by Donna Leon
‘It’s nothing, Commissario,’ Rezzante said, and then, ‘Buona notte,’ as if Brunetti were a frequent guest he was sending off for a good night’s sleep.
Just outside the door, Brunetti stopped and called the emergency room at the hospital and identified himself, then asked the man who answered to tell the ambulance team that would be sent to bring a woman’s body back to the hospital to be as discreet as possible when they were inside the hotel. The man he spoke to assured him that things would be handled correctly.
Brunetti started home, thinking of the things he should have done, and hadn’t. He’d made no search of Berta’s room for her telefonino, nor to see if she had been robbed. There’d be no knowing that until he had spoken to her husband and asked what she had brought with her. He had Berta’s landline number but needed to delay the call until he was home and in surroundings that would work against the cost of having to call and announce, not only death, but death by wilful violence.
It was well after two when he let himself into the apartment. The light in the corridor was on. He hung up his coat and went down to the living room. A tray sat on the low table in front of the sofa, on it a bottle of their best whiskey and a glass as well as a metal thermos bottle and a cup and saucer. He sat on the sofa and uncapped the thermos: verbena tea. He poured himself a cup, then poured a generous shot of whiskey into it.
He did not allow himself to taste it yet but pulled out his notebook to find Signora Dodson’s number, then dialled the English number. After three of those distinctive double-buzz rings, the phone was answered by a man’s voice, inquiring, ‘Berta, is that you?’ If he had expected the gruff reproach of the English lord or the quaver of a worried old man, Brunetti was to be doubly disappointed. The voice was rich and low, the consonants chiselled, the tone one of enthusiasm at the thought that they might be able to continue the interesting conversation they had not finished the last time they spoke.
‘Signor Dodson?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes. May I ask who’s calling?’
‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti, from the Venice police.’
Silence filled the space between them. Beneath it, Brunetti could sense the other man considering possibilities, excluding some and not liking the ones that remained. He was suddenly aware that he could hear the man’s breathing, deep, heavy, laboured.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I have bad news for you, Signor Dodson: the worst news.’
Again, a long silence. The breathing stopped, then started again, faster, more laboured. Did the Englishman want to remain in free fall, knowing what must come but wanting to delay for as long as possible the news that would change things for ever? Brunetti imagined him, watching the ground speed closer, closer, the only choice to close his eyes or to keep them open and ask.
‘Berta?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Your wife is dead, Signor Dodson. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no other way to say it.’
‘How?’
‘This is worse, sir, if that’s possible. She was killed.’ He couldn’t bring himself to tell the man that she had been murdered; it was too vicious a word to use.
The breathing thickened, deep and slow now, rasping at the beginning of each breath. Brunetti waited.
‘How?’
‘She was killed in her hotel room,’ Brunetti said, then, having no other choice, he explained, ‘Someone killed her.’
‘Ah,’ the man said, sounding as if he had just been punched in the back of his head. Brunetti cradled the receiver between his shoulder and his chin and picked up the cup; he held it beneath his nose and inhaled the combined scents, then set it on the saucer to let it cool a bit more.
‘How?’ her husband asked. Brunetti knew that those left behind needed to know this, even before they asked who it was who had done it.
‘She was strangled, sir,’ Brunetti said, pushing himself against the back of the sofa and closing his eyes.
‘I’m sorry. Tell me again who you are, please.’
‘Commissario Guido Brunetti. She was found by her friend, Rudy Adler, and he was allowed to call me. The hotel gave me your number.’
‘“Was allowed”?’ Dodson asked and then, after a significant silence, said, ‘Could you tell me what that means?’
‘As I said, sir, he found her body. He went to his room and found her there.’ When Dodson remained silent, Brunetti added, ‘He’s a friend of mine, Rudy. So he called me. “Allowed” was perhaps the wrong word: he asked them if he could call me, and they told him that he could.’
‘I see,’ Dodson said softly. He remained silent so long that Brunetti leaned forward and took a sip of the tea, and then another.
