sir, but I fear it's out of my control.'
'Indeed’ the judge answered. 'What would you like to talk to me about?'
'I'd prefer not to say that on the phone, sir.'
Brunetti had often read the phrase 'a pregnant pause' in novels. This seemed to be one. At last Galvani asked, 'When would you like to see me?'
'As soon as possible.'
'It's almost six’ Galvani said. 'I'll leave here in about half an hour. Shall we meet at that place on the Ponte delle Becarie?' he asked, describing an
'That's very kind of you, sir’ Brunetti said. 'I'm wearing…' he began but Galvani cut him off.
'I know who you are’ the judge said and replaced the phone.
When Brunetti walked into the bar, he recognized Judge Galvani instantly. The older man stood at the counter, a glass of white wine in front of him. Short, squat, dressed in a suit that was greasy at neck and cuffs, with the enlarged nose of the heavy drinker, Galvani looked like anything other than a judge: a butcher, perhaps, or a stevedore. But Brunetti knew that he had only to open his mouth and speak, in a beautifully modulated voice from
