by Donna Leon
He tried to recall the expression on Francesca Trevisan's face when she had so suddenly appeared at the door, but he could remember no more than eyes flashing wide at the sight of him there. The eyes had been dry and had registered nothing more than surprise; she resembled her mother in absence of grief, as well as in feature. Had she been expecting someone else?
How would Chiara respond if he were to be killed? And Paola, would she be so easily capable of answering questions, were a policeman to come to ask about their personal life? Surely, Paola would not be able to say, as had Signora Trevisan, that she knew nothing about her husband's, her late husband's, professional fife. It snagged in Brunetti's mind, this protestation of ignorance, and he couldn't let it go, nor could he believe it.
When he let himself into the apartment, the radar of years told him that it was empty. He went down to the kitchen, where he found the table littered with newspapers and what seemed to be Chiara's homework, papers covered with numbers and mathematical signs that made no sense at all to Brunetti. He picked up a sheet of paper and studied it, saw the neat, right-slanting hand of his younger child in a long series of numbers and signs that he thought might be, if memory served, a quadratic equation. Was this calculus? Trigonometry? It had been so long ago, and Brunetti had been so unsuited to mathematics that he could recall almost nothing of it, though surely he had gone through four years of it
He put the papers aside and turned his attention to the newspapers, where Trevisan's murder competed for attention with yet another senator and yet another bribe. Years had passed since Judge Di Pietro handed down the first formal accusation, and still villains ruled the land. All, or what seemed like all, of the major political figures who had ruled the country since Brunetti was a child had been named in accusation, named again on different charges, and had even begun to name one another, and yet not one of them had been tried and sentenced, though the coffers of the state had been sucked dry. They'd had their snouts in the public trough for decades, yet nothing seemed strong enough - not public rage, not an upwelling of national disgust - to sweep them from power. He turned a page and saw photos of the two worst, the hunchback and the balding pig, and he nipped the paper closed with tired loathing. Nothing would change. Brunetti knew not a little about these scandals, knew where a lot of money had gone and who was likely next to be named, and me one thing he knew with absolute certainty was that nothing would change. Lampedusa had it right - things had to seem to change so that things could remain the same. There'd be elections; there'd be new faces and new promises, but all that would happen would be that different trotters would go into the trough, and new accounts would be opened in those discreet private banks across the border in Switzerland.
Brunetti knew this mood and almost feared it, this recurring certainty of the futility of everything he did. Why bother to put the boy who broke into a house in gaol when the man who stole billions from the health system was named ambassador to the country to which he had been sending the money for years? And what justice imposed a fine on the person who failed to pay the tax on the radio in his car when the manufacturer of that same car could admit to having paid billions of lire to the leaders of trade unions to see that they would prevent their members asking for pay rises, could admit it and remain free? Why arrest anyone for murder, or why bother to look for the person who murdered Trevisan, when the man who had for decades been the highest politician in the country stood accused of having ordered the murders of the few honest judges who had the courage to investigate the Mafia?
This bleak reverie was interrupted by Chiara's arrival. She slammed the apartment door and came in with a great deal of noise and a large pile of books. Brunetti watched as she went down to her room and emerged a few moments later without the books.
'Hello, angel,' he called down the hall. 'Would you like something to eat?' When wouldn't she, he asked himself.
‘Ciao, Papa’ she called out and came down the hall, struggling to extricate herself from the sleeves of her coat and managing, instead, only to pull one of them completely inside out and trap her hand in it. As he watched, she tore her other hand free and reached to pull at the sleeve. He glanced away and, when he looked back, the coat lay in a heap on the floor, and Chiara was bending to pick it up.
She came into the kitchen and tilted her face up to him, expecting a kiss, which he gave her.
She went over and opened the refrigerator, stooped down to see into it, reached into the back and pulled out a paper-wrapped wedge of cheese. She stood, took a knife from a drawer, and cut herself a thick slice.
'Want some bread?' he asked, pulling a bag of rolls down from the top of the refrigerator. She nodded, and they did a trade, he getting a thick wedge of cheese in exchange for two of the rolls.
'Papa,' she began, 'how much do policemen get paid an hour?'
'I don't know exactly, Chiara. They get a salary, but sometimes they have to work more hours a week than people who work in offices do.'
'You mean if there's a lot of crime, or they have to follow someone?'
‘Si.' He nodded toward the cheese, and she cut him another piece, handing it to him silently.
'Or if they spend time questioning people, suspects and things like that?' she asked, clearly not going to give this up.
'Si,' he repeated, wondering what she was getting at.
She finished her second roll and put her hand into the bag for another.
'Mamma's going to kill you if you eat all the bread,' he said, a threat rendered almost sweet by years of repetition.
'But how much do you think it would work out to an hour, Papa?' she asked, ignoring him, as she sliced the roll in two.
He decided to invent, knowing that, whatever sum he named, he was going to end up being asked for it 'I'd say it isn't more than about 20,000 lire an hour.' Then, because he knew he was meant to, he asked, 'Why?’
