Wilful Behaviour - [Commissario Brunetti 11]

by Donna Leon

  ‘We?’ Brunetti inquired. ‘You said you were co-director. May I inquire who the other director is?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ford said, with a smile at his own forgetfulness. ‘My wife. It was she, in fact, who established the Library. When we married, she suggested I take over half of her duties.’

  ‘I see,’ said Brunetti. ‘To get back to Claudia, did she ever talk of her friends, perhaps a boyfriend?’

  Ford considered this. ‘No, nothing I can remember exactly. She might have talked of a boy - I like to think that young girls do - but I can’t honestly say that I have a memory of anyone specific.’

  ‘Her family, perhaps? Other friends?’

  ‘No, nothing at all. I’m very sorry, Commissario. But she was much younger, and I have to confess that, unless they’re talking about history or some other subject I find interesting, I don’t pay too much attention to what young people say.’ His grin was embarrassed, almost self-effacing, but Brunetti, who shared his opinion of the conversation of the young, saw no reason for him to feel embarrassed.

  He could think of nothing else to ask and so got to his feet and extended his hand. ‘Thank you for your time and your help, Signor Ford,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘Do you have any idea ...?’ the other man asked, unable to phrase the question.

  ‘We’re continuing the investigation,’ came Brunetti’s formulaic response.

  ‘Good. It’s a terrible thing. She was a lovely girl. We were all very fond of her.’

  There seemed nothing Brunetti could add to that, so he followed Ford from the office and through the empty reading room. Ford offered to see him to the entrance, but Brunetti politely said he would go downstairs alone. He let himself out into the pale light of a late autumn day with little to do save go home for lunch, taking with him only the feeling of the senseless loss of a young life which his time with Ford had brought so forcefully back to him.

  * * * *

  18

  At home, Paola greeted him with the news that he’d had two calls from Marco Erizzo, asking that he call back as soon as possible. Beside the phone she had written the number of Marco’s telefonino, and Brunetti called it immediately, though he could see through the door that his family was already seated at the table, steam rising from their tagliatelle.

  On the second ring, Marco answered with his name.

  ‘It’s me, Guido. What is it?’

  ‘Your men are looking for me,’ Marco said in an agitated voice. ‘But I’d rather you came and got me and took me in.’

  Thinking that Marco had perhaps been watching too much television, Brunetti asked, ‘What are you talking about, Marco? What men? What have you done?’

  ‘I told you what was happening, didn’t I?’

  ‘About the permits? Yes, you told me. Is that what this is about?’

  ‘Yes.’ There were noises in the background, a blast of static on the line. Brunetti asked when the line cleared, ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was the architect,’ Marco said. ‘That bastard. He was the one. The permits were ready three months ago, but he kept telling me they weren’t and that if we made some minor changes to the plans, maybe they’d finally approve them. And then, like I told you, he said someone in the Comune wanted thirty million lire. And all this time I was paying him for every new set of plans he drew up and for all the time he said he spent working for me.’ His voice stopped, cut off by rage.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I was having a drink with Angelo Costantini yesterday, and a friend of his came in, and when he introduced us, this guy recognized my name and said he works in the planning office and asked me when I was going to come in and pick up the permissions.’ He paused to allow Brunetti to express shock or disapproval, but Brunetti’s attention was devoted to his tagliatelle, now covered with an upended plate in what he hoped would be a successful attempt to keep them warm.

  ‘What did you do, Marco?’ he asked, his attention still distracted by his quickly cooling lunch.

  ‘I asked him what he was talking about, and he said that the architect told them - it must have been two months ago -that I wanted him to make some more changes to the plans so he needed to discuss them with me before he submitted the final drawings.’

  ‘But if they were already approved, why didn’t they just call you?’

  ‘They called the architect. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.’

  Brunetti suddenly understood the reason for the call. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I went to his office this morning,’ Marco said, then stopped.

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I told him what I’d heard, what the guy at the planning office told me.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then he told me I must have misunderstood what he meant and that he’d go over there and straighten things out this morning.’ He heard Marco breathe deeply in an attempt to control his anger. ‘But I told him I knew what was going on and that he was fired.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he said I couldn’t fire him until the job was finished and if I did he’d sue me for breach of contract.’

  ‘And?’

  The pause was one Brunetti had often heard from his children, so he knew to wait it out. ‘So I hit him,’ Marco finally said. Another pause, and then he said, ‘He sat there, behind his big desk, with plans and projects laid out on it, and he told me he’d sue me if I tried to fire him. And I lost my temper.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I went around his desk; I just wanted to get my hands on him . . .’ Brunetti imagined Marco saying this before a judge and cringed. ‘He stood up and came towards me.’

