by Donna Leon
He got off at San Silvestro and walked through the underpass, to the left and out to the main calle, and then down to the left and to the front door. As he put his key in the lock and thought of the five flights of steps he had to climb, he realized that moving to Palazzo Falier, when that happened, would be no better, not really, for it had just as many steps, even if the family seldom used the top two floors.
Three years ago, the Conte had asked an engineer to examine the possibility of putting in an elevator, and after a month during which the walls had been tapped and measured and dug into by pencil-thin drills, the engineer had told him that, no, there was no possibility that an elevator could be installed in the building. The Conte had inquired if the fact that he had been at school with the father of the current Soprintendente di Belle Arti would affect this decision in any way, only to have the engineer reply immediately that, though this relationship would have had a certain validity and force ten years before, it no longer had the same value, and thus there was no way to install the elevator.
The Conte, unable to contain his surprise, had asked why it was, then, that so many of the palazzi of the friends of his youth were now being transformed into hotels, all with elevators.
‘Ah, Signor Conte,’ the engineer had replied, ‘those are commercial projects, so of course the permissions are granted.’
‘And I’m nothing but an ageing citizen of Venice, I suppose?’ the Conte had asked. ‘So my convenience doesn’t count?’
‘Not in the face of that of wealthy tourists, it doesn’t, Signore,’ the engineer had said before leaving. Because he, too, was the son of a school friend of the Conte, he had not sent a bill, and the Conte, for the same reason, had sent him a dozen cases of wine.
By the time Brunetti recalled this story, he was at the door to the apartment. He let himself in, hung up his jacket, and went towards the living room, whence he heard the sound of voices. He entered and found his family on the sofa, facing the television, where people dressed in the fashion of the early part of the last century sat at a long table arrayed with what looked like a formal dinner. The fruit platter at the centre of the table appeared to be the height of a horse, and to wash and iron the tablecloth – should it ever have managed to dry sufficiently – would surely have taken members of the staff an entire day.
‘Downton Abbey, I presume,’ he said in English, a remark which was greeted by shushing noises from all three of them. On the screen a thickset and apparently thick-headed woman declared that she was not accustomed to such remarks, prompting the woman facing her to reply that there was no need to take it personally, for she had intended no offence.
‘Nor do I intend any offence,’ Brunetti said and turned and went into the kitchen to eat his dinner.
When he reached his office the following morning, he first checked his emails and found, among a number of official memos and reports he wished he could treat as spam, a mail from Signorina Elettra, telling him that the attachment was taken from a surveillance camera at the parking garage in Piazzale Roma for the hours before the attack on Federico d’Istria. His car was the seventh in the row, she added.
Brunetti opened it and found himself staring down a narrow strip of space between a grey cement wall and the front and back ends of the line of cars parked against it. He watched it for a few moments and saw, at 12.35, a car pull into a space towards the end of the row. A man got out, slammed the door of the car, and walked away. The tape then jumped ahead to the next sign of motion; the small clock in the top right corner of the screen told him that an hour and twenty-two minutes had elapsed. A different man approached another car, opened the door and got in. He backed out and drove away. Forty-two minutes later, something enormous came into the frame from the right-hand side, and then the scene went black.
Brunetti stopped the film and moved the cursor back a minute, then started it again. As soon as he saw motion, he stopped the film and studied the image on the screen. Giant flying white sticks? Something sickle-shaped and black? He tapped the cursor and played the scene again, still failing to grasp what he was seeing.
He picked up his phone and dialled Signorina Elettra’s number. When she answered, he asked, ‘What is it?’
‘A black lens cover from a camera was placed over the lens of the video camera.’
‘And the things that look like white sticks?’
‘Fingers,’ she said, though he had realized it as soon as he asked her the question.
‘White because of gloves?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks,’ Brunetti said. ‘Anything else?’
‘You can see that d’Istria’s car is backed into his space. When he opened the boot, which was about fifteen minutes later, he was attacked. It was still open when the ambulance got there.’
‘Any news from the hospital?’ he asked.
‘I called them at eight, but all they said was that he was resting quietly.’
‘I’ll wait until ten and call his wife,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘When was he attacked?’
‘The call came at two minutes before three, about twenty minutes after the lens was covered.’
‘What was he carrying?’ Brunetti asked.
‘What?’
‘Was anything found by him? A briefcase or a suitcase?’
‘Let me look,’ Signorina Elettra said. He listened to silence and then she was back. ‘A sports bag with two tennis rackets.’
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said, then quickly added, ‘See if you can find out if a taxi took a woman from Accademia to Piazzale Roma at about that time.’
‘A woman?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’ She was gone.
