by Donna Leon
‘The quality of the meat, Signorina,’ Brunetti said. ‘Whether an animal is healthy and can be slaughtered. Who determines that?’
‘The veterinarian,’ she said, ‘not me.’
‘And how does he judge the health of an animal?’ Brunetti asked as Vianello turned another page.
‘That’s what he went to university for, presumably,’ she said, and Brunetti realized he had goaded her or come close to doing so, surprised at himself for choosing this word.
‘So that he can identify animals that are too sick to be slaughtered?’
‘I should certainly hope so,’ she said, but she said it too forcefully, making it sound false, not only to Brunetti but, he suspected, to herself.
‘What happens if he judges that an animal is not suitable to be slaughtered?’
‘Do you mean not healthy enough?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then the animal is given back to the farmer who brought it, and he is responsible for disposing of it.’
‘Could you tell me how that is done?’
‘The animal has to be slaughtered and destroyed.’
‘Destroyed?’
‘Burned.’
‘How much does this cost?’
‘I have no …’ she started to say, then realized how hollow that would sound and changed her sentence. ‘… way to give you a fixed sum for that. It would depend on the weight of the animal.’
‘But, presumably, it would be a significant sum?’ he asked.
‘I would think so,’ she agreed. Then, reluctantly, ‘As much as four hundred Euros.’
‘So it’s in the best interests of the farmers to bring only healthy animals to the macello?’ Brunetti asked, making it a question, though it really was not.
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Dottor Andrea Nava was employed as the veterinarian at the macello,’ Brunetti began.
‘Is that a question?’ she interrupted.
‘No, it is a statement,’ Brunetti said. ‘My question is what your relationship with him was.’
The question seemed not to surprise her in the least, but she paused a bit before she answered. ‘He was employed by the macello, as I was, so I suppose you would say we were colleagues.’
Brunetti folded his hands neatly on the desk in front of him, a gesture he had seen his professors use when a student failed to supply an adequate answer. He remembered, as well, the technique of the long silence, one that almost invariably proved successful with the most insecure students. He looked at Signorina Borelli, at the view from his window, and then back to her.
‘And that was the extent of it?’ he asked.
If he had only imagined her response to the thought of hiring a lawyer, this time he could watch her think the problem through. She wanted to stall him so as to have more time to work out how much she could admit, though surely she must have known this question was bound to be asked.
Finally she shrugged and gave a raffish smile. ‘Well, not really. We had sex a few times, but it was nothing serious.’
‘Where?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Where what?’ she asked, genuinely confused.
‘Where did you have sex?’
‘A couple of times at his place, the one above his office, and in the changing room at the macello.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Once in my office.’ She tilted her chin to one side and gave his question the thought she believed it deserved. ‘I think that’s all.’
‘How long did this affair go on?’ Brunetti asked.
She looked up at him, either surprised or pretending to be. ‘Oh, it wasn’t an affair, Commissario. It was sex.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, accepting the reprimand. ‘How long did it go on?’
‘From a few months after he started work until about three months ago.’
‘What caused it to end?’ Brunetti asked.
She dismissed the question, perhaps even the answer, as uninteresting. ‘It stopped being fun,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be convenient for us both, but the first thing I knew, he was talking about us as a couple, with a future.’ She shook her head at this. ‘You’d think he’d forgotten he had a wife and child.’
‘You hadn’t forgotten it, Signorina?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ she said hotly. ‘That’s why married men are so convenient: you know either one of you can end it when you want, and no one’s hurt.’
‘But he didn’t see it that way?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘What did he want?’
‘I have no idea. As soon as he started talking about a future, I told him it was over. Finito. Basta.’ She moved around in her chair, rather like an angry chicken fluffing out its feathers. ‘I didn’t need that.’
‘You mean his attentions?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The whole thing: call them attentions if you want. I didn’t want to listen to his guilt and his remorse and how he was betraying his wife. And I wanted to be able to go out to dinner or for a drink without having the man I was with looking over his shoulder every second, as if he were a criminal.’ She sounded genuinely angry; Brunetti had no doubt that she was, and had been, though perhaps not for those reasons.
‘Or as if you were,’ Brunetti said.
That stopped her. She hesitated, and just as it became too late for her to ask what he meant, she finally forced herself to say it. ‘What do you mean?’
As if she had not spoken, Brunetti went on, ‘You said that one of his duties was to inspect the animals brought into the macello to see if they were healthy enough to be slaughtered.’
Taken aback by his change of pace, she agreed, ‘Yes.’
‘From the time Dottor Nava took the position as veterinarian at the macello, there was a sudden increase in the number of animals declared unfit to be slaughtered.’ He paused, and when she did not acknowledge the truth of this, he broke into the silence of her hesitation by saying, ‘Before he began to inspect the animals, the average rate of rejection – if I might call it that – was about three per cent, yet as soon as Dottor Nava began, that rate tripled, then quadrupled, and then went even higher.’
Brunetti studied her response: none was evident. ‘Can you explain that, Signorina?’
She brought her lips together, as if in consideration of his question, and then said, ‘I think you’ll have to ask Bianchi about that.’
