by Donna Leon
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti answered, then asked, ‘Could you tell me what you did then?’
‘I went to Palanca and waited for the vaporetto, only I fell asleep in the embarcadero. The marinaio had to wake me up when the boat came.’
Brunetti imagined this was hardly the first time that a crew working the night shift had had to wake someone sleeping on the benches inside an embarcadero. He nodded and asked, ‘Did you go home?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ Duso said, then added, with a touch of self-pity, ‘There was nowhere else to go.’
‘And the next day?’ Griffoni asked.
‘I slept until noon and went down to Nico’s for a coffee and a brioche.’
Brunetti resisted the impulse to observe that this explanation managed to leave a good deal of the day unexplained. ‘And what else?’
‘I went home again and back to bed.’
‘Until?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Until about eight that night.’
‘What did you do then?’ Griffoni asked.
‘I went out into the kitchen and ate the leftovers my mother had sent back with me on Saturday.’
‘And then?’ she inquired.
‘I went back to bed.’
Knowing that the records of his phone calls could be easily found, Brunetti inquired, ‘Did you speak to Signor Vio?’
Duso’s face registered the sound of his friend’s name. ‘No.’
‘He didn’t call?’
Duso placed his hands palms up on the table and read the runes in them. The message must have told him that there was no danger in revealing the truth here. ‘He called three or four times, but I didn’t answer.’ He closed his eyes and sat silent.
Brunetti recalled a remark attributed to Stalin: ‘No man, no problem.’ Said like that, it sounded bleak and merciless, but daily life allowed for many substitutions: ‘no contact’, ‘no email’, ‘no phone call’. Fading memory, our ever-willing helper, would take care of all of the details, and the problem would dissolve.
‘Why is that, Signor Duso?’ Griffoni asked.
Duso opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘I didn’t want to know anything.’
‘Did you call the hospital?’ she asked.
He went silent on them again, but neither Griffoni nor Brunetti extended the possibility of a different question: they sat equally silent, determined to wait him out for an answer. Finally he said, ‘No, I didn’t.’
He stopped speaking, but, again, they waited him out.
‘On Monday, I went to work,’ Duso finally said. ‘Someone had the Gazzettino, and I read the story. All it said was that the girls had been left at the hospital in the night and were being treated there, and that one of them was being sent to Mestre for surgery.’
‘Was that enough for you?’ Griffoni asked blandly.
‘Yes. If they were in the hospital, then they were safe.’
Brunetti quelled the impulse to question Duso’s certainty that the young women would be safe in the hospital. Instead, he asked, ‘Has Vio tried to call you again?’
‘Yes. He called to say he saw the article.’
‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No. We talked about it, and then he said he thought he hurt himself when he fell in the boat.’
Brunetti decided to return to the reality in this room and said, ‘Avvocato Duso, I’m afraid you’ve forgotten that there are legal consequences to be considered.’ He gave the young man time to answer, but Duso chose to remain silent.
‘As I said before,’ Brunetti continued. ‘There is the failure to report an accident at sea in which passengers were injured,’ he began, ‘but more importantly, there is the failure to provide assistance to those persons. That is a crime both on land and at sea.’
‘But we did provide assistance,’ Duso said. ‘We took them to Pronto Soccorso.’
‘Another way to describe what you did would be to say you abandoned them on the dock, Signor Duso,’ Griffoni remarked.
The young man’s face flushed with anger, or fear, that he failed to suppress. ‘That’s not true. Not true at all. I rang the alarm bell beside the door.’
‘Did your friend see you do it?’ Griffoni asked.
After a moment’s hesitation, Duso said, ‘I don’t know. He should have, but I don’t know for sure.’ Then, seeing how hard her face remained, he asked, ‘You don’t think I’d leave them there without ringing the alarm bell, do you?’
Griffoni sat back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. She looked at her upright thumbs and tapped them together a few times before finally saying, ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to believe exactly that, Signore.’
‘What?’
‘That you’d leave them there without ringing the alarm bell.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, voice rising towards the end of the sentence.
‘There is no alarm bell at that entrance, Signor Duso. There was, once, until about six months ago, when it was removed.’
All Duso could do was repeat, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘They had too many false alarms, Signor Duso. Especially during the summer. Boats pulled up, usually late at night, someone jumped on the dock and punched the alarm, then got back in the boat, and off they went, and by the time someone got to the door, they were long gone.’
She waited to watch Duso grasp the meaning, and then the consequences, of what she had said, and before he could ask, she went on. ‘I was there yesterday. There is no alarm button. They were found by chance, by someone going out to have a cigarette.’
Both of them could see that Duso was stunned by this. Griffoni continued, ‘They took me out on the dock to show me where it used to be.’
Duso looked confused more than frightened. ‘But I pushed it.’
Brunetti turned to look at Griffoni and saw her thumbs separate as she pulled her hands apart and placed them on the desk. He’d seen the video and tried to summon up the image it had shown. It was taken from above the doors, and thus it looked away from the building and from the alarm.