'Well, I knew you'd be interested to know about Francesca's father, so I asked some questions about him today, and I thought that, since I was doing the police's work, they should pay me for my time.' It was only when he saw signs of venality in his children that Brunetti regretted Venice's thousand-year-old trading heritage.
He didn't answer her, so Chiara was forced to stop eating and look at him. 'Well, what do you think?'
He gave it some thought and then answered, 'I think it would depend on what you found out, Chiara. It's not as if we'd be paying you a salary, regardless of what you did, as we do with the real police. You'd be a sort of private contractor, working freelance, and we'd pay you in relation to the value of what you brought us.'
She considered this for a moment and appeared to see the sense of it. 'All right I'll tell you what I found out, and then you tell me how much you think it's worth.'
Not without admiration, Brunetti noted the skill with which she had evaded the critical question of whether he would be willing to pay for the information in the first place and had simply arrived at the point where the deal was already cut and only details remained to be worked out. Well, all right.
'Tell me.'
All business now, Chiara finished the last of the third roll, wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, and sat at the table, hands folded in front of her. 'I had to talk to four different people before I really learned anything,' she began, as serious as if she were giving testimony in court. Or on television.
'Who were they?’
'One was a girl at the school where Francesca is now; one was a teacher at my school, and a girl there, too, and the other was one of the girls we used to go to grammar school with.’
'You managed all of this today, Chiara?’
'Oh, sure. I had to take the afternoon off, to go see Luciana, and then go over to Francesca's school to talk to that girl, but I talked to the teacher and the girl at my school before I left.'
'You took the afternoon off?' Brunetti asked, but merely out of curiosity.
'Sure, the kids do it all the time. All you have to do is give them a note from o
ne of your parents, saying you're sick or have to go somewhere, and no one ever asks questions.'
'Do you do this often, Chiara?’
'Oh, no, Papa, only when I have to.’
'Who wrote the note?’
'Oh, it was Mamma's turn. Besides, her signature's much easier to do than yours.’ As she spoke, she picked up the pieces of homework lying on the table and arranged them into a neat stack, then placed them to the side and glanced up at him, eager to continue with important things.
He pulled out a chair and sat racing her. 'And what did these people tell you, Chiara?’
'The first thing I learned was that Francesca had told this other girl the kidnapping story, too, and I think I remember that she told a bunch of us the same story when we were in grammar school, but that was five years ago.’
'How many years did you go to school with her, Chiara?’
'We did all of elementary school together. But then her family moved, and she went to the Vivaldi middle school I see her occasionally; but we weren't friends or anything like that'
‘was this girl she told the story to a good friend of hers?'
He watched Chiara draw her lips together at the question, and he said, 'Perhaps you'd better tell me all this in your own way.' She smiled.
"This girl I spoke to at my school knew her from middle school, and she said that Francesca told her that her parents had warned her always to be very careful who she spoke to and never to go anywhere with someone she didn't know. That's pretty much the same thing she told us about when we were at school with her.'
She glanced across at him, looking for approval, and he smiled at her, though this wasn't much more than what she had told them at lunch.
'I already knew this, so I figured I better go talk to someone at the school where she is now. That's why I had to take the afternoon off, so I'd be sure to find her.' He nodded. 'This girl told me that Francesca had a boyfriend. No, Papa, a real one. They're lovers and all’
'Did she say who the boyfriend was?'
'No, she said Francesca wouldn't ever tell her his name, but she said he was older, in his twenties. Francesca said she wanted to run away with him, but he wouldn't do it, not till she was older.'
'Did the girl say why Francesca wanted to run away?’
‘Well, not in so many words, but she had the feeling it was her mother, that she and Francesca fought a lot, and that was why Francesca wanted to run away’ 'What about her father?'
'Oh, Francesca liked him a lot, said he was very good to her, only she never saw him much because he was always so busy.’
'Francesca has a brother, hasn't she?'
'Yes, Claudio, but he's away in school in Switzerland That's why I talked to the teacher. She used to teach in the middle school where he went, before he went to Switzerland, and I thought I could get her to tell me something about him.'
'And did you?’
'Oh, sure. I told her I was Francesca's best friend and how worried Francesca was that Claudio was going to be upset about their fathers death, being in Switzerland and all. I said I knew him, too; I even let her believe I had a crush on him.’ She paused here and shook her head 'Yuck, everybody, but everybody, says Claudio is a real creep, but she believed me.’
'What did you ask her?'
'I said Francesca wanted to know if the teacher could suggest how she should behave with Claudia’ When she saw Brunetti's surprise, Chiara added, 'Yes, I know it's stupid, and no one would ever ask that, but you know how teachers are, always wanting to tell you what to do with your life and how you should behave.’ 'Did the teacher believe you?’ 'Of course,’ Chiara responded seriously. Half joking, Brunetti said, 'You must be a good liar.’ ‘I am. Very good Mamma's always believed it's something we should learn to do well.' She didn't bother to look at Brunetti when she said this and continued, "The teacher said that Francesca should bear in mind - that was her expression, "bear in mind", - that Claudio had always been fonder of his father than his mother, so this time would be very difficult for him.' She twisted up her face in disgust 'Big deal, huh? I went halfway across the city to get that And it took her a half-hour to tell me.'
