by Donna Leon
13
Back in his office, Brunetti dialled the number for Signorina Simionato, but again there was no answer. What puzzled him was the money in the four accounts. Not the total sum: many apparently poor people managed to accumulate hidden fortunes during long lives of daily privation: lira by lira, renunciation by renunciation, they amassed something to pass on to their relatives or to the Church. They must spend their lives counting, Brunetti realized, counting and saying no to anything that was not fundamentally necessary to physical survival. Pleasures went untasted, desires unheeded, as life passed by. Or worse, pleasure was transformed and could be had only by negation and the resultant accumulation, and desire was satisfied only by acquisition.
He'd observed this phenomenon sufficient times no longer to be surprised by it: what did surprise him was the sophistication of the money's removal from the banks and then from the country. The sophistication and the speed. The transfers had been made on the Monday after her death, long before any legal action could have been taken regarding the will. This suggested that one - or both - of the women had only to learn of Signora Battestini's death to make a move, and that in its turn suggested that the old woman had kept a close eye on the accounts and would have noticed any withdrawal when the monthly statements arrived.
He made a note to question the postman and check if the statements were delivered to her home. Though Brunetti had found no sign of them in the attic, four statements from different banks - five if he included her normal account at the Uni Credit - could certainly not have passed unobserved by even the most negligent of postmen.
In his youth, Brunetti had considered himself an intensely political man. He had joined and supported a party, rejoiced in its triumphs, convinced that its accession to power would bring his country closer to social justice. His disillusionment had not been swift, though it had been hastened by the presence of his wife, who had reached a state of political despair and black cynicism well before he allowed himself to follow her lead. He had denied, both in word and in belief, the first accusations of dishonesty and endemic corruption against the men he had been sure would lead the nation to a bright and just future. But then he had looked at the evidence against them, not as a true believer, but as a policeman, and his certainty of their guilt had been immediate.
Since then, he had stayed clear of politics entirely, bothering to vote only because to do so set an example for his children, not because he now believed it could make any difference. In the years during which his cynicism had grown, his former friendships with politicians had languished, and his dealings with them had become formal rather than cordial.
He tried to think of someone in the current administration whom he could trust and came up with no name. Shifting his attention to the magistracy, he did come up with one name, the judge in charge of the investigation into the environmental damage caused by the petrochemical complexes in Marghera. Not a young man, Judge Galvani was currently the object of a well-orchestrated campaign to force him into retirement.
Brunetti found his number in the list of city employees he had been issued some years ago and dialled it. A male secretary answered, said the judge was not available, then, when Brunetti informed him that it was a police matter, said he might be. When Brunetti said he was calling at the request of the Vice-Questore, the secretary admitted that the judge was there and transferred the call. .
'Galvani’ a deep voice said.
'Dottore, this is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I'm calling to ask if you could spare some time to speak to me.'
'Brunetti?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I know your superior’ Judge Galvani surprised him by saying.
'Vice-Questore Patta, sir?' Brunetti asked.
'Yes. He seems to have no good opinion of you, Commissario.'
'That's unfortunate, sir, but I fear it's out of my control.'
'Indeed’ the judge answered. 'What would you like to talk to me about?'
'I'd prefer not to say that on the phone, sir.'
Brunetti had often read the phrase 'a pregnant pause' in novels. This seemed to be one. At last Galvani asked, 'When would you like to see me?'
'As soon as possible.'
'It's almost six’ Galvani said. 'I'll leave here in about half an hour. Shall we meet at that place on the Ponte delle Becarie?' he asked, describing an enoteca not far from the fish market. 'At six-thirty?'
'That's very kind of you, sir’ Brunetti said. 'I'm wearing .. .' he began but Galvani cut him off.
'I know who you are’ the judge said and replaced the phone.
When Brunetti walked into the bar, he recognized Judge Galvani instantly. The older man stood at the counter, a glass of white wine in front of him. Short, squat, dressed in a suit that was greasy at neck and cuffs, with the enlarged nose of the heavy drinker, Galvani looked like anything other than a judge: a butcher, perhaps, or a stevedore. But Brunetti knew that he had only to open his mouth and speak, in a beautifully modulated voice from which Italian flowed in the well-articulated consonants and vowels most actors only dream of pronouncing, for the real man to step forth from behind the physical disguise. Brunetti went to stand beside him and said, putting out his hand, 'Good evening, Dottore.'
Galvani's grip was firm, warm and brisk. 'Shall we try to find a place to sit?' he asked, turning towards the tables at the back of the room, most of them occupied at this hour. Just as he turned, three men got up from a table on the left, and Galvani headed for it quickly, Brunetti staying behind to order a glass of Chardonnay.
When he got to the table, Galvani was already seated, but he got halfway to his feet when Brunetti reached him. Though curious about the case against the petrochemical factories in Marghera, where two of his uncles had worked before dying of cancer, Brunetti said nothing, knowing that the judge could not and would not speak of it.