Griffoni pressed her hands on the table and turned towards Brunetti. He anticipated her movement and said, speaking more loudly than was his wont, ‘Claudia, could I have a moment with you?’
He got to his feet, making sure his chair made a lot of noise scraping on the floor and being banged into place.
Griffoni stood, as quietly as he had been loud, and walked to the door. Duso was caught up in his own thoughts.
In the corridor, Brunetti said, ‘Tell me.’
She looked across at him, shaking her head in obvious confusion. ‘I was in a hurry, Guido. I’m sure there was a sign, but I don’t remember seeing a button.’
He considered this for some time and asked her, ‘Do you have the number for Pronto Soccorso?’
She pulled out her phone and found the number. After she punched it in, he said, ‘Ask whoever answers to go out on the dock and take a photo and send it to you.’
She smiled and nodded. When the phone was answered, she announced her rank and name and said she had a request in relation to the two young women who had been left on the dock during the weekend. All obstacles fell at the mention of the victims, and the photo arrived on Griffoni’s phone within three minutes.
‘Pronto Soccorso’ was printed in red on a white plastic plaque attached to the wall to the right of the automatic doors: a red circle below the words had been X’d out by two pieces of black electrical tape; traces of the red could be seen in the interstices where the two pieces of tape crossed.
She showed the photo to Brunetti, who tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘It could be,’ he said. ‘Night time, confusion, fear.’
Griffoni looked more closely at the photo. ‘It’s anyone’s guess.’ She let some seconds pass and then admitted, ‘If I saw it, I�
��d probably try to push it.’
‘There’s still not reporting an accident,’ Brunetti said, but he said it lamely, knowing how hard it would be to bring this to court. How long would it have taken an ambulance to get to them and take the young women to the hospital?
‘Shall we go back?’ Griffoni asked.
A thought came floating by, and Brunetti ignored Griffoni’s question. He stood in front of the door to the interrogation room, trying to remember something one of the two men had said or suggested. Or perhaps it was more a sense of their reaction to the accident. Vio did not speed to the hospital, although the girl had said he’d been eager to speed before the accident, and the police had fined him countless times for speeding.
What had changed with the accident? The boat must have been damaged to some degree, but if Vio managed to get it back to the Giudecca, it could not have been serious. He would surely be accountable to his uncle for that, but he had not hesitated to take the boat back to his uncle’s mooring place and tie it up there.
‘Guido?’ he heard Griffoni say.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Let’s get back in.’
He opened the door and stood back to let her enter. They found Duso where and pretty much as they’d left him. He still looked stunned, as though he’d been hit by something heavy he had not noticed coming at him.
‘You can go now, Signor Duso,’ Brunetti said, not explaining their absence nor what might have happened to allow him to make this decision.
Griffoni took over here and said, ‘Abandoning an injured person, as you are certainly aware, is a serious crime, Signor Duso. Therefore, you are obliged to inform us if you have any intention of leaving the city.’ She let that sink in and then added, ‘For whatever reason.’
As if drugged, the young man got to his feet, nodded vaguely to them both, and left the room.
‘What did you think?’ Brunetti asked when they were back in his office.
‘I think he was honestly surprised when I told him the alarm wasn’t there any more.’ Griffoni was sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk, legs stretched in front of her. She pushed the chair back on its legs and latched her hands behind her head. She closed her eyes and after a moment said, ‘The light was dim. They were both still shocked by what had happened. Perhaps by what they were doing. So, yes, he could have mistaken it for the alarm.’
‘You believe him, then?’ Brunetti asked.
She released her hands and let the chair settle to the floor very softly. ‘I think it’s possible,’ was all she was willing to say.
They sat in easy silence for some time until Griffoni said, ‘I suspect Duso’s spent the last few days looking at the statutes regarding failure to offer help to victims of an accident.’ She smiled and added, ‘He’s probably also taken a look at nautical law.’
She let Brunetti consider this and then continued. ‘They didn’t intend any harm and they got them to the hospital as fast as they could. That certainly . . .’
After a moment, she continued in a louder voice, ‘But did Vio actually think he could get away with this? Just drop them off at the hospital and go home, and no one would wonder who took them there or what had happened to them?’ She looked over at Brunetti and asked, ‘Do you think he could be that stupid?’
Rather than spend time in a discussion of Vio’s intelligence, Brunetti and Griffoni remained in his office to mull over the young man’s behaviour. ‘Why didn’t he go to Pronto Soccorso himself?’ Brunetti asked. ‘He knew he’d been hurt.’
‘Adrenaline,’ she said aloud, then, ‘They were both pumped full of it.’
‘In which case,’ Brunetti said in an explanatory voice, ‘he would have gone back to the hospital when it wore off. But he didn’t.’ Then, speculating, he added, ‘He was afraid of something, I’d say.’
They must have given up at the same time. Griffoni asked, ‘Now what?’ just as Brunetti said, ‘I don’t understand it.’ Both lapsed into silence.
Finally Brunetti said, ‘I think I’ll go over to the Giudecca tomorrow and see what I can find out about the transport business.’
‘Would you like me to come along?’ she asked.
