by Donna Leon
Rizzardi, a quiet man and not at all given to vanity or boasting, could not resist the temptation to show off in two fields: his dress and his prose. Understated, subtle in colour, his suits and overcoats, even his raincoat, were of such a quality as to make Brunetti suspicious of his sources of income; his prose was of a grammatical precision and inventiveness of expression Brunetti despaired of finding in any of the other reports he read. It was not unusual for the pathologist to describe an organ as being ‘captive within the tendrils of small veins’, or to describe the ‘starburst’ of cigarette burns on the back of a victim of torture. Indeed, the report of the first autopsy Rizzardi had done at Brunetti’s request had described the slash marks on the victim’s stomach, from which he had bled to death, by saying, ‘The wounds are reminiscent of Fontana when he worked in red.’
There were no flourishes, however, in his report on Signora Altavilla. He described the condition of her heart, making it clear that the cause of death had been uncontrollable fibrillation. He described the injury to the vertebrae and surrounding tissue and described the cut on her forehead, saying that they were not inconsistent with a bad fall soon before her death. Brunetti put his report aside long enough to open the technicians’ report, where he found reference to the presence of blood and skin tissue on the radiator in the sitting room, blood of the same type as Signora Altavilla’s.
Rizzardi also described ‘a grey mark,’ 2.1 centimetres in length and close to the left of the collarbone of the dead woman. The marks on her shoulders were ‘barely visible’, as banal an expression as Brunetti had ever known the pathologist to use.
He read quickly through the rest of the report: signs of her having given birth at least once, the seam left by a broken left wrist, a bunion on her right foot. Rizzardi presented the physical information without comment. Brunetti knew that, in a police department led by Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta, physical evidence this inconclusive was likely to lead to the conclusion of natural death.
Brunetti placed the technicians’ preliminary report on top of Rizzardi’s and read through it carefully this time. He noticed a certain willingness to cater to Patta’s preference for non-interpretation. Aside from the blood on the radiator, the examination of the house suggested nothing beyond ‘normal domestic use’.
Then, on the last page, came a hammer blow to any hope Brunetti might have had of conducting an investigation. Propafenone was found in the medicine cabinet in Signora Altavilla’s bathroom. Thus proof of a pre-existing condition validated Rizzardi’s posthumous diagnosis of death by heart fibrillation.
Brunetti set the report on top of Rizzardi’s and carefully tapped at the sides of the papers until they were aligned. He folded his hands and placed them in the middle of the top sheet. He studied his thumbs, noticed that the right-hand cuff of his shirt was beginning to fray, then looked away from it and out the window.
The reports would please Patta: that was a given. But they would also please – Brunetti was equally certain of this – Niccolini. No, that was the wrong word: too strong. Slowly, as though it were a film he could view at will and at leisure, Brunetti played over his meeting with the veterinarian.
His emotion, really, might more accurately be called relief, the same emotion Brunetti had seen on the faces of people when hearing the verdict ‘Innocent’ read out. But innocent of what? No stranger to pretence and emotional forgery, Brunetti did not doubt the intensity of Niccolini’s pain. He recalled the doctor’s face after he blurted out that he too had performed autopsies. And, remembering that scene, Brunetti grew indignant that he could have been left there, while he knew what was being done in the nearby room.
He unfolded his hands and dialled the internal number for the officers’ squad room, asked to speak to Vianello. When the Inspector answered, Brunetti said, ‘I think we should go back and have another look at her apartment.’
‘Now?’ asked an audibly reluctant Vianello.
‘Why?’
‘It’s almost seven,’ the Inspector began. Surprised, Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was so. ‘You think we could leave it until tomorrow morning?’ Vianello asked. Before Brunetti could answer, the Inspector said, ‘I’ll call this Signora Giusti and tell her we’ll be there – what time should I say?’
Brunetti was tempted to ask Vianello if he was making a suggestion or giving an order. Instead, he said, ‘Ten would be fine.’
11
They took the Number One but chose to sit inside, where Brunetti told Vianello about the contents of both Rizzardi’s and the technicians’ reports. He also gave him his general impression of Niccolini as a man made uncomfortable by unsaid things.
As the boat passed in front of the Piazza, Brunetti looked to the right and asked, ‘It never becomes ordinary, does it?’ Before Vianello could answer and as though the Inspector had removed it from his drawer while he was out of the office, Brunetti added, ‘Where’d yesterday go?’
‘We walked,’ Vianello said.
‘What?’
‘It’s not like the movies, where you get in a car and speed to where you’re going, siren blaring. You know that. We walked, and then we walked back. So it took a long time. And the old nun, even if she didn’t want to tell us anything, she still took a fair amount of time doing it. We’re not in New York, Guido,’ he said and smiled to show the vast relief with which he greeted that fact.
As if to argue in favour of Vianello’s assertion, they were strafed by a sudden burst of light reflected from the windows of the buildings on the left side of the canal. Their eyes followed the origin of the dazzle to the row of buildings: beige, ochre, something between yellow and brown, pink; and then the windows: pointing up and pirouetting at the top, pushing aside twisted columns in order to let in more light. Then, barely seen at the waterline, the enormous cubes of stone from which the city leaped up towards the heavens.
