I'd like to speak to Bogdan Rocich,' Brunetti heard her say.
Beyond her, the man's face remained impassive, but Brunetti noticed that two of the others exchanged a glance, and a third glanced aside at the man who had spoken.
'He's not here,' the man answered.
'His car is here,' she said, and the man's eyes moved to a sun-faded blue Mercedes with a large dent in the right fender. 'He's not here,' he repeated.
'His car is here,' she said, as though the man had not spoken.
'He went with a friend,' one of the other men volunteered, and was about to say more but was cut off by a fierce glance from the leader. The man in charge took a sudden step towards the woman, then another, and Brunetti was impressed to see that she did not move back, did not flinch: if anything, she dug her feet more deeply into the earth.
The man stood less than an arm's length from her and, though he was not tall, seemed to loom above her. 'What do you want with him?' he demanded.
To talk to him’ she answered calmly, and as Brunetti watched, her fists opened and her fingers stretched towards the ground.
'You can talk to me’ the man said. 'I am his brother.'
'Signor Tanovic’ she said, 'you are not his brother, and you are not his cousin.' Her voice was calm, relaxed, as if the two of them had met in the park for a chat. 1 have come to speak to Signor Rocich.'
'I told you he is not here.' His face could have been carved, so impassive did it remain all during this conversation.
'Perhaps he's come back’ she suggested, offering him a way out. 'And no one told you.'
Brunetti, keeping his face as motionless as the man's, watched him consider the possibility being offered to him. The man looked at Dottoressa Pitteri, then ran his eyes across the faces of the men in front of him, two in uniform and the others no doubt bearing the unmistakable scent of police.
'Danis’ he said, turning away from them and speaking to the man at the far left of the line. All Brunetti understood was the name 'Bogdan.'
The man peeled away silently and walked off towards the caravan behind the blue Mercedes. One of the men lit a cigarette, and when the man addressed as Tanovic said nothing, two others did as well. No one spoke.
Danis walked up the steps to the caravan and raised his hand, but before he could knock on the door it was pulled open and a man dressed like the others came out; they exchanged a few words, and he followed the other man down the steps. He left the door open, and a flash of something light behind it caused Brunetti to keep his eyes on the door while everyone else watched the man approach Tanovic and Dottoressa Pitted.
The interior of the camper was dark, but Brunetti thought he saw one side of a human figure, or the shadow of a human form, at the door. Yes, there was movement, some sort of swinging motion of the lower, lighter part of the figure.
He was conscious of the man as he came closer to them all, then of his stopping, not by Dottoressa Pitteri but by the man who had summoned him and who had taken a half-step back. Brunetti listened, but the men spoke to one another in a language utterly foreign to him. He risked a glance and saw that the attention of everyone in the circle around the two men was riveted on the conversation.
Brunetti glanced back at the door, and as he did, fingers emerged and wrapped themselves around it, pulling it open a bit more, and then just above the hand a woman's face appeared. He could not see her clearly, but he could see enough to observe that she was an old woman, perhaps the mother of the man who had emerged from the caravan, perhaps Ariana's grandmother.
She leaned forward, following the man with her eyes, and Brunetti saw the motion again as her skirt swung forward beneath her.
When the men seemed to have stopped talking, Dottoressa Pitteri said, 'Good afternoon, Signor Rocich’ and Brunetti switched his attention to the man who had come out of the caravan.
He was shorter than the other men, and he was thicker-set. His hair was as black and dense as Steiner's, though longer, straight and slicked back from his forehead with pomade or grease. He had enormous black eyebrows under which his dark eyes disappeared: it was difficult to tell what colour they were. He looked more prosperous than the others: his beard was trimmed, his shoes were cleaner, as was the collar of the shirt he wore under his sweater.
He looked across at Dottoressa Pitteri, and his glance was so neutral that it was impossible to tell if he knew her; indeed, there was no telling if he had ever seen her before. 'What you want?' he finally asked.
'It's about your daughter’ she answered. 'Ariana.'
'What happen Ariana?' he asked. When he spoke, he did not take his eyes from hers.
'I'm afraid I have to tell you that your daughter has died in an accident, Signor Rocich.'
His eyes turned slowly towards the caravan, and as the others followed his look the woman's form retreated inside, though everyone could still see her four fingers on the outside of the door.
'She die?' he asked. At the woman's nod, he asked, 'How? In car traffic?'
'No. She drowned.'
It was obvious from his expression that he did not understand the word. Dottoressa Pitteri repeated it a bit louder, then one of the other men said something, and the understanding came into his face. He looked at his shoes, then at her, then at the men who stood behind him, first to one side and then to the other. No one said anything for a long time.
Finally Dottoressa Pitteri said, 'I'd like to tell your wife’ and turned to take a step towards the caravan.
The man's hand shot out like a snake, and he grabbed her upper arm, stopping her on the spot. ‘I no like’ he said in a tight voice, though he spoke no more loudly. ‘I tell’ he said, and took his hand from her arm. Brunetti could see that the cloth of her sleeve still bore the imprint of his hand.
'She mine’ he said decisively to Dottoressa Pitteri, as if to put an end to any possibility of discussion, and turned towards the caravan. His wife or his daughter, Brunetti found himself wondering, to which of them was he staking a claim? Probably both, from the sound of him.
The man continued walking towards the caravan, but then he turned and came back. He stopped in front of Dottoressa Pitteri and said in an openly belligerent voice, 'How I know? How I sure she Ariana?'
The woman turned to Steiner and said, ‘I think this question is for you, Maresciallo’ Brunetti saw the looks that passed among the line-up of men at the sound of her voice, saw how their attention turned to the man in uniform to whom a woman spoke in this manner.
Brunetti stepped forward, pulling the photos from his pocket. He handed the envelope to the man, saying nothing. The man opened it and pulled them out, looked at all three, once, and then again. He slid them back into the envelope and turned back towards the caravan. He went up the steps.
Dottoressa Pitteri returned to the car. Speaking to the policemen, she said, ‘I think our work here is finished.' She did not bother to wait for agreement or dissent from them but climbed into the back seat, slamming the door after her.
The leader of the men turned away from them silently and went inside his caravan. The others dissolved.
Keeping his voice low, though there was no longer anyone to hear him, Brunetti walked up beside Steiner and said, 'Well?'
Before the Carabiniere could answer, a high-pitched keening broke from the still open door of the Rocich caravan. Brunetti's eyes swung towards it and then were diverted by a sudden motion from beyond it, at the top of the hill. The sound had startled the birds into flight, and a cloud of them circled the clump of chestnuts like a restless, dark halo. The sound went on, rising, falling, but never growing softer. His eyes on the branches of the trees, Brunetti thought of Dante and of the way he had broken off a branch, only to hear the agonized cry of the suicide to whose pain he had added, 'Is there no pity left in any soul?'
By silent agreement, the men turned back towards the car. Steiner and the driver got into the front seat, and Brunetti was just ducking his head to climb into the back seat when the door of the caravan slapped open with a slam like a pistol shot.
The woman who had been hiding inside and listening leaped through the door, appeared to fly down the steps, and stopped at the bottom as if blinded by the sudden light. One hand held the crushed envelope and the other the three photos, cupped delicately in her palm as if she feared damaging them in some way.
Brunetti had seen moles dug up, and they had been as startled by the light as she. At no time in all of this did