‘Do you have any idea of what happened?’ Dodson asked.
‘No, sir. Not yet. We’ve examined the room,’ Brunetti said, failing to mention the examination of his wife’s body.
‘And my wife?’ he asked, as though she were still alive.
Brunetti listened to the relentless breathing for what seemed a long time. ‘She’s been taken to the hospital, sir,’ he said, unable to be the one to introduce the word ‘body’. Nor did he want to talk about what would be done to her later this morning.
‘I see,’ Dodson said, and then, ‘I can’t come.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir? Would you say that again, please?’
‘I can’t come. I’m in bed and can’t leave it. Even for this.’ Brunetti waited for him to explain. After a long pause, the man said, ‘Even for Berta.’
‘I didn’t know that, sir.’
‘No. We don’t tell people. It isn’t done, you know,’ he said, reminding Brunetti that he was English.
Brunetti had no idea what to say in response. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But I assure you that we will do whatever we can to …’ he began but let his voice trail away, fully aware of how little they could do that would be of any help to this man. ‘… to make it less horrible for you, sir.’
Brunetti heard a grunt, and then Dodson said, ‘Thank you for that, Signor … sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Brunetti, sir.’ He thought of telling him that he was the son-in-law of Conte Orazio Falier: his wife might have mentioned il Conte to him. But it didn’t matter, not in the least.
‘Ah, yes. Brunetti. Thank you for your honesty. It’s all I have time for now.’
‘If there’s anything I can do, Signore, that might help you in any way, please tell me. I promise to do what I can.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Brunetti,’ he said, and made a noise that suggested he was about to continue, but then stopped.
Brunetti waited, silent.
‘My illness has made me dependent on Berta. Well, on her and the people around me.’
‘I see, Mr Dodson,’ Brunetti muttered, not seeing anything.
‘After her friend Gonzalo died, she went to Madrid for a day, and then she asked me if she could go to Venice to arrange a final party for him.’ He sighed deeply but continued. ‘He was the other great love of her life, Gonzalo. She told me that when I asked her to marry me.’
Brunetti reached for the cup and emptied it, holding the phone away so that the other man wouldn’t hear the noise.
‘So I told her to go and take care of it. And she did. And now this.’
The sigh became a cough, and when it stopped Dodson said, ‘I’m sorry. I was telling you that I can’t come.’ With no change in tone, he asked, ‘What’s your first name, Mr Brunetti?’
‘Guido.’
‘May I leave it to you, Guido, to do this?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. I can’t do this any more now. Talk.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Call me when you can, please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Goodnight, then,’ he said and was gone.
Brunetti broke the connection and leaned forward to pour himself another cup of tea. He did not add whiskey this
time.
22
Brunetti reached the Questura before nine the next morning, shaky and cranky from having slept too little, and that badly. He went directly to Bocchese’s office and found the chief technician at his desk, a few papers in his hands. When the technician saw Brunetti, he said, ‘Here’s the report. I had them do it when they got back last night because I knew you’d give me no peace until you had it.’
Brunetti smiled in thanks. ‘Handbag and telefonino?’ he asked.
‘Handbag, yes; telefonino, no,’ Bocchese answered. Then, before Brunetti could ask, he continued, ‘Which suggests that whatever kind of phone she had was more interesting than a wallet with …’ he paused to look at the paper … ‘one hundred and fifteen pounds, three hundred and twenty Euros, and three credit cards.’
‘I spoke to her husband last night,’ Brunetti said, ‘but I forgot to ask if she wore or brought any good jewellery with her.’
‘Men usually don’t know that sort of thing,’ Bocchese said. ‘She was wearing her wedding ring and one large solitaire diamond.’ He looked at Brunetti and added, ‘Worth more than the telefonino, I’d guess.’
‘No doubt,’ Brunetti agreed. ‘Did it look like anyone had gone through her things?’