If Freddy’s attacker had paid attention to his habits and had seen him leave the calle with a bag holding tennis rackets, they’d have had little doubt where he was going. People played tennis on the mainland: he’d be going to the garage at Piazzale Roma. Perhaps he had met a friend and stopped for something to drink, perhaps his boat had been late, perhaps he had decided to walk: anything could have delayed him long enough to allow someone else to get to the garage before him, provided that person knew his habits and knew how to move quickly in the city.
Brunetti dialled Signorina Elettra’s number again. ‘We need the videos from the garage, from that same camera and from whichever ones show the lanes the cars use to drive in and out. And from the elevators and stairway doors opening on that floor. We’re probably looking for a woman who shows up there but doesn’t go to one of the cars, who simply takes a look around and walks away. And who is there that same day, or – if we’re lucky – around the time he was.’
After considering this for a moment, he added, ‘What did the magistrate’s order say?’
‘“Video recordings”,’ she answered immediately. ‘“The ones showing the area in which is parked the car of the victim.”’ She paused, then added, ‘I just love the language of the law.’
Brunetti ignored that and said, ‘Good. Remind them at the garage and ask for the tapes for the last three weeks.’
‘We need someone to look at them,’ she said.
Hearing her use the plural, he suddenly remembered and asked, ‘Aren’t you on strike any more?’
She laughed. ‘No, it ended this morning.’
‘Why?’
‘Some of the men who work with Alvise checked the witness statements – on their own time – that were taken at the protest and questioned the people who gave them. As it turns out, one of them had made a video of the victim tripping over one of the poles their sign was attached to.’ Brunetti, well aware of her rhythms, waited for the grand finale.
‘In the background, Alvise can be seen, at least three metres from him. They also found two people who were with the man when he was filming, and they confirm that the victim tripped and fell and hit his head.’
‘So much for police violence,’ Brunetti said, and then asked, ‘Does that
mean Alvise has been reinstated?’
‘As of today. Couldn’t have been better timed.’
‘Why?’
‘Francesca Santello’s aunt took her home yesterday. To Udine. And I didn’t know what other work to invent for Alvise.’
‘What about the father?’ Brunetti asked.
‘He called me after he put them on the train. He said he’s heard rumours from people who work at the theatre – he didn’t say what they were, but I think we know – and he wants to keep her out of the city until this is settled.’
Brunetti was relieved that the girl was, if not safe, at least far from Venice. ‘Then Alvise can be the one to check the tapes from the parking garage.’
Signorina Elettra went silent, and he waited while she assessed the level of difficulty that task would pose for Alvise. After a moment, she said, ‘All right. He should be able to do that.’
‘Will they come to your computer or will someone bring them?’ he asked.
Did he hear her sigh? ‘They’ll send them by computer, Commissario.’
‘Can you find him a place where he can watch them?’
‘Bocchese’s assistant is on vacation: Bocchese would probably let Alvise use his desk and computer. He likes him.’
‘Bocchese likes Alvise, or his assistant does?’ Brunetti asked automatically, always interested in any alliances in the Questura.
‘Bocchese does.’
‘Good. Why don’t you ask Bocchese first, so he can start as soon as the tapes arrive?’
‘Yes, Dottore. I’ll call him now,’ she said and broke the connection.
Brunetti remembered a time, at the beginning of his career, when, in order to find someone who was staying in the city, they had only to contact the hotels and pensioni with a description of the person and, if known, the nationality. There couldn’t have been more than a hundred places to call. Now it was impossible to trace anyone through the warren of hotels, rental apartments, cruise ships, pensioni, bed and breakfasts, both legal and illegal. No one knew how many there were or where they were, who ran them, or how many guests they had. She could be anywhere, Brunetti reflected.
He lapsed into a long reverie, stretched back in his chair, hands behind his head, as he thought about desire and violence. Flavia had tried to explain the strange desires of fans, but they had sounded entirely passive to him: they wanted to be well thought of by the people they admired. And who did not? Perhaps life had been too generous to him, for the only woman he had ever desired to the point of pain at the thought of not having was Paola, the woman he had married and who was now part of himself. For her, and for his children with her, he willed the good: he couldn’t remember which philosopher had defined love this way, but he thought it was as perfect a definition as he had ever heard.
What happened to passion when it wasn’t returned or valued, or even acknowledged? What strange thing could it turn into? What happened when the desired object told you to get lost? What happened when all that ardour had no place to go?
A knock at his door pulled him free of these thoughts and caused the front feet of his chair to crash to the floor. ‘Avanti,’ he called out. He looked up and saw Signorina Elettra, again dressed in her businesswoman costume of shirt and waistcoat, though today’s shirt was black, while the waistcoat was golden silk brocade covered with what looked like hand-embroidered bees. Words made superfluous by the beauty of the brocade, Brunetti could do nothing more than nod approvingly.
He noticed that she carried papers in one hand.
She held them up. ‘These just came.’
‘And they are?’ he asked.
‘Information about the necklace.’
It took Brunetti a moment to recall the necklace left on Flavia’s dressing table. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘I sent photos around.’