'What did the other people tell you?'
'Luciana — I had to go all the way down to Castello to see her - she told me that Francesca really hates her mother, said that she was always pushing her father around, telling him what to do. She doesn't like her uncle much, either, says he thinks he's the boss of the family'
'Pushing him around in what way?'
'She didn't know. But that's what Francesca told her, that her father always did what her mother said.' Before Brunetti could make a joke of this, Chiara added, it's not like with you and Mamma. She always tells you what to do, but you just agree with her and then do what you want to, anyway’ She glanced up at the clock on the wall and asked, 'Where do you think Mamma is? It's almost seven. What'll we do for dinner?’ The second question, clearly, was the one with which Chiara was most concerned.
'Probably kept at the university, telling some student what to do with his life.' Before Chiara could decide whether to laugh or not Brunetti suggested, 'If that's all the detecting you have to report to me, why don't we start getting dinner ready? That way. Mamma can come home and find dinner ready for a change.’
'But how much is it worth?' Chiara wheedled.
Brunetti considered this for a moment. ‘I’d guess about thirty thousand,' he finally answered. Since it was to come out of his pocket, that's all it would be, though the information she'd given him about Signora Trevisan's pushing her husband around, should it prove true and should it apply to his professional life, might be worth inestimably more than that.
11
The following day, the Gazzettino carried a front page article about the suicide of Rino Favero, one of the most successful accountants in the Veneto Region. Favero, it was reported, had chosen to drive his Rover into the two-car garage beneath his house, close the door of the garage, and leave the engine running, himself quietly stretched across the front seat. It was further stated that Favero's name was about to be revealed in the expanding scandal that was currently playing itself out in the corridors of the Ministry of Health. Though, by now, all of Italy was familiar with the accusation that the former Minister of Health had accepted immense bribes from various pharmaceutical companies and in return had allowed them to raise the prices of the medicines they manufactured, it was not common knowledge that Favero had been the accountant who handled the private finances of the president of the largest of these firms. Those who did know assumed that he had decided to imitate so many of the men named in this ever-spreading web of corruption; had chosen to preserve his honour by removing himself from accusation, guilt, and possible punishment. Few
seemed to question the proposition that honour was preserved in this manner.
The Padua police did not concern themselves with such speculation as to motive, for the autopsy performed on Favero's body revealed that, at the time of his death, his blood contained a sufficient quantity of barbiturate to make driving, let alone driving into his garage and closing the door, impossible. It was possible that he had taken the pills after pulling into the garage. Why, then, was no bottle or package found in the car, and why were no barbiturates of any sort found in the house? Subsequent microscopic examination of Favero's pockets revealed that none of them contained the least trace of barbiturate. None of this information, however, was given to the press, and so Favero's death remained, at least in the popular consciousness, a suicide.
Three days after Favero's death, which would make it five days after Trevisan's murder, Brunetti arrived at his office to hear the phone ringing.
'Brunetti,' he answered, holding the phone with one hand and unbuttoning his raincoat with the other.
'Commissario Brunetti, this is Capitano della Corte of the Padua police.' Brunetti recognized the name, vaguely, and with the sense that whatever he had heard about della Corte in the past had been to the man's favour.
'Good morning, captain, what can I do for you?'
'You can tell me if Rino Favero's name has come up in your investigation of the murder you had on the train.'
'Favero? The man who committed suicide?'
'Suicide?' della Corte asked. 'With four milligrams of Roipnal in his blood?'
Brunetti was immediately alert 'What's the connection with Trevisan?' he asked.
'We don't know. But we ran a trace on all the numbers we found in his address book. That is, on all the numbers that were listed without names. Trevisan's was one of them.'
'Have you got the records yet?' Neither of them had to clarify that Brunetti meant the record of all of the calls made from Favero's phone.
'There's no record that he called either Trevisan's office or his home, at least not from his own phones.’
'Then why would he have the number?' Brunetti asked.
"That's exactly what we were wondering.' Della Corte’s tone was dry.
'How many other numbers were listed without names?’
'Eight. One is the phone in a bar in Mestre. One is a public phone in Padua railway station. And the rest don't exist'
'What do you mean, they don't exist?'
'That they don't exist as possible numbers anywhere in the Veneto.'
'Are you checking it for other cities, other provinces?'
'We did that. Either they've got too many digits or they don't correspond to any numbers in this country.' 'Foreign?’
They've got to be.'
'No indication of country code?'
'Two look like they're in Eastern Europe, and two could be in either Ecuador or Thailand, and don't ask me how the guys who told me know this. They're still working on the others,' della Corte answered. 'And he never called any of those numbers from either of his phones, either the foreign ones or the ones here in the Veneto.'