The Girl of his Dreams

Brunetti's smile could not have been more gracious had it been genuine.

12

Signorina Elettra's consternation, when she heard of Alvise's appointment, was complete; her reaction proved to be the common one as the news spread through the Questura during the next few days. Alvise to head a task force, Alvise to head a task force: those who heard it were as compelled to repeat it as was the boy who first learned that Midas had ass's ears. Yet by the end of the following week, no news was forthcoming about the precise duties, indeed the precise nature, of the task force: the staff stood breathless as Alvise took his first tentative steps up the ladder of success.

Alvise was frequently seen in the company of Lieutenant Scarpa, and he was overheard using the familiar tu with his superior, a liberty none of the other members of the uniformed branch was permitted, or would much want. Strangely, the usually verbose Alvise was reticent about his new duties and unwilling – or unable – to

discuss the nature or purpose of the task force. He and Scarpa spent a great deal of time in the Lieutenant's tiny private office, where they were observed going over papers, often while the Lieutenant spoke on his telefonino. Reticence or discretion were two words not habitually associated with Alvise, and yet they soon came to characterize his behaviour.

Novelty could never long survive at the Questura, and within days most people returned to the habit of paying no attention to Alvise and what he did. Brunetti, however, was tantalized by the thought of that money from Brussels and curious about where it would end up. He did not for a moment – given Scarpa's supervision of the project – doubt that it would be the Lieutenant who decided its destination: he wondered only to whom and for what declared purpose the money would be allocated.

Berlin seemed to have unplugged something in Patta, for memos, reminders, notes, and suggestions flowed from his office. His requests for statistical information regarding crime and those accused of it created entire new waves of reports: because Patta was a man of the old school, none of this was done by email, and so tides of papers ebbed up and down the stairs and into and out of the offices of the Questura. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the tide of words retreated and things went back to normal, though Alvise remained singled out, in charge of his one-man task force.

During this time, Brunetti became complicit in his own forgetting of Don Antonin's request. Indeed, he and Paola had dinner with her parents one evening, the older couple about to leave for Palermo, and Brunetti refrained from asking the Contessa if she had learned anything. Nor did she volunteer any information.

The morning after that dinner, Brunetti arrived at the Questura at eight-thirty. It was a rainy Thursday morning. Before he could enter, Vianello hurried out the front door, still pulling on his jacket. 'What is it?' Brunetti asked.

‘I don't know,' the Inspector answered, grabbing him by the arm and turning him around to face the dock, where the pilot Foa stood on the deck of a police launch, unwrapping the mooring line. He raised his hand to his cap when he saw Brunetti but spoke to Vianello. 'Where to, Lorenzo?'

'Up near Palazzo Benzon,' Vianello answered.

The pilot put out a hand and helped them both on board, then turned to the wheel and pulled the boat away from the dock. At the Bacino, he pulled to the right, but by that time Brunetti and Vianello had moved down into the cabin to avoid the rain.

'What is it?' Brunetti asked, voice tight with the nervousness that radiated from the other man.

'Someone saw a body in the water.'

'Up there?'

'Yes.'

'What happened?'

‘I don't know. We got the call a few minutes ago. A man on the Number One, as it was leaving Sant'Angelo. He was standing outside, and just before they got to Palazzo Volpi, he saw something in the water near the steps. He said it looked like a body’

'And he called here?'

'No, he called 911, but the Carabinieri don't have a boat free, so they called us.' 'Did anyone else see it?'

Vianello looked out of the windows on his side; the rain was falling harder now, and a wind from the north was driving it against the windows. 'He was outside, he said’ Few people, he didn't bother to add, would choose to stand outside on a morning like this.

'I see,' Brunetti said. 'The Carabinieri?'

'They'll send a boat as soon as they have one free.'

Brunetti, suddenly unwilling to stay inside, got to his feet, pushed open the door, and stood on the first step, still at least partially protected from the rain. They passed Palazzo Mocenigo, then the imbarcadero of Sant'Angelo, and then they came abreast of the stairs running down into the water to the left of Palazzo Benzon.

It occurred to Brunetti that it might be better to stop the engine, but before he could say anything, Foa cut it and they continued to drift towards the stairs. The silence lasted only a few seconds before Foa started the engine and slipped it into reverse, slowing them, and then coming to a dead stop a few metres from the steps that led up to the pavement.

The pilot moved to the side of the boat and leaned forward. After some time, he raised his arm and indicated the surface of the water. Brunetti, followed closely by Vianello, moved out into the rain. They joined Foa at the side, looking where he pointed.

Something messy and light, swirling like seaweed, floated in the water about a metre to the left of the steps. The rain splashing on the surface of the water disguised it, whatever it was. A plastic bag? A newspaper? Then, not far from it, something else. A foot.

They saw the foot, small, and, above it, an ankle.

'Take me down to Calle Traghetto’ Brunetti told the pilot, 'and I'll come back.'

Silently, the pilot backed away from the stairs, out into the canal, then pulled in at the bottom of the stairs at the end of the next calk. The tide was low, and the two steps up to the pavement were covered with seaweed. Brunetti had the choice of trying to leap to the pavement, though that was slick with rain, or of holding on to Vianello's arm and stepping down on to the seaweed-covered surface of the step. He made the second choice, felt a moment's panic as his right foot slid away from him as it touched the surface, banging into the back of the stair. He lurched forward, but Vianello grabbed his arm and stopped him from falling into the water. Brunetti tried to brace himself with his free hand, but it slithered through the seaweed and hit the back of the step. He felt the rain on his back as he stepped up on to the pavement; he paused to let the shaking in his knees subside.

Brunetti heard the heavy thud as a cross-wave banged the boat against the embankment. He turned back to Vianello and helped him on to the lower step. He did not slip, and Brunetti held him steady as he climbed up beside him.

They walked down to the first crossing, turned right, then immediately right again and back towards the water. By the time they got there, the shoulders of their jackets were soaked through. Foa had the boat standing off from them, in the Canal.

Brunetti moved up beside the wall of the building and leaned forward to look into the water. The floating mass was still there, off to his right, about a metre from the bottom step. It would be within his reach if he went down to the bottom step and Vianello anchored him as he reached out.

He moved away from the wall and placed a tentative foot in the water and then moved down to the second step; the water rose to his knees. Vianello was suddenly beside him, grabbing his left wrist. Brunetti leaned far to his right, stretched out, and grabbed at the lighter shadow in the water. He heard the right side of his jacket splash into the water and felt the gelid water reach up his thighs.

Silk. It felt like silk. He latched his fingers around the strands and pulled gently. Brunetti felt no resistance, and he straightened up, pulling it effortlessly closer. As he backed up one step it floated closer, and the silk spread out