  When it seemed that this was the only explanation Marco was going to give, Brunetti said, ‘Tell me exactly what you did, Marco,’ using the same tone he used with the kids when they came home from school with bad reports.

  ‘I told you. I hit him.’ Before Brunetti could speak, Marco went on, ‘It wasn’t very hard. I didn’t even knock him down, just sort of shoved him away from me.’

  ‘Did you hit him with a fist?’ Brunetti asked, thinking it necessary to determine just what ‘shove’ might mean.

  After a long pause, Marco said, ‘Sort of.’

  Brunetti left that and asked, ‘Where?’

  ‘On his jaw, or his nose.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He just sort of fell back in his chair.’

  ‘Was there any blood?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I left. I watched him sit back down and then I left.’

  ‘Why do you think my men are after you, then?’

  ‘Because that’s the sort of man he is. He’d call the police and say I tried to kill him. But I wanted you to know what really happened.’

  ‘Is this what really happened, Marco?’

  ‘Yes, I swear it on my mother’s head.’

  ‘All right. What do you want me to do?’

  There was real surprise in Marco’s voice when he said, ‘Nothing. Why should I want you to do anything? I just wanted you to know.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘In the restaurant.’

  ‘The one near Rialto?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Wait for me. Don’t do anything and don’t talk to anyone. Do you understand me, Marco? Not to anyone. And don’t call your lawyer.’

  ‘All right,’ Marco said sulkily.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Brunetti said and put the phone down. He went back to the table, lifted the cover from his plate and breathed in the savoury aroma of grated smoked ricotta and eggplant. He set the cover gently back in place, kissed Paola on the top of her head and said, ‘I’ve got to go and see Marco.’

  As he let himself out of the door, he heard Chiara saying, ‘OK, Raffi, you can have half.’

  * * * *

  The restaurant was full, tables covered with things, marvellous t
hings: one couple sat with lobsters the size of dachshunds in front of them, while to the left a group of businessmen were eating their way through a platter of seafood that would have fed a Sri Lankan village for a week.

  Brunetti went straight into the kitchen, where he found Marco talking to Signora Maria, the cook. Marco came over to Brunetti. ‘Do you want to eat?’ he asked.

  This was one of the best restaurants in the city, and Signora Maria was a woman whose genius had provided Brunetti with endless pleasure. ‘Thanks, Marco, but I had lunch at home,’ he said. He took Marco by the arm and pulled him away from the disappointment in Maria’s eyes and out of the way of a waiter who scrambled past, a loaded tray held at shoulder height. They stood just inside the door to the storeroom that held clean linens and cans of tomatoes.

  ‘What’s the architect’s name?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Marco demanded in the same sulky tone he’d used before.

  Brunetti toyed with the idea of not explaining, but then he thought he would, if only to stop Marco from using that tone. ‘Because I am going to go back to the Questura and see what I can find out about him, and if he has ever been in trouble or if there is any sort of case outstanding against him, I am going to endanger my job by threatening him with the abuse of my power until he agrees not to bring charges against you.’ His voice had risen as he spoke, and he realized how similar his anger towards Marco was to that he sometimes felt towards the children. ‘Does that answer your question? And now give me his name.’

  ‘Piero Sbrissa,’ Marco said. ‘His studio is in San Marco.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Brunetti said, slipping around Marco and back into the restaurant, from where he called back, ‘I’ll call you. Don’t talk to anyone,’ and left.

  At the Questura, Vianello spent an hour on the computer and Brunetti two on the phone, and by the end of that time, each had found sufficient indication that there might be some hope of persuading Architetto Sbrissa to see the wisdom of refraining from making any formal charge against his client, Marco Erizzo. The architect, it seemed, had more than once experienced unaccountably long delays in obtaining building permits, or so three of his former clients told Brunetti. In each case, they had agreed to Sbrissa’s suggestion that they use a less than legal - though more than common - method of resolving their problems, though none of the men was willing to name the sum involved. Vianello, for his part, discovered that Sbrissa reported having earned only sixteen million lire from Marco Erizzo the previous year, though Marco’s secretary, when the inspector called her, said that their records contained signed receipts for more than forty.

  Brunetti called a friend of his at the Carabinieri station in San Zaccaria and learned that Sbrissa had called them that morning to report an attack and had agreed to go in later that day, after he’d seen a doctor, to make a formal denuncia. It was the work of a moment for Brunetti to pass on the information about Sbrissa’s tax records and to ask his friend if Architetto Sbrissa might be persuaded to reconsider filing his complaint; the carabiniere said he’d discuss it with the architect himself but had no doubt whatsoever that Signor Sbrissa would see the path of greater wisdom.