Galvani raised his glass to Brunetti, and took a sip. He set his glass down on the table and asked, 'Well?'
'It's connected with the woman who was murdered last month, Maria Battestini. It seems that, at her death, she had a number of bank accounts with a total of more than thirty thousand Euros on deposit. The accounts were opened about ten years ago, when both her husband and son worked for the school board, and deposits were made until she died.' Brunetti paused, picked up his glass but set it down untasted. He took the stem between thumb and forefinger and rotated it nervously. Galvani said nothing.
‘I am of the opinion that the woman accused of the murder of Signora Battestini did not kill her,' Brunetti continued, 'though I do not have any physical evidence to offer in support of that belief. If she didn't kill her, then someone else did. So far the only anomaly in what we know about the dead woman is the existence of these bank accounts.' Again he paused, but still he did not taste the wine.
'And where do I come into this, if I might ask?' Galvani asked.
Brunetti glanced at the judge. "The first thing we need to do is establish the source of these payments. Since both men worked at the school board, that's the first place I would like to look.'
Galvani nodded, and Brunetti continued. 'You've been on the bench for decades here, sir, and I know you've had reason during those years to examine the workings of some of the city bureaucracies’ Brunetti said, not a little proud of his delicacy in describing what the conservative press often described as Galvani's 'mad crusade' against city administrations. 'So I hoped you would have some familiarity with the school board and the way it works.' Galvani met this remark with a cool, appraising glance, and Brunetti added, 'Really works, that is.'
The judge's nod was minimal, but it was sufficient to encourage Brunetti to go on. 'Or if you could suggest some reason, or perhaps some person, that might be able to explain these payments. Or perhaps the existence of some irregularity that might be better left undetected.'
'"Irregularity?"' Galvani asked. At Brunetti's nod, the judge smiled. 'How elegantly you put it.'
'For want of a better word’ Brunetti e
xplained.
'Of course’ the judge said, sat back in his chair, and smiled again. On a face so ugly, Galvani's smile was strangely sweet. ‘I know very little about the school board, Commissario. Or, more accurately, I know but do not know, which seems to be the way most of us go through life: believing things because someone has hinted at them or suggested them, or because such an explanation is the only one that corresponds with other things we know.' He took another small sip from his glass and set it down.
'The school board, Commissario, is the equivalent of the dead-letter office for civil servants, or, if you prefer, the elephants' graveyard: the place where the hopelessly incompetent have always been sent or, on the other hand, a place to stick someone until a more lucrative position can be found for them. At least it was that way until four or five years ago, when even the administration of this city had to acknowledge that certain positions there should be given to professionals with some understanding of the way children can be helped to learn. Before that time, positions there served as political plums, though they were relatively small plums. And that was a reflection of how little . . . how can I say this without saying it? . . . how little opportunity there was for the people who worked there to augment their salaries’ It seemed to Brunetti that Galvani's phrasing was no less elegant than his own.
The judge raised his glass but set it down untouched. 'If you're thinking that Signora Battestini's bank accounts could have been created to receive bribes paid to her husband or son in connection with the place where they worked, I'd suggest you reconsider your hypothesis.' He sipped, set the glass down, and added, 'You see, Commissario, the accumulation of such a relatively small sum over such a long period hardly speaks of the sort of graft I'm used to encountering in this city.' Leaving no time for Brunetti to register the implications of this remark, the judge went on, 'But, as I said, it is a department in which I have never had to involve myself, so perhaps it is merely that things are done on a smaller scale there’ Again, that smile. 'And one must always keep in mind that corruption, like water, will always find a place, however insignificant, to collect’
For an instant, Brunetti found himself wondering if his own basilisk-eyed observations on local government would sound so profoundly dark to someone less well versed in their workings than he. Turning from this reflection as well as from the opportunity to comment on the judge's remarks, Brunetti asked only, 'Do you know who was in charge of the department during those years?'
Galvani closed his eyes, propped his elbows on the table, and lowered his forehead on to his palms. He remained like that for at least a minute, and when he looked up and across at Brunetti, he said, 'Piero De Pra is dead; Renato Fedi now runs a construction firm in, I think, Mestre; and Luca Sardelli has some sort of job in the Assessorato dello Sport. To the best of my memory, they were the men who ran the office up until the professionals were brought in.' Brunetti thought he had finished, but then Galvani added, 'No one ever seems to stay in the job for more than a few years. As I said, it's either a dumping ground or a launching pad, though in the case of Sardelli, he certainly wasn't launched very far. But in either case, there seems to be very little to be had from the position.'
Brunetti made a note of the names. Two of them rang familiarly in his memory: De Pra because he had a nephew who had gone to school with Brunetti's brother and Fedi because he had recently been elected as a deputy in the European Parliament.