‘You didn’t know about the increase?’ he asked with false surprise.
‘Of course I knew about it,’ she said, unable to disguise her satisfaction in being able to correct him. ‘But I had, and have, no idea of the cause.’
‘Did you speculate about what it might be?’ Brunetti asked, expecting that she would try to answer this: it would make sense for someone in her position to be involved in the discussion.
After some time, she said, ‘I don’t like to say it.’ And then didn’t.
‘Say what?’ Brunetti asked.
With great evidence of reluctance, she said, voice hesitant, ‘One of the suggestions that was made – I don’t remember who made it – was that maybe the farmers were trying to unload sick animals on the new veterinarian. That they thought they’d test the new man and see how severe he was.’ She gave an awkward smile, as though embarrassed to have to give voice to this example of human duplicity.
‘The test went on a long time,’ Brunetti said drily. At her look, he added, ‘The numbers kept rising, didn’t they?’ Then, before she could answer, he added, ‘Right up until his death.’
She raised her brows to acknowledge either ignorance or incomprehension. But she said nothing.
Vianello turned another page. Signorina Borelli and Brunetti looked at one another, each waiting for the other to speak. For a moment, neither did.
But then Brunetti asked, wanting to have it in her own words, ‘Could you tell me something about your relationship with Dottor Papetti?’
This question surprised her. ‘“Relationship”?’ she asked.
‘
He hired you as his assistant after you were let go from your previous job, presumably without any good recommendation.’ That Brunetti had this information seemed to surprise her even more. ‘Thus my question: “Relationship”.’
She laughed. It was an honest, musical laugh. When she stopped, she said, voice tight with the anger she was growing tired of suppressing, ‘You men really can think of only one thing, can’t you? He was my boss; we worked together; and that’s all.’
‘So there was no sexual link between you, as there was with Dottor Nava?’
‘You’ve seen him, haven’t you, Commissario? You think any woman would find him attractive?’ Then, as if to expand the impossibility, ‘Desirable?’ She laughed again, and Brunetti finally understood the biblical passage, ‘They laughed him to scorn.’ Then, with acid audible in her voice, she added, ‘Besides, he knows if he ever looked at another woman, his little Natasha’s daddy would have his legs broken the same day.’ She began another sentence, perhaps having to do with other things that his father-in-law would do, but contented herself with a mere ‘Or worse.’
‘So you were never lovers?’
‘If you find these questions get you excited, Commissario, I have to put an end to your pleasure. No, Alessandro Papetti and I were never lovers. He tried to kiss me once, but I’d rather fuck one of the knackers.’ She gave him a saccharine smile. ‘Does that answer your question?’
‘Thank you for coming in, Signorina,’ he said. ‘If we have more questions, we’ll ask to speak to you again.’
‘You mean I can go?’ she asked and immediately saw this was the wrong thing to say.
Impulsive, Brunetti thought. Very pretty and probably charming when she wanted to be or when it served her purposes. He looked at her attractive face and thought of what she had said about Nava and was chilled to realize that the appearance of cold-heartedness was not an attempt to distance herself from Nava but simply the way she was.
Both men got to their feet, and then she did. Vianello opened the door for her. She turned away from Brunetti silently and walked from the office. Vianello followed her, and Brunetti went to stand by the window.
A few minutes later he saw the top of her head appear on the pavement below him, and then the rest of her as she walked to the left and disappeared.
Still watching the place where she had been, he heard Vianello come back. ‘Well?’ the Inspector said.
‘I think it’s time we had another conversation with Dottor Papetti,’ Brunetti said. ‘But let’s do it here. He’s sure to be more uncomfortable.’
31
THE NEXT MORNING, Papetti, unlike his personal assistant, arrived in the company of his lawyer. Brunetti knew Avvocato Torinese, a solid, reliable criminal lawyer with a clean reputation. Brunetti had been expecting one of the many sharks which lurked in the waters of criminal justice in the city and in the wider world and was pleased to see Torinese, who, though clever and capable of legal surprises, played more or less by the book; one did not have to fear bribed witnesses or false medical claims.
The two men sat facing Brunetti, Vianello sitting on a wooden chair he carried over from beside the closet. Once again, there were both the tape recorder and Vianello’s notebook; and then Torinese took a tape recorder from his briefcase and placed it not far from Brunetti’s.
Brunetti studied the two men for a moment: even seated, Papetti towered over his lawyer, who was by no means a short man. Torinese snapped his briefcase closed and set it to the left of his chair. Brunetti and Torinese both leaned forward at the same moment and switched on their tape recorders.
‘Dottor Torinese,’ Brunetti began formally, ‘I’d like to thank you and your client, Dottor Papetti, Alessandro Papetti, for coming to see me so quickly. There are certain matters I would like to clarify, and I think your client can be of service to me in this.’
‘And those matters are?’ Torinese asked. He was about Brunetti’s age, though he looked older, with his horn-rimmed glasses and hair slicked back from a widow’s peak. No tailor in Venice had the talent to have made his suit, nor had any of the shoemakers made those shoes. The thought of expensive shoes brought Brunetti’s mind back to the matter at hand.