‘Her suitcase was unopened and still neatly packed. Her coat was in the closet.’ Brunetti was about to speak when Bocchese said, ‘But.’
‘But?’
‘But there are scratches on her side of the connecting door. We took samples from her hands last night, and there were fibres under her fingernails. We took them there, in the room, and put bags on her hands so the nature of the material can be confirmed.’
Brunetti came over and sat in the chair beside Bocchese’s desk. The technician said, ‘We’re finished there, so there’s no need to keep the rooms sealed now.’
Brunetti nodded, telling himself that, even though Bocchese needed a lot of deference, he was a reliable colleague.
As Bocchese started to say something, Brunetti said, ‘Oddio,’ slapping his hand to his mouth.
‘What’s wrong?’ Bocchese asked with real concern.
‘I forgot about Alvise and Pucetti. I put them on duty in front of the doors to the rooms, figured they could keep one another awake all night.’ Brunetti stood and said, ‘I’ll go and see they’re sent home.’
As he was leaving the office he heard Bocchese say, ‘How easy, to forget about Alvise,’ but chose to ignore the remark.
He went up to the officers’ squad room, found Vianello, and explained what had happened: the Inspector laughed at first but then said he’d call the hotel and have the men sent home.
‘Come up when you can,’ Brunetti said and went to speak to Signorina Elettra. When he entered her office, Signorina Elettra said, by way of greeting, ‘He’s heard, and he wants to see you.’
Brunetti nodded his thanks and knocked at Vice-Questore Patta’s door.
‘Avanti,’ the deep voice called out, and Brunetti entered.
He had expected to find himself confronted with Patta Furioso: the Vice-Questore’s response to attention-getting crime was usually anger, as if the criminals had offended him personally. Part of his wrath was always directed at those in the Questura who had failed to apprehend criminals before or while they were committing their crimes.
And so it proved to be. ‘What was this woman doing in Venice?’ Patta demanded as soon as Brunetti had closed the door. ‘Why did she let a stranger into her room?’
‘Why a stranger, Vice-Questore?’ Brunetti inquired as he crossed the room.
‘She certainly didn’t come here to let a friend kill her, did she?’ Before Brunetti could answer, Patta pointed to a chair and said, ‘Sit down, Brunetti. Tell me about it.’
Brunetti did as he was told. ‘I went to the hotel last night, just before one. Tomasini took the call, and Pucetti and Alvise were there when I arrived; so were Bocchese and his crew.’
‘Why did it take you so long to get there?’ Patta asked.
‘I was there twelve minutes after I got the call, sir,’ he answered, inventing the number.
‘And?’
‘The woman was staying there with a friend, a German who lives in London. They’d come to the city for a few days.’ Thus Brunetti avoided mentioning that Rudy was also a friend of his and that the victim had come as the result of the death of another person she knew. Patta would have fallen upon these details as a beast upon prey and torn into them in an attempt to find nourishment.
‘Someone got into her room, or she invited someone into the room, and that person choked her to death, probably with a scarf, either hers or his own.’
‘Why are you so sure it was a man?’ Patta asked, as if he’d caught Brunetti in a lie.
‘It might have been a woman, Vice-Questore. Of course. But the statistics are against it.’ He wanted to ask Patta if he had ever worked on a case where a woman had strangled another woman but decided to let statistics do the arguing for him.
‘All right,’ Patta agreed, but grudgingly, ‘a man.’ And then, ‘Did anyone see her? Or him?’
‘The men at the desk in the hotel told me there was a dinner for forty last night, so there would have been a lot of people moving around, aside from the guests booked into the hotel.’ Before Patta could ask, Brunetti explained, ‘I didn’t have time to study the disposition of the rooms or the restaurant, but it might have been possible for someone to walk up the stairs or get into the elevator.’
‘I suppose so,’ Patta agreed, then asked, ‘Signs of theft?’
‘There was no telefonino,’ Brunetti said. ‘She was still wearing a large diamond, and her wallet hadn’t been touched.’