Brunetti resisted the temptation to pose other offices and names to the judge and said only, 'You've been very generous with your time, sir.'
Again, that childlike smile transformed the judge's face. ‘I was glad to. I've wanted to meet you for some time, Commissario. It was my belief that anyone who provided so much discomfort to the Vice-Questore must be a man worth knowing.' Telling Brunetti that he had already paid for their wine, the judge excused himself by saying it was time he was home for dinner, said goodbye, and left.
14
Brunetti was at the ufficio postale at seven-thirty the next morning, located the person in charge of the postmen, showed his warrant card, and explained that he wanted to speak to the postino who delivered mail to the area in Cannaregio near the Palazzo del Cammello. She told him to go to the first floor and ask in the second room on the left, where the Cannaregio postini sorted their mail. The room was high-ceilinged, the entire space filled with long counters with sorting racks behind them. Ten or twelve people stood around, putting letters into slots or pulling them out and packing them into leather satchels.
He asked the first person he encountered, a long-haired woman with a strangely reddened complexion, where he could find the person who delivered the mail to the Canale della Misericordia area. She looked at him with open curiosity, then pointed to a man halfway along her table and called out, 'Mario, someone wants to talk to you’
The man called Mario looked at them, then down at the letters in his hands. One by one, merely glancing at the names and addresses, he slipped them quickly into the slots in front of him then walked over to Brunetti. He was in his late thirties, Brunetti guessed, his own height but thinner, with light brown hair that fell in a thick wedge across his forehead.
Brunetti introduced himself and started to take his warrant card out again, but the postino stopped him with a gesture and suggested they talk over a coffee. They walked down to the bar, where Mario ordered two coffees and asked Brunetti what he could do for him.
'Did you deliver mail to Maria Battestini at Cannaregio...'
Mario cut him off by reciting the number of the house, then raised his hands as if in fake surrender. ‘I wanted to, but I didn't do it. Believe me.'
The coffees came, and both men spooned sugar into them. While he stirred his, Brunetti asked, 'Was she that bad?'
Mario took a sip, put the cup down and stirred in a further half-spoonful of sugar, and said, still stirring, 'Yes.' He finished the coffee and set the cup back on the saucer. ‘I delivered her mail for three years. I must have taken her, in that time, thirty or forty raccomandate, had to climb all those steps to get her to sign for them’
Brunetti anticipated his anger at never having been tipped and waited for him to give voice to it, but the man simply said, 'I don't expect to be tipped, especially by old people, but she never even said thank you.'
'Isn't that a lot of registered mail?' Brunetti asked. 'How often did they come?'
'Once a month’ the postman answered. 'Regular as a Swiss watch. And it wasn't letters, but those padded envelopes, you know, the sort you send photos or CDs in.'
Or money, thought Brunetti, and asked, 'Do you remember who they came from?'
'There were a couple of addresses, I think’ Mario answered. 'They sounded like charity things, you know, Care and Share, and Child Aid. That sort of thing.'
'Can you remember any of them exactly?'
'I deliver mail to almost four hundred people’ he said by way of answer.
'Do you remember when they started?'
'Oh, she was getting them already when I started on that route.'
'Who had the route before you?' Brunetti asked.
'Nicolo Matucci, but he retired and went back to Sicily.'
Brunetti left the subject of the registered packages and asked, 'Did you bring her bank statements?'
'Yes, every month,' he said, and recited the names of the banks. 'Those and the bills were the only things she ever got, except for some other raccomandate.'
'Do you remember who those were from?'
'Most of them came from people in the neighbourhood, complaining about the television.' Before Brunetti could ask him how he knew this, Mario said, 'They all told me about them, wanted to be sure that the letters were delivered. Everyone heard it, that noise, but there was nothing they could do. She's old. That is, she was old, and the police wouldn't do anything. They're useless.' He looked up suddenly at Brunetti and said, 'Excuse me.'
Brunetti smiled and waved it away with an easy smile. 'No, you're right,' Brunetti wen
t on, 'there's nothing we can do, not really. The person who complains can bring a case, but that means that people from some department - I don't know what its name is, but it takes care of complaints about noise - have to go in to measure the decibels of the noise to see if it's really something called "aural aggression", but they don't work at night, or if they get called at night, they don't come until the next morning, by which time whatever it was has been turned down.' Like all policemen in the city, he was familiar with the situation, and like them, he knew it had no solution.
'Did you ever bring her anything else?' Brunetti went on.
'At Christmas, some cards; occasionally – but I mean only once or twice a year - a letter, as well as the letters about the noise. But, aside from them, only bills and the statements from the banks’ Before Brunetti could comment, Mario said, ‘It's pretty much like that for all old people. Their friends have died, and because they've always lived here, their family and friends are here, too, so there's never any reason to write. I bet some of the people I bring mail to are illiterate, anyway, and have their children take care of the bills for them. No, she wasn't much different from the other old people.'