‘And?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I had an answer from a jeweller in Paris within a few hours, saying he made the necklace thirty-eight years ago for a certain Doctor Lemieux.’ Before Brunetti could comment on the feat of memory, she added, ‘He still remembers the stones.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘The doctor had it made as a gift. The jeweller thinks it was for his wife, although after all this time he’s not sure. He did remember that the doctor told him he’d brought the stones back from Colombia a long time ago. Not the highest quality, but very good. That’s what the jeweller said.’
‘Did he tell you how much the doctor paid for it?’
‘He said it took his best workman a month to make it. The gold and work would cost about twenty thousand euros today.’
‘What?’
‘Twenty thousand euros.’
‘And the stones?’
She came across the room and set a photo on the desk in front of him. Green stones lay strewn about on a smooth beige background. The quality of the colour reproduction was such that they could have been dark green sweeties, for all he knew. Some were square, some rectangular, some larger, some smaller, but all had the bevelled edges of the stones in Bocchese’s photo.
She tapped at it with her forefinger and said, ‘The jeweller took a photo of the stones he was given.’
‘Where’s the necklace?’
‘It’s still in Bocchese’s safe.’ Before he could ask, she said, ‘I called him and asked him to tell me their shapes and sizes.’
‘They’re the same stones?’
Brunetti had known her long enough to sense she was keeping something back, probably the best part. He thought about the satisfaction she was sure to take and so asked, ‘And their value?’
‘The jeweller said that, in today’s market, they’d be worth about forty thousand euros.’ She paused, smiled, and added, ‘Each.’
24
‘That makes it worth a half a million euros,’ said the astonished Brunetti, thinking of how he had carried the necklace through the city in a shopping bag and left it on the kitchen table overnight. Half a million euros.
More practical of mind, Signorina Elettra asked, ‘What now?’
Summoned from his reflections, he said, ‘We should find who Doctor Lemieux had the necklace made for,’ using the plural with her, as he always did, as if promising to float in the ether above her shoulder as she searched her computer for what he asked her to discover. ‘And then we need to know who owns it now.’ She glanced at him, saying nothing, and he asked, ‘Where does he live?’
‘Paris. At least he did when he had the necklace made.’
Accustomed as he was to playing fast and loose in his own country, Brunetti was punctilious when dealing with the police in others. ‘Then we have no choice but to contact the police there and tell them . . .’ he began, then stopped speaking as he thought what this would entail. ‘We can tell them that a piece of jewellery found in the course of another investigation has been traced to him, and that we’d like . . .’ Again, he failed to finish, stopped, and said, ‘They won’t give us this information, will they?’
She shrugged and asked, ‘Would we give it to them?’
‘Perhaps, but not for weeks,’ Brunetti answered, then added, ‘If then.’ He stared at the wall of his office and saw only a wall.
After a long time, Signorina Elettra said, ‘Someone there owes me a favour.’ Perhaps to prevent the embarrassment of having to answer any detailed question he might ask, she added, ‘I gave him some information a few years ago.’ Brunetti prayed she would tell him no more.
Silence settled around them, protective and calm.
Confining himself to the necessary, Brunetti said, ‘We’d need to know who owns it now and, if possible, where that person is.’ He considered the blandness of what he had just said and added, ‘No need to mention what we’re working on: routine matter.’ Few people were as good at making things sound routine as was she. ‘You might try to find out if the necklace has ever been reported stolen.’ In response to her sudden glance, he said only, ‘You never know.’
Signorina Elet
tra returned to taking notes on the back of the photo of the stones. That finished, she looked at him and asked, making a vague gesture towards some other part of the building, ‘What do we do with it now – leave it in Bocchese’s safe?’
Now certain of its value, Brunetti was uneasy about leaving the necklace with Bocchese. In the past, seized drugs and weapons had gone missing from Bocchese’s office, but the safe had – so far as Brunetti knew – never been robbed. But half a million euros?
Brunetti could think of no secure place where he could put it. They had no safe in their house: ordinary people didn’t have safes because they didn’t have things to put in safes.
His father-in-law had one, he knew, where he kept family papers and his wife’s jewellery. ‘Leave it there,’ he said.
When Signorina Elettra left his office, Brunetti found himself at a loss for what to do until she called in her favour and got the information. To pass the time, he decided to find Vianello and explain Tosca to him. It seemed less arduous than the attempt to understand the workings of the mind that made their presence at tonight’s performance necessary.
He explained the plot of the opera to Vianello at the bar at the bridge, standing at the counter with a glass of wine while he spoke. Bambola, the Senegalese barman, listened along with Vianello as Brunetti recounted the story: sexual blackmail, torture, murder, deceit, betrayal, all leading to and topped off by suicide. Vianello listened attentively to the end, then asked, ‘How is it that the police have the power to execute a prisoner?’