‘Why would anyone steal a telefonino?’ Patta asked. ‘Everyone has one already.’
Experience, patience, good sense, and the love of survival kept Brunetti from suggesting that perhaps the killer had wanted to have a pair. Instead, he said, ‘There might have been a record of calls, or photos, or searches for websites. Any of those is possible, Signore.’
Patta interrupted him, sounding disgruntled. ‘I’ve already had a vice-president of the chain of hotels that owns that one on the phone this morning, asking when this is going to be settled. It’s terrible publicity for them.’ Brunetti was convinced that the sincerity of Patta’s words was in direct correlation to the size of the multinational company that owned the hotel where the murder had been committed.
‘I’ll keep that in mind, Dottore,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ve got some things I’d like to ask Signorina Elettra to look into, so if you have no objection, I’ll go and speak to her.’ Then, with faint, but audible hesitation, he added, ‘If that’s acceptable to you, Signore,’ and left without hearing Patta’s response.
He approached Signorina Elettra’s desk, saying, ‘The Vice-Questore’s given me permission to ask you to do a few things for me.’ He permitted himself a smile and added, ‘He also tells me you can do anything.’
‘How very complimentary of him,’ she said with unaccustomed warmth.
Surprised, Brunetti failed to prevent himself from saying, ‘I think you’re the only person here he respects.’
She looked up and smiled modestly. ‘I think it’s more accurate to say I’m the only person here he fears.’
Oh so young and so untender, Brunetti thought. He had long been enamoured of the idea that Signorina Elettra had discovered where Patta had buried some of the Questura’s bodies, but now he began to suspect that Patta might have slipped a few into their graves with the help of his secretary. Much to his astonishment, Brunetti felt betrayed, as though she had no right to be loyal to the Vice-Questore or to preserve his secrets. And why had this not occurred to him before now?
Caught by surprise, he could say only, ‘I certainly hope you’re right,’ before he turned to the things he had to ask her to do. ‘I’ll try to get the dead woman’s telefonino number for you this morning. When you have it, please get a record of her calls as well as
any sites she might have looked at.’
‘Going back how far, Signore?’ she asked, pencil in hand.
Gonzalo had died on the last day of her vacation, he remembered, and named a date three weeks earlier. ‘If she called anyone here, I’d like to know who it was and how long the calls lasted. In fact, could you go back even further than that for calls made to any Italian numbers?’ He thought about how small was his understanding of the cyber-reality in which he lived and said, ‘I don’t know if you can find out where a telefonino actually was when someone called it or used it.’ It was a statement, but both of them knew it was a question.
‘That can be done, Signore,’ she answered mildly, then, ‘Anything else, Signore?’
‘No, not for the moment,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’ll have a word with Dottoressa Griffoni, and then I’ll be back in my office.’
Signorina Elettra nodded, then returned her attention to the papers on her desk.
Upstairs, he found Griffoni at her own small desk in her very small office.
‘Yes, Guido?’ she looked up and asked as he stopped in front of her door.
‘I’d like you to make a phone call for me, Claudia.’
‘About the woman who was murdered?’
‘Yes.’ Brunetti wondered if this would have been easier if they’d just had a coffee together.
‘To whom?’
‘The husband.’ Before she could question this, Brunetti said, ‘It’s easier to speak to a woman.’ She stared but said nothing.
‘I spoke to him this morning, about two o’clock our time. And told him what had happened.’ She remained silent. ‘He was very English,’ Brunetti limited himself to saying. ‘He told me, though, that he can’t come. I think the reason is sickness, though he didn’t say that outright.’
‘If he’s English, he wouldn’t,’ Griffoni said.
Griffoni moved her knees to the side to allow Brunetti enough room to come into the office and take a seat on the other chair. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’
‘Ask him, really,’ Brunetti said. ‘Only two things: the number of his wife’s telefonino and whether she was carrying anything valuable with her.’