‘We should have had Foa take us,’ Brunetti said, still unsettled by how swiftly the previous day had passed. Spurred by his restlessness, they got off at San Silvestro and walked: it would take the same time if they waited to get off at San Stae, but at least this way they were moving.
As they walked, Brunetti explained that he wanted to take another look at the place. ‘And talk to the neighbour,’ he added as they walked down the bridge from San Boldo, turned into Calle del Tintor and towards the campo.
Brunetti was wearing the same jacket and pulled the keys from his pocket. The largest of the three opened the street door, and the one next to it fitted the lock on the door to the apartment, where Vianello’s tape was still in place. Brunetti pulled it loose on one side and let it hang free before opening the door.
Inside, he noticed the envelopes he had seen the night before, leafed through them, and saw that they were all – including a registered letter – addressed to Signora Giusti. He slipped them into the pocket of his jacket. During the next half-hour, they found nothing more than they had the night before save for receipts for bills that had been paid through the post office and bank records stretching back five years. Looking through them, Brunetti saw an entirely normal pattern: her pension arrived each month, along with a second payment from what might have been her widow’s pension. The first amount reflected the fact that she had chosen to retire early; the second one was more substantial and raised her monthly income to a sum on which a single person could live very comfortably. This would be even easier – Brunetti saw no sign that she had been paying rent through the bank – for a woman living in an apartment she owned.
One thing that caught Brunetti’s attention were the tiny nails, lonely nails that had lost their paintings. There were two in the corridor, under them only rectangles of paint minimally whiter than the paint on the wall. In the smaller bedroom, now that Brunetti knew to look, he saw another phantom painting and, above it, the nail.
By mutual consent, they decided to go upstairs. When they left, Vianello reattached the tape as best he could while Brunetti stood, keys in hand, wai
ting to lock the door. After he did, he held the keys in the palm of his hand and showed them to Vianello and said, ‘I wonder what the third one’s for.’
‘Perhaps a storeroom downstairs?’ the Inspector suggested.
Brunetti started up the stairs. ‘We can ask Signora Giusti.’
The woman opened the door to her apartment while they were still on the final flight of steps. ‘I heard you moving around down there,’ she said by way of greeting, then remembered to put out her hand and say good morning. She looked less agitated now, and Brunetti was surprised to realize that she no longer seemed as tall. Perhaps it had something to do with the relaxation of her body or her shoulders. She had also moved closer to the loveliness he had imagined before.
Brunetti introduced Vianello, and she let them into the apartment, which Brunetti thought had relaxed as much as she had. The table in the living room held two newspapers, one of them open to the Culture section, the other obviously gone through and sloppily closed. Beside it stood an empty glass and a plate that held the skin and core of an apple as well as the knife that had peeled it. The cushions on the sofa were dented; one lay on the floor.
In the front room Brunetti was again struck by the sense of drama created by the thrust of the apse seen from this height and angle, as if the church were caught in the high seas and heading towards them. Her furniture, two chairs and a sofa, were angled to look out at the church and the campo and the mountains beyond. She sat at the end of the sofa, leaving them the two chairs, a table between them. She did not bother asking if they would like anything to drink.
Brunetti removed the envelopes from his pocket and placed them on the table. Signora Giusti glanced at them but made no move to touch them. Looking at him, she nodded her thanks, sober-faced. Brunetti still had the keys in his hands, and he held them out to her. ‘There’s a third key on the set you left downstairs, Signora. Could you tell me what it’s for?’
She shook her head. ‘I have no idea. I asked her that same thing, when she gave me the keys, and she said it was …’ She paused and closed her eyes. ‘It was strange what she said.’ Vianello and Brunetti remained quiet to give her the time to remember. After a moment, she looked up and said, ‘She said something about its being a safe place to keep a key.’
She met their puzzled expression with one of her own. ‘No, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either, but that’s what she said, that it would be a safe place.’
‘When did she give you these keys, Signora?’
She was surprised by his question, as though it displayed some special power on his part. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Simple curiosity,’ Brunetti said. He had no idea how long either woman had lived there, so he had no idea how long it had taken before they trusted one another sufficiently to exchange the keys to their homes.
‘I’ve had a set of her keys for years, but a week ago she asked for them back for a day, said something about wanting to have copies made.’ She pointed to the keys as though looking at them would make the two men understand. Then she leaned over and touched them, saying, ‘But look at them. One’s red and one’s blue. They’re just cheap copies, probably doesn’t even cost a euro to have them made.’
‘And so?’ Brunetti asked.
‘And so why would she copy these when she has the master keys? When she gave them back to me, the third key was on the ring, too, and that’s when she said that, about its being a safe place to keep it.’ She looked at each of them in turn, searching for some sign that they found this as puzzling as she did.
‘Did she know where you kept them?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Of course. I’ve kept them in the same place for years, and she knew where that was,’ she said, pointing towards a room that was probably the kitchen. ‘There. In the second drawer.’ Brunetti stopped himself from saying that was precisely where a competent housebreaker would look.
