The Girl of his Dreams

them down to Bocchese and let him check them for prints and anything else he can find on them, and then bring them up to me.'

'Yes, sir’ the young officer said.

'Before you go to the hospital, go down to Bocchese and ask him to send me the photos of the head and face of the girl who drowned. And tell Dottor Rizzardi that I'd like to see any photos he took. That's all.'

'Yes, sir’ Pucetti said and was gone.

Brunetti's mind suddenly filled with a scene from The Trojan Women: the Greek – what was his name, Tal-some-thing? – bringing the shattered body of little Astyanax to his grandmother. As the soldiers with the boy's body passed by the River Scamander, the soldier tells Hecuba, he had let the waters run over the child's body to clean his wounds. What was it she says to him? 'A little child like this made you afraid. The fear that comes when reason goes away' But what to fear from this girl?

Impatience struck him, and he went downstairs to get the photos from Bocchese.

Before taking the photos back to his office, Brunetti stopped and asked Vianello to come with him, explaining to him on the way everything that Rizzardi had told him and talking about what they had to do now. Back at his desk, Brunetti opened the file of photos that the technician had given him and they saw again the face of the dead child.

There were more than twenty photos, and in all of them she lay like the princess in a fairy tale, a halo of tangled golden hair radiating out from her face. That, however, was only a first impression and quickly gone, for it was then the viewer observed the paving stones on which the princess lay and the ratty, greying cotton cardigan bunched around her neck. One photo showed the tip of a black rubber boot; another caught a single moss-covered step, a crushed cigarette packet in one corner. No prince was coming here.

'Her eyes were light, weren't they?' Vianello asked as he set down the last photo.

‘I think so,' Brunetti answered.

'I suppose we should have realized; from the long skirt, if from nothing else,' Vianello said. He wrapped his arms around his chest and stood, looking at the photos on Brunetti's desk. 'There's no way of knowing, though, whether she is or she isn't,' he added.

'Isn't what?'

'A Gypsy’ Vianello said.

Voice coloured by his lingering irritation at the pathologist's words, Brunetti answered, 'Rizzardi said we were supposed to call them Rom.'

'Oh. How very correct of the doctor.'

Regretting that he had said anything, Brunetti changed the subject. 'If no one's reported a burglary’ which had been the case when Brunetti stopped in the squad room downstairs, 'then either the people haven't discovered it yet or, just as easily, they did discover the break-in and chose not to report it.'

Vianello interrupted before Brunetti could add another possibility, saying, 'No one reports a burglary any more.'

Both men had spent their professional lives working for the police and thus had long ago learned the sovereign truth of crime statistics: to the degree that the process of reporting a crime is made difficult and time-consuming, the numbers of reported crimes will diminish.

Brunetti ignored Vianello's remark and stated the next possibility: 'Or they discovered her at it, frightened her off, and saw her fall.'

Vianello turned his head quickly away and stared out of the window of Brunetti's office.

'Well?' Brunetti asked. Its unpleasantness in no way diminished its likelihood.

'There were no marks on her body?' Vianello asked.

'No. Rizzardi didn't mention any'

Vianello considered this for a long time and then asked, 'Do you want to say it or do you want me to?'

Brunetti shrugged. He was the superior officer, so it was probably his responsibility to give voice to the last possibility. 'Or they discovered her at it and pushed her off the roof.'

Vianello nodded and remained silent. 'In either of the last cases, they'd never call us,' the Inspector finally said. 'So what do we do?'

'We see if there's any way to identify the owner of the watch and the ring, and then we go and talk to them.'

‘I’ll go down and ask Foa about the tides,' Vianello said and left to do that.

16

Vianello was back quickly, explaining that Foa had had no need to consult a map. If the girl had gone into the water any time around midnight and had been found in front of Palazzo Benzon before nine, then it was most likely that she had gone in somewhere along Rio de Ca Corner or Rio di San Luca or, more likely, Rio di Ca Michiel, which ran right alongside the palazzo. The tides had been very low the previous night, and so the body would not have travelled far in the time it was in the water. The pilot had also explained that, if no damage was visible on the body, then it was unlikely that it had floated into the heavier traffic in the centre of the canal and all but impossible that it had floated across from the San Polo side.

Vianello had no sooner finished repeating all of this than Pucetti came in, carrying more photos in a folder and a small envelope with the ring and the pocket watch. He handed them to Brunetti, saying, 'Bocchese said the only things on these are smudges that are probably from the girl. Nothing else.'

Brunetti opened the folder and was relieved to see that it contained photos only of the girl's head and face. Her hair had been brushed back, and in one photo her eyes were open: a deep emerald green. Not only years, but great beauty, had been stolen from her.

He opened the envelope and slid the ring and watch out on to the desk. Judging by the size, the ring was a man's, a broad gold band with a tiny hatching pattern around both edges. 'Hand-made, I'd say,' offered Vianello.

He held it up to the light and looked inside. 'GF – OV, 25’10’84.'

'How does it open?' Pucetti asked, nodding toward the watch, which he did not touch. A few grains of Bocchese's black dusting powder had fallen from it on to Brunetti's desk.

Brunetti picked it up and pressed the knob on the top. Nothing happened. He turned the watch over and saw a tiny flange on the edge, then prised the back open with his fingernail. In a delicate italic script was written, 'Per Giorgio, con amore, Orsola.' The date was 25’10’94.

'Well, it lasted at least ten years’ observed Vianello.

'Let's hope they got married here’ Brunetti said, reaching for the phone. As indeed they had. Giorgio Fornari had married Orsola Vivarini on the twenty-fifth of October 1984.

Vianello took the phone book and flipped to the Fs. He quickly found a Giorgio Fornari, but the address was in Dorsoduro. Looking iip, he said, 'Whatever happened, it didn't happen there, did it?' Before either of them could answer, he flipped to the back of the book and checked the Vs. 'Nothing.'

‘Pucetti’ Brunetti said, turning to the young officer. Take the photos downstairs and see if anyone recognizes her. If not, or even if someone does, take them over to the Carabinieri and see if you can get anything from them’ Brunetti knew that photos were taken of the children who were arrested for burglary, but since regulations demanded that the photos be sent to the Ministry of the Interior, the local police were left with no visual record save memory by which to identify repeat offenders.

When the younger man was gone, Brunetti said, 'I think we should go over to Dorsoduro and see how Signor Fornari lost his watch and his wedding ring.' He glanced at his own watch and saw that, if they left now and walked along the riva to the traghetto at San Marco, they would be there before lunchtime. Before they left the Questura, however, Brunetti checked the address in Colli, Campielli, e Canali and located the building at the end of Fondamenta Venier.

By the time they reached Ponte del Vin, they found themselves encased in people walking in the direction of the Piazza or strolling towards them from it. On the top of the bridge, Vianello gazed at the sea of heads and shoulders in front of them. ‘I can't’ he whispered. Brunetti turned and led them back towards the