‘First, there is the murder of Dottor Andrea Nava, who worked at the slaughterhouse of which Dottor Papetti is the director,’ he supplied. ‘I’ve already spoken to Dottor Papetti about this, but since then I have come into possession of new information, and that makes it necessary for me to ask the Dottore more questions.’ Brunetti knew that the demon of formality had taken over his speech, but in his awareness that everything they said would eventually be printed out, signed, dated, and entered into the public record, he could not behave otherwise.
He saw Torinese preparing to speak and so went on, ‘Avvocato, I would like, if you would permit it, not to have to filter everything through you.’ Before the lawyer could object, Brunetti said, ‘I believe this would make things easier, both for me and for your client. You have the right, of course, to interrupt whenever you see fit to do so, but it would be better for your client – and I can ask only that you invest me with your confidence in this – if we could speak directly.’
As Torinese and Papetti exchanged a glance, Brunetti’s mind wandered to a phrase – he wondered why his thoughts kept retreating to the Bible – ‘You have been weighed in the balance.’ He waited, wondering whether the two men would find him wanting.
Apparently they did not, for Papetti, after a brief nod from his lawyer, said, ‘I’ll speak to you, Commissario. Though I must say it’s like speaking to a different man from the one who came to my office.’
‘I’m the same man, Dottore: I assure you of that. I’m merely better prepared than I was the last time we spoke.’ Presumably, if Papetti now believed he was not an incompetent, he would be better prepared, as well.
‘Prepared by what?’ Papetti asked.
‘As I told Avvocato Torinese, by new information.’
‘And prepared for what?’ Papetti asked.
Brunetti turned his attention to Torinese and said, ‘I will set the example for this conversation by telling you both the truth.’ And then to Papetti, ‘To find out the extent of your involvement in the death of Dottor Nava.’
Neither man showed surprise. Torinese, after decades of experience with sudden accusations of all sorts, was probably immune to surprise. Papetti, however, looked distressed but failed to disguise it.
Brunetti went on, speaking to Papetti, suspecting he had not had time to explain everything to Torinese. ‘We are by now aware of what was going on at the macello.’ Brunetti paused, to give Papetti the opportunity to ask for an explanation of that, but he did not.
‘And, given that we are now talking about murder, the legal consequences to anyone who attempts to obscure the truth of anything surrounding the murder are much more severe, something I’m sure needs no explaining to you.’ When he saw that they understood, he added, ‘I’m sure the men who work at the macello will understand this as well.’ Brunetti paused to let this register. ‘Thus I assume,’ he continued, ‘that the men who work there, especially Bianchi, will be willing to tell us what they know, either about the murder or the lesser crimes.’ Brunetti was careful not to name these lesser crimes, curious to see how Papetti would react.
Torinese, for all his training and experience, could not stop himself from glancing at his client. Papetti, however, ignored him, his attention on Brunetti, as if willing him to reveal more.
Brunetti slid the papers on his desk closer and studied them for a moment, then said, ‘I’d like to begin by asking you, Dottor Papetti, to tell me where you were on the night of the seventh.’ Then, just in case Papetti might have trouble recalling the date, he clarified by saying, ‘That’s the night between Sunday and Monday.’
Papetti glanced aside at Torinese, who said, ‘My client was at home, with his wife and children.’ The fact that Torinese was able to answer this question meant that Pacetti had both expected it and understo
od its importance.
‘I expect you can prove this,’ Brunetti observed mildly.
Both men nodded, and Brunetti did not bother to ask for details.
‘That, as you must know,’ he said, speaking directly to Papetti, ‘is the night Dottor Nava was killed.’ He let this register before saying, ‘We can, of course, confirm your statement by an examination of the records of your telefonino.’
‘I didn’t call anyone,’ Papetti said, and then, aware that his response had come too quickly, added, ‘At least I don’t remember calling anyone.’
‘As soon as we have the authorization from a magistrate, we can help you remember, Dottor Papetti. As well as whether you received any calls,’ Brunetti said with his blandest smile. ‘The records will also tell us where the phone was during that night, if it was moved away from your home for any reason.’ He watched Papetti as the realization smashed upon him: the computer chip in his phone left a geographic signal that could be traced and would be traced.
‘I might have had to go out,’ Papetti said; the look Torinese gave him was a confirmation to Brunetti of the lawyer’s ignorance. And a moment later, the hardening of his look was confirmation of his anger at this fact.
‘To Venice, by any chance?’ Brunetti inquired in a voice so light and friendly it held out the promise that he would follow an affirmative response with a series of suggestions for quaint points of artistic interest in the city.
Papetti seemed to disappear for a moment. He stared at the two tape recorders so intently that Brunetti all but heard the gears in his mind working as he tried to adjust to the new reality created by his telefonino’s betrayal.
Papetti began to cry but seemed unaware of it. The tears ran down his face and chin and under the collar of his freshly ironed white shirt as he continued to watch the red lights on the tape recorders.
Finally Torinese said, ‘Alessandro, stop it.’
Papetti looked at him, a man old enough to be his father, a man who was perhaps a professional colleague of his father, and nodded. He wiped his face with the inside of his sleeve and said, ‘She called me. On my telefonino.’