‘Do you have storerooms on the ground floor?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Is one of them hers?’
She shook the idea away. ‘No, they belong to the appliance store near the pizzeria and to one of the restaurants in the campo.’
He noticed that Vianello had silently managed to take out his notebook and was busy writing.
‘Could you give me some idea of the sort of life she led, Signora?’
‘Costanza?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was a retired teacher. I think she retired about five years ago. Taught little children. And now she visits old people who are in rest homes.’ As if suddenly aware of the dissonance between events and the present tense, she put her hand to her mouth.
Brunetti let the moment pass and then asked, ‘Did she have guests?’
‘Guests?’
‘People who came to stay with her. Perhaps you met them on the stairs, or perhaps she told you that you would see strangers coming in, just so you’d know and not be concerned.’
‘Yes, I’d see people on the steps, occasionally. They were always very polite.’
‘Women?’ Vianello asked.
‘Yes,’ she said casually, and then added, ‘Her son came to see her.’
‘Yes, I know. I spoke to him yesterday,’ Brunetti answered, curious about her reluctance to discuss the female visitors.
‘How is he?’ she asked with real concern.
‘When I spoke to him, he seemed battered by it.’ This was no exaggeration; Brunetti suspected it stated the reality that lay behind Niccolini’s reserve.
‘She loved him. And the grandchildren.’ Then, with a small smile, ‘And she was very fond of her daughter-in-law, too.’ She shook her head, as if at the discovery of some exception to the rule of gravity.
‘Did she speak of them often?’
‘No, not really. Costanza – you have to understand – was not by nature a talkative person. It’s only because I’ve known her for years that I know any of this.’
‘How many years?’ Vianello interrupted to ask and held up his notebook as if to suggest he was simply doing what the pages told him to do.
‘She was living here when I moved in,’ she said. ‘That was five years ago. I think she’d been here for a few years before that, since her husband died.’
‘Did she say why she moved?’ Vianello asked, eyes on what he was writing.
‘She said the old place – it was near San Polo – was too big, and that once she was alone – her son was married by then – she decided to find somewhere smaller.’
‘But stay in the city?’ Vianello asked.
‘Of course,’ she said and gave Vianello a strange look.
‘Let me go back to something,’ Brunetti said. ‘About her guests.’
‘Guests,’ she repeated, as if she had quite forgotten having been asked the question before.
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said with his easiest smile. Then he went on, ‘Well, perhaps you wouldn’t be so much aware of them, up here. I can ask the people downstairs: they’re more likely to have noticed.’ He cleared his throat, as if preparing to change the subject and ask another question entirely.
‘As I told you, occasionally people did stay. Women,’ she said. ‘Occasionally.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, sounding only faintly interested, ‘Friends?’
‘I don’t know.’
Vianello looked up and said, with an easy smile, ‘Everyone wants to come and stay in Venice. My wife and I are always being asked if the sons or daughters of friends can stay, and our kids always have friends they want to invite.’ He shook his head at the thought, as though he were the concierge of a quiet bed and breakfast in Castello – conveniently located out of the crowded city centre – and not an ispettore di polizia. The news of these requests surprised Brunetti. Considering the young age of his children and the fact that all of Vianello’s friends lived in Venice, what the inspector said was very unlikely, but, apparently convinced by his own story, Vianello went on to conclude, ‘That’s probably who they were,’ and bent his head over his pages.
‘Perhaps,
’ Signora Giusti said uncertainly.
Sensing her hesitation, Brunetti abandoned his casual tone and spoke with the seriousness he thought this matter warranted. ‘Signora, we simply want to understand what sort of woman she was. Everyone we speak to says she was a good person, and I have no reason not to believe it. But that doesn’t give me any real understanding of her. So anything you can tell me might help.’
‘Help what?’ she asked with a sharpness that surprised Brunetti. ‘What is it you’re really asking about? You’re the police, and nothing good ever comes of getting mixed up with you. Since you came in here, you’ve been mixing truth with what you think I want or need to hear, but what you’ve never said is why these questions are important.’
She paused, but it was not to try to calm herself, nor to listen to anything either one of them might try to say. ‘I looked at the newspapers, and they’re saying she died of a heart attack. If that’s true, then there’s no need for you to be here, asking these questions.’
‘I can understand your concern, Signora, living in the same building,’ Brunetti said.
She raised both hands to her temples and pressed against the side of her head, as if there were too much noise or too much pain. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it. Either tell me what’s going on or get out of here, the two of you.’ By the time she finished, she was almost shouting.
Training warred against instinct; Brunetti’s experience of human nature came up against his feelings of human sympathy. Caution won. Once someone knew something, you were no longer in control of it, for they were free to do with it what they pleased, and what they pleased need not be what pleased you, and often was not.
‘All right,’ he said, forcing his body to relax into an easier posture, one reflective of honesty. ‘The cause was a heart attack; there’s no question of that. But we would like to exclude the possibility that someone might have created conditions favourable to it.’
She bristled at the jargon and said, ‘What does that mean?’