For a moment, Brunetti was tempted, but then he thought of what it would be like for him to show up to ask questions of Giudecchini in the company of an attractive, tall, blonde whose every statement was a declaration that she was not Venetian. ‘I’d rather go over there by myself,’ he finally answered.
‘So you can question them more easily in that sneaky, underhand way you sly Venetians use against one another?’ she asked.
‘Something like that,’ he answered with a bland smile. ‘I’d like them not to be distracted.’ He left it to Griffoni to believe he was talking about her inability to speak Veneziano and not her appearance.
This time, she stood and kicked her feet out in front of her to free them after sitting for so long.
As though to show there were no hurt feelings on her part, Griffoni said, ‘Besides, if I were to go, I’d have to take my passport.’
‘I think people on the Giudecca are more accustomed to looking at police warrant cards, Claudia,’ Brunetti said and, since the day had been long enough, added that it was time for her to go home.
She did not protest.
When she was gone, Brunetti checked into his computer and sure enough, there it was, Borgato Trasporti, Giudecca 255, offering water transport and shipping for the entire laguna, to the islands, the mainland, to Jesolo and Cavallino. Free estimates. In business since 2010, Pietro Borgato, owner. He checked the address and found that it was along Rio del Ponte Longo, put his phone in his pocket, and started for home.
On the way, Brunetti made a list, a short one, of people who might be able to give him information about the business or the man who ran it. The first person he called was a lieutenant at the police station near Sant’Eufemia, who told him he knew Pietro Borgato and didn’t much like him. No, he’d never given the police any trouble, had never done anything that would get him arrested, but years ago he’d called the police to say that a neighbour’s dog had bit him, and he wanted the dog put down. It was, he explained to Brunetti, one of those cases that left an impression, though he didn’t specify which kind. Brunetti thanked him and restrained his curiosity about the fate of the dog.
Next he called an old classmate of his who worked in the Human Resources section of Veritas, the company responsible for the garbage collection in the city and, after an exchange of information about their children, said he wanted to ask a favour of the spazzini.
‘Gli spazzini?’ repeated his friend. ‘Why in God’s name do you want to talk to the garbage men?’
‘Not to all of them, Vittore, just to whoever’s in charge of Giudecca 255.’
‘All right,’ his friend answered after only a moment’s hesitation and told Brunetti to hold the line while he took a look. A minute later he was back: ‘Valerio Cesco, 378 446 3967,’ he said. ‘That enough?’
‘Perfect,’ Brunetti answered, wrote down the number, and gave profuse thanks.
As soon as the call ended, he dialled the number. The phone was answered on the second ring: ‘Cesco.’
‘Signor Cesco,’ Brunetti said, almost choking on the thickness of the Veneziano he forced himself to speak. ‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti.’
‘Police Commissario?’ Cesco asked.
‘Sì,’ Brunetti answered. He waited for Cesco to say something, and when he did not, went on. ‘I’d like to ask you about one of the people on your route.’
‘Who?’
‘Pietro Borgato.’
Brunetti listened to silence for what seemed to him a long time before Cesco asked, ‘Why do you want to know about him?’
‘He’s come to our attention,’ Brunetti answered.
‘Ah,’ Cesco said quietly. ‘He has a transpor
t business.’
‘Yes. I know that.’
‘Lots of boats and lots of coming and going.’
‘Well, I’m happy to learn he has enough work,’ Brunetti answered in a friendly voice.
‘Yes. He does,’ Cesco said flatly.
‘Can you tell me anything about his transport business?’ Brunetti asked.
Cesco made a noise; half sigh, half snort. Then he said, ‘Not on the phone, I won’t.’
‘Sensible man,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Could we meet somewhere?’
‘I usually take the 6:52 from Zattere to Palanca, but if you like, I can meet you at the embarcadero at 6:40 and take the earlier boat.’
Making his voice as friendly as he could manage, Brunetti said, ‘I suppose you’re talking about tomorrow morning?’
‘Sì, Signore.’ When Brunetti was slow in answering, Cesco said, ‘Just be glad it’s not January.’
Brunetti could not stop himself from laughing and agreed he’d see him there. He hung up the phone and said aloud, ‘What have I done?’
10
That evening’s dinner did a great deal to relieve Brunetti of the thought of next morning’s ordeal, even allowed him to laugh at himself for asking that question for nothing more arduous than getting up early.
Paola had decided to roast a chicken after filling it with a combination of quinoa, rosemary, and thyme. She explained to them that she’d stolen the herbs from the garden of a colleague who had invited her to pick up a book after class.
‘Stolen’?’ Chiara inquired.
Paola glanced across at her daughter. ‘The plants were sitting there, overgrown, neglected, dry – one might even say abandoned – so all I did was trim them. It was an act of liberation.’
‘You didn’t ask her?’ Chiara insisted.
‘I didn’t notice them until I was leaving,’ Paola said in a less patient voice.
Chiara, who took a dim view of the eating of meat, took an even dimmer view, it seemed, of the justification of crime.
‘If she’d stopped wearing a bracelet, and you liked it, would you feel the same about “liberating” that?’