  Marco, when Brunetti phoned to tell him that the situation was being taken care of, at first refused to believe him. He wanted to know what Brunetti had done, and when Brunetti refused to tell him, Marco went silent, then blurted out that he had been disonorato by having had to ask the police for help.

  With some effort, Brunetti restrained himself from commenting and, instead, said only, ‘You’re my friend, Marco, and that’s the end of it.’

  ‘But you have to let me do something for you.’

  ‘All right, you can,’ Brunetti said immediately.

  ‘Good. What? Anything.’

  ‘The next time we eat at the restaurant, ask Signora Maria to give Paola the recipe for the filling she makes for the mussels.’

  There was a long pause, but finally Marco said, as much in sorrow as in earnest, ‘That’s blackmail. She’d never do it.’

  ‘It’s too bad Signora Maria didn’t hit Sbrissa, then.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t get it, even then,’ Marco said, resigned. ‘She’d go to jail before she’d tell you about the mussels.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ Brunetti said, assured Marco that he’d think of some way he could pay his debt, and hung up.

  * * * *

  Rewarding as this was at a personal level, it did little to advance Brunetti’s understanding of what he had come to think of as the Leonardo, Guzzardi, Filipetto triangle. He went down to Signorina Elettra’s office but found that she had left for the day: not surprising, really, as it was almost five, and she often complained of the tedium of the last two hours in the office. Just as he was turning to leave, the door to Vice-Questore Patta’s office opened and the man himself emerged, his dove grey overcoat folded over one arm and a new briefcase Brunetti identified instantly as Bottega Veneta in his left hand.

  ‘Ah, Brunetti,’ Patta said at once, ‘I’ve got a meeting with the Praetore in twenty minutes.’ Brunetti, who cared nothing about whether Patta chose to come to work or not or how long he chose to remain there, thought it interesting that the man’s response was always a kind of Pavlovian mendacity: he wondered if Patta planned a career in politics after retiring from the police.

  ‘Then I won’t keep you, sir,’ Brunetti said and moved aside to allow his superior to pass.

  ‘Has there been any progress on . . .’ Patta began but, obviously unable to recall Claudia’s surname, continued, ‘the murder of that young girl?’

  ‘I’m gathering information, sir,’ Brunetti said.

  Patta, with a hurried glance at his watch, gave him a distracted, ‘Good, good,’ said goodbye, and was gone.

  Brunetti was curious as to whether Signorina Elettra had discovered anything, but he hesitated to approach her computer: if she had found anything important, she would surely have told him; and the information in her computer, given the suspicion with which she regarded some of the men who worked at the Questura, would surely be hedged round by moats and mazes more than sufficient to defeat any attempt he might make to penetrate them.

  He went back upstairs to his own office and leafed through the file on Claudia’s murder until he found the home phone number of her flatmate. He dialled the Milano prefix, then the number, and was soon talking to her mother, who agreed to call the girl to the phone; she warned Brunetti that her daughter was not to be upset, and said she’d be listening on the extension.

  The call proved futile, however, for Lucia had no memory of hearing Claudia use Filipetto’s name, nor did she remember hearing her speak of a notary. His sense of the mother’s silent presence prevented Brunetti from asking the girl how she was, and when Lucia asked if there had been any progress, he could tell her nothing more than that they were investigating all possible leads and were optimistic that there would be progress soon. It distressed Brunetti to have to listen to himself coming out with such platitudes.

  He was unable to set himself to anything after that, the echo of futility ringing clear in his ears, and so he left the Questura and headed back towards Rialto and home. At Piero’s cheese stand, where he should have turned left, he continued straight on and allowed himself to head deeper into Santa Croce, toward Campo San Boldo. He didn’t stop until he was in front of Signora Jacobs’s home and ringing her doorbell.

  He had to wait a long time before her deep voice asked who it was.

  ‘Commissario Brunetti,’ he answered.

  ‘I told you I don’t want to talk to you,’ she said, sounding weary rather than angry.

  ‘But I need to talk to you, Signora.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Notaio Filipetto.’

  ‘Who?’ she asked after a long time.

  ‘Notaio Filipetto,’ Brunetti repeated, offering no further clarification.

  The door clicked open, surprising Brunetti. He went in and quickly up to her floo
r, where he found her propped against the door jamb as though drunk.

  ‘Thank you, Signora,’ he said, slipping his hand under her elbow and accompanying her back inside. He forced himself to pay no attention to the things in the room this time and took her slowly over to her chair, noting the lightness of her body. The instant she was seated, she reached beside her for a cigarette, but her hand was shaking so much that three of them jumped out of the packet and fell at her feet before she managed to get one lit. Just as he often wondered where all the food his children ate could possibly go, so too did he wonder, as he watched her inhale greedily, into what empty spaces in her lungs all of that smoke could possibly disappear.